Are We Paranoid, Or Are They Out to Get Us?

November 17th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When Moses says, “I was a stranger in a strange land” (Exodus 2.22), his words resonate with much of the Jewish experience. As a people dispersed in every corner of the world, we have had to figure out the mores and social currency of the people among whom we have dwelled. This has always been a subjective endeavor—with both judgment and speculation.

Take my cousin who died from wounds he received on Kristallnacht some eighty-five years ago. Ferdinand Levy’s family had been in Germany for centuries, and his grandfather Philipp Levy and father Wilhelm Levy had both served in the Prussian Army. When it was Ferdinand’s turn, he fought for his country in the Great War, serving at Verdun and on the Eastern Front and receiving the Iron Cross for bravery. After the war, he became a kosher butcher, married, fathered three children, and served as a vice-mayor of Neuwied in the Rhineland. One would think that being a good citizen would garner safety and acceptance, and it did until it did not.  

In the Torah, we see a variety of strategies for surviving encounters with neighbors—some more successful than others. When Abraham and Sarah visit Egypt (Genesis 12) and later Gerar (Genesis 20), Abraham is concerned that the locals will kill him to get his beautiful wife, Sarah. So, they inform everyone that she is his sister. The problem, in both places, is that this beautiful “sister” is conscripted into the king’s harem. Fortunately, God protects Sarah—afflicting the Egyptians with “mighty plagues” (which the Midrash identifies as national impotence) and giving Abimelech the king of Gerar a warning dream. In both cases, when the local ruler realizes that Sarah is Abraham’s wife and not his sister, he is aghast that he might have committed adultery and sends Abraham off with compensatory damages for the afront. Maybe Abraham was wrong; maybe they would not have killed him for his beautiful wife. Or, maybe he was right, and the kings feigned morality in the face of God’s protective power. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Isaac and Rebekah have a similar experience (Genesis 25.1-11):
“There was a famine in the land…and Isaac went to Abimelech, king of the Philistines in Gerar…When the men of the place asked him about his wife, he said, ‘She is my sister,’ for he was afraid to say, ‘my wife,’ thinking, ‘The men of the place might kill me on account of Rebekah for she is beautiful.’ When some time had passed, Abimelech king of the Philistines, looking out of the window, saw Isaac fondling his wife Rebekah. Abimelech sent for Isaac and said, ‘So she is your wife! Why then did you say that “she is my sister?!”’ Isaac said to him, ‘Because I thought I might lose my life on account of her.’ Abimelech said, ‘What have you done to us! One of the people might have lain with your wife, and you would have brought guilt upon us.’ Abimelech then charged all the people, saying ‘Anyone who molests this man or his wife shall be put to death.’”
Is Isaac correct in fearing immorality and murder as a Philistine possibility? Or does he not recognize “God-fearing” people from a different culture? 

In last week’s portion, Chayay Sarah, as Abraham seeks a gravesite for his beloved wife, he realizes that his status as “a resident alien” puts him at a disadvantage. In the absence of courthouse records, how can he buy property and have that possession secure for future generations? As the commentary on Genesis 23 explains, Abraham’s strategy is to pay Ephron the Hittite far more than the market price for the cave of Machpelah: the story of the Hebrew who paid 400 shekels for a much less expensive piece of property would reverberate through the region and be told again and again. Living among strangers, Abraham figures that an outlandish, tellable story will establish his ownership as a well-known fact.  

These stories, though tense, never get too conflictual. However, things get very dramatic in Genesis 34 (Parshat Vayishlach, which comes in two weeks). Returning from some twenty years in Paddan Aram, Jacob/Israel, his family, and his tribe settle for a while near Shechem. When Israel’s daughter Dinah “goes out to visit the daughters of the land,” she is sexually assaulted by the local chieftain’s son, Shechem son of Hamor. The young man offers to marry Dinah, but Israel’s family is divided on how to respond. Some think that agreement will bring peace. Others think that agreement will set the Israelites up for continuing disrespect and eventual subjugation. Their strategy—agreeing to the marriage but insisting that the whole Gentile tribe get circumcised—turns out to be a ruse. When Hamor’s tribe is writhing in pain after submitting to circumcision, Simeon and Levi—two of Dinah’s full brothers, “each took his sword, came upon the city unmolested, and slew all the males. They put Hamor and his son Shechem to the sword, took Dinah out of Shechem’s house, and went away.” The other Israelites plundered the town “because their sister had been defiled.”  

Back at the Israelite camp, Jacob/Israel is horrified. “You have brought trouble on me, making me odious among the inhabitants of the land.” But Simeon and Levi answer, “Should our sister be treated as a whore?” Loosely translated, I think they mean, “Nobody will dare mess with us again.” (Or as an old rewrite of Psalm 23 goes, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest @&#*@& in the valley.” ) 

For over 100 years, there has been an active discussion among Jews about how best to deal with Arabs. Some say that we should treat Arabs as we would like to be treated ourselves. Be respectful. Recognize their inherent value as human beings and their rights, and the respect we show will be returned to us in kind. Others have the opposite view. They say that Arabs see kindness and respect as weakness—that treating them nicely provokes a natural aggressiveness and violence. Better to treat them harshly: remind them who the meanest %#(&@#& in the valley is. That’s the only way to protect ourselves.  

As much as many of us see the Two State Solution as the long-hoped-for answer to the conflict between Israel and the Arabs, sometimes I wonder if it is more a pipe dream. Are there really any Arab “partners for peace?” Are there really enough Palestinians to make a Palestinian State a peaceful neighbor? Or is the Two State Solution merely a ruse, a temporary stage while the Palestinians bide their time before driving the Jews into the sea?  

Israel lives in a dangerous neighborhood. It is, in many ways, a stranger in a strange region. Even though it is our homeland, the surrounding hostility forces Israel to calculate the same kind of survival strategies our people have sought for thousands of years. Are we paranoid, or are they really out to get us? As we have recently seen, too much trust and naivete can prove deadly.  

The Answers to Our Prayers

November 10th: Chayay Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Bible may be full of miracle stories, but, for regular people in Biblical times, the incidence of miracles and revelations was probably close to zero. Think about the editing process of the Bible. Whether the choices were made by God or by human editors—or by both, the good stories were chosen for their inspirational or educational impact. Abraham, whose Torah story concludes this week, was a veteran of quite a few revelations and miracles, but even he, in his 175 years, spent most of the time leading a regular life. As for the rest of the people in Biblical times, they might have gone years or entire lifetimes without hearing God’s Voice or experiencing the supernatural. Pretty much like us. 

For regular people living regular lives—and even for Patriarchs, Matriarchs, and Prophets most of the time, the day-to-day Presence of God is manifested in regular ways—in the processes of nature, in our relationships with other people, and in cosmic insights that we occasionally glimpse. One suspects that there were times when they, like we, yearned for a more engaged relationship with the Divine, and thus there was worship, there were prayers, and there was hope. Our weekly Torah portion gives us an interesting example.  

In Genesis 24, after Sarah’s death and burial, Abraham feels the need to get a wife for his son Isaac. Being too old to go on the errand himself, he sends his senior servant.
“…do not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell, but go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac.” (Genesis 24.3-4)
(The Midrash says that this servant is Eliezer of Damascus, but the Torah does not give the servant’s name. Eliezer had been Abraham’s main servant before Isaac was born, but we do not know if he is still alive or still able to make a journey of this distance and difficulty.) 

The servant assembles a caravan of camels, retainers, and gifts and journeys to the land of Abraham’s birth. When he arrives in Aram-Naharaim in northern Mesopotamia, a town where some of Abraham’s relatives live, he rests by the town well and prays a very particular prayer:
“O Lord, God of my master Abraham, grant me good fortune this day, and deal graciously with my master Abraham: here I stand by the spring as the daughters of the townsmen come out to draw water. Let the maiden to whom I say, ‘Please, lower your jar that I may drink,’ and who replies, ‘Drink, and I will also water your camels’—let that be the one whom You have decreed for Your servant Isaac.”  (Genesis 24.12-14)
As soon as he finishes praying, this is exactly what happens! Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel and great-niece of Abraham, appears, is approached by the servant, and responds just as the prayer requests. She is the one, and, after a family meeting with Abraham’s servant, Rebekah departs her old life to become the wife of Isaac and a Matriarch of the eventual Jewish People.  

Would that our prayers be answered so quickly! Would that our prayers be answered so precisely! Then again, this story was selected for the Bible because it is so unusual. For most of us and our prayers, I can repeat the advice of Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, “Praying to God is not like Domino’s Pizza—guaranteed delivery in thirty minutes.” Prayer is a different kind of encounter. 

When we call a pizza business to order food, the restaurant is responsive because it wants to trade its pizza for our money. What is God’s motivation in the prayer process? Is there something in our prayers that can make them worthy of being answered? Lots of desires rush into our minds, but which of them are things we would really place before the Lord of the Universe and expect Divine agreement and acceptance?  

This is the subject of a Kabbalistic passage traditionally chanted before the open Ark during the Shabbat morning Torah service.
“Beh ana rachetz…/
In God alone do we put our trust, and to God alone do we utter praise.
O may it be Your will to open our hearts to Your Torah and
v’tash’lim mish’alin d’libi v’liba d’chol amach Yis’ra’el l’tav ul’chayin v’lish’lam/
to fulfill the worthy desires of our hearts and of the hearts of all Your people Israel:
for good, for life, and for peace.” (Zohar, Vayak’hel 369a) 

It does not make any difference to Domino’s if you order mushrooms or extra cheese, but, when we make prayer requests, one figures that God’s values are going to affect God’s willingness to respond. This notion is behind Rabban Gamliel’s advice in Pirke Avot (2.4):
“Make God’s will your will, so that God will do your will as though it is God’s.”

Though we might like to be able to manipulate God’s will, the only manipulation here is what we can do with our own attitudes—bringing them into alignment with the values and aspirations that God enjoins upon us. When we effect this attitudinal transformation, then the prayers we pray will be godly—and we can find a measure of reception from the Holy One.  

Though there is a tendency to think of prayer as transactional—as a give and take between humans and God, the reality of prayer is more relational. Prayer brings us closer to God—and allows God better and closer access to us and our sensibilities. Miracles may come occasionally—as in the story about Abraham’s servant and Rebekah, but the usual process of prayer is a matter of drawing closer to God and godliness—and letting God into our hearts.   

Let me conclude with a concatenation (a liturgical piece composed of verses from a variety of religious texts) about the process and potential of prayer. You may recognize it from page 48 of our prayerbook Siddur B’rit Shalom: 
“The Lord is near to all who call—to all who call out in truth.”
            “Where is God? Wherever we open our hearts.”
“The purpose of prayer is to leave us alone with God.”      
           “But there is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.”
How can we know if our prayers are answered?
            “When you rise from your prayers a better person,
            then surely have your prayers been answered.” 
(Sources: Psalm 145, Reb Mendel of Kotzk, Rabbi Leo Baeck, The Baal Shem Tov, and George Meredith)

Thus Saith the Lord (?): Revelation and Interpretation

November 3rd: Vayera’
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

“The Lord appeared to Abraham…” (Genesis 18.1)
Most religion is based on revelation, and this is both wonderfully inspiring and fraught with danger. Revelation is generally understood as the Deity (or a deity) appearing to humans and giving them instructions. Since the instructions come from the Deity, they are to be followed. 

In religions like Judaism, the usual process is for the Deity to appear to a Navi/Prophet who then brings the message of God to the people. The meaning of the Hebrew word Navi is one who brings. Thus many Prophets begin their messages with the phrase, “Thus saith the Lord.” 

It is wonderful to believe that the Divine is present in our lives, and it fills us with purpose when we submit ourselves to the Divine Will—in the words of Rabban Gamliel, “Aseh r’tzono chir’tzon’cha / to make God’s Will your will.” (Avot 2.4)  The question is, however: What exactly is God’s Will? 

We know from this week’s Torah portion the difficulty in determining God’s meaning. Does God really command Abraham to sacrifice Isaac? Or, when God says, “v’ha’alehu sham l’olah (Genesis 22.2), does the Deity mean, “Slaughter him and cook him as a sacrifice,” or “Bring him up to the mountain and elevate his spirituality?” Does God want Abraham to kill Isaac or to educate him in the ways of holiness? What exactly is God’s Will? 

In the previous chapter, when Sarah insists that Hagar and Ishmael be expelled from the household—and God agrees, does this mean that Abraham is to send them away completely? Or is the Midrashic suggestion that Abraham separates the households but keeps Hagar and Ishmael in his life—installed a few miles away in the territory of Abraham’s friend Abimelech of Gerar—a reasonable interpretation? What exactly is God’s Will? 

There is also the matter of God’s multiple—and not consistent—promises about The Land being given to Abraham and his descendants. Is Abraham’s possession (1) all the land he can see, (2) all the Land of Canaan, (3) the land of his sojourning (semi-nomadic shepherding), or (4) everything from the Euphrates to the Nile? 

It can be difficult to know exactly what God means—and whether God’s general instructions are okay to interpret or interpret differently over time. 

One of the problems with revelation is what we could call “the revelation attitude.” Some people believe so intently in revelation that they regard their current leaders as part of the revelatory chain of command. Though the revelation (Tanach, New Testament, or Koran) occurred many, many centuries ago, some people accept their current leaders’ modern interpretations as God’s official instructions.  

Thus were there Evangelical Christians in the mid-Twentieth century who believed their segregationist preachers who “found” segregation of the races in the Bible. Thus are there Orthodox Jews who believe that the current age’s Ultra-Orthodox Judaism is exactly what God decreed back at Mount Sinai. Thus are there modern Muslims who believe that hate-filled preachers are communicating what Mohammed heard from God. 

Among the many modern Muslim leaders who believe in peace and tolerance—and studying and working with Jews—is Imam Abdullah Antepli, currently on the staff and faculty at Duke University and involved in peace and education efforts at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. When he tells his story, he cites a gathering he attended as a teenager in Turkey where the Islamist speaker “quoted” something from the Koran that young Abdullah had never seen. When he asked the speaker for the citation, the speaker got defensive and dismissed the question without answering. The future imam did some research and found that the quotation did not exist—neither in the Sura (the revelations of God to the Prophet Mohammed) or the Hadith (the sayings of the Prophet Mohammed). The passage did not exist, but the speaker had been convinced by someone else that it did, and he preached it to people who believed it. Thus a decidedly non-Koranic message was attributed to the Koran—and hate was presented as the Will of God.  

This is what in Judaism we call Chillul Hashem, a Desecration of the Divine Name. We could also classify it as a violation of the Ninth Commandment, bearing false witness and lying about what God says. It is bad news regardless of the religion of the mis-speaker, and we who aspire to be godly need to be wary of those who claim to speak for the Lord. 

One of my favorite teachers, the late Ellis Rivkin of the Hebrew Union College, used to declare that he was a fundamentalist—that he believed every single word in the Bible. Of course, since the Bible has many differing views, he continued, he had to think for himself and figure out which of the many Biblical positions is godly. 

His humorous irony points to what I think is an important view of Scripture—any scripture of any religion. Holy books reflect the thinking of people striving for holiness—of trying to ascertain the nature of God and the Will of God. As a result, all holy books present a chorus of different opinions about how humans can best aspire to holy and righteous behavior. The various contexts of the writers’/aspirers’ lives lead to views that may or may not agree with each other or be applicable to different situations. This is why honest and thoughtful interpretations are crucial. Are the teachings of an interpreter holy, righteous, kind, and gracious, or are they harsh, unyielding, and unholy? Do they reflect the gracious, forgiving, and hopeful qualities of the Divine, or do they reflect the impatience and hostility of frustrated people—who love doctrine more than other people? Are good things being proposed in the Name of God, or is God being implicated in the “evil devisings of the heart?”   

Faith is more than quoting the Scripture—be it Tanach, New Testament, or Koran. Faith is approaching life as an opportunity to be holy, and thinking clearly and carefully is the only way to make sure that God is in the passages and their interpretations.

God's Promise and "The Land"

October 27th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In Genesis 12, Abram (and Sarai!) get the call, as God sends them on a significant and multi-generational journey. There are many promises:
“I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you.
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you,
And all the families of the earth shall be blessed by you.” (Genesis 12.2-3),
Though the promise is that we (Abram and Sarai and their descendants) will be blessings, there is an awful lot of resistance when we try to bring these blessings to the world.  

Take for instance God’s promise of the Land of Canaan, the Promised Land:
“Raise your eyes and look out from where you are, to the north and south, to the east and west,
for I give all the land that you see to you and your offspring forever.” (Genesis 13.14)
As we well know, this gift has put us on a collision course with our Arab cousins. But, why? Why does this little sliver of land—around the size of New Jersey—inspire so much consternation in the Arab and Muslim world?  

If one considers the land mass of Arab countries (Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, the Gulf Emirates, Yemen, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco), the Promised Land of Israel/Palestine is less than 1%. When one considers the non-Arab Muslim countries—like Turkey, Albania, Pakistan, Iran, Afghanistan, and Indonesia (and several more in Africa), the size of Israel is even more miniscule. With all the other problems of the world—and of all these Arab and Muslim countries, why are so many so singly focused on Israel? 

Could it be that all these Arabs and Muslims are concerned for the welfare of the Palestinian people? I do not think so. The idea of solidarity and peoplehood—as expressed for Jews in the Talmudic principle, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh / all Jews are responsible for one another” (Shevuot 39a)—does not seem to be an operating imperative for most Arabs or Muslims. There are many Arab and Muslim charities, but this concern for all other “members of the tribe” is not manifested as universally as it is in the Jewish community. For example, since 1948, the Palestinian refugees have not been welcome into other countries—with the support for them being overwhelmingly military as opposed to humanitarian. When Arab Iraq was fighting Persian Iran, the other Arab countries did not come running to help. When Muslim Bosnia was being savaged by Eastern Orthodox Serbia and Roman Catholic Croatia, the rest of the Muslim world was not concerned. Right now, when Rohingya Muslims in Myanmar (Burma) and Uyghur Muslims in China are both facing genocide, the rest of the Muslim world is not particularly exercised. This is not an insult; it is simply a sociological observation. The kind of group solidarity so pronounced among Jews does not seem to be part of Arab or Muslim thinking. The question thus remains, why are the Palestinians such a cause in so much of the Arab and Muslim world? 

Could the issue be that Israel possesses Jerusalem and al-Haram al-Sharif / The Noble Sanctuary (the Muslim term for the Temple Mount)? This is the third holiest site in Islam—the place from where, according to legend, Mohammed ascended to heaven—and the place where, according to legend, Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac. It is understandable that Muslims would be concerned with non-Muslim controlling Muslim holy places, but the Israelis have always been very respectful of other religions’ holy places and appoint Muslims to administer the sites. Though there is some rhetoric objecting to Jewish “ownership,” this seems too small to justify all the attention, anger, and money thrown at continual attempts to destroy the Jewish state. There must be other reasons.  

Could we be looking at an “Arab Manifest Destiny,” a Middle-Eastern version of that 19th Century American idea that God destined White Americans to own the yet-to-be-conquered West—and that any Natives living there were just impediments to be removed? These days, Manifest Destiny is generally an embarrassment—a racist, imperialist, and manipulative concept, but it held enormous power in the 1800s, spurring economic, military, religious, and literary activity that innervated the American spirit. Could it be that, in the sensibility of many Arabs, the entire Middle East is considered Arab land, and any non-Arabs—be they Crusaders, Ottomans, Britons, or Jews—are unwelcome encroachers regardless of how small their stake may be?  

The implications of this possibility can be helpful in understanding Arab attitudes. This could be why many Arab leaders are so reticent to discuss the so-called “Two State Solution”—and thus accept Jewish ownership of some of Palestine. When the occasional Arab leader does consider the idea, the Arab response is either (1) a Two State Solution is just a temporary stage before the complete removal of Jews from Palestine, or (2) any Arab who makes peace with Israel is a traitor and deserves death. (QED: Anwar Sadat.) This could also explain why, when Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert offered the Palestinians 94% of the disputed lands (in 2008), the offer was rejected out of hand. And it can explain the remarkable lack of concern for Palestinian civilians. As has been observed many times, Hamas (and Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad and El Aqsa Martyrs Brigade and Fatah) strategy has always been much more interested in hurting Israelis than in protecting Palestinians. The focus is on Palestine the land—and not the people, leaving the actual Palestinians as pawns and human shields in a greater struggle with the “invader” Jews.  

Interestingly enough, it is a similar “Manifest Destiny” kind of argument that accounts for Evangelical Christian support for Israel. Whenever the subject comes up, Evangelicals are quick to quote God’s Lech Lecha promise to Abram, “I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you.” They are determined to be included in God’s blessings.  

To me, the guiding principle for all humans—Jewish, Christian, or Muslim—is the one repeated over and over in the Torah and Prophets: God’s gift of the Promised Land is provisional and dependent on how we behave. When the Children of God behave with righteousness, compassion, and charity, then we deserve The Land. When we do not behave ourselves, then God’s punishment is exile. Whether Jewish, Arab, Muslim, or Christian, let us remember that God owns The Land, and we, like Abraham and Sarah, are sojourners on God’s property.

Who Loves the Palestinians?

October 20th: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we considered the term Tohu Vavohu, the primordial chaos that God wrestles into order in Genesis 1. As Rabbi Micky Boyden observes, it is with words that the Eternal One effects this effort: “When God began to create heaven and earth—the earth being tohu vavohu / unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and the spirit of God hovering over the water—God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” Words are powerful and can have a positive effect. However, in this week’s story of the Tower of Babel (Genesis 11.1-9), we learn that words can also be a source of confusion.  

Many words have been written or spoken about the Palestinians—about their safety, needs, human rights, and national aspirations, but are these words sources of light or obfuscations of reality? It might be helpful to consider this simple question: Who loves the Palestinians? 

NOT HAMAS: Hamas is a terrorist organization that ruthlessly dominates the politics and society of Gaza. It seized power in farcical elections, intimidates and murders local opposition, diverts much needed humanitarian resources to military use, and uses Palestinian civilians—often children—as human shields. It destroyed industrial facilities and housing left by the Israelis in 2005, and it invokes destructive retaliations from the Israelis by mounting petty attacks on Israeli citizens and agriculture. (I use the word petty in the sense that the attacks have no hope of actually “freeing the land of Palestine from the river to the sea.” They are not petty when one considers the damage they bring to individual Israelis.)   

NOT IRAN OR HEZBOLLAH: Though the Islamic Republic of Iran and its various terrorist arms send lot of money and rhetoric to Gaza, it is to Hamas in Gaza. Rather than helping the Palestinian people in Gaza (or in Syria or Lebanon or the West Bank or Israel proper), Iran props up abusive and violent thugs—malevolent actors who violate Palestinian human rights and prevent any kind of progress or prosperity. Also, the Shiite Iranians do not smile on the Sunni Islam of Gaza, and one wonders how freely the Muslims of Palestine would be allowed to practice their religion if an Iranian surrogate were to be in charge.  

NOT EGYPT: Notice how Egypt is not letting the Palestinian refugees leave Gaza. Remember how the blockade has been in effect for years. Remember how, despite the fact that Egypt owned Gaza (then called The Gaza Strip) from 1948 to 1967, it never allowed the Palestinians to enter Egypt as immigrants and be absorbed into Egyptian society. Among the ironies here is that a vast number of “Palestinians” were really immigrants (colonists?) from Egypt, a prime example being Yasser Arafat, the infamous leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization.  

NOT JORDAN: Great Britain declared the whole of Palestine a Jewish Homeland in 1917, but then split it in half in 1922, assigning the eastern side of the Jordan River as the original Palestinian State. However, from 1948-1967, Jordan kept almost all the Palestinian refugees in squalid West Bank internment camps, refusing to let them enter Jordanian society. When Jordan finally allowed some to enter after 1967, a bloody civil war erupted, resulting in the expulsion of the refugees. This brutal time is known in Palestinian lore as “Black September,” a name made infamous by the terrorist organization that murdered twelve Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. Jordan does not love the Palestinians nor want them in Jordan.  

NOT LEBANON: Though the motherland of modern Arab culture, Lebanon is caught between two camps—neither of which loves the Palestinians. One camp is dominated by Hezbollah or PLO remnants and treats the Palestinians as pawns in its terror campaigns. The other camp is traditional Lebanese society which has been terrorized by the Hezbollah or PLO remnants for decades. They have endured a continuing civil war provoked by terrorists and have seen their country reduced from a pearl of Arab culture and commerce to a dysfunctional tragedy.  

NOT SAUDI ARABIA: Since 1948, Saudi Arabia has funded Palestinian terrorists in astronomical amounts, while doling out pitiful sums for humanitarian assistance. It has also refused to welcome Palestinians into their society—allowing only limited numbers of those willing to endure abusive domestic servitude.  

NOT THE UNITED NATIONS: While presumably focusing on relief and human rights, the UN turns a blind eye to the corruption and criminality of Hamas and other terrorist organizations. UN personnel ignore terrorist activities and diversion of humanitarian funds. They fund and print textbooks which foment hate—and therefore prevent peace and progress. When generations of Palestinian children are raised to hate Israel, what real chance is there for a Two State Solution? Is enabling the terror state that reigns in Gaza helping anyone but Hamas? Rather, the UN is actively involved in making sure that Israel never has “a partner for peace.” 

NOT HUMAN RIGHTS GROUPS: In traditional Arab society, the vast majority of women are not free to pursue education, employment, sexuality empowerment, or even their own fashion choices. Far too many women are forced to endure “female circumcision.” The situation is even worse in Islamist-dominated societies like Iran or Afghanistan where “morality police” act with impunity, carrying whatever misogynist outrages they choose. In terms of LGBT+ rights, there are none. Gays and Lesbians are hounded, imprisoned, raped, and even murdered. The idea of gender re-assignment is not even on the agenda. Freedom of speech and assembly are absent—as is real voting. Elections are held, but any district or village that does not overwhelming support the terrorist regime suffers violence and repercussions. Palestinians deserve human rights, but the organizations that speak for them are consigning them to tyranny and oppression.
 

Ironically, the best chance for Palestinian freedom and economic and social viability lies with Israel. The Arab citizens of Israel have more freedom, prosperity, and human rights than almost anyone in the Arab world. The continuing violence, however, creates suspicion and hate for all Arabs and all Muslims. It sabotages their full participation in Israeli society. It torpedoes any hope for a Palestinian State—or a single state where Jews and Arabs live together. By allowing and encouraging terrorism to dominate, all of these supposed “friends of the Palestinian people” doom the Palestinian people in dozens of ways. There are lots of words of concern and support, but too much of it is babble—and there is little love.  

As we pray for peace, let us pray for clarity, truth, and wisdom.

Tohu Vavohu and Evil

October 13th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

My custom this time of the year is to send out my High Holy Day sermons in the weekly e-mail announcements. This week, the plan was to present my Yom Kippur Morning sermon in which I discuss some of the origins of the current political crisis in Israel. That crisis, tragically, has been pushed to the back burner by the Hamas attack. The sermon is posted on the website for anyone who is interested, but my weekly essay has of necessity a new subject. 

In Genesis 1, when God begins to create the heaven and the earth, we are told that the earth “was unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep, and the spirit of God hovering over the water.” The Hebrew for “unformed and void” is tohu vavohu, a term which can also mean utter confusion and senselessness. The story begins with tohu vavohu while God hovers above it—presumably preparing to bring some order and morality into the pointless mess.  

Much of life is conflict, and much of that conflict comes from wildly diverging goals and agendas. It also comes from people doing things impulsively and without thinking ahead. If you feel it, do it. If you feel it deeply, do it vigorously. And, if that feeling is hate, act on that hate regardless of the implications or consequences. For too many of us, the act of violence is reward in itself. It does not need a purpose other than self-expression. Let the anger flow! 

There are many discussions and opinions about Israel and Israel’s policies over the years. There are many opinions about how best to live with or apart from the Arabs. And, among Arabs, there are many opinions about how best to navigate the tricky waters of the whole Middle East. We could spend hours or years discussing these ends and outs, but what happened this weekend is not part of this logical and orderly discussion. What happened this past weekend is tohu vavohu, an unmitigated flow of anger and impulse without any redeeming value.  

Hamas and its sponsors purport to be fighting for the sake of the Palestinian people, but what they did—attacking Israeli towns and massacring civilians—will not in any way further the cause of the Palestinians. It will not bring anyone closer to a Two-State Solution. It will not convince or force the Israelis to abandon the Land of Israel—purging the land of Jews “from the river to the sea.” It will not convince the Israeli population that the Palestinians can be good neighbors “if we are just nice to them.” 

What will happen?

(1)  The attack will cause many deaths. The numbers of Israeli casualties are heartbreaking. And the many deaths of Palestinians will also be tragic.

(2)  Israel will win this war. It will devastate military targets in Gaza, killing many militants and forcing Hamas and its partners underground until they can be resupplied.

(3)  The Israeli counter-attack will also kill many Palestinian civilians. This sad fact is what happens when terrorist organizations like Hamas put missile batteries next to day-care centers and hospitals. This is what happens when citizens are not allowed to leave buildings after the Israelis drop announcements warning residents to evacuate. This is what happens when international press offices and humanitarian agencies are forced into offices next door or downstairs from terrorist organizations—and then threatened if they report what is really going on.

(4)  Significant aid will pour into Gaza, but instead of using the funds to help the Palestinians, more weapons will be bought, more tunnels will be dug, and more terrorists will be trained.

(5)  The borders between Israel and Gaza and between Israel and the Palestinian Authority will be closed for quite a while—which means that the thousands of Palestinians who make their livings in Israel will be without work and salaries.

(6)  Those in the tourist industry will suffer financially. This includes many Jews, but it also includes thousands of Israeli Arabs who work at hotels, managing the front desk, working in the restaurants, and cleaning rooms. Even if their salaries continue, the tips will not.

(7)  Many building projects will be suspended—so the thousands of Israeli Arabs who work in the building trades will not be working or earning money.

(8)  If any Israeli Arabs join in the attacks—as Hamas is instructing, the precarious position of all Israeli Arabs will be damaged. Their livelihoods and social integration will suffer serious setbacks. 

My point is that these savage attacks will have no positive effects for the Palestinians in Gaza, in the West Bank, or in Israel. Poverty will not be relieved. Employment will not be increased. Living conditions and health-care and education will not be improved. Gaza will sink further into the morass, and Palestinians in the Occupied Territories will also suffer. This murderous crusade is not part of a cogent plan to help the Palestinian people. It is tohu vavohu and evil. 

The only positive effect will be for the bloodthirsty reputations of Hamas and its leaders—individuals whose only goals are raising their own profiles and solidifying their grasp on political control. Anyone in Gaza who opposes Hamas is threatened or murdered, and any suggestion of democracy is just a veneer. Hamas’ rule is a tyranny as terrible as any totalitarian state in history. Israels are the victims for now, but the Palestinians are the victims of Hamas every single day.

As we pray for peace, let us remember to think clearly. As we pray for peace, let us encourage reasoned policies that will actually help people. And, as we pray for peace, let us be thankful for strength.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo va’shalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people so the Lord can bless our people with peace.”
(Psalm 29.11)

Sins and Repercussions and Israel

October 13th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur morning sermon.

It has been said that The only thing two Jews can agree on is how much a third should give to Tzedakah. It is probably true, but, ultimately, whatever those two Jews agree on is just talk. It is the giver who decides how much will be given. Regardless of the committee’s opinion, there is autonomy for the individual.  

When it comes to the government, this is decidedly not the case. Governmental leaders decide what others will give for the common good, and though each person in a democracy has a voice, once decisions are made, individual autonomy is often futile. Sometimes the sacrifices “for the common good” are spread around for everyone to make, but sometimes those in charge decide that some people will sacrifice for the sake of others. Whether such decisions are fair or not is a matter for debate. The point is that some decide what others will give.  

We could take this discussion in many different directions--from the tax code to local zoning, but I think it can be helpful in understanding a big story in the Jewish world, the political turmoil we see in Israel. My thesis? When some decide what others will sacrifice, those who make the sacrifices may stew about it for years and ultimately aspire to political power. 

I’m basing my comments on an article by the Israeli journalist Yossi Klein Halevi. I have been acquainted with Yossi for several years, as he is part of the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem where I study in the summer. This summer, his lectures and classes at Hartman reflected his internal turmoil over the current political situation. In some ways, I feel like I helped birth this article, since I endured several tortured classes where he was trying to organize all the facts into a coherent analysis. Published in The Times of Israel, his article, The Wounded Jewish Psyche and the Divided Israeli Soul, traces much of the current political crisis to two crises most of us have forgotten. 

Before looking at these two crises, a word about Yossi. Yossi Klein Halevi was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. A devotee of the famous and then infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, he was active in the Jewish Defense League for several years. In his twenties, however, he had a change of heart, turned away from that extremism, moved to Israel, and eventually became a moderate voice for peace and mutual respect.  

The first forgotten crisis Yossi identifies occurred in 2005 as Israel was disengaging from Gaza. The hard-working and very successful Jewish settlers there were forced by the Israeli government to abandon the farms and homes they had built over some thirty years. There were protests all over the country, and many of the families had to be physically dragged from their homes by Israeli soldiers. For the sake of peace, the government decided that Gaza needed to be given completely to the Palestinian Arabs, and the moshavniks and farmers who had built lives there for some thirty years were the ones chosen to make the sacrifice. 

A side issue that just makes the whole episode doubly painful is that, instead of using the Jewish homes and ultra-sophisticated greenhouse systems for their people’s prosperity, Hamas came through and destroyed both farms and homes. The real issue, however, is that the Israeli government promised to help the Jewish farming communities re-establish themselves—rebuild and restart their lives, but this never happened. 

The farmers who were dragged from their homes in Gaza were pretty much abandoned by the government and left to piece together relatively impoverished lives. Yossi still believes that disengaging from Gaza was a good decision, but he also sees the deep discontent of those whose sacrifice was not honored or compensated.  

The injustice of their situation has festered for some fifteen years and given rise to attitudes and political parties based on disenchantment. Rather than seeing the Israeli government as a problem solver, a number of Israeli Jews see the government as a betrayer. As it turns out, two of the politicians who rose from this deep alienation are Betzalel Smotrich and Itamar ben Gvir, the two right-wing politicians who are currently manhandling both the Knesset and Bibi Netanyahu. Ben Gvir, rejected in his youth from the army because of mental instability, is now in charge of Israel’s “Department of Homeland Security.”  

An earlier crisis is one most of us never even thought of as a crisis. As Yossi puts it, “...in in the early years of the state...the secular Ashkenazi Labor leadership tried to impose its notion of Israeliness on immigrants, especially from the Middle East, a disastrous mistake for which we continue to pay.” 

This campaign had several levels, but first remember that many Muslim countries took the establishment of Israel as an occasion to drive out their Jewish populations. So, not only were Jewish refugees pouring in from Europe, Jews who had been residents in Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Iraq, and Persia for over a thousand years were also on their way.  

The government decided that the new nation’s social fabric would not be well-served if there were too many Mizrachi (non-European) Jews. It was too late to stop the mass influx of Syrian, Iraqi, and Persian Jews, but the Moroccans had not yet arrived. So, the Aliyah agencies diverted large numbers of Moroccan Jewish refugees and sent them to Europe--to the displaced persons camps formerly occupied by Holocaust survivors. It took some Moroccan Jews over two years to get from one end of the Mediterranean to the other.  

Then, when they finally arrived in Israel, they were sent out to the middle of nowhere. David Ben Gurion realized that the largest part of Jewish territory, the Negev in the south, was the least inhabited and that building the country mean settling people there. So, without asking or explaining, he had these new Moroccan Jewish immigrants loaded on busses and sent to their “new homes.” They were bussed at night to “development towns” and left there. When they awoke and emerged from what they thought were temporary huts, there was no town, and they were left on their own to build communities. Eventually, these involuntary pioneers built the development towns of Arad, Dimona, Yerocham, and S’derot, but they and their children have not forgotten the callous and manipulative ways that the government used them. Years later, when the Ethiopian Jews came, they were also shipped in large numbers to these out-of-the-way development towns. People in the upper echelons of the Israeli government decided that these towns needed to be built up—and that these newcomers were the ones to do the building.  

Some of these development towns are also border outposts. An example is S’derot, located less than a kilometer from Gaza and Hamas, where its predominantly Moroccan and Ethiopian residents spend their days thinking about how far they are from bomb shelters. That these people have deep and abiding resentments about government largesse should not be a surprise. 

As Yossi Klein Halevi observed before, the Modern Jewish State began with a particular Israeli identity in mind and worked very hard to impose it on everyone in Israel--a strategy that left many with feelings of alienation. Not every Israeli is Ashkenazic or a Socialist or an atheist or a Kibbutznik. The ones in power from 1948 to 1977 were, but all those who were not—Jews from the Muslim countries, non-Socialist Europeans, and the ultra-Orthodox—eventually developed political power and were a big part of what brought perennial minority leader Menachem Begin to power in 1977. Though there have been some Labor-dominated governments since, most have been decidedly non-Socialist, and today the Left in Israel is virtually  unrepresented in the Knesset. And even though the Likkud and similar Conservative parties were supported by the perennial minorities, they too assumed an Ashkenazi and secular dominated paternalism. Left or Right, governmental arrogance has left many in the margins. 

In the current government, in particular, the power of the ultra-Orthodox, the settler movement, and the permanent underclass of Jews from Muslim countries are on display, and their energy is anything but conciliatory or cooperative. They have the power they have long craved, and their attempts to remake the legal system are evidence of long-simmering resentments and a sense that the government is not their friend. Since previous governments were not their friends, they see no reason to be friendly to their political opponents. They have the power now, and they are intent on using it for themselves. 

Yossi Klein Halevi believes that they have over-played their hand—that the enormous public demonstrations against the judicial changes and against the vengeful wielding of power will soon doom the current coalition. Israeli democracy will recover, but the festering mistrust that gave rise to this power-grab should not be ignored. In democracies, government is ultimately at the pleasure of the governed, and, if the government wants to be perceived as the people’s “friend,” it needs to act like one.  

Yes, the hard decisions of leadership do involve choosing who will make the sacrifices for the common good. And many of those strategies—developing the Negev, giving Gaza to the Palestinians, trying to mold an Israeli identity from all the Jewish identities the immigrants brought with them—all made sense. But there were human costs along the way, and failing to acknowledge them or give recompense to those who made the sacrifices has created an atmosphere of disenfranchisement. 

The irony is that many of these marginalized groups have achieved power and status. Though discounted at first, the Moroccans and other Jews from Muslim countries have made great progress economically, culturally, and politically. The ultra-Orthodox, though clamoring for more, have significant government subsidies, ample school funding, exemptions from military service, and control over their neighborhoods. Even the settler movement is not as oppressed as they claim. The vast majority of “settlers” live in cities with apartment buildings, commercial districts, excellent infrastructure and internet access, and high-level security. Their “oppression” comes from critics on the Left and international objections to the continuing Occupation—and, of course, from the continuing hostility of Palestinian terrorists. The Israeli government is not their enemy, but many settlers project the difficulties of their lives—and the refusal of the majority of Israelis to embrace religious fundamentalism—onto the government and are trying now to use their government to solve their problems.  

This strategy will fail, and Israel’s democracy will survive, but the re-emerging coalition of sanity must not forget the legitimacy and history of the formerly disenfranchised. Among the most important insights I heard when I was in Israel this summer is the following. Polarization results from treating one’s political opponents as enemies. When the Moderates regain power, they need to treat their vanquished opponents as neighbors and fellow citizens, looking for just ways to cooperate with them and to help them in their lives. In short, if the government—whoever is in control—wants to be perceived as the people’s friend, it needs to act like a friend.

Praying Against Sins and Not Against Sinners

October 6th: Erev Simchat Torah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following  is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre sermon:

Though our focus today is on our sins, we are also urged to consider the sins of others. Sometimes, their sins do not affect us. We may read about them in the paper—or not, and, though we believe that sins should not happen, we do not feel the pain that they cause. Other times, however, we bear the brunt of others’ sins, and we do feel the pain. These can be communal sins and pain, or international sins and pain, or individual sins and pain. Such sins—and pain—often lead us to anger, and we can understand why King David wrote these verses.  

From Psalm 92 (verse 12):
וַתַּבֵּט עֵינִי בְּשׁוּרָי בַּקָּמִים עָלַי מְרֵעִים תִּשְׁמַעְנָה אָזְנָי:
“I shall see the defeat of my foes, my ears shall hear of their downfall.”
From Psalm 104 (verse 35),
יִתַּמּוּ חַטָּאִים ׀ מִן־הָאָרֶץ וּרְשָׁעִים ׀ עוֹד אֵינָם...
“May sinners disappear from the earth, and the wicked be no more.”

Yes, the evil deserve their punishment, and we who are good often feel a kind of moral satisfaction when they get their rightful comeuppance. I have seldom, in my very fortunate life, come in contact with true evil, but I must admit a fascination with movies that pit the good guys against the bad guys. Think of all the action movies where evil must be confronted—and how we get drawn into the emotional intensity of the story. They always start with the bad guys being really, really bad—which is a dramatic set up for the final showdown. Often the good guys get battered terribly before they come back with a roar. There are so many examples with James Bond, Jean Claude Van Damme, Stephen Segal, and, of course, Sylvester Stallone, but the one final scene that stands out to me is in the 1986 film Cobra. In that final fight scene, a police detective played by Sylvester Stallone stands on a platform over a super cruel and murderous villain—a guy who has gone above and beyond in perpetrating evil and cruelty. The bad guy tries to shoot Stallone, but his bullet punctures a barrel of flammable liquid, and the oil splatters all over the villain. Stallone’s character, a man of few words, says, “You have the right to remain silent,” lights a match on the grip of his pistol, and drops it. I don’t think of myself as a cruel or vengeful person, but I’ve got to tell you, that moment is sweet. More than vengeful, it is morally cathartic. “May sinners disappear from the earth, and the wicked be no more.” (Psalm 104.35) 

But, we are in synagogue now, and we are supposed to be considering sin and punishment and teshuvah—how we can become more godly. Is what happens in action films really the end for sinners for which we should pray?  

Such is the discussion in the Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 10a: “There were some hooligans in Rabbi Meir’s neighborhood who caused him a great deal of anguish. Rabbi Meir prayed to God (to have mercy on them) that they should die. Rabbi Meir’s wife, Beruriah, said to him: What are you thinking? On what basis do you pray for the death of these hooligans? Is it the verse from Psalm 104, ‘Let sinners cease from the land’ (Psalms 104:35)? You are interpreting it to mean that the world would be better if the wicked were destroyed. But notice: it is not written, ‘Let sinners cease.’ It is written, ‘Let sins cease.’” She interprets the wordחַטָּאִים  not as sinners, but as sins. She continues, “One should pray for an end to their transgressions, not for the death of the transgressors themselves. More proof comes from the end of the verse: 'And the wicked will be no more.’ If, ‘transgressions shall cease’ means the death of the evildoers, then they cannot fulfill the passage about ‘the wicked being no more—in other words, that they will be wicked no more. The only way that can happen is for them to repent from their evil. So, pray for God to have mercy on them, that they should repent. If they do repent, then the wicked will be no more because they will no longer be wicked.”

“Rabbi Meir saw that Beruriah was correct and he prayed for God to have mercy on them, and they repented.” 

Though we certainly want our sinfulness to be treated this way, there is something in us that lusts for the punishment of the wicked—other than us. Like we began, there is something to be said for David’s emotional poetry in Psalm 92.

וַתַּבֵּט עֵינִי בְּשׁוּרָי בַּקָּמִים עָלַי מְרֵעִים תִּשְׁמַעְנָה אָזְנָי:
“I shall see the defeat of my foes, my ears shall hear of their downfall.”

Our Tradition has for a long, long time realized this kind of elemental human desire, and it provides a text to help us reconsider our urges. When we read The Book of Jonah, we are tempted to focus on the storm and the giant fish—and I must admit that my favorite verse when I was a child was,

 וַיָּקֵא אֶת־יוֹנָה אֶל־הַיַּבָּשָׁה:
“...the fish vomited him out upon dry land.” (Jonah 2.11)

However, the real message of the story is about how Jonah’s desire for Nineveh’s destruction is totally and shockingly inappropriate. Once he embarks on God’s mission and speaks prophecy, he looks forward to its fulfillment, which to him is the annihilation of Nineveh and its inhabitants. Why? Perhaps it is a matter of protecting his prophetic reputation. “When Jonah pronounces a Divine message, it is going to happen!” Or it could be a sense of self-righteousness in which the destruction of the evil-doers props up his own faith and theology. “If I am not allowed to sin, how can they get away with it?”  

In any event, Jonah sits on the hill, gleefully looking forward to the imminent fire and brimstone, and, when it does not come, he is furious. He lashes out at God and infuses his temper tantrum with theology and a Biblical quotation:

“O Lord, isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish.
כִּי יָדַעְתִּי כִּי אַתָּה אֵל־חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם
וְרַב־חֶסֶד וְנִחָם עַל־הָרָעָה:

For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment.” (Jonah 4.2)

One would think that Jonah would be pleased that his prophetic message works, that the Ninevites listen to him. They all, including the animals, put on sackcloth and cover their heads with ashes. They fast and pray for forgiveness. They repent!

“God saw what they did, how they were turning back from their evil ways.
And God renounced the punishment planned to bring upon them,
and did not carry it out.” (Jonah 3.10)  

One would think that Jonah would be satisfied. However, in a stunning but very human burst of anger, he evidences no compassion for the Ninevites. The Lord is astounded and disgusted at Jonah’s immaturity and callousness and sends the brutal east wind and the gourd in an attempt to get him to open up his moral eyes. Sadly, Jonah’s heart is closed, and finally the Lord states what Jonah and we all need to understand.

“Should not I care about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than
a 120,000 persons who do not yet know their right hand from their left,
and also much cattle?!”  (Jonah 4.11)

The point is, as we read in Ezekiel (18.23) and our Machzor:

“Is it my desire that the wicked die?—says the Lord God. No!
It is rather that they turn from their evil ways and live.”

This is what God thinks about them—those sinners out beyond these synagogue walls, and this is what God thinks about us.

This desire for sinners to repent is one we should keep in mind as we approach the conflict and anger that often consume our political lives. Is the goal to destroy our opponents? Or is the goal to convince them that our path is the better way? Is the goal to identify our opponents as enemies and vanquish them? Or, is the goal to recognize them as human beings who are either incorrect or simply have different opinions? 

In the ongoing Civil Rights Movement, the goal has not been to destroy the racists; it has been to show them that people of color are human beings who deserve respect and rights. In the ongoing fight against anti-Semitism, the goal has not been to destroy those with senseless prejudice and hatred but to guide them to wiser and more respectful thinking.  

This attitude can also help guide us in dealing with cancel culture, in the “got’cha” dynamic that so frequently graces our public discourse. A public figure is caught saying or doing something inappropriate—often in the distant past, and they are smeared and vilified. Is our goal in Tikkun Olam/the Perfection of the World to find flaws in people’s past and to expel them from the body politic, or should the goal be to ascertain their current understanding and guide them to a more perfect appreciation of humanity in all of its diversity? Paraphrasing Ezekiel, we could say that our goal should not be the political or professional death of sinners but that they should repent, turning from their ignorant or prejudiced path and striving for godliness. Or, in the words of Beruriah, we should pray “for an end to their transgressions...” so that they can be “wicked no more.” If we believe in repentance and atonement, then we should believe in its possibility on days other than Yom Kippur and in places other than the synagogue. 

What we should want—and what God wants—is not that sinners will cease but that sins will cease. If it is true for us, it should be true for our fellow human beings.

Akedat Yitzchak and Moral Reasoning

September 22nd: Shabbat Shuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Evening D’var Torah:

Many years ago, the late Rabbi Steven Sager of Durham, North Carolina, was leading a sermon seminar for a rabbinic gathering, and he uttered what to him was a bold aspiration. Always daunted by the difficulty of the Akedat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac, he was, after some twenty years in the rabbinate, finally going to write a sermon on this challenging story. Rabbi Sager was a great scholar, a sage and inspired leader, but I was surprised and even a bit flummoxed by his hesitancy. Twenty years of leading Rosh Hashanah services and no Akedat Yitzchak sermons? I did not know we had a choice. Whether good or bad, I had been writing Divray Torah on it since my earliest days in the pulpit.  

I mention this reminiscence of my late friend and mentor to remind us of the extreme difficulty of this portion. We know the tale well, but we should never let our familiarity obscure the angst we should feel at our Father Abraham’s plight. What would we do if God commanded such a sacrifice from us? 

If we could calm ourselves enough for systematic thinking, we might try to subject the command to the two categories of ethical decision making. One kind is code based—officially termed de-ontological ethical reasoning. We are under the jurisdiction of various moral and legal codes, and, when a question arises, we consult the codes and see what is required and what is forbidden. Whether the codes involve traffic laws, tax laws, property laws, ethical codes for our various professions, neighborhood covenants, by-laws of our various organizations, or the Ten Commandments and Halachah, there are rules which guide us in our decisions.  

The problem, in Abraham’s test, is that de-ontological reasoning would command two different and opposing responses. On the one hand, there is the religious presumption that one should follow God’s commands. When God speaks, we are supposed to be obedient. However, there is also the unwritten but furiously obvious code of parenting which says that parents should protect their children. However Abraham imagines the ethical codes that govern him, he receives two very different instructions. 

The second kind of ethical reasoning is based on the results of a proposed action—a good result making the action ethical and moral, and a bad result making the action unethical and immoral. This is called teleological ethical reasoning. An example would be whether one observes traffic laws in a medical emergency. Though the speed limit should limit our velocity, we may determine that driving slowly would result in the death of the patient—clearly not a good result. Driving fast, though it is against the code, would result in the patient living—clearly a good result. In such a situation, teleological ethical reasoning counsels us to ignore the speed limits and save a life. 

When it comes to Abraham’s situation, however, teleological reasoning is also conflicted. If he follows God’s command to sacrifice Isaac, the obviously tragic result would be the death of his beloved son. Such an action cannot be in any way good or moral. If Abraham disobeys God’s command, that could also bring about devastating results: God could get angry and kill Isaac anyway—and kill Abraham and everyone else he loves. Neither following nor refusing God’s command will yield a good result. What is a Patriarch to do?! 

Though there are hundreds of ways to approach this tortuous situation, the Tradition is generally of two minds on the subject. One lionizes Abraham’s faith and holds him up as the epitome of an obedient and faithful Servant. The impossibility of the situation speaks to his spiritual strength and zeal for the Lord.  

The other view rebels with every fiber of its collective being at the thought that God would ask such a travesty of a mitzvah. There is no way that a loving God would demand such a sacrifice. Thus, some voices in the Tradition insist that Abraham’s behavior must result from misunderstanding what God says.  

Remember how the story begins.

וַיְהִי אַחַר הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה וְהָאֱלֹהִים נִסָּה אֶת־אַבְרָהָם
“Sometime afterward, God put Abraham to the test.”

What exactly is God testing? 

If we follow the Tradition that God wants to know if Abraham is totally loyal and obedient, Abraham passes the test. He does God’s bidding regardless of the personal cost. 

However, if the test is of a different sort, then Abraham’s blind obedience and automaton-like zealotry may not be what God is seeking at all. What if the test is of Abraham’s moral fibre? What if God wants to see if he is strong enough to say No to an unjust command? Supporting this second theory are two verses later in the portion. In the original instruction—and in many instances in Abraham’s life, God speaks directly to him. But, after Abraham almost slaughters Isaac, God never again speaks to him directly.

Look to the text. When Abraham stands over Isaac, the slaughtering knife in hand, it is not God Who stops him.

וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו מַלְאַךְ יְהוָֹה מִן־הַשָּׁמַיִם...
אַל־תִּשְׁלַח יָדְךָ אֶל־הַנַּעַר
וְאַל־תַּעַשׂ לוֹ מְאוּמָה...
“Then an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven...
and said, ‘Do not raise your hand against the boy,
or harm him in any way...’” (Genesis 22.11-12)

 And, after Abraham sacrifices the ram in Isaac’s place, it is again an angel who speaks to him.

וַיִּקְרָא מַלְאַךְ יְהוָֹה אֶל־אַבְרָהָם שֵׁנִית מִן־הַשָּׁמָיִם
“The angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven...” (Genesis 22.15)

 Abraham is a favorite of God, a “friend of God,” but, in this case, passing the test would have Abraham protesting the immoral command and refusing it. When Abraham fails the test and tries to kill Isaac, God is disgusted by Abraham’s mindless zealotry and withdraws, sending an angel to fix the mess.  

Another possible explanation is that Abraham misunderstands what God means by ,וְהַעֲלֵהוּ to make Isaac go up. This is the Hebrew term for sacrificing, but there are certainly other ways to elevate the child? Physically bringing him up from Beer-sheba to Moriah and then spiritually elevating him with religious instruction is infinitely more suitable. We already know, from Genesis 14, that Moriah/Salem/Jerusalem is a place of worship and religious education. As you may remember, Abraham spends some time there after he rescues his nephew Lot in the war of the four kings against the five kings. He stops at Salem to visit King Melchizedek,כֹהֵן לְאֵל עֶלְיוֹן , a priest of God Most High.

King Melchizedek of Salem  brought out bread and wine;
he was a priest of God Most High, and he blessed Abraham, saying,
‘Blessed be Abraham of God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth.
And blessed be God Most High Who has delivered your foes into your hand.’”
(Genesis 14.17-20)

According to the Midrash, this Melchizedek is actually Shem, the son of Noah, who with his grandson Eber has a school of spirituality in which the ancients learn the ways of God. This school is in Salem, identified also as both Jerusalem and Moriah, and perhaps, when God says (Genesis 22.2),

וְלֶךְ־לְךָ אֶל־אֶרֶץ הַמֹּרִיָּה וְהַעֲלֵהוּ שָׁם
“...go to the Land of Moriah and elevate him there,”

Abraham is supposed to elevate Isaac, וְהַעֲלֵהוּ, by having him educated at Shem and Eber’s religious academy.

Ultimately, Abraham may get the point, because, if you look carefully at the end of the story, Isaac does not return with Abraham and the servants to Beer-sheba.

וַיָּשָׁב אַבְרָהָם אֶל־נְעָרָיו
וַיָּקֻמוּ וַיֵּלְכוּ יַחְדָּו אֶל־בְּאֵר שָׁבַע...
“Abraham then returned to his servants, and they departed together for Beer-sheba...”  (Genesis 22.19)

Perhaps eventually, Isaac gets the education God wants for him. 

Another possible explanation for Abraham’s failure is that he is not adequately paying attention. Though he answers both God and Isaac, with הִנֵּנִי, “Here I am,” Abraham’s  kavanah/ concentration may be less than ideal. First, he does not even listen to his own prophetic words. When Isaac asks him,

וְאַיֵּה הַשֶּׂה לְעֹלָה,
“where is the sheep for the burnt offering,”

Abraham answers,

אֱלֹהִים יִרְאֶה־לּוֹ הַשֶּׂה לְעֹלָה,
“God will see to the sheep for the burnt offering,”

but he does not act as if there is a sheep waiting up on the mountain. He ties up Isaac and puts him on the altar. Abraham is a prophet and thus speaks words from God, but the question is whether he is listening to the words he speaks. For all of us who speak the great words of our Tradition or literature, let us make sure that we are paying attention not just to the presentation but also to the message.
 

This, by the way, is a lesson we’ll consider on Yom Kippur in the story of Jonah. He preaches for God but fails to see God’s perspective in the hope for human improvement.  

Another hint that Abraham is not paying attention is his inability to see the ram up there on the mountain. Whether devoted unthinkingly to God—or devastated by the command to kill his beloved son, Abraham is so overwhelmed and transfixed that he fails to see that God has indeed provided the sheep for the sacrifice. Only after the angel stops him does his vision seem to return.

וַיִּשָּׂא אַבְרָהָם אֶת־עֵינָיו וַיַּרְא
וְהִנֵּה־אַיִל אַחַר נֶאֱחַז בַּסְּבַךְ בְּקַרְנָיו
“When Abraham looked up, his eye fell upon a ram,
caught in the thicket by its horns.”

Devotion or holiness is no reason to be inattentive. Indeed, it is only through paying attention that we can truly see the opportunities and possibilities that God places before us.  

The voices in our Tradition that speak of Abraham failing the test focus on the impossibility of God’s command. There is no way that a good and loving God would give this command, and thus Abraham’s test is on a more subtle level. His challenge is to think about what God has said, to see through the simple meaning and find the deeper truth, to pay attention to the entirety of God’s prophetic messages, and to bring forth the moral strength that God has placed within him. 

We do not pass every test, but hopefully, with God’s help, we can make the necessary U-turns and הַעֲלֵנוּ, elevate ourselves as God hopes we will.

Awesome, Dude!

September 15th: Rosh Hashanah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though we use words as though they have set meanings, many words wander around and meander in curious and sometimes amusing directions. A case in point is the word awesome which achieved new lives in the hands and mouths of teenagers and other cool people in the 1980s. From its traditional definition of “extremely impressive or daunting, inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear,” awesome was transformed to a slang word for anything positive. “Awesome car!” “Awesome concert!” “Awesome pizza, dude!” Those more expert than I may trace this usage to the “Valley Girl” culture, or to Surfer Culture or perhaps even to Cheech and Chong’s takes on drug culture, but my point is simply that the definition changed.  

As it turns out,  Rosh Hashanah is an excellent time to reflect on the old meaning. 

In the Biblical idiom, awesome means much more than excellent or pleasurable. It describes something that is impressive but much, much, much more than the usual impressive things in life. It also describes something so impressive that our admiration is mixed with fear—with terror. Imagine the Israelites crossing the Red Sea—a story we moderns know so well that we can forget the absolute terror of the situation. When our ancient ancestors looked up and saw the Egyptians thundering toward us, we were facing certain death. It was not a ride at Disney World. It was not a concocted sense of fear in an action movie. We were facing our murderers, and things were hopeless. Then the miracle, a miracle of such unexpected and awe-inspiring grandeur that we were dumbstruck. We stumbled across the sea between the walls of water, tingling with a disquieting sense that reality had suddenly become vastly different, very scary, very purposeful. While we usually try to understand our environment so that we can work within it or manipulate it, this was something totally different—something in which a power beyond our understanding or imagining was at play.  

The Egyptians were quick on their feet and adapted their battle plan. We’ll just chase them into the this (newly formed) roadway and kill them there. “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 will subdue them!” (Exodus 15.9) But then, this world to which the cavalry so quickly adapted turned—changed drastically and overturned them. “They went down into the depths like a stone.” And we, we who were still dumbfounded and stumbling through the passageway, did not know what to think. It was all so far from what we knew of life. 

When words were finally put together to describe the events of that day, one used was awesome, in Hebrew nora.
“Mi chamocha ba’elim, Adonai?!
Who is like You, O Lord, among the celestials/gods?!
Mi kamocha ne’dar bakodesh!
Who is like You, majestic in holiness,
NORA tehilot, oseh fele!
Awesome in splendor, working wonders!”  (Exodus 15.11)
We had encountered a Presence of immense and jaw dropping power, a power and purpose both incredibly impressive and incredibly fear invoking. The power had worked for us that day, but it was not under our control. This was something both to appreciate and to fear. This was something demanding deep and profound respect. This was and is serious—awesome!

Few of us approach the High Holy Days with this kind of deep and foreboding reverence—and I do not see this as a problem. There is much to celebrate in our lives. There is much to contemplate in the wisdom of our Tradition. And, we are assured, forgiveness is within our reach. As we shall read several times, “It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their evil ways and live!” (Ezekiel 18.23) If we do the work of Teshuvah / repentance, we will be forgiven.  

Nonetheless, there is a reason the High Holy Days are traditionally called The Days of Awe / Yamim HaNora’im. The importance of our gathering is not to be underestimated. We matter. Our lives matter. Our deeds matter. Our thinking matters. Our prayers matter. What we are doing—as we contemplate and navigate life—is of great importance. It is obviously important to us, but it is also important to the people who love us, the people who know us and interact with us, and to our Creator, the Presence in which we find our existence. As Martin Buber observed, we learn in the Torah that each one of us was created for a reason, for a purpose. Each one of us is God’s stake in the whole world. 

So, when we hear the musically trepidatious words, “Un’taneh tokef kedushat hayom ki hu NORA v’ayom. / Let us proclaim the sacred power of this day. It is AWESOME and full of dread,” let us remember that we are involved in serious matters. What we do matters. What we think matters. How we navigate our lives matters. Let us pay attention. 

As Sa’adia Gaon observed, the Book of Life is not so much written by God as by us. Let us write good years for ourselves and everyone else. 

L’shanah Tovah Tikatevu! 

Isn't It a Little Early for Yom Kippur?

September 8th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Did you know that Reform and traditional Machzorim/High Holy Day prayer books have different Torah portions for Yom Kippur? Our more traditional Mahzor Hadash (black) has the atonement rituals of the ancient High Priest (Leviticus 16)—with the “scapegoat” ceremony as its dramatic climax. Two goats are brought before the High Priest, and lots are cast to decide the fate of each. One goat is chosen for sacrifice on the altar, and the other has the sins of Israel “put on his head” by the High Priest. With these sins, the second goat is sent out into the wilderness—l’Azazel, to Azazel.  

The traditional afternoon portion is a list of prohibited sexual practices and relationships (Leviticus 18). The sexual urge is powerful, and the Rabbis who assigned the Torah portions apparently felt that people need warnings on days they take God and Judaism most seriously.  

Contrast these with the Reform Movement’s Yom Kippur portions. In the afternoon, we read the “Holiness Code” from Leviticus 19. Beginning with, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” the passage continues with a list of ritual and ethical ways to live a holy life—its ethical climax reminding us, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  While the traditional approach is to warn people of prohibited behaviors, the Reformers decided to encourage commanded behaviors and the spiritual goal of holiness.  

Reform replaced the morning passage about priestly rituals with a description of a different kind of ceremony—one set in the wilderness before the Israelites enter the Promised Land.
“You are standing here this day, all of you, before the Lord your God; your tribal captains, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and the stranger who is in your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water; that you should enter into covenant with the Lord your God, and join in an oath which the Lord your God makes with you this day.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11)
The emphasis is on one’s membership in a holy community. We enter into a covenant with the Lord God, and this relationship—both with God and with the other members of the covenantal  community—calls for us to behave with righteousness and reverence.  

The Reform Machzor then jumps a chapter to Deuteronomy 30.11-30 in which we are reminded that godliness is doable—within our reach—and that choosing the path that God sets in front of us brings blessings. “Choose life that you and your descendants shall live!”  

Though these Deuteronomy passages are soon to be read on Yom Kippur, they are also read in this week’s Torah portion, Nitzavim.  

I do not know why the early Reformers made the changes, but I can see a logic in their decisions. As important as the ancient rites of purification and atonement were—and as important as the priesthood was in the ancient Temple, Judaism has progressed beyond this kind of religion. Righteousness is still important, and immorality is still sinful, but Judaism has developed other ways to acknowledge our sins and reach atonement with God.  

For us, teshuvah/repentance is not achieved with sacrificial rites or goats. Our atonement involves four steps: (1) we acknowledge our sins before God and resolve not to repeat them, (2) we go to the people we have wronged and ask for their forgiveness, (3) we try to correct or make up for the damage we have done, and (4) we do general acts of good deeds so as to increase the goodness in the world. If we go about this teshuvah sincerely, we are taught that God forgives us. If we repent, we can be forgiven and begin the new year with a clean slate. 

As for the covenant ceremony, I see in it an awareness of the realities of modern life. Though many are born into Jewish families, the act of being Jewish—participating in Jewish life and thinking in Jewish terms—is a choice we make over and over again throughout our lives. We live in a world of religious and affiliational autonomy; entering and remaining in the covenantal community involves continual affirmation. We are always, as it were, entering the covenant and always, as it were, choosing the Jewish path to godliness.

Over the years, there has been an interesting conversation about the place of gerim/converts in Judaism. The Halachic position is that, once a person converts, she/he is a full Jew. They should not even be referred to as gerim anymore. In fact, the ancient Tractate Gerim (4.1) warns us against reminding a convert of his/her non-Jewish past and uses the colorful phrase, “Do not remind them of the pig flesh between their teeth.” That being said, some moderns are concerned with converts’ lack of childhood and ancestral Jewish experiences and want to assist them in feeling at home in Jewish life. In order to help, we need a word to identify their situation and plan programs. In this spirit, some may still refer to converts as such, but others are unhappy with the word convert because of the way it was originally understood in Latin and early Christianity. To replace it, Reform Judaism came up with a new term, Jews by Choice, and it has been used extensively for some forty years. It is a bit of a mouthful, but it does speak of former non-Jews choosing the Jewish path. On the other hand, are not all Jews who participate in Judaism and Jewishness choosing to do so?  

When I look at the people involved in Jewish life—religiously, culturally, and philanthropically, I see people who choose to be Jewish and to do Jewish things. Whether or not they were born Jewish, they are attracted to something in our covenant community and choose to be part of it. In other words, we are all Jews by Choice—a fact that makes the Deuteronomy Covenant Ceremony a profound symbol of our religious and cultural identity and a statement to be declared on our most holy of days. “We are all here this day to enter into covenant with the Lord our God.”

Who We Are, and What That Means

September 1st: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion begins with a ritual of thanksgiving. After giving a basket filled with the first fruits of our harvest to the priest, “You shall recite as follows before the Lord your God: My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, an outstretched arm, and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Therefore, I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

The appreciation is profound and should be instructive to us: the good things in our lives are the result of many blessings, and it is na’eh l’hodot, fitting to give thanks. However, why would we need to identify ourselves before the Lord? As the statement itself acknowledges, God has been with us all along and certainly knows who we are. Perhaps the hope is that we listen to the words we speak and remember who we are and what we represent.  

So often, the way we see ourselves—or the way others see us—affect the dynamic of our presence. When we visit a friend’s place of business, are we present as customers or as friends? When we come to synagogue, are we present as worshippers or as visitors? When we go to a party, are we present as guests or as workers?  

Years ago, I remember a friend of mine returning angrily from a student pulpit in the South. “They told me to come to the back door,” he fumed, thinking that this instruction relegated him to the rank of a servant. “No, no,” I practically shouted. Translating for my Northern friend, “In the South, telling someone to come to the back door is a high compliment. It means that they are family. Only strangers come to the front door.” How he was identified made a difference.  

In the modern world, much is made of the identity of Zionists—and the implications that flow from it. Zionism itself began as an identity question. While Jews had lived in Europe since the days of the Roman Empire, the creation of nationalism in the 1800s put us in an awkward position. Nationalism claimed that the people within particular governmental units (nation states) were somehow linked biologically to the land on which they sojourned. This organic connection was reflected in language and culture and a racial/ethnic esprit des corps and was distinct from the organic connections other nationalities had with the places they lived. Thus relatively new nations—like Germany—were said to be populated by Germans. These were not just the people who happened to live in what was formerly known as the Holy Roman Empire and whose former duchies and kingdoms had been subsumed by the new country of Germany. Rather, they were seen as people born of the German land and thus racially and culturally connected to that land. The same thinking swept through other nations: Italy, France, Spain, Poland, etc.  

Though Jews had been segregated and marginalized for centuries, the 1700s and early 1800s had seen the Enlightenment and the Emancipation and the gradual acceptance of Jews as full citizens of the countries they inhabited and defended. We thought our many years of oppression were coming to an end, but Nationalism threatened our efforts to belong. Many nationalists claimed that our ancient Middle Eastern origins disqualified us from these nationalist identities—these mystical, born-of-the-land racial, ethnic, and cultural constructs. We might live in Germany, but we are not Germans because we did not arise from “German ground.” We might live in France, but we are not truly French because we did not arise from “French ground.” Even after hundreds of years as residents of these “nations,” we could never belong because we were foreigners. For Theodor Herzl, Zionism emerged from the nightmarish awareness that Europeans would never accept Jews as Europeans—that since we were being defined as a non-European and foreign nationality, we needed a Jewish Nationalism—something he named Zionism. 

As it turns out, this anti-Jewish nationalistic ruminating led to the modern term for Jew-Hatred, Anti-Semitism. In 1862, German writer Wilhelm Marr (1819-1904) created his League of Anti-Semites to make the point that Jews are not Europeans. They are Semites, people of the Levant and definitely not Europeans. Jewish influence was bad for Germany because it was Levantine/ “Oriental”/Middle Eastern as opposed to the “European-ness” that Aryan Germany needed. 

Compare this to the modern anti-Israel claims that Jews are European colonizers stealing land from the Indigenous Arab inhabitants. One can counter that the vast majority of Israel/Palestine’s Arab inhabitants are themselves colonizers/immigrants from other parts of the Arab world—a case in point being Yasser Arafat who was born in Egypt, but the point is that such self-identity or imposed identity is closely linked to legitimacy and rights.  

There are obviously serious aspects of this dynamic, but let me conclude with a joke. There was once a man walking down the street in a small Pennsylvania town. Everything was tranquil until he saw a shocking sight. A vicious dog had bitten a child on the shoulder and wouldn’t let go. The child was obviously distraught and in real danger, so the pedestrian ran up and tried  to pry the dog’s jaws from the child. It was a real struggle, but finally the man managed to break the dog’s jaws, saving the child but killing the dog. A crowd had gathered and cheered the heroic man. Soon, a newspaper reporter ran up to the scene and started interviewing the hero. The reporter said, “I can just see the headline: Local Man Saves Child.” The hero hesitated and then corrected the reporter. “I’m not local. I’ve visiting from out of town.” “No problem,” said the reporter, “The headline can read, “Brave Pennsylvanian Saves Child.” Again the hero hesitated. “I’m not from Pennsylvania.” Undeterred, the reporter said, “No problem, we can run: Great American Rescues Local Child!” Again the hero interrupted him. “I’m not from the U.S. I’m visiting from Canada.” The reporter and the crowd got very silent, very quickly. The next day, the headline of the newspaper proclaimed, “Foreign Murderer Slays Local Dog.” 

Identity grounds us and gives us purpose, but it can also be abused and manipulated for nefarious purposes. Let us think carefully about who we are and what we represent. Let us also be open-minded and open-hearted as we encounter God’s other children. 

God's Power...and Peace

August 25th: Ki Tetzay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Ellis Rivkin, one of my favorite professors at the Hebrew Union College, used to raise eyebrows when he would declare that he is a fundamentalist—believing everything in the Bible literally. In a place founded on Die Wissenschaft des Judentums, the Science of Judaism, and subsequently a champion of The Documentary Hypothesis and other interpretations that speak against fundamentalism and literalism, his comment was always provocative. That is, until he would add, “Since the Bible has so many different and conflicting opinions, I can believe whatever I want and always find some Biblical passages to support me.”

A similar message—though less eyebrow raising—has been constant at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, where I have been studying for the past several years. There, they put it this way: The Torah, as well as the rest of the Bible, and the Talmud present a chorus of voices, representing many diverse views about God, Jewish ritual, morality, the Jewish people, etc. Our Tradition reflects a continuing conversation over the things in life that matter the most, and, over the centuries, many wise people have contributed to our tribal deliberations. 

I think of this dynamic when I read this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tetzay, and its opening words, “When you go forth to war…” (Deuteronomy 21.10) In a Tradition that prizes peace and tranquility—and justice and kindness, what’s with the “war talk?” 

Consider just a few of our peace scriptures:
“Hineh mah-tov umah-na’im shevet achim gam-yachad.
Behold, how good and pleasant it is when people dwell together (in peace).” (Psalms 133.1) 

“And they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.
But they shall sit, everyone, under their vines or fig trees, and none shall make them afraid.”   (Micah 4.3-4) 

“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, the leopard lie down with the kid;
The calf, the beast of prey, and the fatling together, with a little boy to herd them.
The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together;
And the lion, like the ox, shall eat straw.
A baby shall play over a viper’s hole, and an infant pass his hand over an adder’s den.
In all of My sacred mount, nothing evil or vile shall be done;
For the land shall be filled with devotion to the Lord as water covers the sea.”  (Isaiah 11.6-9) 

The Prophets and Psalmists hold up these idyllic visions and desire them earnestly. However, as a colleague once quipped, “The lion lying down next to the lamb gets to decide how long he wants to be a vegetarian.” There are times when peace is not possible—when the lion changes his diet, and as much as we look forward to better times—peaceful and tolerant times, there are enemies out there, and self-defense is necessary. 

In Ki Tetzay, we are plunged immediately into the barbarism and unholiness of war. The trauma of battle, the anticipation of what losing will mean, and the adrenal intensity of killing can turn even the most civilized people into scary creatures—and the Torah attempts to give guidance and moral moderation for those extraordinary moments.  

The passage that begins the portion is particularly difficult because its subject is battlefield rape, and the alternative suggestion—the “better” plan—is essentially postponement. A cooling-down period and marriage (without the possibility of divorce) may be better than the horror of the battlefield, but the captive woman’s lot is far from ideal—far from what we hope for our mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters. We shudder at the inclusion of such barbarity in our Torah, and yet, the Torah does not only deal with idyllic and pastoral scenes—or with people whose lives are easy. For far too many people both Jewish and Gentile, life is difficult and filled with dangers and abuse. In such situations, prayers and visions take a markedly realistic and practical tone. 

As much as we shudder at such a plight for our enemies, we fear even more what could happen to us. And so, we prepare for war and learn to defend ourselves. It will be wonderful when we can beat our swords and spears into farm tools, but, in the meantime, we need sharp swords and the skills to use them. As Hillel reminds us, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” (Avot 1.15) 

I am not a warlike person. I did not have to serve in the military, and I have no idea how I would have coped—or how they would have assigned me. And yet, in my own unmilitary, unwarlike, unaggressive, and weak sensibility, I am profoundly appreciative of those strong and brave people who defend me and my loved ones. Appreciation and thankfulness is a mitzvah. 

In Psalm 29, the subject is God’s power. God’s voice thunders, overwhelms the mighty waters. It breaks the cedars of Lebanon and kindles flames of fire. It is majestic and ever-present, bringing both destruction and creation—convulsing the wilderness and helping deer give birth. God’s glory is made known in every bit of Creation, and we pray for some of that power to be shared with us.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten. Adonai yivarech et amo vashalom.
When the Lord gives our people strength, the Lord allows us the blessing of peace.” 

Making Tough Decisions……Or Not

August 18th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

 The instructions that begin our Torah portion seem straightforward:
“You shall appoint judges and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the pleas of the just. Justice, just shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20) 

Be fair. Be honest. Judge with justice. It seems simple, but human situations can get quite complex, and judges can find themselves having to choose among lesser evils or lesser injustices.  

A famous Talmudic story illustrates such complexity, and the law at its center comes just a few verses after the famous, “Justice, justice…” In Deuteronomy 17.1, we read; “You shall not sacrifice to the Lord your God an ox or a sheep that has any defect, for that is abhorrent to the Lord your God.”  

A note before the story. Some translations render “mum kol d’var ra” as “any defect,” and others render it “any defect of a serious kind.” How bad must an imperfection be for it to be considered a defect? This becomes important in the story. 

Here’s the story, from Talmud Gitten 55b and 56a, based on the Sefaria translation by Educator David Schwartz:
The Gemara explains: Jerusalem was destroyed on account of Kamtza and bar Kamtza. There was a certain man whose friend was named Kamtza and whose enemy was named bar Kamtza. That man once made a large feast and said to his servant: Go bring me my friend Kamtza. The servant went and mistakenly brought him his enemy bar Kamtza. The man who was hosting the feast came and found bar Kamtza at the table. The host said to bar Kamtza. You are my enemy. What are you doing here? Arise and leave. Bar Kamtza said to him: Since I have already come, let me stay and I will give you money for whatever I eat and drink. Just do not embarrass me by sending me out. The host said to him: No, you must leave. Bar Kamtza said to him: I will give you money for half of the feast; just do not send me away. The host said to him: No, you must leave. Bar Kamtza then said to him: I will give you money for the entire feast; just let me stay. The host said to him: No, you must leave. Finally, the host took bar Kamtza by his arm, stood him up, and took him out.

An advice columnist might have a lot to say about this situation, and, as we shall soon read, the ancient version of moral and etiquette arbiters, the Sages/Rabbis, are present and apparently do not intervene.  

After having been cast out from the feast, bar Kamtza said to himself: Since the Sages were sitting there and did not protest the actions of the host, although they saw how he humiliated me, they must approve of what he did. I will therefore go and inform against them to the king. He went and said to the emperor: The Jews have rebelled against you. The emperor said to him: Who says that this is the case? Bar Kamtza said to him: Go and test them; send them an offering to be brought in honor of the government and see whether they will sacrifice it. The emperor sent with him a choice three-year-old calf. While bar Kamtza was coming with the calf to the Temple, he made a blemish on the calf’s upper lip (and some say he made the blemish on its eyelids), a place where according to us, i.e., Halachah, it is a defect, but according to them, gentile rules for their offerings, it is not a defect. Therefore, when bar Kamtza brought the animal to the Temple, the priests would not sacrifice it on the altar since it was blemished/defective, but they also could not explain this satisfactorily to the gentile authorities, who did not consider it to be blemished/defective.

One wonders what Dear Abby or Miss Manners would advise. Something about communication? In any event, the Sages—legal experts to whom the Priests turn for tough questions—are thrown into a logical cauldron.

The blemish notwithstanding, the Sages thought to sacrifice the animal as an offering due to the imperative to maintain peace with the government. Rabbi Zechariah ben Avkolas said to them: If the priests do that, people will say that blemished animals may be sacrificed as offerings on the altar. The Sages said: If we do not sacrifice it, then we must prevent bar Kamtza from reporting this to the emperor. The Sages thought to kill him so that he would not go and speak against them. Rabbi Zechariah said to them: If you kill him, people will say that one who makes a blemish on sacrificial animals is to be killed. As a result, they did nothing, bar Kamtza’s slander was accepted by the authorities, and consequently the war between the Jews and the Romans began. Rabbi Yoḥanan says: The excessive humility of Rabbi Zechariah ben Avkolas destroyed our Temple, burned our Sanctuary, and exiled us from our land.

There are so many missteps in this tragedy that one yearns to start over. I want to focus on the final sentence however, for it speaks to the dynamics in which judges often find themselves. Humility is generally considered a good trait. We certainly read that Moses was the most humble of men (Numbers 12.3), and that is considered a wonderful thing. However, when the Gemara speaks of Rabbi Zechariah’s “excessive humility,” I think they are speaking euphemistically about him being weak and afraid to make the hard decision necessary in this messy case. There are times when any and every course of action leads to problematic consequences. Doing nothing, however, disallows any kind of guidance. Leadership requires courage and foresight so that the lesser of evils or injustices can be chosen. Will criticism come afterwards? Probably, but it is better than the catastrophe that Rabbi Zechariah’s paralysis brings to our people.  

May we keep our eyes open to the consequences of our actions and may our hearts open to everyone our decisions affect. May we also have courage and strength—and bear the noble burden of responsibility.

Trying to Herd Cats: Autonomy and Religion

August 11th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In much of Deuteronomy, one sees an effort to control an independent group of people. Though we think of the Israelites as a unified people—standing obediently at Mount Sinai, moving around the desert in formation, listening as Moses relates the latest instructions from the Lord, many Biblical stories speak of the difficulties of getting everyone “on the same page at the same time.” There is even an acknowledgment of this in our Torah portion this week. In Deuteronomy 12.8, we read about the hope that, in the Promised Land, “You shall not act at all as we now act here, every man as he pleases…”  

Among the concerns is where sacrificial worship takes place. In pre-Egypt days, it had apparently been a family affair, with the tribe gathering wherever they happened to be—or at special sites known for their holiness. The Authors of Deuteronomy, however, are intent on Temple worship only. The book is clearly Temple-oriented, having been “found” on the Temple grounds during a renovation during the reign of King Josiah (620 BCE). Since it is set in Moses’ time—several hundred years before Solomon builds the Temple in Jerusalem, the text is not specific about where this centralized worship will take place. Instead, it uses a vague and variable expression: “the place where the Lord has chosen to establish His Name.” While wandering in the wilderness, the people worship at the Mishkan/Tabernacle in the center of their camp. Once they enter the Promised Land and disperse to their various tribal holdings, the Mishkan is located in several places over the years. Deuteronomy insists that the Israelites make the pilgrimage to wherever the Mishkan and Ark of the Covenant are located—and that only there can the Lord be properly worshipped. 

This was not an easy “sell;” the local or regional worship sites—called bamot /high places—remained popular for centuries. The fact that the Bible is full of diatribes against these local shrines means that they persisted long after the Temple was built. Many of the prophets identify the bamot as places of idolatry or polytheism, but this could simply be their anger talking. What if the people just wanted to continue the religious practices of their pre-Egypt ancestors, worshipping the One God at places special to their families? Was this a “religious” problem, or an “organized religion” problem? 

Another possibility is that these holy places were multi-religious—that people from different religions worshipped at the bamot, with each group worshipping their own gods. For the prophets, this non-Jewish worship might have tainted the whole place. Could proximity to pagan worship create or encourage religious “contagion?” Could co-existence and respect soon bleed into syncretism and Israelites joining in with the pagan and idolatrous religions? There are extensive chapters—among them the entire Book of Hosea—which compare the bamot to places of adultery and disloyalty to God. We, who live in a world where other religions exercise enormous cultural and political sway, know of the dangers of creeping syncretism. Walking the line between respect for other religions and disloyalty to our own can be challenging. 

This brings to mind the current phenomenon of multi-faith prayer spaces in airports or hospitals. Equipped with prayer materials and ritual objects for a variety of religions, they offer spiritual opportunities to anyone who needs prayer. I have had very positive experiences in such places—saying my morning prayers with Tallit and Tefillin while a Muslim softly chants verses from the Koran and a Catholic prays the Rosary. To me, the spirituality was wonderfully palpable as different people pursued their paths to the One God. However, some Orthodox Jewish authorities prohibit praying there for fear that the other faiths will distract from Jewish worship—and possibly include Jews in non-Jewish rites. Is it mutual respect and appreciation or syncretism? 

Or could the Prophetic/Priestly (and Orthodox Rabbinic) objection be more a matter of control? Not being present up on the bamot (or in the multi-faith chapel), the authorities have no way of knowing whether the Israelite worshippers are remaining true to our religion.  

Speaking of control, consider this passage, also from this week’s Torah portion:
“When the Lord enlarges your territory, as He has promised you, and you say, ‘I shall eat some meat,’ for you have the urge to eat meat, you may eat meat whenever you wish. If the place where the Lord has chosen to establish His name is too far from you, you may slaughter any of the cattle or sheep that the Lord gives you, as I have instructed you; and you may eat to your heart’s content in your settlements. Eat it, however, as the gazelle and the deer are eaten: the unclean may eat it together with the clean. Be sure that you do not partake of the blood; for the blood is the life and you must not consume the life with the flesh. You must not partake of it; you must pour it out on the ground like water…” (Deuteronomy 12.20-25) 

Why would shepherds and herders need God’s permission to eat meat? They would not. What we seem to have here is a priestly attempt to exert control over their far-flung “subjects” and distinguish between slaughtering animals for meat and slaughtering animals for sacrificial worship. When the text specifies, “eat the meat as the gazelle and the deer are eaten,” it is speaking of the way non-sacrificial animals are eaten. Deer and gazelles are “kosher,” but, in the whole Book of Leviticus, the only animals mentioned for sacrifice are sheep, goats, cattle, and turtledoves. Another indication is the phrase, “the unclean may eat it together with the clean.” Tameh/unclean and tahor/clean are ritual terms. People in a state of uncleanness are not allowed to participate in worship until they go through a spiritual purification process. Allowing them to eat slaughtered meat while tameh/unclean means that this meat-eating is not a worship ceremony. A third distinguishing element is in the reminder about not eating blood—a custom that eventually becomes a pillar of Kashrut. This blood is simply to be poured onto the ground—as opposed to the blood in sacrificial worship being splashed on the altar. The authorities could not stop people from eating meat, but they could try to draw a line between regular consumption of animals and the special rituals reserved for “the place where the Lord has chosen to establish His name.”

To me, the comment about “You shall not act at all as we now act here, every man as he pleases…” is akin to closing the barn door after the horses have escaped. The autonomy of individual Israelites and their families has probably been ubiquitous and continual—with the authorities trying persistently to rein in and control their population. For all of the advantages of independence, society and organizations depend on a certain amount of control or at least a sense of common behaviors. As we, who are also blessed with autonomy, try to maintain our communities, how much autonomy should we exercise, and how much should we curtail for the sake of the community?

Unexpected Lessons from The Golden Calf Incident

August 4th: Eikev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is an interesting pattern in religion where current challenges are addressed in rewritten or re-interpreted ancient texts. One example is an Orthodox Rabbi’s explanation that Korah and his rebellion were the Reform Judaism of their day. Another is a billboard proclaiming that Jesus was a vegan. Actually, examples abound in the case of Jesus, with this First-Century Jew being claimed by all sorts of post-Biblical causes: religious war, peace movements, segregation, de-segregation, organized labor, socialism, feminism, helping the poor, blaming the poor, etc.

The problem is that most religions have not had new revelations for over a thousand years, and moderns seeking “Scriptural authenticity” can be tempted to transpose their current concerns onto ancient narratives. Thus do the Muslim Salafists (ISIS) see their modern struggle to conquer Mecca and control Islam as a return to “the original meaning of the Kor’an.” In a similar “historical” claim, I have heard a Unitarian Minister suggest that his faith—formed from the Puritan and Congregationalist traditions of New England—actually goes back to the early Church Fathers, some 1800 years earlier. And, in a much more dramatic creative vein did Joseph Smith create in the 1800s a completely new Christianity, basing it on a set of ancient golden tablets that only he saw and that only he could read.

Some scholars see a similar kind of revisioning/revisionism at play in the Torah itself. Back in June, when we studied the episode of Korach and his rebellion, I mentioned the curiosity of a group of Levites called The Sons of Korach, to whom are attributed a number of Psalms. The Book of Psalms was composed and chanted many centuries after the original Korach buried that name in eternal disgrace, so how/why would a Levitical clan keep such a disreputable name? Could it not be, as some scholars have suggested, that the ancient story of rebellion and Divine Wrath was created many centuries later and inserted into the ancient Torah to “explain” why one Levitical group was left out of the leadership?

A similar theory approaches a passage in this week’s Torah portion. In Chapter 9, Moses reviews the Revelation at Mount Sinai AND the scandal of the Golden Calf. “At the end of those forty days and forty nights, the Lord gave me the two tablets of stone, the Tables of the Covenant. And the Lord said to me, ‘Hurry, go down from here at once, for the people whom you brought out of Egypt have acted wickedly; they have been quick to stray from the path that I enjoined upon them; they have made themselves a molten image.’ The Lord further said to me, ‘I see that this is a stiffnecked people. Let Me alone and I will destroy them and blot out their name from under heaven, and I will make you a nation far more numerous than they.’

I started down the mountain, a mountain ablaze with fire, the two Tablets of the Covenant in my two hands. I saw how you had sinned against the Lord your God; you had made yourselves a molten calf; you had been quick to stray from the path that the Lord had enjoined upon you. Thereupon I gripped the two tablets and flung them away with both my hands, smashing them before your eyes…”  (Deuteronomy 9.11-17)

The usual lesson is that our ancient ancestors—as are we—are remarkably apt to fall into sin. Even after all the wonders of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, the ancient Hebrews demonstrate the all-too-human moral weakness that is often our downfall. The lesson is true—perennially true, and so we seldom question the story.

However, if we were to question the story, we might state the obvious: There is no way they would really resort to idolatry right under Mount Sinai. For goodness sakes, they had just heard the Voice of God thunder, “You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image, any likeness of what is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters below the earth. You shall not bow down to them or serve them!” (Deuteronomy 5.8-9) They would have still been very much in the mode/mood of holiness and obedience. Yes, sin is tempting, and humans are weak, but one would think that the Israelites would be inspired by or in fear of God for a little while. In other words, something about the story does not make sense.

It so happens that there was a golden calf in Jewish history. Actually, there were two of them, and they were part of a tribal breakaway some 300-400 years after the Revelation at Mount Sinai. When Solomon died, his son Rehoboam was unable to hold the kingdom together, and the northern Ten Tribes of Israel broke away under the leadership of Jeroboam, establishing a kingdom called Israel. The Southern Kingdom became known by the name Judah since it was the dominant tribe in the south. Judah had Jerusalem, home of the Temple of the Lord built by Solomon, and Jeroboam did not want his people to make the three yearly pilgrimages to Solomon’s Temple. So, to meet the Ten Tribe’s religious needs, Jeroboam built two temples, one at Dan and the other at Bethel, and he installed a golden calf in each.

Why the calves? Archeological evidence shows that many ancient Near Easter religions imagined their deities riding or sitting on animals. Some of these statues and illustrations show God (El) riding on a bull or calf. In other words, the golden calves were not for worship but rather to give God a place to sit. As it turns out, this was similar to the golden cheruvim (angels) on the Holy Ark in the Jerusalem Temple. As described in Exodus 25.17-22, these cherubim  provided a place for the Lord (YHVH)to rest when visiting the Tabernacle and the Israelites. So, though the golden calves in Bethel and Dan were not actually worshipped, one can well imagine the authorities in Judah accusing them of doing so—leading some scholars to suggest that Golden Calf story was created several hundred years later and inserted into the ancient tribal traditions that were later woven together into the Torah. Several hundred years ahead of time, the Children of Israel were warned against Jeroboam’s political and religious break with Jerusalem. It was an ancient solution to a modern problem.

Regardless of its origins, the Torah’s story of apostasy and reconciliation is nonetheless compelling. Whether within weeks or over years, religious inspiration inevitably fades. The visions and experiences we have of God’s Presence are often worn down by the pressures and demands of daily life. And there is temptation. Though we all try to walk the straight and narrow path, sin can appeal; temptation can tempt. We are all imperfect vessels, and the fact is that we need regular refueling of the spiritual. That is why God urges us to return to worship and reconciliation—to drag ourselves back from the wasteland of virtue-lessness and refill ourselves with awareness of the holy. Returning to God’s Presence, we can open our hearts to the Divine and find the holy potential God places within. The Golden Calf story reminds us that, when we deviate from the best that is in us, God is always ready to call us back—and always waiting for us with love.

Korach: Villain or Martyr to the Cause of Democracy?

June 23rd: Korach 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This may seem like a well-worn lesson from Civics Class, but there is an important difference between a democracy and a republic—a representative democracy. There is something simple and beautiful about a democracy, with everyone getting together and discussing the issues at hand and then voting. The majority rules. However, crowds can be swayed by a variety of factors—including impatience, prejudice, lack of information, short-sightedness, and panic, and these can result in democratic but bad decisions. A representative democracy—or one limited by constitutional strictures (like our Bill of Rights) aims to insulate the deliberative process from these kinds of bad thinking. While we, as veteran observers of our own republic, are aware of the many problems of our system, most of us can also see how a straight democracy would be much, much more prone to problems.  

The problem of unbridled democracy is front and center in this part of the Torah. Last week, when the twelve scouts report on their tour of the Promised Land, the fear of the ten pessimists leads to a wholesale panic among the people. The text does not describe a reasoned conversation, with the pros and cons of the Divine assignment being considered. Rather, we read about the “calumnies” of the ten spies spreading and the people responding with an emotional storm. It is not the kind of democratic discussion and vote that the myths of ancient Athens describe.  

This week, we have another almost-riot. Korach, a privileged member of the Tribe of Levi, gathers a band of 250 people, and they “combine against Moses and Aaron and say to them, ‘You have gone too far! For 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) Is this an attempt at democracy and equality, or is this an armed rebellion? Unfortunately, this passage is extremely malleable, and Korach can be seen as either a villain or a hero. 

Tradition sees Korach as an evil and greedy man who wants to be in power. Like George Orwell’s Napolean the Pig, he phrases his power grab in democracy-talk, but his assembled mob is evidence of his true aim and his strong-arm tactics. Then, of course, there is the dramatic end of the story in which God’s judgment of Korach is pretty clear: “…the ground under them burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, with all that belonged to them the earth closed over them, and they vanished from the congregation.” (Numbers 16.31-33) The Bible sees Korach’s rebellion as not against Moses but against God. 

The other view is based on empathy for Korach and his democratic ambitions. For those who mistrust authority or institutions, they see someone who is merely questioning authority and demanding fairness and equality. They wonder whether the Biblical narration is slanted, that perhaps Korach does not assemble a mob—that he gathers mature and reputable people to try to get more equality in the Israelite society and religion. What if his democratic rhetoric is sincere—that he really wants to discuss the elitism of the current system? We have certainly seen corruption in places of power and how elitism betrays the promises of liberty. Is such a reading inappropriate just because the Torah’s writers include an improbable miracle story? 

This sympathetic approach is supported by a curious anomaly in the Bible. Though Korach is cast as a terrible villain, several Psalms are attributed to the “Sons of Korach,” a group of Levites or Priests who sang in the Temple. Why would the name of such a villain be continued? Some names are so disreputable that they are simply retired. In the 1800s and early 1900s, many Jewish men were given the name Adolf. However, at some point in the 1930s, their names morphed into substitutes like Arthur, and no more little Jewish babies were named Adolf anymore. If Korach is really such a villain, it is highly improbable that his name would endure so prominently in both Temple and Bible. So, perhaps the earthquake story is a later addition, used to keep a potential priestly group “in their place” as post Babylonian Exile Judaism was being put together. This Divine retribution story could “explain” why the Korach group of Levitical priests were excluded from the new priesthood. In other words, maybe the original story might have been much more an attempt to discuss egalitarian religious possibilities. 

It is hard for us to know what is really in Korach’s mind, but we can speak of more modern situations where democratic rhetoric incites mobs, leading to results that are very un-democratic. Our American Revolution could have gone the way of the disastrous French Revolution. We remember Sam Adams and his riotous gang in Boston as patriots, but the leadership that led (as opposed to incited) the Revolution and ultimately cobbled together our Constitution was much less hot-headed. They were inclined less to zealotry and more to deliberation and practical compromise.  

One can also point to the failure of democracy in the Arab Spring. Gathering a million people in Tahrir Square was very impressive, but it was hardly the setting for democratic decision making. It might have looked good to idealists, but the impracticability and confusion was so profound that the resulting tyranny of the Muslim Brotherhood and the eventual coup by the Egyptian military was inevitable. In almost every instance, poorly managed Arab Spring attempts at democracy have led to non-democratic authoritarianism and tyranny—and tragedy for millions of Arabs.  

On a smaller scale, one can consider public meetings where, for “democratic” reasons, everyone is welcome to speak "their truths.” It may be a wonderful exercise in self-expression, but such unmanaged gatherings seldom result in anything but talk, anger, and frustration. Channeling complaints or principles into action requires direction and management. It is not a matter of stifling opinion but of figuring out what to do with it. Is the goal of democracy self-indulgence, or is its best purpose effecting social good?  

It is hard to know exactly what happens in the Numbers story of Korach. The Bible clearly has a view, but those who question authority wonder if Korach and his followers are given a “bad rap.” Are they sincere democrats, or are they authoritarian rebels? Or does an unbridled protest lead to a mob and anarchy and the resulting violent resolution? If Korach and his followers are sincerely trying to bring more equality, I wonder how they might pursue their aspirations with more success.

Sending Us Forth To Change

June 16th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Two Torah portions have names in which God sends people forth, Lech Lecha in Genesis and this week’s portion, Shelach Lecha (Numbers 13-15). In Lech Lecha, God sends Abram and Sarai forth, “from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12.1) There is no response, no discussion, no negotiating. Abram and Sarai do just as God commands and “go forth.”  

In Shelach Lecha, God commands Moses to send forth spies/scouts to reconnoiter the Promised Land: “Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people; send one man from each of their ancestral tribes, each one a chieftain among them.” (Numbers 13.2) The twelve men selected go forth on their mission, but, when they return, only two of the scouts, Joshua and Caleb, are enthusiastic: “Let us by all means go up, and we shall surely conquer the land.” (Numbers 13.30) The other ten scouts “spread calumnies among the Israelites about the land they had scouted, saying, ‘The county that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers.’” (Numbers 13.32) The people believe the pessimistic ten and reject God’s mission.  

Why does one sending-forth work and the other fail? Perhaps the problem is in bringing the people into the discussion. Abram and Sarah are not asked to scout the land and then move there. They are just told to go. In Numbers, the scouts report their opinions to the whole Israelite people, and a discussion ensues. There is debate, and cynicism, anxiety, and panic seize the day. Another possible explanation could be the emotional state of the people chosen. Abram and Sarai are full of faith and ready for adventure, but the Israelites in the desert are still so traumatized by slavery—“their spirits crushed by the cruel bondage” (Exodus 6.9)—that embarking on God’s conquest is just too much. Or the difference in results could be a matter of the difference between the two missions. Abram and Sarai are just asked to dwell in the land (alongside the other inhabitants), while the Israelites are asked to conquer the Land and its fearsome peoples.  

Whatever the explanation, we are left with two attempts at change and two very different responses. Change is often difficult, and, when individuals, societies, or congregations attempt change, a number of factors affect the outcomes. My thoughts go to the changes in synagogue music in my career and lifetime—perhaps because Lech Lecha, the more successful sending forth, is the subject of one of Debbie Friedman’s most enduring compositions.

L’chi lach, to a land that I will show you.
Lech lecha, to a place you do not know.
L’chi lach, on your journey I will bless you.
And you shall be a blessing, l’chi lach.

 L’chi lach, and I shall make your name great.
Lech lecha, and all shall praise your name.
L’chi lach, to the place that I will show you.
L’sim’chat Chayim, l’chi lach.

And you shall be a blessing, l’chi lach. 

Younger readers may not realize this, but guitar-accompanied, folk-style synagogue music was a revolutionary thing back in the 1950s, 1960s, and even 1970s. Reform Temples had choirs accompanied by pipe organs, and traditional synagogues had a capella chanting. When non-religious folk music with guitars became very popular among young people after World War II and they expressed the desire to hear this kind of music in synagogue and church, the people in charge of worship were very, very resistant. In youth group settings, social justice songs had a kind of religious resonance—and, in Jewish circles, Israeli folk songs were popular, but there was no real religious music in the folk style, and many young people were frustrated. Eventually, composers wrote folk style music for worship, but the controversy went on for years. Eventually—in both Judaism and Christianity, religious music evolved, and Debbie Friedman was one of the people in Judaism who made these changes possible. She was one of the first song-leader/composers, and she succeeded in making folk/guitar music prayerful.  

She brought to her work formidable talent, determined Jewishness, and hard work. She also collaborated with some very talented writers, but there was something else that made her compositions so influential in effecting major changes in Jewish worship music. Consider these three characteristics of her work.

(1)  She combined the style and chord progressions of rock and folk music with Biblical and prayer book passages. Her songs felt very Jewish because they were very Jewish. In Debbie’s cool and fun songs, we were singing the Bible.

(2)  Many of her songs incorporated both Hebrew and English and in a very comfortable way. The Hebrew introduced English speakers to important phrases and terms and solidified the Jewishness of the song. The English allowed non-Hebrew speakers to know what the words meant: we could  understand the spiritual messages we were singing.

(3)  She encouraged female empowerment, but in a subtle, non-confrontational way. By simply adding the feminine L’chi Lach to the Torah’s masculine Lech Lecha, she seamlessly embraced every Jewish girl and woman, reminding everyone that God’s mission is for both males and females. There was no argument. No impassioned speech. She simply included Sarai in the charge to Abram. In Miriam’s Song, she took a Biblical verse about the women on the side of the men’s Song of the Sea and turned it into an equally exciting celebration. “And the women dancing with their timbrels followed Miriam as she sang her song…” No fuss, no muss. She just included the women of the Torah in the Torah, and every modern girl and woman knew that they are part of the Tradition too. I am not suggesting that arguments are unnecessary for change, but it strikes me how differently change goes when confrontation is not the first step. 

A talented and inspired composer, Debbie was also an agent of change. She helped us improve and enhance our spirituality—our kavannah, and I believe that her strategies helped immensely. As we work on all of our necessary changes, let us remember that change does not just happen. It requires strategy, patience, and awareness of the challenges we all have in adapting to new ways.  

Could God’s charge to Abram and Sarai go wrong? Perhaps, but they are brimming with enthusiasm and faith. Could God’s charge to the Israelites go better? Perhaps, but this could be a learning experience for the Lord: dealing with humans requires great patience. Could Debbie Friedman songs have helped? Who knows, but they would certainly have brought some grace, poetry, and delightful tunes to the process.

"Arise, O Lord, and Disperse Your Enemies!"

June 9th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A persistent theme in the Book of Numbers is our unhappiness with God and God’s plans. Though there were probably some non-dramatic moments in the forty years that the book covers, the text seems full of stories about conflicts. We do not like the food. We cannot find water. We do not want to conquer the Promised Land. Some do not like Moses and Aaron and want themselves to be the leaders. Some of our people are attracted to idolatry and pagan rites, and two of the tribes want to stay on the eastern side of the Jordan River.  

The problem this week is the food, God’s miraculous gift manna from heaven. “The riffraff in the midst of the Israelites felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna!’” (Numbers 11.4-6)  

It is very human to want variety, so the idea of eating the same thing for every single meal is terribly monotonous. However, the manna is free and delicious: “Now the manna was like coriander seed, and in color it was like bdellium. The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes. It tasted like rich cream.” (Numbers 11.78) The Midrash adds that it is miraculous—that it tastes like whatever the eater wants. Of course, this is a Rabbinic enhancement and not in the text itself.  

Meanwhile, notice how the Torah’s words draw a curious distinction between the instigators of the complaining and the general Israelite population. The word riffraff, in Hebrew “ha’saf’suf asher b’kirbo / the riffraff in their midst,” suggests that these complainers are somehow a foreign intrusion who turn our tranquil and appreciative ancestors into whining rebels.  

Some commentators explain that these outsiders are the Erev Rav, the Mixed Multitude of non-Hebrews who join us when we depart Egypt. They could be remnants of the Hyksos who invaded and then ruled Egypt for several centuries. They could be other conquered and enslaved peoples. They could be Egyptians who lose faith in the Pharaoh’s divinity. In some views of the Exodus, these additional refugees speak to the universal promise of God’s freedom, and they can even be considered among our first gerim / converts. Remember the covenant ceremony as described in Nitzavim: “You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God—your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp…to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11). They may not be born Hebrews, but they join our Israelite people and are welcomed into our covenant with God.  

On the other hand, some commentators jump to defend our ancestors by suggesting that it must be the non-Hebrews who cause all the trouble in the Torah: the Golden Calf, the constant complaining, the refusal to commit to the conquest, etc. Though God often calls us all “a stiff- necked people,” some commentators insist that our sainted ancestors are nothing but pious, obedient, and utterly without sin. If something goes wrong, it must be someone else’s fault.  

It is difficult to accept our own guilt or malfeasance—our own selfishness or lack of faith, but the fact is that we are often our own worst enemies. It is not a matter of labeling us as villains or consigning us to Hell. Rather, it is a matter of honestly looking at our difficulties and realizing the times when our actions or attitudes contribute to our troubles. Would that we could be honest and self-reflective. Would that we could stop our brains from persistently and obnoxiously trying to exonerate our foibles or missteps or sins. And, more importantly, would that we could resist the temptation to blame others.  

There are times when enemies surround us, when the actions of others cause danger or damage or worse. In such situations, it is prudent to identify the causes and figure out ways to elude them or defend against them. However, when we are the problem, it is manifestly unjust to try to foist our guilt upon others. We have certainly been the victims of such projecting, and we should be very reticent to repeat this kind of unrighteous behavior.  

Tradition seems both to sense this problem and provide a remedy. In the previous chapter, we read the words Moses declares as the Israelites lift the Ark of the Covenant and begin to move forward. “Arise, O Lord, and disperse Your enemies. May those who hate You flee before You!” (Number 10.35-36)  In the ancient movement of our multitudinous camp, this declaration is a warning to our foes. However, we no longer move the Holy Ark, and Tradition now calls for these words to be proclaimed in our worship service when we open the Ark for the Torah service. We say, “May Your enemies, O Lord, flee before You,” but who exactly are these enemies? Everyone in the synagogue is presumably a friend. Or are we? Though we aspire to be friends of God, are we not also in possession of evil possibilities? Are we not capable of selfishness and mean-spiritedness, of cynicism and impiety, of vulgarity and gossip and sin?  

Perhaps the enemies we hope to vanquish are our own evil inclinations, and we invoke God’s help in this continuous struggle. We can be the loyal children of God, but we can also be the riffraff in our midst. We can be the ones looking for holy possibilities, but we can also be plotting our own misadventures. The only way for us to choose the good is to acknowledge both our virtues and our sins. Honest self-reflection is the first step in fulfilling God’s hopes for us—that we will become blessings. “Arise, O Lord, and disperse Your enemies. May those who hate You flee before You!”

If I Were King...

June 2nd: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A few weeks ago, I mused about our American obsession with things British—from the Royal Family to the aristocracy and landed gentry. We even like their detectives and pastry chefs, and television programs from or about Britain glow in our living rooms continually. Imagining ourselves in their dramas, we often wonder how we would respond. 

If I were the master of Downton Abbey, how would I negotiate modernity? After the Great War decimated the servant class, and socialistic taxes and extravagance bankrupted our class, would I be the one to lose the family estate and position? Could I keep the legacy alive—and how?  

Or, if I were “downstairs,” how much of the tradition would I be willing to dedicate myself to maintaining? How much dignity or autonomy would I be willing to sacrifice so that the upstairs people could have their “important” and ostentatious lives? Would I find these traditions worthy of continuation? 

Similarly, if I were King George III, how high would I want to keep the walls of my castle? Would my democratic tendencies extend just to the highest of the aristocracy or to the population in general? Or, if I were King Charles III, would I feel silly with all the hoopla and expense, or would I find purpose in the monarchy—believing that the money and attention is well-spent for national pride and unity? Would I want to continue things as they have been, or would I emulate  less ostentatious monarchs around the world? Would I be the one who changes tradition? 

The question is not a new one—nor is it restricted to royalty. Religions often face possible changes, and a passage in this week’s Torah portion reminds us of one of Judaism’s greatest moments of transition. In Numbers 6 (verses 22-27), we have what is known as Hab’rachah  Ham’shuleshet / The Threefold Blessing or The Priestly Benediction:
“The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to Aaron and his sons: Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: May the Lord bless you and protect you! May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you! May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace! Thus they shall link My Name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them.”  

Most of us know this blessing as one with which parents bless their children on Shabbat—or with which the Rabbi blesses us at Brit Milah or Baby Naming, Consecration, Bar/Bat Mitzvah, Confirmation, Gerut, or Marriage. However, in Tradition—and as the text suggests, this blessing is to be said by the Kohanim, the Priests.  

The Torah does not identify the occasions on which The Threefold Blessing is to be asked, but the Talmud and subsequent Halachic texts put this blessing into the worship service—in the Amidah just before Sim Shalom. Many congregations have this prayer intoned by the Shaliach Tzibur (prayer leader)—with the congregation answering, Ken y’hi ratzon / May this be God’s Will. However, more traditional congregations bring the Kohanim up to the front of the sanctuary and have what is called Duchenen. The Kohanim remove their shoes, cover their heads and hands with their Tallesim, close their eyes, and make the priestly sign with their hands. The Shaliach Tzibur then begins to chant the words of the blessing, pausing after each word for the Kohanim to repeat the chanted word. It is a ritual moment of great significance—and one of the very few vestiges of the Priestly role that used to dominate Jewish worship. 

Everything changed in 70 CE when the Romans destroyed the Temple and Jerusalem. Without a Temple—and with rebuilding in another location strictly forbidden, there was no place for the Priests to officiate. Imagine being present with the surviving Rabbis in Yavneh when they discussed what to do in the aftermath of the Churban, the destruction. Under the leadership of Yochanan ben Zakkai, the Sages held the future of Judaism in their hands. How were Jews to worship the Lord and keep the covenant? Imagine the table where they pondered Judaism’s fate and the moment when one ancient scholar suggested that God would find prayers acceptable instead of the sacrifices commanded in the Torah. Imagine making the decision to basically junk the previous 1500-2000 years of Jewish worship and institute new ways. What must have begun as a controversial point of view turned out to be both necessary and brilliant, but let us think for a moment about the bravery or desperation or creativity that sparked such a notion. 

The Sages did not know that their new ways would develop into a magnificent spiritual system—one that has nurtured and enhanced our Jewish relationship with the Divine for millennia. They merely saw the necessity and began a process, crafting and re-crafting our Jewish worship service with faith, kavannah, and liturgical labor. Bearing the dual responsibility of revering Tradition and making the necessary changes, these ancient Sages fashioned new ways to keep Israel’s relationship with God healthy and thriving.  

Where they could, they maintained certain forms—keeping the thematic outline of the sacrificial service, but they wrought a major innovation by replacing the sacrifices with prayers. They also faced the consequent de-necessity of the Kohanim, the Priests who had lived with status and power for over a thousand years. In this new “prayer service,” the hereditary priesthood was no longer needed, and any Jew could lead the prayers. Though still respected, the sacred activities of the Kohanim and Levites were vastly reduced and mere tokens of their former roles. 

Though the Sages could bolster their decisions with a number of Scriptural passages, theirs must have been a great and gutsy change. We look back on it now as history, but, at the time, these innovations must have been earth-shaking. Faced with an old order that lay smoldering and in ruins, preserving the essence of our relationship with the Lord meant consigning some precious traditions to memory and legend. 

When we intone the Threefold Priestly Benediction, our primary focus should be, of course, on God’s Presence in our lives. However, we should also reflect on the adaptability that has enabled and enhanced our relationship with the Divine. God’s Face is ever turned to us, smiling and shining and calling us to bring holiness into the times and places we live.