Pinchas: Repairing the Peace of a Letter (repost)

I've said this before, but the Torah really does have an amazing amount of different ways of getting a point across. This week, we see a few of those crafty techniques
crafty techniques at work, yielding some fascinating subtle messages embedded within the text. These lessons are especially crucial for us to take to heart today, as we think about issues like violence, reward and punishment, passion, and that most important of pursuits, peace. The rabbis who divided up the Torah into weekly portions, parshiot, were usually very good at keeping stories intact; breaking up the narrative so that a single story played out in one portion and didn't get split up awkwardly. Knowing that, we already see something strange going on in the story of Pinchas, the grandson of Aaron.

Last week, we were introduced to him as he violently and passionately killed an Israelite and his Midianite female companion for brazenly transgressing the law against idolatrous interfaith cohabitation, in full view of the community. That Torah portion ended
abruptly in the middle of the story; AND it ended on a negative note, which the rabbis almost never allowed: "Those who died of the plague numbered twenty-four thousand" (Numbers 25:9). The End. Lovely... This week's reading is a continuation of that story, where we are told that Pinchas is rewarded for his actions (!). God declares that Pinchas will receive a "Brit Shalom," "A Covenant of Peace." Now, if we stop here for a moment and examine this story a bit more closely, we see some of those 'crafty techniques' I was referring to earlier. First, we are puzzled by the splitting of the story into two sections, and more specifically separating the action itself from its reward. In his writing on this issue, the 13th Century commentator, Moses of Coucy, noted that this teaches us not to rush to reward extremism. Second, our parashah contains two additional hints that something is truly 'off' in this story. The name 'Pinchas,' just in this one verse, in 25:11, is copied down in EVERY Torah scroll - according to tradition - with a miniature Yud.


That letter, often representing God's Presence, is reduced in size in all Torah scrolls, perhaps to indicate that Pinchas' violent actions have diminished the experience of God in his life.
Similarly, the term 'Brit Shalom,' which means "Covenant of Peace' sounds unequivocally positive for Pinchas, no?


Well, much like our Yud-issue above, every Torah scroll contains a 'broken' letter in the word 'Shalom.' The Etz Hayim Torah Commentary explains the broken letter as indicating that, "the sort of peace one achieves by destroying one's opponent will inevitably be a flawed, incomplete peace." It's almost equivalent to writing an asterisk in the corner - yes, it's peace... but is it really?


So does the Torah support Pinchas' actions, or denounce them? Why the disparity between overt praise and subtle critique? Several commentators also point out that his 'reward' is to become the new High Priest - a job filled with rules and regulations, scripted actions and rigid limitations.
Maybe it's not so much a reward as a vehicle for teaching the 'hot-headed' Pinchas how to play by the rules of society? As is often the case, we're left with more new questions than answers. But it's still a crucial lesson for us today, as we too struggle with how to respond to extremist violence and uncompromising leadership. The Torah advocates balance, but sometimes it doesn't hit us over the head with that lesson by stating it outright. It drops small hints to help us get there on our own. If we are ever going to achieve a 'Brit Shalom' of our own, it can't be manufactured or forced - that will only lead to more broken letters and broken dreams. And if we ever want to increase the size of that Yud - the Presence of true Divine peace in our lives - we have to first notice that it's diminished, and only then can we start doing something about it. There are many ways to learn from the story of Pinchas; let's broaden our minds to learn from them all.



Images in this blog post:
1. CC image courtesy of MojoBaer on Flickr
2. CC image courtesy of marianne muegenburg cothern on Flickr. 
3. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone and one of Ohev Shalom's very photogenic Torah scrolls.
4. Image courtesy of the same iPhone and camera-friendly Torah scroll as above.
5. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's computer.

Balak: The Damaging Intention of a Curse (repost)

This week's Torah portion has the wrong name. Well, at least you might think it has the wrong name, judging by the subject matter. Our parashah focuses on the

non-Israelite prophet, Bilaam, who tries to curse the Israelites three times, but is constantly thwarted by God, and instead winds up blessing them each and every time. Before he sets off to proclaim his 'curses,' we also read an amusing story about Bilaam's talking donkey, who upstages Bilaam, and - quite frankly - makes him look like an (another word for donkey)...

Yet our Torah portion isn't named after Bilaam, this week's main character. It's named after Balak, the king of Moab, who tried to commission Bilaam's

unsuccessful curses. Balak, however, is the patsy, the fall-guy, the straight-man in this story, NOT the center of attention. So why is our parashah named after him? To answer that question, I think we need to look at the concept of objective. This story isn't about action, it's about intention. It doesn't include any instances of violence; no one is attacking anyone else physically, the Moabites aren't trying to ambush or entrap the Israelites, and Bilaam isn't being asked to rain down plagues on Balak's enemies. It isn't about physical aggression... but rather something potentially much, much worse.

The tale of Balak and Bilaam reminds us of the power of words. It highlights the fact that not all damage is done with a sword, a gun, or a bomb. Propaganda, slander,

and the perversion of truth can be just as harmful as assault, if not more so. Looking back at our history as Jews, we see that indeed the most damage done to us came from blood libels, the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and other malicious stories told to incite violence against Jews. They cause more harm than inquisitions or pogroms, because the tales themselves never go away. Hundreds of years later, they can resurface again and continue to cause great pain and suffering. That is also why the primary nemesis in this story is Balak, the inciter, rather than Bilaam, the emissary. Throughout our history, the masterminds of anti-Semitism were not the peasants, Cossacks, or Nazis perpetrating acts of violence; the worst villains stood behind the scenes, secretly inflaming more hatred with their words.

It's easy to read this Torah portion and think the name must be wrong. The story primarily focuses on Bilaam, so why is it called 'Balak'?

Because Balak is a metaphor for the larger problems of society. We tend to squabble over small issues, fight over details, and focus on petty bickering. But there are real problems that need to be dealt with - whether we're talking about national politics, Israel, congregational life, or family feuds. Let's not allow ourselves to be distracted by talking donkeys, highfalutin language, or fancy titles. Let us instead push ourselves to identify the real problems at hand, and face them head on. That must surely be the first step towards turning life's curses into blessings.

CC images in this blog post, from Flickr, courtesy of:

1. moose.boy

2. shioshvili

3. drmikeevans

4. spencer77

Chukat: Doesn't Everybody Get the Reference?

Ordinarily, we don't think of history as being the kind of thing that can change much. It already happened, right? A moment passed, an event took place, and nothing (short of time travel...) can subsequently affect
what occurred. And yet, because time is constantly moving, and because *we* are always growing and shifting and evolving, our perspective on history changes. Oddly enough, this actually does make the history itself morph as well. An oral account of something momentous progresses from "do you know what I just did?!" to "did I ever tell you what my grandmother did?" to "once upon a time...". and the story takes on a life of its own. I got to thinking about all of this, because of one verse in a Torah portion about Israelites wandering in the desert, and one half-sentence in a history book about Jews living in the city of Chester, PA.

When I went back in my blog archive, I was surprised to discover I haven't written about this line from Parashat Chukat before, because it's actually one of my favorite verses in the entire Torah. In and of itself, it ain't all that spectacular, but it's the "glass floor" that it accidentally reveals that I especially adore! In the midst of talking

about the Israelites waging war against various enemy tribes, the narrator of the Torah pauses briefly for a cross reference: "Therefore it is said in the Book of the Wars of the Lord, 'Waheb in Suphah, and the valleys of the Arnon...'" (Num. 21:14) Seems straight-forward enough, right? The author is telling us, if you want to read more about these territories and the battles waged there, just go look it up in "The Book of the Wars of the Lord." Only problem is, we have no such book. We have no idea what this text is, nor what happened to it. What I really love about our verse, is that it opens up a TON of new questions: What happened to this book? When was it written? And how recently was it SO well known that the Biblical author could just assume the reader's knowledge of it, and yet now it is totally lost in the annals of history? What else was written back then, that is now lost to us? Are there copies somewhere out there, waiting to be discovered? I have so many new questions. Do you see how the rabbit hole goes deeper and deeper???

For purposes of comparison, I want to mention a modern example of a similar phenomenon. Maybe not as dramatic, but fascinating nonetheless. In Ohev Shalom's monthly Lunch n' Learn program, we just started a new topic this past Thursday. In honor of Ohev's centennial celebration, we are

going to delve into the history of the Jewish community in Delaware County, and more specifically in Chester, PA. A lot of our information will be drawn from a commemorative book that the synagogue produced at the dedication of our current building in 1965. The book begins with telling the history of Jewish life in Chester, and there, while mentioning a family that lived in our area in the 1800s, the author offers a brief "modern-day" reference point: "For many years the Brandeis family ran a dress shop at the site where Stotter's now stands." To the reader in 1965, this was an easy and obvious geographical note about the well-known department store, Stotter's. Well, it closed in 1972, and the building was torn down in 1975; I had to look all that up online, just to find out its fate. That reference is entirely outdated, and makes our Ohev Shalom history book a historical artifact itself!!

None of this is unique to the Torah or our synagogue archives. At any given moment in time, we can both look back and label what happened before as history, and also acknowledge that this very instant in which we have decided to pause and reflect is ALSO a historical moment (or will be very soon...). And how we choose to

evaluate (and judge) the past and present changes all the time. As soon as I hit "Publish" in the top-right corner of this blog page, what I'm writing now becomes history. Some day - God willing - I'll look back and marvel that we were once only JUST at the synagogue's centennial! :-) Perspective is therefore also a gift we can give ourselves, every one of us. Take a moment to appreciate where you are, where you've been, and where you're going. One day, perhaps, our story will be like the Book of the Wars of the Lord - a mysterious tale that COULD unlock an entire bygone world... yet the only thing that remains of it is the title. For now, however, our book is wide open, and many pages have yet to be written. So keep writing all the time; remember, you're making history!


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Michael Shaheen on Flickr
2. InSapphoWeTrust on Wikimedia Commons
3. OldChesterPa.com
4. Bellamar2010 on Wikimedia Commons

Korach: Monumental Conversations (Guest blog)

During the week of July 3rd, I was away, and so my colleague and good friend, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, once again wrote a guest blog post. However, we had some technical difficulties (i.e. I spaced out because I was on vacation...), so the post didn't make it online in time. But here it is, on Monday, for last week's Torah portion. Another post will be up by Friday. Enjoy!

Thank you, once again, to Rabbi Gerber for offering me this opportunity to share some words of Torah in his stead this week:

When I was in college, a friend of mine embarked on a research project about post-Cold War monuments in Europe. He visited monuments in Eastern and Western Europe and talked to the people who lived there about what these monuments meant.  He also explored the ethics of monument-building - who and what do we choose to memorialize? How do we memorialize events that are contested, or that require education and context?  Can one build a monument that is ambivalent? Learning from this friend was the first time I ever really thought critically about monuments and memorials.

How might this connect to this week’s Torah portion, Korach? In our parashah, a group of Israelites challenge Moses’ and Aaron’s authority. As part of this challenge, they make an incense offering that is violently rejected by God; all of the rebels are swallowed up by the earth, leaving only the fire-pans on which they made the offering.  After this traumatic episode, God instructs Moses to collect these fire-pans and to beat them into a covering for the sacred altar (Numbers 17:3-5). In a way, God instructs Moses to create a lasting monument to Korach’s rebellion and its aftermath.

Later readers of this text were fascinated by the
possible meaning of this altar covering. The 10th century French commentator Rashi wrote that it was a simple case of needing to find a sacred use for the fire pans; since they had been consecrated for an offering, they could not be disposed of.  Another French commentator from the 13th century, known as the Chizkuni, wrote that the covering was intended to inspire people to ask questions, and in that way learn about the evils of Korach’s rebellion.  Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Mandatory Palestine, had a radically different take.  He wrote that the fire-pans of Korach’s band were used to cover the sacred altar to remind us that even rebellion can be holy, when it is a rebellion against stagnation and complacency.

In 2019, we in the U.S.A. find ourselves thinking and talking about monuments a great deal. There are new monuments being erected as we come to terms with our own past, such as the incredibly powerful lynching memorial in Montgomery, Alabama. At the same time, we are embroiled in sometimes violent clashes over the removal of Confederate monuments.  In San Francisco, a decision was recently made to remove a school building mural that depicts the Founding Fathers presiding over violence against Indigenous Americans and enslaved Africans.

Ultimately, the decision to erect, restore, vandalize, remove, contextualize, or cover monuments is the representation of a public struggle over the meaning of our past and the direction of our future. Like the Israelites who
beat Korach’s fire pans into a covering for the altar, we humans are always trying to make meaning of our stories - perhaps especially the parts of our stories that leave us collectively wounded and in need of a way to hold our pain, and our hopes, sacred.  As our values and our sense of the meaning of the past change, we find that our relationship with the symbols of the past evolves as well.  When we enact this struggle in a public arena, with debates and decisions about physical monuments, we affirm that meaning is more than individual preference or feeling.  We build and negotiate meaning collectively, and discover who we are (and who we want to be) in the process.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. AgnosticPreachersKid on Wikimedia Commons
2. torange.biz
3. Ariely on Wikimedia Commons
4. Soniakapadia on Wikimedia Commons