Emor: Sometimes it’s hard to Sanctify

Two verses from our Torah portion stood out to me this week... or really just on Friday, as I sat down to write my blog. Parashat Emor lists all the main religious holidays we are meant to observe. The primary three festivals being Sukkot, Pesach, and Shavuot. The text states: “Speak to the Israelites and say to them: ‘These are my appointed festivals, the appointed festivals of the LORD, which you are to proclaim as sacred assemblies.’” (Lev. 23:2) Later on, these holidays came to be known as Regalim, from the root “Regel,” meaning “foot.” They are occasions to walk, on foot, to my holy sites, i.e. to make pilgrimage. On the face of it, a wonderful commandment: “Come together with one another! It’s a big party and EVERYONE is invited!! Celebrate before Adonai; come and rejoice together with the Lord.” Unfortunately, at the moment, we are all a bit agoraphobic, because of the pandemic. Imagining gathering en masse feels unsafe and risky. Furthermore, a terrible tragedy in Israel, that just happened today, has further emphasized the potential hazards of enormous gatherings of thousands upon thousands of people.

Today is Lag Ba-Omer, which is generally not considered a major holiday on the Jewish calendar. We count 49 days from Passover to Shavuot, and this is the 33rd day. But among some Orthodox groups, there are mystical, spiritual connotations to this day, beyond what most Israelis associate with Lag Ba-Omer, which are bonfires and weddings. In northern Israel, near the grave of an ancient rabbi, Shimon bar Yochai, tens of thousands of Orthodox Jews gathered. Devastatingly, a stampede broke out, and more than 40 people were killed in the pandemonium. Reading this terrible story, I found myself contemplating a second verse from our reading. It is actually just three verses earlier in the text, Leviticus 22:32, and it reads: “You shall not profane My holy Name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the people Israel - I, the Lord, who has sanctified you.” 

It is a peculiar verse, because it somehow seems to be juxtaposing the concepts of sanctifying and profaning; suggesting perhaps that the line between the two is blurry... and sometimes quite thin. In addition, this verse is understood as emphasizing “in the midst of the people Israel,” meaning that we should come together to praise the Divine. Not surprisingly, the first verse I quoted above comes right after this. We should elevate our praise of God, and not detract from it, and ideally we should do this together in communal spaces. But again, there is a risk here. Coming together does not automatically mean that God will be praised. Sadly, many of the worst stampedes in recent history have taken place at religious gatherings, whether for Muslims, Hindus, or Jews. So again, it IS true that we should come together to celebrate our religious faith and our strong sense of community and togetherness... but this too needs to be done with care, consideration, responsibility, and safety.

This is certainly true right now during the pandemic. At Ohev Shalom, we are constantly trying to figure out how we can come back together, in-person, to celebrate God’s sacred occasions AND do so in the midst of the Israelite people. And we absolutely cannot WAIT to do so! But in our eagerness to be with one another, and to express our Jewish faith in our communal home, we must be careful and vigilant not to endanger ourselves or one another. Even when our efforts and intentions are good, we may inadvertently put people at risk, and - in a sense - thereby profane the holy Name of God. It is particularly sad to me to hear that stampedes have often happened at religious gatherings. The intention is most certainly a good one, and it is always meant to be a ‘sacred occasion’ and a time of holiness and joy. But we cannot be blind to the fragility of human life, or the inherent risks in creating enormous gatherings with throngs and throngs of people. Hopefully, we can all learn from these devastating news stories. We can and should absolutely strive to be together, to celebrate and to practice our faith, but we can’t do so at the risk of causing injury or even death. 

May the families of those who lost loved ones be comforted among those who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem.

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim: Proud Nomads.

Let’s face it; we’re nomads. It’s probably easier for me to say, personally, since I’ve lived in four different countries and four states in the US. If you’ve mainly lived in one place all - or most of - your life, you may be thinking “well, I’M not a nomad!” And maybe it isn’t true of your own lived experience... but I venture to say it’s almost certainly true of your ancestors a generation or two (or ten) ago, and ultimately it’s quite undeniable that we, as Jews, are most definitely nomads. Abraham, whom we consider the first Jew, is introduced to us with the words “Lech Lecha,” meaning “Go forth (from your homeland, and settle someplace new).” Before we know *anything* else about him, we know that he’s a stranger in a strange land. His son, grandson, great-grandson, and really countless subsequent generations are all defined by their status as aliens, foreigners, sojourners, and outsiders. So yeah, it’s hard to get away from the fact that we, as Jews, move around a lot and always have. It seems to me that it therefore behooves us, wherever we may roam, to consider what our relationship is like with the inhabitants of the land on which we settle? 

Very briefly, I’d like to ponder this question with you from three different perspectives. First, our Torah portion: This week, we read the following in Leviticus, 18:3-4: “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws. My rules alone shall you observe, and faithfully follow My laws; I, Adonai, am your God.” In a way, this is a perfect elaboration of my statement above about us being nomads. The Israelites are, at this point in the text, wandering through the desert without a place to call home. And God makes it abundantly clear that you did not fit in among the Egyptians, nor will you fit in with the Canaanites. Wherever you go, you will be different. It’s also interesting to me that many rabbinic commentaries on these two verses feel the need to put down both the Egyptians and the Canaanites, and clarify that their practices are abhorrent and reprehensible, and THAT is why God issues this decree. But I’m fascinated by the fact that the text itself doesn’t actually say that. The Egyptians are doing their thing, the Canaanites are doing theirs... and you shouldn’t emulate either of them. Just be yourself, march to the beat of your own drum, and be who you are, and who you are meant to be.

A second perspective: This Shabbat at Ohev Shalom is our annual Lostice Shabbat, where we celebrate and honor the small Czechoslovakian town from which we inherited a Torah scroll that survived the destruction of the Holocaust. Every year, I emphasize to our congregation that we are celebrating the Jews of Lostice; we are not exclusively commemorating their deaths. It would be easy for us to look at European Jewry - pre-Holocaust, but in some people’s minds, even today - and say that it is defined by anti-Semitism, pogroms, expulsions, and hate. But that simply isn’t true, or at the very least it does a great disservice to our ancestors who lived there for centuries upon centuries. Those forbearers were nomads as well, to be sure, but that still doesn’t mean that all their neighbors hated them and tried to annihilate them! Everywhere we have lived, we have contributed to the economy, culture, trade, cuisine, and development of society. Sometimes it was symbiotic and harmonious; other times it was contentious and precarious. But let’s not be too quick to judge. Even in the Torah, Egypt was at times a welcoming and safe place for our ancestors, and even the Canaanites were sometimes allies and supporters! It is imperative that we consider the nuance and complexity of our relationships with the people around us... no matter where we have lived.

And so we come to our present day, and to our third perspective. What of our relationship with the people around us today? Again, it might be easier to contemplate this question if you too have done a fair amount of moving and resettling, or if you live in a community with many transplants. Regardless of where you live, I invite you to spend a little time considering what your nomadic heritage means to you, and how it may affect your relationship with your neighbors and friends. Maybe it manifests in how you speak about Israel (despite never having lived there), or a kinship you may feel with Jews you meet from anywhere else in the world. Or perhaps it comes when you study Jewish history, and learn that feeling comfortable and a sense of belonging has *never* sheltered us from the forces of hate and scapegoating... and we forget that teaching at our own peril. It isn’t easy being a nomad, or the descendant of nomads. But it has also enriched our existence and helped us thrive and adapt over the course of millennia. It is neither good nor bad; it simply is. So let us embrace our nomadic legacy and wear it with pride: This is who we are.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Gideon on Flickr
2. snappygoat.com
3. Pic of Czech Jewish family, courtesy of artist Judith Joseph
4. Baltimore Jewish Times

Tazria-Metzora (repost from 2010): A New Perspective on Society, Sickness, and Strive

A side note before I send you on to my writing from 2010. The “young man” I mention in my blog recently spoke at Ohev Shalom, for this year’s Yom Ha-Shoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) program. Back then, it was his first interview with a Holocaust survivor; he has since formed relationships with two others, and has told their stories as well. If you would like to see the recent Ohev program, you can find a recording of it here:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/9efg6gbilrtjl52/GMT20210407-230401_Recording_1760x900.mp4?dl=0

On to the post from 2010!

The beauty of Torah study is its openness to individual interpretations. The Bible is wonderfully democratic, in that anyone can have an opinion, anyone can offer a possible solution to a conundrum, and no theory is ever wrong. Sometimes the richest Torah portions demonstrate this the best, because there's so much depth to the text that it's interesting to see what different people do with it. And sometimes the more challenging portions highlight this better, because everyone struggles mightily to find decent interpretations. What therefore happens is that every once in a while a new Torah scholar emerges, offering a fascinating new perspective.

One of our B'nai Mitzvah students at Ohev Shalom did just that this week. He had the misfortune of being saddled with Tazria-Metzorah, one of the most complicated Torah portions in the Bible. All we read about are laws of purification, skin disease, and cleaning "contaminated" houses. Most rabbis try to focus elsewhere this week, or they rely on rabbinic sources that reframe Tazria-Metzorah, and make it all about slander and gossip. Our brave young man, however, opened my eyes to a very interesting new perspective.

He had chosen to dedicate his Mitzvah (here: Social Action) Project to interviewing a Holocaust survivor, and this Shabbat he will be telling the congregation about the life story of this particular survivor. It happens to also be a particularly appropriate time for this D'var Torah, because last Monday was Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Our Bar Mitzvah student looked at the atrocities committed by the Nazis, and he saw that it all boiled down to how we treat people who are different, and how we deal with the fear of the unknown. He pointed out that the Israelites in the Bible feared disease and impurity, and required those afflicted to wait outside the camp for one week before returning home. The Nazis, in a way, were also looking to isolate what they saw as a "disease," but they took it to a whole new, monstrous and gruesome, level. And for the Nazis, there was no way to redeem oneself or return to society.

What a fascinating perspective! I've been thinking about this comparison for a while now, and it truly intrigues me. How do we treat "the Other"? How do we face our fears and seek to explain that which we cannot understand? The Israelites created their own rituals for dealing with disease and impurity, and through their rituals we identify their value system. Yes, the afflicted individual was forced to leave camp, but only temporarily. Re-admittance was always assumed. And the entire nation would wait for them to return before continuing on their travels through the desert. The individual was isolated, but remained indispensable to the community. Indeed, the way society - any society - treats its outliers betrays its morals.

This perspective also forces us to examine our own behavior. How do we as individuals and as a collective handle illness, difference, dissension, and divisiveness? The Israelites offer us one, somewhat antiquated and sacrifice-based, model, while the Nazis offer us the complete antithesis of how to cope with any type of variance. What about us? In some ways we may be succeeding and in some ways we continue failing, but are we moving in the right direction? I think our Torah portion pushes us to think about these questions. I didn't really realize that before, but thanks to a wonderful new Torah scholar, my eyes have been opened! Have yours?

Shemini: Redefining “Kosher”

This week, we read a lot of the basic laws for Kosher and non-Kosher animals, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to delve into this topic for a bit. Let’s start off with a basic, yet complicated question: What does it mean to keep Kosher? You may respond by noting the rule against mixing meat (-based products) and dairy (-based products)... which could lead to talking about separate dishes in our homes or synagogues. Or perhaps you'd refer to the prohibition against pork or shellfish, or ANY meat that hasn’t been certified Kosher by a rabbinic certifying organization.  Notice how we've already started to veer into the minutia - right off the bat - and how we quickly become bogged down with questions of what's ok, who decides, and what method(s) do they use? We may further lose ourselves in questions of separate cutlery, Kosher restaurants, ethical practices in meat plants, Passover rules, Shabbat concerns, Kashering utensils, and on, and on, and on. But let’s try and bring it back to that original question: What does it mean to keep Kosher?

It is worth noting that the first humans created in the Torah were vegetarians, and that the overarching message of the Torah *seems to be* that we should all be herbivores too. Meat-eating is essentially an acquiescence to the more savage, carnal cravings in us as humans. Furthermore, the laws of Kashrut feel kind of arbitrary, with no explanations of "why": Mammals have to have split hooves and chew their cud. Ok... but why?? Anything in the seas needs fins and scales. Ok again... but still, why??? The fact that they’re seemingly random distinctions tells me something about Kashrut: The value is in HAVING laws governing food; not necessarily the specifics of WHAT those laws are. 

This is perhaps a bit controversial to say, but I think it’s primarily about having a “food ethic.” The rules of Kashrut are the guidelines for us as Jews, but they’re not objectively “the best laws imaginable.” Whoever we are, we DO need rules. If we don’t demand of ourselves that our eating should follow ethical parameters, we wind up with systems where the animals suffer, the people working in the food industry may be mistreated, and ultimately we all put ourselves at risk when our foods are poisoned with salmonella and e-coli. So maybe you don’t keep Kosher, or maybe *your* version of Kosher doesn’t match someone else’s standards, or you’ve got that one friend who loves to point out the hypocrisy in your self-imposed rules. (And don’t we all just LOVE that person’s attitude...) I think all of that is missing the point. 

Develop a food ethic. Or if you have one already, write it down. Be deliberate and intentional about it, and hold yourself accountable. If you simply like a certain product, but you know it is sourced through immoral means, or the company spews hateful rhetoric, I encourage you to examine your choices. "It tastes good" shouldn't be enough of an excuse to eat... well... anything. Perhaps even the word “Kosher” shouldn’t mean certified/Shabbat-observant/separated-meat-n-milk/no-pork... but rather, Kosher should mean ethical. The laws in the Torah - expanded upon by millennia of rabbis - are one version, and some aspects are there to challenge us to be kinder, more compassionate eaters. But it isn’t a perfect system, nor does it need to be. It just needs to be evolving, conscientious, vigilant, and above all else, moral. Kosher should mean “food ethic.” So... do YOU keep Kosher? You don’t have to answer *me*, but you probably SHOULD answer this for yourself. 

CC images in this post, courtesy of:

1. Mike Mozart on Flickr

2. Marco Verch Professional Photographer on Flickr

3. path0s on Pixabay

4. LuisRaa on Flickr

Pesach, Post #613, and a Poem Against Hate

I can't believe I am writing these words: This is my 613th blog post. Yup, 613; like the number of mitzvot that our Jewish tradition says are in the entire Torah. Now sure, some of them were reposts from previous years, some were "guest bloggers" like my brother, Benjamin, Cantor Steve Friedrich, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, and others, and a few were holiday greetings or poems or articles. Nevertheless, 613 times, in 12 years, I have hit the "Publish" button in the top, right-hand corner. That's honestly pretty hard to wrap my head around. I recently said to my *other* sibling, my awesome sister, Nomi, that I don't care for the expression, "It goes without saying." Especially when it's something meaningful, heartfelt, or emotional. I propose, instead, that it should go WITH saying! So even though I've expressed this before, let me again say "thank you" to all of you for reading my blog. What a joy and a privilege it has been to write these Takes on Torah all these years! Six-hundred-and-thirteen posts. Hard to believe. Thank you.

This weekend, we are still celebrating Pesach. We have yet another couple of days of matzah left... hooray. Obviously, we already spoke about the "reason for the season" at our TWO Seder dinners, as well as in services last weekend AND throughout the week. Even so, we continue to remind ourselves that we celebrate Passover because God redeemed us from slavery in Egypt, brought us into the wilderness, gave us the Torah, and led us into Canaan to establish a new nation. Furthermore, the main reason why we keep emphasizing this story, is because it is SUPPOSED TO create in each and every one of us a sense of obligation. God did this incredible, miraculous thing for us... and now it's payback time.

Our texts, prophets, rabbis, and Jewish ethics are pretty clear about this part: The way we repay God is by taking care of the less-fortunate in our own societies. The poor, the orphan, the widow, and the stranger/alien/immigrant in our midst. While it may be a human tendency to praise our own success and only want to look forward once we've "made it," Judaism is insistent that we remember our humble, vulnerable, at-risk beginnings, and step up - emphatically and forcefully - for others who are similarly defenseless. Right now, in the United States in 2021, that means speaking up for Asian-Americans. Recent acts of violence and disgusting rhetoric have targeted Asians and Asian-Americans as the "spreaders" of the Coronavirus, which is just horrific. We have been maligned, vilified, slandered, attacked, and persecuted in ways that are all TOO familiar to what's going on today. We have to speak out. The Torah demands it of us, and specifically *because* of our history as slaves, and as a people who had Someone stick up for us. It's payback time... or rather pay-it-forward time.

I'm going to pause my own writing at this time, and instead share with you a poem written on behalf of the Asian-American community. This piece was written by the Jewish poet and liturgist Alden Solovy:

For the U.S. Asian Community:

Oh people of conscience,
Cry out.
Cry out against hatred and anger.
Cry out against violence and oppression.
Cry out against the rising tide of brutality against
Our Asian American brothers and sisters.

Author of life,
Source and Creator,
Grant a perfect rest under Your tabernacle of peace
To the victims of the massacre
In Atlanta, Georgia,
Whose lives were cut off by violence
In a rampage of aggression beyond understanding.
May their souls be bound up in the bond of life,
A living blessing in our midst.
May they rest in peace.

G-d of justice and mercy,
Remember the survivors and witnesses of this attack,
Witnesses to shock, horror and dismay.
Ease their suffering and release their trauma
So that they recover lives of joy and wonder.
Grant them Your shelter and solace,
Blessing and renewal.

Look with favor, G-d of love,
Upon Asian American communities throughout the land,
And all communities targeted for violence.
Grant them Your protection.
Remember them with comfort and consolation.
Bless them with wholeness and healing.

Heavenly Guide,
Put an end to anger, hatred, and fear,
And lead us to a time when
No one will suffer at the hand of another,
Speedily, in our day.

Amen.

To donate in support of and solidarity for our fellow citizens, the Asian-American community, please check out:

ADL's support for the #StopAsianHate campaign

#StopAsianHate GoFundMe Campaign

https://stopaapihate.org/

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Fenng(dbanotes) on Flickr

2. Rabbi Gerber's iPhone (and Seder table)
3. Victoria Pickering on Flickr