Sh’lach Lecha: Who Puts the "Ger" in Stranger?

One wonderful and infinitely complex aspect of the Torah text - in general - revolves around the issue of interpretation. It’s so hard to say “the Torah says…” because every time you translate something, you have to choose between synonyms to decide the nuance, tone, and intention of what you think the original text says. This week, we find a critical example of this ambiguity in one pivotal word that affected our ancient ancestors and still (maybe more so) affects us today. It caught my eye, because the Torah restates this commandment in back-to-back verses. Ok, so let’s “ger” right into it, shall we? 

In Numbers, chapter 15, verses 15-16, we read: 

“15: There shall be one law for you and for the resident stranger; it shall be a law for all time throughout the ages. You and the stranger shall be alike before Adonai. 16: the same ritual and the same rule shall apply to you and to the stranger who resides among you.”

Perhaps surprisingly, the ambiguous word in those verses - and indeed throughout the Torah - is “stranger.” The word in Hebrew is “Ger,” and a big question that we need to clarify is, who is the stranger? Is it just someone who is unfamiliar to you personally? Or someone who resides with you temporarily, but not permanently? Is this someone who was not born Jewish but who converted? Or a non-Jewish individual who has no intention of converting, but who nevertheless lives with you? What complicates the matter is that it’s used in all of the above ways throughout the Torah. In Genesis, Abraham refers to himself as a Ger, meaning he’s an outsider with no claims to land and no status among the Hittites where he lives (but he certainly hasn't converted to their religion, nor does he have any plans to). In Exodus, the Jewish People are repeatedly reminded by God that we were “strangers (Gerim) in the land of Egypt.” But again, the Israelites weren't converts TO Egyptian culture, but merely status-less outsiders. Yet when the text later talks about Gerim living among us - like in our parashah - most commentators translate this as “convert” or “proselyte.” And the implications are significant.

Why does this matter? Well, when the Torah commands us to take care of the poor, the orphan, the widow... and "the stranger" in our midst, is it talking only about converts (and thus perhaps only concerned with taking care of fellow Jews), or about all people, including non-Jews? Most classic rabbinic commentaries defer to the convert-translation. One of the most famous of these was Rambam (or Maimonides) who wrote a thousand years ago: "All [occurrences of the term] 'Ger' which are said regarding gifts to the poor are nothing other than a 'Ger Tzedek' (i.e. a convert)." Personally, I am dismayed by this assertion, because I read our texts as absolutely commanding us to be kind and considerate to *all* people, regardless of religion, race, ethnicity, or any other defining characteristic. How unfortunate that, when our texts already have multiple instances of commandments directing us to take care of fellow Jews, and here we have an opportunity to expand the circle and extend God's Love more broadly, so many authorities choose instead to read it as yet another example of taking care of our own.

Even if we were to agree to read Ger as convert, I'm still bothered by it. We so often state that once someone has converted they are Jewish, plain and simple. No second-guessing, no questioning, no exclusions. So why would this text be talking about fellow Jews as "strangers" and "outsiders," just because at one point they converted into the religion?? Today, in our diverse and multicultural world, I firmly believe we need to emphasize inclusion. We can absolutely still acknowledge the differences between being Jewish and not, and I don't mind saying there are certain mitzvot and rituals that are exclusively performed by Jews during a Jewish prayer service. But we cannot, and should not, wall ourselves off from our neighbors all around us, no matter how different from us they may be. Clearly, not all authorities read it this way, but there is no doubt in my mind as to what the Torah (and God) meant here. And the commandment to treat all people the same was not only true in the time of the Torah, but is just as much true today in our modern world. If not more so.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Historical Thesaurus on Flickr
2. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
3. Wind-Struski on Wikimedia Commons
4, U.S. National Archives on Picryl

Naso (repost): Feeling the Loss of God's Face

This is a repost of something I wrote in 2012, and I dedicated it then in memory of Henry Dickson, who was a member of the congregation and a good friend. It's hard to believe it's been ten years since he passed. I wanted to make sure to mention the tribute, because Henry is mentioned in the post itself. May his memory always be remembered for a blessing.

Our Torah portion this week is Naso, the second parasha in the Book of Numbers. One of the most famous sections in Naso is the Priestly Benediction, which still to this day is used by many parents to bless their children at the Friday night dinner table, and is also included in many lifecycle events. The Etz Hayim Chumash translates the Priestly Benediction as follows: "Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: 'The Lord bless you and protect you! The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!'" (Numbers 6:23-26) Now, Henry would have looked at that translation and said, "Is that REALLY what the Hebrew text says?" And of course my answer would be, "No." The Etz Hayim translators would probably argue that they're giving you the figurative meaning of the text, but personally, I like the literal meaning. And Henry was one of many people who, like me, wanted to know what the words were literally saying, and then he could make up his own mind about the interpretive meaning. So let's delve, shall we?

I'm ok with the first line, it is indeed talking about God blessing and protecting us. So far, so good. But the second and third lines have a fascinating wording that provokes a very different theological understanding: "May God shine God's Face upon you and be gracious to you! May God turn God's Face toward you and grant you peace!" Are we uncomfortable with the notion of God having a face? Is that why we gloss over this with a figurative translation? Let's instead sit with the challenge of this wording for a minute. What does it mean to see/experience/feel/know God's Face? And even if you don't believe in an anthropomorphic God (a tangible, human-like Divine figure), isn't there something we can learn from the concept of God turning towards us, rather than just asking God to show us favor?

One idea that jumped out at me comes from the Book of Genesis. After not having seen his brother, Esau, for nearly 20 years, Jacob is reunited with his sibling once again. As he tries to offer his brother a caravan filled with gifts, he exclaims, "Accept from me this gift; for to see your face is like seeing the Face of God, and you have received me favorably" (Gen. 33:6). To me, what Jacob is saying is that good fortune in life, special joyous occasions, and moments of thanksgiving - they are all LIKE seeing the Face of God. The Divine Countenance is also discussed in the Book of Psalms, a book filled with every human emotion across the spectrum. In at least ten different Psalms, the theme of God's Face features prominently, either as a Presence strongly felt (and therefore the source of joy, confidence, and safety), or a gaping void (and thus the source of agony, sorrow, rejection, and defeat). And it is the central focus of the Priestly Benediction, which has remained one of the most well-known Jewish prayers for over 3,000 years.

God's Face is not theologically problematic to me. Because whenever good things happen in life, it can indeed feel as if the Face of God is shining on us all. And when we are alone in our grief, mourning the loss of wonderful people, it certainly can feel as if God's Face is hidden, and the world is just a little bit emptier. The people who bless our lives with their presence, they are the embodiment of God's Light shining in our lives. And knowing that the light can come and go forces us to cherish them while they are around. So make sure to identify the people who represent the Face of God in your life, who light up your existence and spread warmth, joy, comfort, and positivity. Treasure every precious moment that you have with them, and be grateful always.


Photos in this blog post:
1. Image of the Google Translate app courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPad.
2. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone on a gorgeous afternoon.
3. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone... but the gift courtesy of Ohev Shalom's awesome Confirmation Class 2012!
4. CC image courtesy of The California National Guard on Flickr

Shavuot: I Believe I Saw You at Sinai...

I know it's kind of short notice, but if you're local to Ohev Shalom and aren't too busy this Saturday, you may want to consider joining us for either or both of our events that day. Zoom works too, but it's never really the same as being in-person, is it? So, what's so special happening on Saturday, June 4th? Well, both of them have to do with the Ten Commandments, and what happened when Moses and the people received them directly from God at Mount Sinai. There is a classic, Jewish legend that states that every Jewish soul was present at Mount Sinai, so I suppose I could have added to my previous sentence: "Remember that day? Man, that was crazy!" Anyway, we have a morning service and an evening program going on, and altogether three opportunities to grapple with that history-altering moment in the Bible... and all three from very different perspectives. I want to say a word or two about each here on the blog, and I hope at least a few (more) people will be able to attend. 

First, at the morning Shabbat service, our sixth and seventh grade class will be delivering a clever D'var Torah. I say "clever" because we decided to try something a little different. As a class, they've written Divrei Torah (plural) with me in third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grade, so it was time to think outside the box. My colleague, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, and I decided to introduce the students to medieval rabbinic commentary from a series of volumes called Mikraot Gedolot. So the class and I looked at the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, and some of the peculiar, melodramatic elements of that scene. We then examined some of the commentaries, and the students then got to write their own questions, considerations, and musings. And we put it all together on a page that mimicked the rabbinic template from Mikraot Gedolot. I share all this with you - and hope you can come tomorrow morning - because I think (I hope) the students learned something really essential about Torah: Our voices matter. Studying our ancient texts is meant to be a give-and-take, back-and-forth, interactive process, where every single generation of Jews (including yours and mine...) is invited and encouraged to join the conversation. And once we realize we're part of the dialogue, we may also discover yet another powerful truth about our Jewish tradition. Torah wasn't given once at Mount Sinai, to one group of people, in one geographic location. It is actually a continuous and ongoing process that is still going on to this very day!

And that's only the morning service! Later in the evening, starting at 8pm, we are holding our annual Tikkun Leyl Shavuot, evening of study connected to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot. This year, we decided to center our learning on the notion of "This I Believe." Looking at it through the lens of the Mount Sinai experience, we might ask ourselves what each person believes actually happened there, and what does it still mean for the Jewish experience today? How often do we even stop and ponder what we truly believe? What are our guiding principles in life, and how did we come to believe them in the first place? For tomorrow evening's learning, I've invited several congregants who are Jews by Choice, i.e. who converted to Judaism as adults. Generally speaking, Jewish tradition tells us not to highlight when someone has converted, because they are indeed fully Jewish, and their journey doesn't mitigate that experience at all. At the same time, I think it is a vital part of the larger narrative of the Jewish community, and it helps us all - collectively - be more inclusive when we learn what someone else went through to claim their Jewish identity. And by the way, their souls were right there at Mount Sinai too; they just needed an extra step to find their way home. 

We will then conclude our evening of study by looking at several essays on the topic of "This I Believe." And not even necessarily stories from the Jewish community. People around the globe grapple with the notion of what they believe; about the universe, humanity, the meaning of life, and what it means to do good. As I mentioned above, we rarely take the time to stop and think about those beliefs, even though they may fundamentally impact all of our major life decisions! Reading about other people's guiding principles in life may really help us contemplate our own. Just as learning about (or remembering?) what happened at Sinai can inspire us to think about what Judaism, Jewish tradition, and God mean to us today. And realizing that our voices are essential parts of the Jewish conversation - as our Hebrew School students did - will hopefully spur you on to really own your beliefs and share them with others. Look how much you could learn, just by coming to services on a single day! :-) I hope to see you there.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Philip de Vere on Wikimedia Commons
2. Ohev Shalom's sixth and seventh graders
3. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
4. ckubber on Flickr

Metzora (Shabbat Ha-Gadol): Plague vs. Plague vs. Plague

At first, I couldn’t see any connection between this week’s Torah portion and the upcoming holiday of Pesach, which starts (gulp!) next Friday. But then a particular word caught my attention, and I started to ponder some similarities and differences in its usage on a few different levels. So, our parashah is one of the oddest ones in the whole Torah, focusing on bodily discharges, weird stains and mold on houses and on clothing, as well as other private, intimate, often uncomfortable topics. You can probably see how that would be tough to connect to Pesach! But the text refers to a lot of these physical symptoms - on bodies, clothing, and walls - as “plagues.” And that word sounded awfully familiar, both because of Passover and because of something much more current…

Now, the words that both amount to "plague" in English are not the same in Hebrew. I would even add a third version of this word - in English and in Hebrew - which is a euphemism for pestilence, disease, or even - you guessed it - pandemic. Despite these various synonyms, the images they each conjure up are similar, as they involve illness, quarantine, and potential death, and they all also ideally warrant introspection and behavior change. But more on that last part a little later. So let’s examine these concepts a bit closer, shall we? The word in our Torah portion of Metzora, is “Nega,” (e.g. Leviticus, 14:34), and it’s often used with a variation on the name of the parashah, “Tzara’at.” A “Nega Tzara’at” is sometimes translated as an “eruptive plague.” It’s interesting, though, that the root of the word “Nega” is also the verb “to touch,” and it’s used in that form repeatedly in our reading as well (e.g. "do not 'touch' (Noge'a) that 'plague' (Nega)!"). Based on that connection, I envision this type of plague as more personal, embarrassing, unpleasant, and touching/affecting the individual deeply. Certainly the plagues of Egypt - from the Passover story - are horrible too, but they also seemingly manifest differently.

That kind of plague is referred to as a “Maka” or “Makot” (pl.). Interestingly, the Torah doesn’t refer to them by that name in the Exodus story itself. Within the narrative, it just refers to the specific scourge of each plague. In Deuteronomy, however, God talks about inflicting “Makot” on the Israelites if they do not follow God’s laws, like the ones rained down upon the Egyptians (Deut. 28:59-60). The root of this word is a “blow” or a “strike.” We still translate them as “plagues,” but I see these as connoting national or widespread affliction; more than just an individual attack on a person or someone’s home. And then, of course, we need to add in the word for our current “plague,” namely the Covid pandemic, which in Hebrew is referred to as a “Magefa.” The root of that term is “Guf,” which means “body,” so both affecting the individual person’s body, but also widespread across an entire population.

So what do we make of all this information? Well, I think it’s both true that there are a multitude of calamities that can affect us on many different levels, and yet all of them should make us pause, reflect, and consider our own actions. In each case, we could argue that the individual(s) didn’t cause the plague. It would, perhaps, be easy to just say, “Not my fault,” and wash our hands of the whole thing. But even when we may not have caused something, it may be a good opportunity to consider our role in the wider environment. God repeatedly reminds the people that these physical manifestations are externalized symptoms of something hidden inside. And sometimes, the only way to deal with something unpleasant, that we don’t want to look at, is to bring it out into the light and force ourselves to confront the pain. We may give them different names, and we may think of these various plagues as unrelated and certainly not of our own making… and yet we are nevertheless impacted and troubled by them. We suffer the repercussions and have to deal with the fallout, so it seems to me that we should use the opportunity to learn something here. Maybe we should focus less on the details and differences, and more on how we can reflect and grow as individuals and in our societies. That, perhaps, is the real remedy; regardless of the particular plague with which we are, well, plagued.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Sec c sonam on Wikimedia Commons
2. Leo Reynolds on Flickr
3. Wellcome Images on Wikimedia Commons
4. Ivabalk on Pixabay

Tetzaveh: One on One with God

Tetzaveh, this week’s Torah portion, has the unique (ignoble?) distinction of being the only parashah - from Exodus through the end of the Torah - without a mention of Moses. He’s IN the story, mind you, but God only ever addresses Moses as “you.” Nevertheless, it’s peculiar to find an entire Torah portion without the word “Moses” appearing even once. As you can imagine, there is A LOT of discussion about this in rabbinic literature, and right now I'd like to offer my own take on this peculiar omission. We hear an awful lot about God and Moses speaking to one another, but it always feels like there’s someone else intruding on that conversation as well... us! It’s supposed to be just the two of them… so why are you and I there, rudely eavesdropping?!? If we’re privy to all their conversations, how is it a special connection just between Moses and his God? 

We still learn the laws in this section, specifically about the High Priest’s garments and the ceremony for his installation. But by leaving out Moses’ name, the text may be suggesting that he had some one-on-one time with God as well; just the two of them. There’s the content itself, but then also a larger message about Moses developing a personal connection with the Divine. Only when we notice Moses' absence do we take the time to reflect on his experience... and maybe see him from a changed point-of-view. As with so many things in the Torah, it isn't just about the people IN the story, but about us, the readers, as well. We are invited to create a unique, individually tailored relationship with God as well. It isn’t meant to be reserved for a Moses or a Miriam, a David or a Deborah (Judges, chapter 4). Each of us is given the opportunity to develop a spiritual life, to genuinely walk with God, and to gain a deeper understanding of our purpose on this earth. 

Sometimes people ask me, "Why don't we hear God's Voice these days, like it's presented in the Bible?" Well, part of me wonders if we're listening for it? Would we trust that what we heard was actually a Divine source, or would we just think we were going crazy, or someone was playing tricks on us?? I also feel like so much of the public discourse these days pits religion and science against one another, as if they are competing on the same playing field. But it would really be like debating which subject was better in school, math or history! They're dealing with different basic premises, and they're trying to discern totally different things. There's really no need to see them as competing or clashing. I consider myself a believer in science, rational thinking, and the theory of evolution. Yet I also need to make room for faith, the Bible, and a personal relationship with God.

Maybe this week's Torah portion is trying to teach us about stepping back from the normal way of doing things. What if, like Moses, we focused on silence, contemplation, and self-reflection, instead of talking and DOING all the time? To me, the notion of conversing with God isn't about receiving a Divine mission or discerning the future. It's about humility and mindfulness. It is just as much about being in relationship with our true selves - hearing our inner voices and thinking about where we're going in life - as it is about hearing a Voice From Above. We are, after all, created in God's Image, so maybe forming a bond with God can be as simple and straight-forward as looking in the mirror and really *seeing* ourselves fully? Talking about God isn't easy... even for me, and I'm a religious professional! But I think it's actually really important, and I haven't talked about God enough in this blog. So I'm going to try to change that, just as I'm also going to dig a bit more deeply into myself. Not all of it will make it into the blog, mind you. Some of it is just between me and God, because I get to have that one-on-one time too. And if you're ready for it, so do you.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. j4p4n on Openclipart
2. Thirsty in LA on Flickr
3. CTLiotta on Wikimedia Commons
4. Boston Public Library on GetArchive

Mishpatim: Who the Chell is Chur??

I fell down a rabbit hole again. Not literally, of course, but I found an interesting mention in the text of our parashah, and (to mix my metaphors here...) I pulled on a tiny thread and an entire sweater unraveled! And I must tell you, it's probably one of my favorite things to do as an exegete. (Side note: I'm not sure when one can 'officially' start calling her/himself an expounder of the Biblical text (i.e. an exegete), but as I approach my 650th blog post on the Torah text, I think I qualify. :-)) I love to find a word, phrase, expression, or strange reference in the Bible, and just see what happens if I look it up in all its various forms and locations. This week, we're hot on the trail of an obscure character in the Torah; a man named Chur (or Hur). 

Weeks ago, his name came up in a most surprising place. As the Israelites set off on their journey into the desert, their trials and tribulations began almost instantly. One of their first battles was against the Amalekites (in Exodus, chapter 17), during which four people are mentioned by name. Joshua is the general who leads the troops into battle. Moses ascends a mountain, and whenever his arms are raised, the Israelites start winning... but when his arms fall back down, the Amalekites start to prevail. In order to help the Children of Israel keep winning, his one arm is held up by his brother, Aaron, and the other one is held up by... Chur (v. 12). Who's *this* dude?? It's like one of those children's puzzles - "one of these things is not like the others..." Three incredibly famous characters, both here and throughout the Bible... and then Chur. After this supportive role (literally), he mainly disappears into obscurity again.

And that's really the last we "Hur-d" (heard) of him until this week's Torah portion. Again, with no introduction or explanation, he shows up in a leadership role once again. As Moses and Joshua ascend Mount Sinai to receive God's Laws, Moses says to the 70 elders accompanying them, “Wait here for us until we return to you. And here are Aaron and Chur with you; let anyone who has a legal concern approach them.” (Ex. 24:14) Chur? A top leader on the same level as Aaron, and above Moses’ entourage of 70?? Who is this guy anyway?? Well, the medieval commentator, Rashi, wonders the same thing, and posits a most fascinating solution. Rashi finds a remote reference in the First Book of Chronicles (2:19), that mentions in passing that Chur is the son of Caleb (one of only two people - along with Joshua - to see both the start and end of the 40-year Exodus). Rashi also adds that Chur’s mother was… wait for it… Moses’ and Aaron’s sister, Miriam! Ooooh, so it's really just the ol’ boss’s nephew syndrome. Maybe *that's* how he rose the ranks...

Joking aside, this would definitely explain why he travels in such privileged circles. He’s part of the family! I love when the rabbis find obscure, remote links like this, and use them to tie narratives together. I actually found two additional, intriguing (but minor) references, but I'm running out of space in this blog post. Instead, I'll be mentioning them in services this weekend, though feel free to write a comment here or e-mail me if you'd like to learn more. My point in sharing all of this with you is to demonstrate both the depth of the Biblical text - with all these peripheral characters and seemingly far-flung connections - and also to show you the brilliance of the rabbinic exegetical process. They sometimes scour Scripture and midrashic texts to find possible links and solutions, and the result is a rich tapestry of interwoven stories that link together across stories, distance, and millennia. It starts with something that appears insignificant, e.g. the name of a character mentioned in passing. But you start to pull on that thread, or dig deeper into that hole, and suddenly the rabbit's entire sweater has come undone! Ok, I mixed my metaphors again, but hopefully you get the picture. Or should I say "pict-Hur"?

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Valerie Hinojosa on Flickr
2. Dave Morris on Flickr
3. Steve Jurvetson on Flickr
4. staceyjoy on Flickr

Yitro: Layers of Meaning Hidden Under *The* Place

Greetings, everyone! I've been on a bit of a break from the blog, but wanted to get back into it. As I hit the 650 (!!) blog post mark, I'm thinking about possible ways to mix things up, change my focus, or in some other way restructure the blog. Please feel free to reach out with any thoughts/comments/suggestions. Thanks!

Over the years, I've several times found myself reflecting on "famous" quotes from the Torah. These are verses (or parts of verses) that, for any number of reasons, caught someone's attention and made their way into other texts. Sometimes they can be found in the prayer book, other times a zemer (a special Shabbat song), or some part of the Jewish lifecycle. As a result, these verses may stand out in the text, almost like a well-known movie quote that you all of a sudden get to hear in its original context. I stumbled upon one such verse in this week's Torah reading. In this particular instance, the meaning in the parashah and how it has become used in Jewish life are quite different, which makes it an excellent candidate for a blog post! :-)

First, let's look at the context: The Israelites are in the desert, having passed through the Sea of Reeds and are about the receive the Ten Commandments. (That momentous occasion *does* occur in our Torah portion as well, but I decided to focus on something else this time around...) Our text begins with Moses receiving a visitor. His father-in-law, Yitro, comes from the land of Midian, bringing with him Moses' wife and two sons. While there, Yitro sees Moses presiding over every legal dispute and question that any Israelite may bring up. And he strongly encourages him to instead appoint various levels of judges, to essentially create a hierarchy of lower courts, appellate courts, a supreme court... and MOSES. The last thing Yitro says to Moses is that this new-and-improved system will be easier for everyone, and adds, "[if you do this,] you will be able to endure, and all these people too will return to their homes in peace." (Ex. 18:23)

Initially, I just passed over this verse and kept reading. But I glanced at the Hebrew, and noticed something familiar. The phrase about people returning home in peace reminded me of something else, so I looked it up. Sure enough, our ancient rabbis "borrowed" this sentence for a surprisingly different purpose. When I officiate at funerals, and we have finished lowering the casket into the grave, it is customary to say "Al Mekomo Yavo v'Shalom," which is exactly the same statement in our text. I find this fascinating, because the expression is being repurposed in a clever way. At some point in Jewish history, our ancestors began using the word "Makom," which literally means Place/Spot/Location, as a euphemism for God. When someone dies, we console them by saying: "Ha-MAKOM Yinachem Etchem..." - "May God comfort you..." Again, we use the word "place" as another Name for the Divine; perhaps imagining that God is the *ultimate* place; the home to Which (or Whom) we all return after death.

It just intrigues me that this text about judicial proceedings - and about people returning back to their tents after receiving a verdict from Moses or one of the other newly-appointed judges - was seen as a good candidate for a burial rite at the graveside. It is not, by the way, unusual for the rabbis to extract new meanings from Biblical texts. This is a good example of them mining the Tanach for recyclable material! Context was often less significant, and if a quote could be used in an entirely new way - as long as you weren't jumbling the words around and actually manipulating the meaning of the text. If the phrase reads correctly, then by all means interpret it to connote something *completely* different. To me, this is one of the truly beautiful features of our ancient texts. It creates layers upon layers of meaning; constantly shifting as time passes. What the text comes to mean for one generation may be entirely different from the previous generation, the one before that, and countless others before that. It makes our ancient texts come alive, and invites us to scour the text for our own meaningful passages, regardless of what it used to mean to our forbearers. I think it is a subtle, but fantastic aspect of our heritage... and you can quote me on that! 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. https://psycatgames.com/magazine/quotes/short-quotes/
2. ArtsyBeeKids on Pixabay
3. Page from my rabbi's manual about including this verse

4. Carol M. Highsmith on rawpixel
 

Mikeitz: What Did Shimon Ever Do To You?!? Oh, wait...

The Joseph story in Genesis is *filled* with comeuppance. For Pharaoh’s courtiers, for Joseph, his brothers, their father (Jacob), and more. Various stories begin in one place, and then - some significant amount of time later - that earlier occurrence comes back to either haunt or honor the same people. Sometimes it’s overt, while other times it’s subtle and hidden. I think a fascinating example of the latter comes in the story of one of the lesser-known brothers, Shimon or Simeon. You don't actually hear much about Shimon, whether in this story or elsewhere. As a tribe, in later generations, Shimon melts away into oblivion. So much so, in fact, that by the time our ancestors put together the book we now call The Torah, and included Moses' final farewell blessings to each of the tribes; Shimon is left out entirely. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back to the man himself in the Book of Genesis.

The first time we really were introduced to Shimon, the second-oldest of all of Jacob's sons, was when he and brother #3, Levi, avenged their family's good name. Their sister, Dinah, was taken for a wife - by force - by a non-Israelite named Shechem. Surreptitiously, they plotted against Shechem, and indeed his entire clan, and killed all the men for what they had done to Shimon and Levi's sister. The reasoning behind their action is understandable, and certainly I have no interest in defending Shechem, but their methods and the end result are obviously shocking and reprehensible. I personally believe that violence only begets more violence, and even though their father, Jacob, doesn't really chastise them at the time, he recalls this gruesome event at the end of his life, and curses his sons for their bloody behavior. So before we even arrive at the Joseph story, we might have preconceived notions about Shimon's... temperament.

That all happened two Torah portions ago. Last week, when Joseph's lengthy narrative began, all the brothers together conspired to throw him in a pit and then sold him into slavery. They had grown furious (more hot-tempered behavior...) at him for being such a brat and flaunting their father's favoritism of him. And this story never singles out Shimon OR Levi... yet subtly it indicts him nonetheless. You see, the oldest son is Reuben, and the text, back in chapter 37, informed us that Reuben opposed the brothers' aggressive, violent plants. So if he wasn't the instigator, and we similarly heard that brother #4, Judah, also tried to mitigate the severity of their plans, then who were the ring leaders? It certainly seems plausible that the two remaining oldest family members - who also already had a history of rash, callous behavior - Shimon and Levi, were indeed the biggest culprits.

And now, time for the comeuppance. Years later, Joseph has survived his enslavement as well as time in an Egyptian prison, and has risen to become the second-most powerful man in Egypt. When a famine devastates the entire region, and everyone comes to Egypt for provisions, Jacob's family arrives at Joseph's doorstep like everyone else. And when he plots his own revenge, he tells the brothers that one of them must remain in bondage in Egypt, while the others may return home to fetch their youngest brother, Benjamin. Who does Joseph seize? Our text states: "... he [Joseph] returned to them and spoke to them; and he took Shimon from among them and had him bound before their eyes." (42:24) Coincidence? I think not. I believe Joseph knew the personalities of his brothers, and he knew who was the biggest threat. And he also clearly remembered - and still bore the scars from... - when his brothers sold him as a slave. Which face was most prominent in his mind? His hot-headed brother, Shimon. I'd like to think that Shimon recalled all these events as well. Sitting alone in prison, feeling abandoned, forgotten, and at the mercy of an ill-tempered bully, perhaps he finally felt true remorse for all the things he had done. And perhaps in that moment, he too had to acknowledge the comeuppance and poetic justice of what had befallen him.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Anthony Jauneaud on Flickr
2. pxhere.com
3. Michael Hiemstra on Wikimedia Commons
4. Prettysleepy on Pixabay

Va-Yishlach: Jacob is so two-faced... and so is Israel!

In our Torah portion this week, a Divine messenger - an angel - attempts to change our ancestor, Jacob's name to "Yisrael." Oddly enough, it doesn't "stick." In Genesis, 32:29, the angel renames him... yet in the very next verse, the text begins, "Jacob said..." A few chapters later, God tries this again; yet this time coming down to change Jacob's name to Yisrael once and for all! Chapter 35, verse 10, states unequivocally: "God said to him, 'You whose name is Jacob, you shall be called Jacob no more. But Israel shall be your name.' Thus God named him Israel." Surely it'll work this time, no?? Four verses later, we read: "and Jacob set up a pillar at the spot where God had spoken to him..." (v. 14) What the heck is going on here?!? God has changed people's names before, and will do it again later, and every time the shift has worked. So how come Jacob - I mean, Israel - stubbornly refuses to let go of his birth name???

I had the pleasure of studying this text with Ohev's new rabbinic intern, Amotz Kohlmeier, this week, and we stumbled upon an interesting commentary. The Hebrew professor and Biblical scholar, Robert Alter, recently came out with a new translation and commentary on the Torah text, in which he discusses the life of Jacob... sorry, "Israel." He offers this fascinating insight when talking about the famous scene of Jacob (pre-name change) wrestling with the angel: "The image of wrestling has been implicit throughout the Jacob story." Alter refers to Jacob and Esau wrestling in their mother's womb; then Jacob stealing Esau's birthright and then their father's blessing; later, Jacob fights constantly with his uncle, Laban, and Laban's herdsmen; and now his life of struggle is made EXPLICIT with this name change. Another great commentary, that of Everett Fox, even translates the name "Yisrael" as "God-Fighter." It sure sounds like strife and contention are the hallmarks of Jacob's - dang it; Israel's! - entire life.

It sounds burdensome and exhausting to be constantly fighting like this, and yet I also find it incredibly human and relatable. None of us behave in one way, all the time, with every person in our lives. How we are with our parents differs from our interactions with friends, and is not the same as how we treat our children, which deviates from exchanges with students, colleagues, or co-workers. Does this make us two-faced? The implication of which is disingenuous, fake, hypocritical, and even devious? Personally, I think to be human is indeed about learning to interact differently with the various groups of people in our lives, and maybe that *is* two-faced (or three- or four-faced), but I don't think it necessarily has negative connotations. In the Torah text, our patriarch seems to hold onto *both* identities at the same time; sometimes feeling like Jacob and other times like Israel. On occasion, he is strong, confident, and a leader... while other times he cries, messes up, and is frightened. Isn't that true for you and me as well?

It isn't easy to balance these multiple identities. Having acknowledged all of the wrestling that Jacob (argh! ISRAEL!!) did throughout his life, things don't exactly get easier for him. There is more fighting, deception, and strife ahead. And again, I think there's an incredibly valuable lesson for all of us in this narrative. Maybe the goal isn't to achieve Oneness. Perhaps that is exclusively the realm of God. Our task is to strive for harmony and balance. We embrace the occasions where we feel fearful and insecure, and accept that it's ok to frequently NOT have all the answers. We also need to be present to our successes and our achievements, and allow ourselves to feel pride and gratitude for the things we are able to do well. The goal may be to find a sense of balance and equilibrium among these disparate emotions, personas, and characteristics. I think by the end of his life, Jac... *Israel* learns to embrace his various components. He isn't done wrestling or arguing... but at least he comes to an understanding about his varied roles and relationships. It seems to me that is a very good goal to which each of us can strive. After all, we are the Children of... Israel, aren't we?

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. JamieHarrington on Pixabay
2. Filip Lachowski on Wikimedia Commons
3. Wannapik.com
4. bertomic on Pixabay

(Repost from 2013) Tol'dot: A Fresh Look at (Ancient) Mom and Dad

We don't get to choose our parents. There are a lot of things in life that we can control (or believe we can...), but one of them is NOT lineage. Nevertheless, our relationship with our folks can be turbulent. As children, we idolize our parents; as teenagers we're constantly embarrassed to be associated with them; and as adults we both discover how much we are like them, and we learn to respect their choices and challenges. But it can be a difficult relationship. Sometimes the patience and understanding we have for other people is hard to extend to family members. Our issues (and theirs) are just too close and too personal; we can't look at them objectively. All of these realizations that I've listed can also be transferred to our ancestors, our parents' parents a hundred times over. Usually, we don't know that much about these REALLY distant relatives... but then, of course, there's the Torah.

I've always struggled to understand Isaac. He seems to have no identity besides being the son of Abraham and the father of Jacob. He's a placeholder, a bench warmer. Overwhelmingly, the stories of our ancestor Isaac involve action that happens TO him or around him. He's never the active DOER, he never takes control of his life and his fate. Look at what we know about him: He is nearly sacrificed by Abraham; Sarah and Hagar fight over him; A wife is found for him; His wife and son trick him. Even in the stories of his interactions with the Philistines, we hear of him digging a well and being chased away by bullies, only to dig another one and be driven away again, and then a third time as well. What is the point of Isaac? What purpose does he serve?

But then I have to stop myself. We do this to people in our lives a lot, don't we? Think about whether they do or don't serve a purpose in OUR lives? We criticize who they are, encourage them to be 'better,' challenge them to shape up, and eventually try to threaten them into changing. And all because they don't look/act/speak/behave the way WE want them to. Maybe we're embarrassed that Isaac is our ancestor? We like strong leaders, like Abraham, Joshua, and David. But that is precisely why we have to remind ourselves that we don't get to choose our ancestors. We don't pick our parents, and we cannot force someone else to conform to our ideals or expectations. Isaac is a human being. In fact, I'm more certain that he was a real person than many other Biblical figures, because I doubt anyone would purposely write an imagined character this way! Just as we need to, in life, transition from eye-rolling teenagers to respectful adults, here too we need to accept Isaac for who he is, and strive to understand and make our peace with him.

So now that we're ready to take a fresh look at Isaac, what do we see? First of all, we surely underestimate the strength it took to survive the incident with his father on Mount Moriah. What must it have taken to persevere and recover from nearly being sacrificed on an alter by your parent? With no psychologists to help you process, and no prescription medicine?? He stayed in the land during a famine - a true test of faith - something his father was unable to do. Eventually, Isaac decided to become a farmer, a profession about which he knew nothing, and he became incredibly successful and wealthy. And perhaps the greatest lesson we learn about Isaac is that he was a man of peace. Despite provocations from Philistines, and strife between his children, Isaac remained a diplomat and kept his cool. And we miss all these things, because it's just so hard to admire Isaac when we're too busy judging him, and comparing him to other ancestors. Sometimes our emotions and our tightly-gripped grievances cloud our vision, and make it hard to appreciate traits that really are impressive and laudable. We just need to take a step back and open our eyes (and hearts) to really see that. What an important reminder to us all, whether we're talking about ancient forefathers or present-day fathers. 

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Sam Hames on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of Pimkie on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of Jeff Sandquist on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of roberthuffstuffer on Flickr

Lech Lecha: Where Are You Going?

Do you know who asks the most questions in the entire Bible? God. And many of them are these fascinating, peculiar rhetorical questions. Like when God is strolling (apparently) through the Garden of Eden and asks Adam, “Where are you?” Or asks Adam’s and Eve’s son, Cain, “Where is your brother, Abel?” Is there really any chance that the omniscient, omnipresent Creator of the entire universe doesn’t know Adam’s location? Or what Cain did to Abel? So then why ask the questions?

This weekend, we have another of God’s mysterious rhetorical questions. It’s kind of subtle, and rarely the focus of our analysis on this reading, but I think it speaks to something important for all of us to consider. Abraham and Sarah are unable to have children. So, in an ill-fated move, Sarah gives her handmaiden, Hagar, to Abraham, hoping she’ll provide them with a child. It works… except it doesn’t, and when Hagar becomes pregnant with Ishmael, Sarah is filled with jealousy and suspicion. Hagar runs away into the desert, and at this moment, God’s angel finds her and asks: “Hagar, slave of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?” (Gen. 16:8) It seems to me that this a spectacularly superfluous question. Doesn’t God know her circumstances??

I think we can all agree that God isn’t asking this because God has no idea, or didn’t realize her predicament. I contend that in each of these rhetorical moments, God is inviting the person to reflect on their own situation. God wants Adam to ask himself, “Where am I right now? What am I doing, and where am I going in life?” God wants Cain to reflect on what he has done: “Don’t you see? Abel is nowhere, he is no more. You killed him, and he is thus dead forever!” And in our story, God is perhaps challenging Hagar to make the most of this critical moment in her life. Where has she been, where is she now, and what lies ahead?

Furthermore, I firmly believe that you and I, the readers, are also being invited to consider these questions. They are Divine, they are timeless, and they are poignant at all times. Do we know where we are, and where we are going? Our Jewish texts and our Jewish tradition do not offer us answers. Instead, they offer us questions, and then challenge us to sit with them, feel them, and subsequently spend our lives trying to address them and actively make this world a bit better. So, what are you waiting for??

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. Ruth Hartnup on Wikimedia Commons

2. Schäferle2 on Pixabay

3. Tjeerd Wiersma on Flickr

4. 1ynnneo on Pixabay

Noach: Who Ever Heard of Terach?

It is so tempting to talk about the story of Noah. After all, this is the Torah portion named after him. Two thirds of the entire parashah consist of the flood story, the Ark, and the familiar, classic depictions of all those animals packed into one, little (or maybe not so little…) boat. But what about the other third? One of the things I love about our triennial cycle of reading, is that some years our chanting focuses on lesser-known stories, and I see it as a great opportunity to zero in on those instead. If you want to read about Noah and the Flood, feel free to browse my posts from previous years. It’s a great story, and it has this particularly ancient, primordial feel to it. More than many of the other stories of the Tanach. But that’s not our topic for today. Instead, right now, I want to know; who the heck is Terach??

Terach is the ninth-generation descendant of Noah, which also means the 19th descendant of Adam and Eve. Pretty impressive lineage… The Torah spends a whopping seven verses on Terach at the very end of our parashah, and then never mentions him again, even at the start of next week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha. Why is this surprising? Because he’s the father of Abraham. Some of you may be familiar with a rabbinic midrash that suggests Terach owned an idol shop, and Abraham’s (then “Abram’s”) first act of monotheistic devotion was to smash all the idols in his father’s store. How can I put this delicately? That story is… nice. Not Biblical in the slightest, nor is there any evidence in the text to corroborate it - at all - but it’s… fine. Oh, and of the seven verses that mention Terach - basically in the entire Torah - six talk about his birth, how old he was, who his children were, and that he died. So he’s only actually active in ONE verse. And hopefully this won’t surprise you; that verse says nothing about idols… or a shop. 

What it *does* say is quite fascinating, at least in my opinion. Genesis 11:31 states: “Terach took his son, Abram, his grandson, Lot, the son of Haran [who had died], and his daughter-in-law, Sarai, the wife of his son, Abram, and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan. But when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there.” There’s a lot to unpack here. First of all, it does seem a remarkable coincidence that Terach settled in a place that had the same name as his deceased son. The text tells us nothing about that… but it sure does seem remarkable. Second, what about the third son, Nahor? He stays in Ur of the Chaldeans (likely modern-day Iraq), and will briefly reappear eleven chapters later, as the grandfather of Rebecca, who marries Isaac. But otherwise, he’s never mentioned, and we certainly don’t know why he stayed back when the rest of the family migrated. And third, WHY did they leave? We have no idea. Was it due to a famine, political unrest, a blood feud; who knows? Picking up and resettling in the ancient world was a pretty big deal, especially if Terach’s ancestors had remained in one place for potentially NINE generations… since the Great Flood! 

Regardless, this one verse is actually quite significant to us, to all the descendants of Abraham and the inheritors of the Abrahamic faiths. Because the next Torah portion will tell us that God came to Abram and told him to leave Haran and continue his father’s intended journey to Canaan; what will soon become The Promised Land. Could Abram have embarked on that odyssey on his own, from Ur of the Chaldeans, if his father hadn’t made the first leg of the journey for them? And don’t we all acknowledge the importance of parental modeling, so maybe Abram’s inspiration to even CONSIDER leaving his home in the first place came from his father’s bold precedent? In typical rabbinic fashion, our Biblical commentators found it helpful to criticize Terach, in order to make Abraham look greater. Do I need or want to do the same thing? No, not in the slightest. Our parents provide important clues to who we are, in all aspects of our lives. Sometimes we follow their example, while other times we make choices purposely different from theirs, to make a very declarative point for ourselves and others to see. But however you choose to view it, our parents and ancestors are very much a part of who we were, are, and may yet become. 

As we set off on our own path to get to know Abraham and Sarah once again, let us not forget about where he (and they) came from. We don’t need to put Terach down. After all, he did give us Abraham, and where would ANY of us be without him??? So thanks, Terach. And sorry about the shop. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. pxhere.com
2. jbdodane on Flickr
3. Gemes Sandor on Wikimedia Commons
4. AllaSerebrina on Deposit Photos