Chukat: I See Your Calf and Raise You a Snake

Even if you're not that familiar with the Torah or all the stories contained within it, you probably know a few central ideas. You might have heard of Adam & Eve, Noah, Abraham, slavery in Egypt, the Ten Commandments, and a handful of other key points. One such concept that I think is pretty well-known is that you're not supposed to make graven images. No idols, no statues for worshipping, no house gods of any shape or size, and just no bowing down to, or praying to, anyone or anything but God. And the most infamous example of what not to do has got to be the Golden Calf, which the Israelites built in the desert and venerated as if it were a god. And clearly, based on that story, we all learned that no such images or statues can be used in ANY way. Right?? Well... yes and no. This week, our Torah reading offers us a surprising and bewildering example of a permitted statue, and - just like so many other stories in the Bible - it leaves us with more questions than answers. As it should be.

It starts the same way too many other stories from this time period already have, namely with the people rebelling against Moses, Aaron, and especially God. The people bark at their leaders: "Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in this wilderness?!? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food [the manna]!" (Numbers 21:5) By this point, God is getting pretty darn fed up with these ingrates, and God sends against the people a plague of poisonous, deadly snakes! When the people inevitably repent and cry out for help, God instructs Moses to do something most surprising: "Make a seraph [winged snake] figure and mount it on a standard. And if anyone who is bitten looks at it, he shall recover." (v. 8) So I guess part of the message we're meant to take from this is, calves are bad and snakes are good? Now, we should acknowledge that God directing Moses to do something is quite a bit different than the people just erecting a statue on their own. Nor does anyone ever call out to the flying-snake-thingy: "This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt" as they did for the Golden Calf in Exodus, 32:4. Nevertheless, I think the use of an animal statue is understandably confusing... 

I also feel it necessary to point out that our fears regarding the serpent-statue are not unfounded. Centuries after the Exodus, we find an intriguing reference back to this mystical healing device in the Second Book of Kings, during the religious reformations under King Hezekiah: "He [Hezekiah] abolished the shrines and smashed the pillars and cut down the sacred post. He also broke into pieces the bronze serpent that Moses had made, for until that time the Israelites had been offering sacrifices to it; it was called Nechushtan." (II Kings, 18:4) Despite God's best intentions, some people simply couldn't resist the urge to offer sacrifices TO the snake-statue as a graven image. The commentaries speculate wildly about what's going on here. One perspective suggests God used a snake to remind the Israelites of the conniving serpent that misled Adam & Eve back in the Garden of Eden. That snake was punished for his incendiary words; and the Israelites were similarly punished for their own inflammatory attacks on God and Moses. Another commentary posits that the serpent is a poignant symbol of how dangerous the desert can be, and might help remind the Israelites that the only reason they've been surviving for 40 years is because of God's favor.

To me, an important lesson that comes from this story is intentionality. The same act can be either a destructive transgression or a source of healing. Similarly, when we express a sentiment to another person, our decision to infuse our comment with kindness versus passive-aggression versus outright hostility can change everything about how it's received. Even the energy with which we express ourselves can vastly alter our words, regardless of whether we do so intentionally or not. Perhaps the text is suggesting that have to be mindful of ourselves and how we are perceived by others all the time. We cannot hide behind saying a certain act or a particular phrase "always" means one thing and not another, it's much more complex than that. Our body language, our energy, our facial expressions, our intentions, and our tone of voice; all of them contribute to how we are perceived and how our sentiments are understood. At times, the text can seem inconsistent, as if it's prioritizing one act over a seemingly identical one elsewhere, possibly for arbitrary reasons. But those moments invite us to look closer, read more sensitively, and pay more attention to nuance, contrast, and intention. When we do that, we can learn so much more from the text, and even learn more about our own behaviors as well.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Wellcome Images on Wikimedia Commons
2. 7ustalvin on Wikimedia Commons
3. Jubjang on Rawpixel
4. Sheila Brown on PublicDomainPictures

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

Tazria (Ha-Chodesh and Rosh Chodesh): Take Out the Babysitting; Keep the Gratitude

We’ve ticked over into April. In general, that’s a very good thing, though it does also bring with it some anxiety - for us as Jews - because Passover is just *that* much closer. We might especially feel the coming of the holiday over the weekend, because this Shabbat includes a special reading, known as Ha-Chodesh (meaning, “The Month”), basically heralding the approach of the festival. I talked about this special Torah reading last year as well, but I find myself returning to it yet again, for reasons that I hope will become clear as you read on. The particular text that we read for Shabbat Ha-Chodesh comes from the Book of Exodus; specifically the first twenty verses of chapter 12. God instructs Moses to inform the Israelites - while still in slavery - that something really monumental is about to occur. This month will become the first month of our soon-to-be-established Jewish calendar, because of this huge upcoming event. God’s instructions for them will be enshrined as “a festival to Adonai throughout the ages; you shall celebrate it as an institution for all time.” (v. 14) You understand what this means, don’t you? “Throughout the ages” and “for all time” means that you and I, today, in 2022, here in the United States, are obligated to observe all these rituals and commandments as well. So it’s probably good to do a quick review of what God has actually commanded us to do, don’t you think?

It gets a little tricky though, I’ll be honest with you. God does lay out some specific rituals for the pre-Exodus Israelites (which I’ll lay out in a second), but one question I have is, are we required to observe every part of these instructions forever, or just the celebration of the holiday *itself* for all time? They seem very still-in-slavery specific, so I’m a little unclear on what we’re meant to do. The text states in verse three that each family needs to “take a lamb” on the 10th of Nisan, and then “watch over it until the 14th day of the month” (v. 6), and then slaughter it at twilight. So right off the bat, I have not done a good job with my four-day-lamb-babysitting duties, nor have I brought it to slaughter before the holiday. I’m guessing you haven’t been observing that one either. Then we’re told to “eat it [the lamb] roasted over fire with unleavened bread and bitter herbs” (v. 8). Honestly, we’re all doing ok on that one. We have the bone (Zeroa) on the Seder plate to *commemorate* the paschal lamb offering we no longer consume, and then we *do* eat the bread (matzah) and herbs (maror) as prescribed. Good job, us!

Then it gets dicey again, because the Torah instructs us as follows: “This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand, and you shall eat it hurriedly…” (v. 11) Oh, and I forgot to mention back in verse seven, that we were supposed to paint the doorposts of our homes with lamb’s blood. I’m being a little flippant, but I do want to make a genuine point here: God instructs us to keep this holiday, and it is worth our taking a few minutes to stop and think about which aspects of these observances have survived across the millennia, and which have changed. It’s both fascinating to see that some rituals have indeed been enshrined, while others have outlived their usefulness or lost their meaning. But even if we no longer paint blood on our doorposts, babysit lambs, or wear our sandals on our feet as we scarf down our food, the importance of the holiday for us as a people -  for all time - has not been lost on us. It was monumental back then, and I think our ancestors would genuinely be awed to discover how central it has remained for us “throughout the ages.”

There is value in looking at both sides here; the underlying meaning of the holiday as well as its practical observances. I think constructing our Seder to, in as many ways as possible, truly mirror the Exodus story can be magical, inspiring, and fun. In years past, I have put strips of red paper on the door posts, actually marched around the Seder table (as many Persian and Iraqi Jews still do), and I know people who sit on pillows on the floor to make it feel more “Middle Eastern.” So going through the motions and inclining (or reclining?) our rituals to actually feel more ancient or connected to our ancestors can be really meaningful for participants of all ages. At the same time, we should talk about the underlying message, which is slavery, freedom, and gratitude. To put it succinctly: We were severely oppressed, and we no longer are… and therefore we should be grateful. And one way that we show our appreciation to God is by “paying it forward,” and looking out for others who are enslaved and/or oppressed and/or in need of rescuing. This year, I encourage all of us to mention Ukraine at our Seder tables, to really think about how we can do our part to help others who are living under oppression, and who are - so tragically - starting their own Exodus away from everything they previously knew. Even as our rituals and observances have changed, aspects of Pesach have endured throughout the ages, and for good reason. It is our job to keep talking about those reasons, going through those ritual motions, and embodying those critical values in every generation, and yes, for all time. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. The Magnes Collection of Jewish Art and Life on Flickr (picture from ca. 1920)
2. symkin on Depositphotos
3. pxhere.com
4. Studio Sarah Lou on Flickr

Pekudei: An E(a)rnest Thank You.

This week, I want to pay tribute to the worker bees, the behind-the-scenes folks, and all the people who aren't always visible, but who *really* get things done. I will be mentioning one person in particular - a congregant who recently passed away - but I really mean for this to be a big "thank you" to all the people who fit this description. The reason I'm focusing this blog post on these doers in our communities, is because it's a theme in our Torah reading. Not a central theme, mind you, or a major focal point in any significant way... but that's really the whole point, isn't it? Even when we don't emphasize them or zero in on their contributions, so many people put their time, energy, effort, and support into making community work. We may not see them; but we wouldn't be here without them. In the parashah itself, we're talking about the incredible work of Betzalel ben Uri. "Who?" you ask. Exactly.

When it comes to the Exodus story, the "big names" are really Moses, Aaron, Miriam, and Joshua, and maybe a few others as well. But none of those people actually constructed the Mishkan, also known as the Tabernacle. This was the holy space where God's Presence dwelt, to which sacrifices were brought, and where Moses and God conversed throughout the wanderings in the wilderness. It was also the tent wherein the Ten Commandments where kept. So, safe to say it was a pretty important structure. And the Torah tells us that God called Betzalel - by name - to oversee the work. But we don't honestly know that much about him. His name means "in the shadow of God," which is kind of an interesting mental image in and of itself... especially for the quintessential behind-the-scenes character. He also has an assistant, named Oholiav, who is equally obscure to us, the readers. Despite their importance, and the essential nature of their building project, Betzalel is only ever mentioned six times in the whole Torah! And Oholiav comes up five times. Considering that the Tabernacle - which later morphed into the Temple in Jerusalem - was the central location of all Israelite worship, and takes up basically the entire Book of Leviticus, one might have thought these architects would be featured more prominently. But they are not.

And this is where I see the lesson of valuing people at *every* stage of a project. What makes them valuable is not their fame or prominence, but rather their absolutely invaluable contributions to the final project. Academy Awards are given for costume design, makeup, and a slew of technical categories, because movies aren't made by actors, directors, and producers alone! Betzalel and Oholiav represent all those people who make the magic happen, but who aren't visible and sometimes don't get the thank you's they deserve. When we stop and take the time to recognize them, what we're actually doing is about much more than just expressing gratitude. We are also pausing to acknowledge that most things in our lives are more complex, nuanced, and detailed than we often give them credit. It is important to step back and see the bigger picture, and to notice the many parts that make up the whole. That is especially true when we look at community.

This Shabbat, we are celebrating our annual Kabbalat Ha-Siddur ceremony, where the third graders in our Hebrew School receive their own prayer book and help lead Saturday morning services. The architect of this ceremony, and our third grade teacher for years and years, was Karen Ernest (of blessed memory). Karen was a long-time Ohev member who was always doing, helping, building, cooking, preparing, and teaching. Last year, she was still battling illness when the third graders were getting ready for their service. Karen pushed through her pain to attend the ceremony; that's how much the service, the kids, and teaching meant to her. She was a true Betzalel, who took great pride in her work, often contributed behind the scenes, and probably didn't get thanked as often as she deserved. There are people in our lives, like Karen Ernest, who are precious in what they do and who they are, and I am immensely grateful to have worked with many people at Ohev who are dedicated, passionate, and proud of their community - just like Karen was. The ceremony will continue this year, because it's an important annual tradition here at Ohev... but it won't be the same. For many of us, Karen's shadow will always be a part of it, as she will be - and very much is - deeply missed. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Sy on Flickr
2. Matt Moloney on Stocksnap
3. kalhh on Pixabay
4. Ohev Shalom's Centennial Book

Ki Tisa: Unforgivable?

This week’s Torah portion includes the gravest, most inexcusable sin of the entire Exodus narrative; the building (and worshiping) of the Golden Calf. Even that is really saying something, because throughout their 40 years of wandering, the Israelites grumble against God, rebel (and nearly kill!) Moses and Aaron, and immediately upon receiving the commandments, begin breaking them. So to say this is their absolute *worst* transgression means it’s really quite terrible. They take the gold that was supposed to be used to construct the Tabernacle, and they melt it down into an idolatrous statue. They flaunt their rebellion against Moses and God with song, dance, and idol worship. It’s just so utterly embarrassing for them. How do you come back from something like that?

I think there are a few layers here. There’s the violation itself; the breakdown in communication and relationship with God, but also with Moses, and even with Aaron; and then we also should consider the aftermath as well. In terms of the sin itself, there’s certainly no place to hide, and no (good) excuses to mitigate what they did. Moses comes down from the mountain, catches them red-handed, and immediately begins to yell and chastise them. Some of the worst offenders are even killed by the Levites for their abominable behavior. Interestingly, God is the one who wants to sever the bond right then and there. God cannot imagine any reconciliation, repentance, or forgiveness. In Exodus, 32:10, God declares to Moses: “Now let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and make [instead] of you a great nation.” Even though Moses too is distraught, he nevertheless speaks up on their behalf, and convinces God not to wipe them all out. Perhaps the Torah wants us to know that teshuva - repentance - is always, always possible; no matter how bad things look or feel.

We often look at this story mainly from the perspectives of God or Moses, but what was going through the minds of the Israelites? They selfishly committed this atrocity without thinking about God - who had freed them from slavery through miracle after miracle - or about Moses, who basically gave up his entire life to lead them through the wilderness. And they can’t take it back. They can’t undo the damage caused, but simply have to live with this terrible shame… yet somehow also keep going. The medieval commentator, Rashi, adds an ominous perspective, commenting on Ex. 32:34, when God states, “… but [in the future,] when I make an accounting, I will bring them to account for their sins.” Rashi imagines God saying to Moses: “At present I listen to you and will refrain from consuming them all at once - but ever and ever throughout the ages, when I am visiting them for their sins, I shall visit them at the same time for a little of this sin in addition to their other sins for which I am then punishing them. Indeed no punishment ever comes upon Israel in which there is not part payment for the sin of the golden calf.” Like the Mark of Cain or a Scarlet Letter - this violation will never go away.

This all sounds and seems just awful. And it absolutely is. Yet I also see our ancestors continuing to wander in the desert. And later, in generation after generation, even as they still feel the sting of humiliation for this horrific sin, they too keep going. One foot in front of the other, one day after the next; they commit themselves to the hard work of teshuva. Sometimes that means continually saying you’re sorry, even if you’re worried you won’t be believed or heard. Sometimes it means sitting in the deep pain of your own actions, and acknowledging the awful rippling effects of that idolatrous act. As a people, they don’t give up. They keep going and growing, and trying to be better in the future. They endeavor to learn from their mistakes and their terrible decision-making. And I think continuing to talk about this story and acknowledging what they did can help each of us today grapple with the worst moments in our own lives as well. Their sin was really bad. Just devastatingly awful, actually. If they could keep walking and keep staying in relationship, despite everything that had happened and what they had done, surely we can as well, no matter what. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Gandalf's gallery on Flickr
2. depositphotos.com
3. Yair Haklai on Wikimedia Commons
4. pxhere.com

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

Terumah: (De)Constructing Holiness

Recently, I received an absolutely wonderful gift. I imagine that, by now, many of you have heard me talk about our Lostice Torah scroll, which survived the Holocaust, as well as the Lostice Megillah which tells the story of that scroll. Well, a member of the congregation, Craig Shor, worked together with a fabulous artist/carpenter who has created MANY amazing things already for our community (but who doesn’t like when I mention his name…), and they made a box in which to keep our Megillah. You can see it in the pictures associated with this post. I think it looks truly spectacular, and houses (and protects) our precious Megillah marvelously well. It also reminds me a lot of this week’s Torah portion, and the notion of what makes something special, valuable, and even holy. 

Our parashah is called Terumah, and it begins a rather monotonous part of the Biblical text. God gives lengthy and meticulous building instructions, and commands the Israelites to construct a portable Sanctuary to carry with them throughout the desert, known as the Mishkan, or Tabernacle. Skimming through these blueprints, I find myself wondering: Why does God need all of this? Offering sacrifices previously was done in the open, perhaps on a rock; wasn’t that good enough? And especially when they’re wandering in the wilderness for 40 years, wouldn’t this be an *excellent* time for informal, nature-based worship, rather than constructing heavy, ornately decorated ritual objects that they now have to shlep everywhere they go?? God seems to have become awfully materialistic...

But maybe we're coming at this all wrong. The Israelites' time in the desert probably felt quite structure-less on its own, and perhaps even chaotic. Maybe that is exactly where and why they need something created by people - by themselves even! - to distinguish it from their desert reality. When we look at it that way, we may also understand better why the instructions are *so* precise, intricate, and detailed. The more effort the people put into this project, the more meaningful and unique it would feel to them. The text commands them to build an ark of acacia wood (Ex. 25:10-22), a ceremonial table (vv. 18-30, and a lampstand - a menorah - made out of gold, with decorations and flourishes all around it (vv. 25:31-40). And the Torah's just getting warmed up! Then there are curtains, cloths, planks, bars, posts, hooks, utensils, and an altar. Which each new item, and each explicit command, the people pour their hearts, souls, effort, time, and talent into this project... and the Tabernacle becomes more and more holy and invaluable to them. It isn't for God; the Mishkan is for the people.

Which brings me back to the box that these two men built for us. We certainly *could* have kept the Megillah in something much more generic and simple. We could even have splurged and bought something ornate, glitzy, and expensive. But what I truly love about this particular box is that it was hand-crafted, FOR this scroll specifically, and with our community in mind. When you look at it up close, you can also see the time and effort that went into each component. Several types of wood were attached to one another to create a beautiful pattern. Each screw is hidden by a wooden dowel, sanded down perfectly smooth. It is lined with felt, and the top is attached with a unique hinge; both of which were carefully selected for just this box. It is really just beautiful! And when I look at it juxtaposed with our text about the Tabernacle, I see how holiness is literally constructed. Piece by piece, minute after minute, and talent heaped upon talent; it all combines to transform something mundane into a ritual and spiritual artifact. What a wonderful hands-on lesson about creating holiness!

Images in this blog post show the new box for our Lostice Megillah. Many thanks, again, to Craig and D** for constructing it!

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
 

Chol Ha-Moed Sukkot: Do You Remember MY Name??

I’m good with names. It’s a particularly useful talent to have when you’re a rabbi and/or when you do community organizing. Fortunately, I’ve just always had this ability - I see a face and a related name jumps back in my head - and I’m very, very grateful for it. Because names are tremendously important. Our identity is bound up with our name, and it’s a major element of each person’s self-perception. Even after years in the rabbinate, I’m still amazed at how critical it is for people, and how a person’s face softens and brightens when s/he feels seen and remembered. Even God identifies this as a value and a symbol of relationship, as expressed in this week’s Torah reading. 

As it is Chol Ha-Moed (the intermediated days of) Sukkot, we take a break from our weekly cycle, and instead read a section specifically associated with the holiday. Interestingly, the rabbis assigned to us a reading for this Shabbat that takes place right after the sin of the Golden calf. God is still angry, and so is Moses, but having weathered this heretical storm together, the two of them have actually formed an even closer bond! Moses asks to see God, but God informs him that’s impossible. However, God can place Moses in the cleft of a rock and let him see the Back of the Divine Presence as it passes by the mountain. It’s still more than any other human has seen, or ever will see…

When God agrees to do this for Moses, God says: “I will do this thing that you have asked; for you have truly gained My favor and I have singled you out by name.” (Ex. 33:17) I don’t love the translation “singled out,” because the Hebrew is, “Eida’acha b’Sheim,” meaning “I know you by name.” To me, it’s almost like God is saying, “you and me, we’re on a first-name basis.” The text is, essentially, using this expression as a term of closeness and intimacy: “Ours is not a formal relationship; we call each other by our personal names.” Maybe they even have nicknames for one another! It is the same between any two friends, or for a clergy member and her/his congregation; names facilitate closeness and bonding, and make us feel seen and acknowledged.

I know not everyone does or can have as easy a time with names as I do, and for some people it’s genuinely hard to remember them. But it’s also a skill we can work on. I have tricks and methods for recalling names, and I’ve encouraged clergy colleagues and students to really prioritize this skill when working in a congregational setting. Our names come with stories, memories, loving relationships with family, perhaps trauma, nicknames and possibly teasing, and so much more. It is a foundational part of who we are, and when someone knows us well, it is a way that we can bring them closer: “please, just call me ____.” When we share this bond with another, and feel present to them just as they are present to us, it can truly become a genuine and lasting friendship. And it started with that moment of being introduced and learning one another’s names. And even a simple, close friendship like that still holds sparks of the relationship between God and Moses. Even for the Ruler of the Entire Universe, that kinship begins with knowing one another by name.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Emily Rose on Flickr 
2. ELG21 on Pixabay
3. pxfuel.com
4. blairwang on Flickr

Chukat: You. Shall Not. Pass.

It’s an all-too-familiar story for us as Jews. If you listed countries that have treated us well consistently vs. those that have viewed us with skepticism, suspicion, and distrust - or worse; fear and hatred that led to violence - it would be a bleak picture. We often see our Jewish story as that of a nomadic people, but rarely has it allowed us to fly under the radar, avoid attacks, or remain undisturbed. WAY more often in our history, we have been immigrants, foreigners, and The Other… and it’s come with persecution and oppression. Obviously, this isn’t a very rosy picture, and it’s not one I enjoy lingering on. However, we can’t really ever hope to change our own narrative if we don’t first *see* it! So when our Torah portion this week provides an ancient example of this same treatment, I’m not suggesting it’s a “fun” episode to highlight. But I think taking the time to acknowledge how unpleasant yet disturbingly familiar it is, and how intrinsic it has been to our millennia-long history as Jews, can help us both strive for a better future for ourselves AND make us more sympathetic and caring for the plight of others.

Right now, we’re in the Book of Numbers. Parashat Chukat places us in the fortieth year of the Exodus, and the Israelites are getting both very good at, and very sick of, wandering. In chapter 20, we read: 

“Moses sent messengers to the king of Edom: ‘Thus says your brother, Israel: You know all the         hardships that have befallen us, that our ancestors went down to Egypt, that we dwelt in Egypt a long time, and that the Egyptians dealt harshly with us and our ancestors… Now we are in Kadesh, the town on the border of your territory. Allow us, then, to cross your country. We will not pass through fields or vineyards, and we will not drink water from wells…’” (14-17)

Any guesses how the king of Edom replied? I doubt this next verse will surprise you at all: “But Edom answered him, ‘You shall not pass through us, else we will go out against you with the sword.’” (18) A couple of verses later, Edom repeats its threat and even backs it up by approaching the Israelites armed. And the whole time I am wondering to myself: Why? They don’t explain their refusal to grant safe passage, and they don’t justify their antagonism. But then again, would an explanation have made me feel any better about it? Probably not.

And honestly, I know why the Edomites are hostile: Fear, distrust, suspicion, assumption of bad intent, and more! It’s just hard to look at, and to admit that this has been the response to us as Jews for millennia and all across the globe. But let us also remember how resilient we became, and remained, likely BECAUSE we were so unwanted. It has actually been a tremendous source of strength for the Jewish people to handle rejection and animosity, to build and rebuild as necessary, and to accept - and even embrace! - our nomadic predisposition. So while we may read this with sadness and despair (because neighbors have treated us this way for eons), I also think we should marvel at our ability to just keep on marching. If one border was closed, we just move on to the next one. And for all their bluster, you don’t see a lot of Edomites around today, now do you? Food for thought… 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Noborder Network on Flickr
2. Microsoft Corporation
3. SilviaP_Design on Pixabay
4. damian entwistle 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

Vayakhel-Pekudei (Ha-Chodesh): As If.

This Shabbat is the fourth (and final) installment in a series of Shabbatot meant to prepare us for Passover. For each of these weekends, we take out a second Torah scroll, and we read a small snippet of text relating to the special theme for that particular Shabbat. Tomorrow morning's theme is "Ha-Chodesh," meaning "THE Month." Indeed, this is an important month, because Pesach is just around the corner, and our special reading on this occasion informs us that God declares this to be the FIRST month of the year. Appropriate to the theme, our selected reading comes from Exodus, 12:1-20, and outlines some of the basic rituals that God prescribed for our ancient ancestors while still in slavery in Egypt. But they weren't the only ones expected to listen attentively to these new rules...

The first Passover was celebrated still in slavery. Maybe this is obvious to you, but I find that it sometimes surprises people, because we refer to it as the Festival of Freedom. Every OTHER Pesach celebrated/s our having been freed from slavery... but those very first celebrants were actually still enslaved, and were holding their breath with MUCH anxiety and concern, wondering if indeed God's plan was going to work. Knowing this about the text's original audience, we might be forgiven for thinking these laws applied mainly to them. God says, "This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand. And you shall eat it hurriedly!" (v. 11) Well sure, that makes sense. They've got to be ready to leave post haste! Surely that part of the law applied exclusively to them, to the slaves, but not to subsequent generations. Right?

Just a few verses later, God clarifies the Divine intent: "you shall celebrate it [Pesach] as a festival to Adonai throughout the ages; you shall celebrate it as an institution for all time." (v. 14) Even though subsequent generations of Jews were not themselves slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, they - and we - were expected to celebrate the festival in the very same way. Hence we make our flat, under-baked matzah, we tell the story of the Exodus as if it JUST happened, and some traditions actually paint red streaks on their door posts or physically march around the Seder table; all meant to place ourselves back in the Pesach narrative. Because God knew, and our ancestors understood, that there is great power in bringing your history with you wherever you go, and continuing to feel the power of its messages.

The ancient rabbis who established the Passover Seder felt this quite viscerally. And they enshrined this value in our Haggadah, when they decreed that every person is *required* to view themselves AS IF they too were being redeemed from slavery. If we allow this to be an ancient fairytale, then it loses some of its commanding force. It is absolutely paramount that we not only retell the story of our dead ancestors, but that we truly place ourselves BACK into our history. Feel the humility of having been a slave; acknowledge the awesomeness of God's saving power for having ended our oppression; and commit to our Torah just as our ancestors did standing at the foot of Mount Sinai. Furthermore, there is a lesson in here that goes WAY beyond Pesach or even the Torah. What might it mean to live our lives "as if"? As if we believed we could change the world, as if we cared deeply about the plight of oppressed peoples today, as if we knew what it meant to be grateful for being alive and for being free? As we all begin to prepare for Pesach in earnest, let's not become too absorbed in the cleaning and the cooking. Let's also remember to live AS IF this was our very own story, and we too were about to be redeemed. "As if" can be a tremendous force for good in the world; and we can be the ones who wield it... IF we are ready.

Shabbat Shalom.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. DG-RA on Pixabay
2. stevepb on Pixabay
3. pixy.org
4. Adalhi Mittnacht on Pinterest