Bechukotai: The Deadly Repercussions of a Selfish Society

Too often, I have found myself writing a blog post in the wake of yet another unfathomable mass shooting. If I go back and review what I've written over the years, it breaks my heart to see how many posts refer to recent violence somewhere in the country. There are a lot of them. Way, *way* too many. This time, we were first reeling after a gunman attacked shoppers in a grocery store in Buffalo, NY, and just as we were trying to come to terms with that horrific attack, another assailant killed 19 elementary school children and two teachers in Uvalde, TX. It is a truly powerless feeling to live in a country with so many armed individuals and so few checks, restrictions, or failsafes that could prevent senseless loss of life. We are living through an epidemic - a plague - of gun violence. And it is made exponentially worse by the failure of society to teach more people the paramount value of human life. When we feel this level of despair and sadness, we can also feel numb, desensitized, and totally speechless. In those moments, I find that the texts of our ancient, Jewish tradition can offer a broader perspective that may help us process all of this a bit better.  

First of all, I want to preface this by saying that the Torah is unlikely to make us feel better at this moment. I mean, how could it? How could anything?? Right now, if our gun laws won’t change, and our elected officials don’t feel compelled by the terror we’re all living under, little else is going to turn the tide. So the Torah can’t just heal us from this pain, much as we desperately wish it could. But maybe we can still use this moment for introspection and self-examination, and that is certainly a realm that the Torah understands incredibly well. In this week’s Torah portion, which concludes the Book of Leviticus, we actually do see some of our current societal struggles reflected in the text, as our ancient ancestors learn about the consequences of not observing laws or letting society descend into chaos.

God first offers the Children of Israel a series of blessings that will come if-and-when they observe all the laws of the Torah. This is followed by a longer, more unsettling section that elaborates on the repercussions of non-compliance. The key takeaway for us is that these warnings aren’t just Biblical; they have an eerie resonance in our lives today. For example, if we don’t care for God’s earth, and take responsibility to protect it, the text informs us: “I will make your skies like iron and your earth like copper, so that your strength shall be spent to no purpose” (Lev. 26:19-20). To me, that sounds an awful lot like the fallout from global warming; skies that don’t produce rain and land that is unable to provide crops. Furthermore, we might see a foreshadowing of the pandemic, when the text states: “If you withdraw into your cities, I will send pestilence among you.” (v. 25) I interpret that to mean that when we “wall” ourselves off and only care about our families and our own communities, and we don’t work together to protect everyone in society (or share vaccines with people who desperately need them around the world…), the pestilence/plague/pandemic gets worse.

And finally, the text forces us to confront this particularly horrific scourge of gun violence, when it states: “I will loose wild beasts against you, and they shall bereave you of your children..." (v. 33) I doubt I need to help anyone connect that verse to Uvalde, TX… or to Sandy Hook or Parkland. So looking at these ominous warnings, especially in the context of communal introspection, I think the most important thing the text is trying to teach us is that we’re all in this together. When the Torah talks about following God’s laws, I look at the many prophetic texts that emphasize again and again that God wants us to care for the poor, the orphan, and the widow. God expects us to share our bounty and not turn our backs on those less fortunate. I don’t see this as focusing on Shabbat observance or keeping Kosher; I see it as saying these calamities are all the repercussions of selfishness, greed, and apathy. Recognizing this doesn’t magically make the tragedies disappear, but it may teach us how to respond to them. We need to care for one another, strive for peace relentlessly and constantly, and demand our elected leaders do the same. I pray that we’ll all learn these lessons, and soon. Otherwise, I fear I’ll be back here soon again, writing another blog post after we’ve been plagued by more violence. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Zcdrrm on Wikimedia Commons
2. Phil Murphy on Flickr
3. Pashi on Pixabay
4. McKinsey on Rawpixel

Kedoshim: When The Rule Needs a Little More Love

How you phrase something matters a lot. Changing your wording just a little bit can really shift the meaning and the outcome dramatically, and this week’s Torah portion offers us a pretty famous example of this principle. Parashat Kedoshim features the oft-quoted Golden Rule, which is, of course: _______ … hmmm… well, how would you articulate The Golden Rule? Take a moment and think about exactly how you, in your own mind, might express what you consider to be the Biblical maxim that we refer to as The Golden Rule. I say that, because I read a Torah commentary this week that really emphasized how important phrasing can be, and specifically when it comes to this famous concept. I thought it would be interesting for us to spend a few minutes looking out how different each formulation is, what each means, and how the outcome of which option we choose has direct impact on interpersonal relations in our world today. 

If you Google The Golden Rule, you will find that a version of it exists in almost every culture and religious tradition on earth. And, as I stated above, each group tends to express it slightly differently. A common example of the “negative” phrasing of it is: “That which you hate to be done to you, do not do to another.” And if you reconfigure it to a more positive statement, you might say: “Do unto others as you would have them do to you.” Those two are basically saying the same thing, right? And every other version of this principle is essentially identical as well, and we could call them all doctrines of reciprocity. The thing is, they’re actually not the same. Phrasing matters. I read a Torah commentary this week, written by Shaya Cohen, where he points out: “the negative construction of [The Golden Rule] does not require any engagement – you can fulfill the Golden Rule by simply leaving other people alone.” We see this in many parts of modern society too, right? “Live and let live,” we might hear people say. Or we might look at how siloed our society has become, where everyone does his/her own thing, but it doesn’t really entail any communal engagement or responsibility for one another. Essentially, just don’t get in each other’s way, and everyone will be fine. But will they?

Even the positive formulation might potentially lead you to a similar conclusion. Cohen observes: “it suggests a quid pro quo, doing to others as you want them to do to you. If you want to be left alone, then you can fulfill this rule merely by leaving others alone as well!” It’s articulated in a more proactive form, but ultimately this well-known version of The Rule still allows everyone to go to their own corner, wall themselves off from others, and just make sure to treat people with the same respect you’d want to receive from them. But yet again, no engagement or commitment is required. So then we get to the Jewish iteration of The Golden Rule, and the one found in this week’s reading: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” How is this any different than the others? Cohen posits: “love is an ongoing investment, not a mere thing or product.” Our Torah is challenging us to take this one (or maybe several…) step(s) further. Is it enough to just have a non-aggression treaty? To just mind our own business and let others do the same? I really don’t think it is. 

If we examine any of the major issues swirling around us in the world right now, the earlier two formulations of The Golden Rule just aren’t enough. Whether we’re talking about battling Covid, supporting people in Ukraine fighting to fend off Russian aggression, or even the ongoing debate about the Supreme Court ending Roe v. Wade and our country’s protections for abortions; in each of these instances, I contend that more is needed than just a “live and let live” mentality. We need the interactive and ongoing relationship that Cohen suggests comes with the word "love." In particular, think about what you would want or need to thrive in the world. It isn't enough for others to just get out of our way, because there are many, many challenges that we all face, and we need one another to really overcome obstacles and be successful. So it is essential that we consider how much phrasing matters, both in terms of how we express The Golden Rule, and then how we choose to implement it in our lives. Nearly every culture in the world has articulated this principle in one form or another, which tells us that it is really important... *and* that we all need to be reminded of it pretty frequently! It's been a vital teaching for several millennia, and continues to be an essential concept for us to learn, internalize, and put into practice. If and when we can do that, then it won't just be a rule to follow, but a shining, golden example of how to treat one another throughout the world.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. GDJ on openclipart.org

2. Fractal Angel on Wikimedia Commons

Acharei Mot: The Letter and the Spirit Square Off

When you think about the performance of mitzvot, which would you say is more important, the action or the intention? Let’s imagine, say, that we’re back at the Passover Seder from a couple of weeks ago. Would it be “better” to do all the rituals, sing all the songs, and read every page of the Haggadah, even if your heart isn’t in it and you’re distracted? Or better to go into the holiday with excitement, enthusiasm, and interest… but recite half the prayers, sing two abridged songs, and read none of the extraneous material? At first glance, you might think the answer is obvious. And two different people reading this blog post might each think the answer is self-evident… while holding opposite opinions! I don’t know if there is a “correct” answer here, or even a practice or approach that is better or worse. But the ancient rabbis get into an interesting debate about each of these perspectives, and I thought perhaps it might be worth our while to examine their opinions for a bit.

Their first statement might surprise you. Mira Balberg, in her book “Blood for Thought: The Reinvention of Sacrifice in Early Rabbinic Literature,” explains that the rabbis of the Talmud understood the institution of sacrifice not so much as creating lines of communication to God, but rather about meticulous and flawless performance of Divine commands. In other words, they firmly believed in the first part of my statement above: Whether it’s about sacrifice, keeping Kosher, or celebrating Pesach, the most important thing is to GET. IT. RIGHT! Rabbi Ilana Kurshan wrote a Torah commentary this week in which she wrote, “The rabbinic discussion of the high priest’s activities on Yom Kippur is focused on the precision and accuracy with which each step must be taken.” Based on this, it’s pretty clear how the Talmudic rabbis  would have ruled on this question. Intention is all well and good, but really it’s about performing mitzvot correctly and fully. However, this isn’t the only thing the rabbis say on the subject. There are other sources to look at as well. Furthermore, it gives me pause to hear how the rabbis discussed Temple sacrifice and its rituals. They didn’t live in the era of the Temple. In fact, they were descendants of the Pharisees, who were quite anti-Temple, and who felt the whole institution had turned corrupt and was not fulfilling the Will of God. So when they talk about how meticulous the High Priest was, and how perfectly every single detail had to be performed, are they advocating that behavior… or subtly critiquing it?

There are countless stories of people unable to recite the correct prayers, but directing their hearts to God, and their petitions being accepted. We read the prophet Isaiah - in a text that was chosen by some of those same ancient rabbis to be the Haftarah specifically for Yom Kippur - instructing his listeners that God does *not* want the ritual sacrifices. God, through Isaiah, insists rather that we must “share your bread with the hungry, take the wretched poor into your home. When you see the naked, clothe them, and do not ignore your own kin.” (Isaiah, 58:7) Doesn’t this sound like the opposite approach? Informing us that our practices and observances could be 110% perfect, yet simultaneously meaningless if they don’t have the proper intentions of kindness and compassion. So which one is it, the letter of the law or the spirit of the law? It is so difficult to choose…

And indeed I don’t think we’re actually supposed to choose at all. Like many things in life, we are constantly striving and changing, and mainly seeking to achieve balance and harmony. The same applies here. We can indeed aspire to do things as correctly as possible, acknowledging that the letter of the law has merit and purpose. Yet the spirit can be equally as impactful and significant, and shouldn’t be disregarded. At times, we might even strive to achieve them both together; the precise instructions of the Torah as well as the wholehearted intention described by Isaiah. But humans are not perfect. We aspire, not with the expectation that we will eventually get everything right, but merely in order to keep improving and growing. And I fear that when we imagine leaders like the ancient High Priest in this week’s parashah performing everything perfectly, and we tell ourselves we should be emulating that, we are setting ourselves up for failure. So maybe it’s ok that we can’t do all things well at the same time. That shouldn’t be our goal. Instead, we can appreciate the values of strict adherence *and* heartfelt intention, knowing it’s rare that we can achieve both together. So to answer our question at the start of this blog post, the best option isn’t one extreme or the other; it’s the balance and harmony we strive to achieve inside of ourselves.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Magnes Database Record on Flickr
2. FotoGuy 49057 on Flickr
3. Rawpixel
4. Peggy_Marco on Pixabay

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

Shemini (Shabbat Parah): Magic Purity Potion (Read the Warning Label...)

Recently, when we were celebrating the holiday of Purim, I talked to the congregation about the difference between a story being labeled a tragedy vs. a comedy. They may seem like opposite ends of the literary spectrum, but sometimes they’re actually just one plot twist apart. The Book of Esther, for instance, reads an awful lot like a tragedy… right up until Haman’s evil plans are thwarted, and now the story is a comedy. Sometimes things that seem so different from one another are actually just a minor shift away from being nearly identical. Case in point, a very mysterious, peculiar ritual that is the focus of this week’s special Shabbat. As we continue to prepare ourselves for Pesach, one of the stops along the way is Shabbat Parah, “the Shabbat of the Cow.” The special Torah reading for this Shabbat describes a ritual used to purify someone who had become ritually impure, in order to allow them to partake of the upcoming Paschal offering. The ceremony revolved around the sacrificing of a “red” (probably closer to brown…) cow, and then using its ashes as the main ingredient for this purifying agent. But that’s actually not the part that I think makes this so curious and confusing. Or why I was reminded of the minor distinction between comedies and tragedies.

The Book of Numbers tells us there were basically four “jobs” involved with preparing this miracle elixir that could make anything ritually pure again: A priest to oversee the sacrificing and burning of the cow. A second priest to actually handle the fire and the burning. A third individual to carry the ashes from the altar to a spot outside the Israelite encampment. And a final, fourth person to sprinkle a mixture of water and sacred ashes over the impure person(s). And then, presto-chango, they are rendered pure. Numbers, 19:19, states: “[The purified individual] shall then wash his clothes and bathe in water, and at nightfall he shall be pure.” Pretty straightforward, right? The ritual worked! But here’s the thing: All four of those people who handled the ashes from the red cow are now considered impure! Anyone who came in direct contact with this purifying agent is now, inexplicably, “contaminated,” and remains impure until the evening. This really fascinates me. It’s almost like saying that if you handle a bottle of Windex, you immediately become filthy yourself! It’s a little counter-intuitive, no?

One might have thought that everyone who gets near this fabulous potion is automatically pure, just by association or proximity. But instead, it seems to have just *one* intended purpose - to cleanse someone who was already in this impure state. Everyone who was essentially “neutral” becomes impure from touching the stuff. Though I should clarify, however, that the level of impurity is quite different. The person being cleansed would have otherwise remained in that contaminated state forever, and would thus never be able to rejoin the community for any ritual observances. Those who handled the ashes of the red heifer, on the other hand, are only impure until the evening; then they’re able to return to the community again. But the more I think about it, the more it actually makes sense. If someone cleans houses or washes cars all day, they are by no means clean themselves when the work is over! And on a deeper level, there are many examples of tools of learning, peace, communication, and convenience that can very easily become corrupted and turned into weapons of destruction and oppression. 

Whether it’s a literal weapon used for self-defense or an ancient, sacred text like the Bible; it can be utilized to help and protect… or, conversely, to hurt and punish. Most things that are purifying agents - or at least have the capacity to clean or repair - can also be abused if placed in the wrong hands. Perhaps a central reason for insisting that everyone who touches the ashes of the red heifer remain impure for a time, and stay outside the camp until the evening, is to make sure they understand and respect their task. If these ashes are the only agent of total purification… how much couldn’t you charge to give others access, after making them wait in line? Or how much power could you demand from your community, so as not to withhold this precious substance? It is easy to see how this could become corrupted, and wielded as a weapon very, very quickly. Today, the language of “pure” and “impure” doesn’t resonate as much in modern society. Yet I hope the contemporary examples above have demonstrated the relevance this teaching still holds for us today. Do we insist that our leaders undergo a ritual or ceremony to truly impress upon them the awesome and daunting power of their position? Sadly, I don’t think we do. Or certainly not enough. Maybe as soon as they’ve performed their tasks, we should quarantine them for a day (or more), so that they can be humbled, reflect, and give thanks for their unique and vital role. Perhaps that could help turn a few more tragedies into comedies.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Open Food Facts
2. zphaze on Flickr
3. rawpixel
4. Dean Beeler on Wikimedia Commons

Tzav: Smells Like a Fond Memory

Now that we’ve passed the holiday of Purim, it feels like Passover - and spring - are right around the corner. Even though the weather has been fluctuating wildly, there’s still evidence of the seasons changing all around us. Flower buds poking out, it’s getting lighter and lighter, and everything seems to smell like spring. Once Pesach gets even closer, our sense of smell will truly kick into high gear; first when we clean for the holiday, then when the familiar festival foods start cooking, and eventually when we sit around the Seder table in less than a month. With all this in mind (or in “nose”…), I’d like to spend this blog post talking about our sense of smell. And not just ours, but the Torah portion this week appears to spend a lot of time picturing God’s sense of smell too!

Now that we’re into the Book of Leviticus, the text is really hyper-focused on the ancient sacrifices and all the rituals surrounding them. And while the text may emphasize the sacrifices themselves and the people doing the offering, the real focus of all of this is God. The sacrificial rite was essentially The Way that our ancestors communicated with the Divine. And how did they know if their offerings were accepted? The text repeatedly tells us that the smoke from the altar, wafting up to heaven, would produce “a pleasing odor to Adonai” (Lev. 6:8, 14; 8:21, 28). Watching the mists rising into the sky would tell the worshiper that God was listening… and smelling. The ancient rabbis emphasized that this term, “pleasing odor to Adonai,” was used to describe the most simple to the most complex offerings. It referred to gifts from poor and wealthy alike. The Mishnah states: “ "This teaches you that whether a person gives a costly one or an inexpensive one, as long as he directs his heart to heaven, the type is irrelevant." (Menachot 110a) In other words, what God is “enjoying” isn’t the smell of the food or the animal, but rather the meaning behind our intentions. 

Furthermore, whether we’re talking about God’s olfactory sense or ours, it’s clear that the meaning is deeper than just the aroma. The very first instance of the Torah referring to a “pleasing odor” (Ray-ach Nee-cho-ach) was back in Genesis, chapter 8, when God smelled Noah’s offering right after he emerged from the Ark, and immediately promised never to send another flood to destroy humanity. The scent seems to have triggered something for God, much like a perfume, spice, or food may “flood” our brain with memories. More than any other sense, fragrances can take us back to a long-forgotten memory with remarkable speed and accuracy. According to the mystical teachings of the Kabbalah, smell was regarded as the loftiest and most transcendent of the senses, the critical connection point between body and soul. Perhaps it doesn’t just work that way for us, but for Adonai as well.

Smells aren’t as closely tied to our Jewish rituals any longer. We have the besamim, spices, at the Havdalah ceremony that ends Shabbat every week, but otherwise smells seem more tangential or connected to customs and foods, rather than ritual or theology. But it is still significant to read in our ancient texts how pivotal our noses were, and how the “pleasing odor” from our various offerings were seen as a direct sign of God’s acceptance. As we move further into spring and closer to Pesach, I invite each of us to think about what smells remind us of this upcoming season. How closely linked to your nose are your own associations with nature and with Passover’s foods, rituals, and experiences? It isn’t always the first sense we focus on, yet when we really stop and think about it, it is quite significantly hard-wired to our memories and our emotions. Winter is behind us, the pandemic is receding (thank God), and even though we don’t know what lies ahead or what the future holds, now seems like a perfectly good time to stop and smell the roses… as well as the matzah ball soup, the charoset and maror, and all the other fragrances that connect us - and God - to this wonderful, aromatic season!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Eric Horst on Flickr
2. pxhere.com
3. pxhere.com
4. Olaf herfurth on Wikimedia Commons

Vayikra (Shabbat Zachor): Remembering What it Means to be Human

Right now, Russia’s war against the Ukraine and the Ukrainian people dominates the newspaper headlines. Are we disproportionately concerned with this conflict, over the plights of the Rohingya from Myanmar, the Uyghurs in China, or any other oppressed group around the world? Honestly, yes, we are. It’s not the most flattering aspect of human nature, but we are prone to care about people who look and live like us. But there are also understandable reasons to be hyper-focused on this war: The global threat of a nuclear superpower like Russia attacking neighboring countries at will is simply terrifying. And to us as Jews, it may feel disturbingly like the mid-1930s, which makes it absolutely imperative that the world not accept Putin’s show of strength or thirst for power. Yet as incensed as we certainly are, we must also admit that megalomania too is a familiar byproduct of human nature. This Shabbat, our calendar has brought us to an interesting special observance that is very relevant to the stories in the newspaper headlines. And it brings with it a lesson that we absolutely, positively cannot ever afford to forget.

The Shabbat before Purim (which begins on Wednesday evening, 3/16) is always known as Shabbat Zachor, or the Shabbat of Remembrance. What we are specifically remembering is that Haman - the Megillah’s infamous villain - was a descendant of the Amalekite people. The Amalekites repeatedly attacked the Children of Israel as they traveled through the wilderness. They weren’t the only enemy we encountered, but their tactics were particularly heinous, as they would sneak up on the older, weaker, infirm Israelites straggling along at the back. So as we prepare to read about Haman’s hatred of the Jews, we remind ourselves that his anti-Semitism was not an isolated incident or an anomaly; it is something we’ve confronted in every generation, and against which we must always - in future generations too - remain vigilant as well. 

I recently read a Torah commentary on Shabbat Zachor by a former professor of mine from the Schechter Institute in Jerusalem, Professor David Frankel. Frankel writes: “Amalek represents that which is evil, destructive, and reflects a lack of morality and a basic sense of decency.” Then he goes on to add a challenge that we all need to take to heart: “The fear and the danger that the Torah wants to warn against is that we may forget that this is humanity. That this is part of humanity. We may think that we are somehow in a new era, that mankind has advanced, civilization has advanced, and so we can plan our world for a brighter future without worry. The Torah teaches us “zachor”, always remember because what happened with Amalek is paradigmatic of the human character and nature.” And that is why I included my comments in the first paragraph above - caring more about people who look like us is our default human instinct, and we, as a species, are also prone to produce heartless, narcissistic dictators obsessed with power. Are these pleasant things to acknowledge about ourselves? No. But the Torah is reminding us that we still must look at these characteristics, or we’ll always be doomed to repeat our worst behaviors.

In its brutal campaign, Russia has reportedly bombed a maternity and children’s hospital. They opened up a humanitarian corridor for civilians to escape… but tried to force those paths to lead straight into Russia and Belarus. More and more atrocities are being committed every day. This too is Amalek. It is not an anomaly or a shocking, unexpected thing for a delusional despot like Vladimir Putin to undertake. Professor Frankel reminds us: “The evil which is within humanity does not go away, we have to fight it in each generation.” And this then is our generation’s fight against the Amalekites. Just as it is also our responsibility to push back against our default inclination to mainly help people like ourselves. We are obligated to defend the Rohingya, the Uyghurs, and oppressed groups everywhere... including disenfranchised and marginalized groups who live in this country. There are countless ways that you can help, but here’s one that our congregation recently set up on our website:

https://www.ohev.net/form/Aid-for-Ukraine

Kindness, compassion, defending others, and offering our support and assistance; these are also essential features of humanity. Obviously, we prefer to focus on those attributes, and donating to help the Ukrainians is a praiseworthy way of inhabiting our better selves. But we do need to acknowledge the darker, more sinister sides as well. We ignore them at our own peril, and we simply cannot afford to do that. Lo Tishkach! - Do not forget!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. victorgrigas on Wikimedia Commons
2. Tilemahos Efthimiadis on Wikimedia Commons

3. GDJ on openclipart.org

4. Ministry of Defense of Ukraine on Wikimedia Commons

Emor: Sometimes it’s hard to Sanctify

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

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

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

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

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

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim: Proud Nomads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to the post from 2010!

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

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

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

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

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

Shemini: Redefining “Kosher”

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

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

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

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

CC images in this post, courtesy of:

1. Mike Mozart on Flickr

2. Marco Verch Professional Photographer on Flickr

3. path0s on Pixabay

4. LuisRaa on Flickr

Behar-Bechukotai: Don't Shoot, Stone, or Sting the Messenger!

Hey there. It's me again, Rabbi Gerber. So, um, thanks for coming back to my blog. Great to have you here. I imagine you've returned to hear something uplifting, maybe inspiring, or at least something to get your mind off the coronavirus epidemic??? Ha, ha! So... funny story. Um... about that... Ok, ok, I'm gonna stop beating around the bush here, and be forthcoming

with you: This Torah portion isn't pretty, folks. And I don't mean gross or ethically problematic or theologically upsetting. No, this one is going to hit home. I need to say something that is going to sound a little prophetic, and not in the form of cool-predictions-about-the-future or awesome-conjuring-of-divine-miracles. No, the yelling-at-us-all-for-destroying-our-planet-and-ignoring-all-the-warning-signs kind of way. Friends, it's bad. I don't like being the bearer of scary news. But I also can't shy away from what I see as my obligation, which is to hold up the text and say, "SEE?!?!? It's right here!! Why is it so hard for us - for ALL of us - to listen?!?!?!?!" So, I guess, if you really don't wanna hear angry-preachy Rabbi Gerber, this is probably a good time to stop reading. Oh, and if you DO read on, please don't shoot (or otherwise attack) the messenger, ok??? Oy. Here goes:

Our parashah this week includes a section called the "Tochechah," meaning "The Rebuke." Mildly put, it's the "Hey, dummies, listen up!!" portion of the Biblical narrative. The Torah isn't pulling any punches here. God begins by saying "if you do NOT obey Me and do NOT observe these commandments..." and then goes on to 

list punishments we can expect. And yeah, you guessed it, we're living through soooooo many of them right now. We can't ignore this any longer. The very first repercussion for misbehavior listed is, "then I will do this to you: I will visit you with panic, with wasting disease and fever that consume the eyes and make the heart ache" (Lev. 26:16). A little on-the-nose, wouldn't you say?? I'm almost surprised Leviticus didn't just come out and say: "I'm referring, of course, to the coronavirus in the year 2020." If that didn't hit close enough to home for you, verse 19 states that "[God] will break down your stubborn pride and make your sky like iron and your land like bronze." So we've got the infuriatingly misguided stubbornness of the conspiracy theorists, AND we've got the sky refusing to yield rain, causing drought... check, as well as the ground encased in a concrete-like substance (bronze) that causes destruction... check.

PEOPLE!! We have to see this. We have to look squarely at all these things. They are terrifying, yes. But this is not "someone else's" problem, and it's not a "sometime down the road" problem. It's right here, right now, right in front of our mask-covered-faces! Verse 22 mentions 

wild animals destroying our planet - murder hornets, anyone?? And just to REALLY gild the lily (but with fear...), verse 25 adds, "and if you withdraw into your cities, I will send pestilence among you," which sounds unsettlingly like quarantine and stay-at-home orders. But here's the most important thing I want to emphasize: Our Torah portion restates FOUR TIMES, that all these things will happen - and continue to happen - if we refuse to listen, reject the tough remedies, insist on making excuses, and scoff at the data. None of this is going to be easy. This is painful for EVERYONE. But turning a blind eye to the realities (and the facts) in front of us is making things infinitely worse. Or, to borrow the parashah's phrase: "sevenfold" worse...

Do I have answers? No, I do not. But I'm ready to face the excruciating, tragic, life-altering truths that are so obviously playing out before our eyes. I'd offer to hold your hand to comfort you... but we both know I can't get closer than six feet, and not without a face mask or gloves! Again, I don't have the solution. But let's stop 

talking about "returning to normal" or "getting back to the way things were." We need to reevaluate what it means for some (often mistreated) members of society to be called "essential workers." If they're essential to us, shouldn't they be valued better??? We have to reexamine our treatment of the earth, our use of cars, planes, and fossil fuels, and so very many things that used to be commonplace and utterly taken for granted. It must end here; it has to stop now. HOWEVER, despite all the horrific things we read in the Tochechah (Rebuke), the Torah is actually still NOT saying it's inevitable, unavoidable, or irreversible. We are not powerless. But God isn't going to change. The hornets won't turn around; the earth being suffocated by concrete can't speak up for itself; and this virus doesn't care about its toll on our economy. WE need to change. WE need to stop ignoring the deafening sound of alarm bells, which, by the way, is getting louder and louder... 

I told you this wasn't gonna be a "fun" blog post. It gives me no pleasure to say any of this, and I don't feel all that excited or mighty, positioning myself as a prophetic voice. But we need to listen. I do too. Because this already hurts... a lot. Let's get rid of the "stubborn pride" at least, and then take it one step at a time from there...

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. seton.com

2. wallpaperflare.com

3. Andrea Piacquadio on pexels.com

4. pikist.com