Shelach-Lecha: A Stranger Way of Thinking

I'm in the fifth year of writing this blog now, can you believe it? Time sure does fly. And these days, when I sit down to write a blog post, I like to look back at previous years' installments of the same Torah portion (since we DO go around and around in a cycle; every year re-reading the same Five Books of Moses), to make sure I don't repeat myself. This week's Torah portion is Shelach-Lecha, and it contains the story of the 12 spies. Now, I'm not going to tell you about that story, because I wrote about it already... in each of the last three years! So if you're interested in three different perspectives on the same narrative, feel free to browse around my old posts.

This year, I'd like to shift our focus to something ELSE in our reading, namely the stranger in our midst. The Torah likes to talk about 'the stranger,' 'ha-ger'; either one who lives among you or just a passing

traveler. And it makes sense that the Torah would address this! We're given all these many laws, governing eating, praying, thinking, sacrificing, living - but to whom do they apply? Is it everyone living within our borders? Because presumably the Israelites are eventually going to conquer Canaan, and there will be non-Israelites living there (think, Arabs, Druze, and Palestinians in modern-day Israel...); so how much of this new law-stuff really applies to them? Or if a merchant on a business trip passes through on a weekend, does s/he have to abide by our laws of Shabbat and Kashrut? These are pretty fair questions, no? So what DOES the Torah say about all of this.

In the Book of Numbers, chapter 15, verses 14-16, we read: "And when, throughout the ages, a stranger who has taken up residence with you, or one who lives among you, would present a gift of pleasing odor to Adonai - as you do, so shall it be done by the rest of the congregation. There shall be one law for you and for the resident stranger; it shall be a law for all time throughout the ages. You and the stranger shall be alike before Adonai; the same ritual and the same rule shall apply to you and to the stranger who resides among you." And I purposely wrote out the whole quote for you, because I think it's significant that the same basic idea is repeated THREE times: You guys are the same! Don't treat non-Israelites any different. Don't keep one standard for Jews and one for non-Jews; don't discriminate between locals and foreigners; don't create a hierarchy within your community, where one person's donation/sacrifice/commitment is valued higher than another's. Don't do ANY of these things!!

Perhaps the reason we need to hear it repeated three times is because it's counter-intuitive. We LIKE to divide into categories, we like identifying an 'us' and a 'them.' It's human nature to create groupings,

and even to fear those who are different. So the Torah tries - desperately - to change our way of thinking. Whether it's the current State of Israel, the government here in the US, or even within our own Jewish communities; we struggle to implement this most essential of Biblical teachings: "You and the stranger shall be alike before Adonai." How can we make this our reality? And not just in society, but in our own minds and hearts as well; each one of us! Is there a way back, a chance that we can return to seeing everyone as equal, and to stop vilifying and demonizing 'the other' (whoever that 'other' may be)? We've got to keep trying, right? Eventually we're going to get it; I know the Torah certainly hopes so.

Maybe three times wasn't repetition enough?

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Karen Apricot on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of sakocreative on Flickr

Beha'alotecha: Filling the Pages of a Book About Prayer

How can we harness the Power of God? Is it even imaginable that such a thing could be possible, that we, as human beings, could control God's 

actions? To some extent, the whole purpose of prayer (or at least some prayers) is to compel God in one direction or another. We pray for God to bring good fortune, to avert disaster, to punish our enemies, and to heal the sick; all the while feeling as though these things are out of our control. And yet, we pray. Is there, therefore, a chance that our words and songs can move the Hand of God? Believe it or not, there is an entire book of the Torah that speaks to this very question.

Ok, so I should probably put the term 'book' in quotes. You see, in the middle of this week's Torah portion, Beha'alotecha, two verses (35 and 36) in chapter ten are considered by some ancient rabbinic sources to constitute an entirely separate book unto themselves! Before and after these two verses, our Torah text displays a mysterious backwards letter, the Hebrew letter 'nun.' The great rabbi Judah Ha-Nasi wrote in the Mishnah that verses 35 and 36 were therefore a book unto themselves. And you may, in fact, already be familiar with the words of this 'book,' because we sing them at the start of the Torah service every Saturday morning: "Va-yehi Binsoa Ha-Aron, Va-yomer Moshe..." But you may NOT have realized that these words spoke of compelling God to act on our behalf: "When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: 'Advance, O Lord! May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!' And when it halted, he would say: 'Return, O Lord, You who are Israel's myriads of thousands!'"

What might the world look like if we could do this, if we could urge God's Presence to advance every time our enemies threatened to attack? Or if we could rein in the destructive forces of nature before they devastated towns, like Moore, Oklahoma? 

What is this book trying to teach us about the relationship between human beings and God, and about the efficacy of prayer? The Etz Hayim Torah Commentary offers a provocative insight, noting the difference between prayers in times of tranquility and peace, and prayers when we are vulnerable or persecuted. Sometimes in life, our prayer is for God to 'Advance!' and attack our enemies. Other times we pray for return; whether it be the return of health, of strength, of family members who are distant from us in one way or another, or even just our own teshuvah, returning through repentance and asking forgiveness.

When we have the great fortune to live in a time and place where we can offer prayers of tranquility, we also shouldn't distance ourselves from our ancestors who suffered great persecution at the hands of their enemies. We may feel appalled to read medieval prayers calling on God to violently and utterly destroy our oppressors, but who can deny someone else the right to offer such a prayer, without knowing the pain they are suffering? And at various times in our lives, we too feel a desperate need for prayer to 'work,' for SOMEONE to answer our cries. In that moment, can we really say for sure that prayer DOESN'T shift the Divine decree? Perhaps the world would have looked very, very different if a certain prayer had not been uttered right when it was. This 'book,' "Va-yehi Binsoa," is indeed a book on the Power of God, and the power of prayer. It may seem like a short book, but it may just be leaving room for all of us to fill it with our prayers; to answer the author's question in a different way for each and every one of us. All of a sudden, that book doesn't seem so short after all.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Library and Archives Canada on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of bsabarnowl on Flickr

B'Midbar: For Carrie

You know how some people have kids, and then that’s all they can ever talk about? It’s so annoying. And it’s true for rabbis and people who write blogs as well, and so I SWORE to myself that I wouldn't be one of those people! My daughter was born four months ago, and sure, my wife and I obsess over her every move and think each one is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened in human history; but who else wants to hear about such silliness? And that is why I am fully aware of the hypocrisy in my writing about my daughter in this week’s blog post.

But in my defense, I couldn’t help it! Our Torah portion, B’midbar, talks about babies, but manages to make some troubling assertions. These would have bothered me before (and did!), but I guess they just hit me harder than they have in previous years. It's also true, however, that 

it’s ALWAYS been incredibly infuriating that the Torah goes out of its way to insist that we’re talking about MALE children; females definitely and unequivocally don’t matter at all. And in the Book of Numbers, chapter 3, verse 15, we are told that the Levitical priests are counted, “from the age of one month up.” So what then of newborn babies BEFORE they are one month old? Don’t they yet count as human beings? Obviously, this sounds horrific to the modern reader. It is, however, important to see it in the context of the ancient world. Infant mortality was unimaginably high, and it would have been too painful to endure full burial practices and the recitation of Kaddish for EVERY infant that died before, during, or soon after birth.

It’s just that I can’t read these texts the same way anymore. Now that I have a daughter of my own, the constant references to the singularity of male children stings even more. And having watched a baby be born, then having sat up with her for endless nights, and now dedicating my life to helping this tiny, struggling personality discover its place in the world; it is unthinkable to me that she could ever not be considered a human being. And the text goes on to say that all firstborn children belong to God: “Every first-born is Mine. At the time that I smote every first-born in the land of Egypt, I consecrated every first-born in Israel, human and beast, to Myself, to be Mine, the Lord’s” (Numbers 3:13). What do we make of that? Especially since the beasts in question are sacrificed to God as a ritual offering!! The rabbis explain that the first-born children were originally consecrated to service, to serve God as priests in the Temple. So no killing. Later on, they created a redeeming ritual, called Pidyon Ha-Ben (still used in some communities to this day), which enables parents to ‘buy back’ their child, and pay the priests to serve in the Temple in their stead. 

So what is the take-away from all of this? Gratitude. When we remind ourselves of the infant mortality we all had to suffer at one point in our history; when we recall the devastation 

of the tenth plague in Egypt; when we try NOT to think about the practice of child sacrifice among the heathens surrounding Israel; and when we pay a small amount (as if raising children doesn’t already cost enough…) as a gift of thanksgiving to God – all of this reminds us of how precious life really is. On this weekend of Mother’s Day, hug someone you love. Child, parent, sibling, friend, partner, spouse, it doesn’t matter. Remember that life is fragile, and life is precious. Every day we should give thanks for the people who bless our lives and make it all worthwhile.

And yes, as sappy and annoying as it may be, I dedicate this post to the newest shining little light in my life; my daughter, Caroline.

Photos in this blog post:

1. Image courtesy of Caroline Gerber and her rockin' sun hat!

2. Image courtesy of Caroline Gerber in a sleepsack from grandma.

Behar-Bechukotai: The Different Pieces of Peace

There is a great quote, by a rabbi with a terrific name, that I find myself coming back to every once in a while. Ben Bag-Bag (yes, that was really his name) is quoted in Pirkei Avot (The Ethics of Our Fathers), as saying "Turn it, and turn it, for everything is in it" 
(5:22). He was referring to the Torah, and the fact that you can read, study, chant, pray on, and debate any passage, and yet somehow you KEEP finding new insights. As often as I think I've read a particular line, I marvel at how new insights just seem to jump off the page at random occasions. And this week, I'd like to share one of those with you from our Torah portion.

In the middle of talking about the Land of Israel, God makes a statement that has found its way into our Shabbat morning service. As we chant aloud the Prayer for Peace, we all recite together: "I will bring peace to the land, and you shall lie down and no one shall terrify you. I will rid the land of vicious beasts, and it shall not be ravaged by war" (Leviticus 26:6). And because we've read this line in our congregation so many times, I guess I just took it for granted. I haven't had an opportunity to look at it again with fresh eyes, and so I appreciated this week reading a Torah commentary by Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz, in which Rabbi Berkowitz asks the question (and I'm paraphrasing), 'why is this passage so redundant?' I never really noticed it before, but he's right! Why didn't God just say "I will bring peace to the land"? That says it all, doesn't it? Why the need for three more elaborations and repetitions of that same notion? Is it not enough to know that the land will be peaceful, must we also hear that we will be able to lie down unterrified? Or that the land will contain no vicious beasts (read: terrorists)? Or that it won't be wrecked by devastating wars? FOUR times we are given this same concept... and I cannot help but wonder why this is so.

Rabbi Berkowitz quotes a famous medieval commentator, the Bechor Shor, as saying that 'God’s promise is twofold: it is about physically dwelling in peace, and feeling secure psychologically.' I think this is such a crucial insight. The Torah doesn't just give us ONE iteration of peace, because there are MANY different kinds of peace. Peace isn't necessarily an objective reality, it's incredibly 

subjective. You may have a home, a stable career, a loving family, and secure finances, and still feel incredibly anxious, unsettled, unhappy, and restless. You could live in abject poverty with no hope of improving your situation, but be incredibly content and satisfied nonetheless. I have presided over funerals for very wealthy people who lived lives filled with regret and disappointment; and I've officiated at funerals of very simple, unassuming people who felt like the wealthiest, luckiest people on earth. And one person's peace is another one's torment. There most certainly is NOT one, universal, all-encompassing definition of peace.

In part, this makes God's promise all the more incredible and wonderful. ALL these obstacles and challenges will be removed. External threats and internal terrors; foes, fears, and physical harm alike will all disappear. But it is also a reminder to each and every one of us to both work on all aspects of our own lives, and not to judge the situation of another. We should remember that our own happiness is NOT dependent on monetary success or international fame; the key to happiness is satisfaction and contentment, not the accumulation of 'stuff.' And similarly, we cannot look over the fence and assume that someone else is happy, just because they seem to be, or that our neighbor must surely be miserable on the basis of such-and-such indisputable evidence. We cannot take anything for granted - whether it's a prayer we've read a thousand times, or the private lives of the people all around us. We must continuously approach situations with fresh eyes and a desire to learn and discover. That is the key to genuine peace... but don't take my word for it.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of EvelynGiggles on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of AshleyEustice on Flickr

Emor: Joking about Blasphemy

One of the best movies about theology and religion is Monty Python's "Life of Brian." It's basically the story of a guy who is born at the same time as Jesus, and the film shows us a very turbulent time in the history of Judaism, Christianity, and the Roman Empire through

his eyes. It's possibly one of the funniest movies you'll ever see, full of fabulous satire and crazy dialogue. At one point in the movie, a crowd of devoted drones hang on Brian's every word. "You're all individuals," he shouts out to them from his window. "We're all individuals," they call back in unison. And as you're taking in the hilarity of that moment alone, a single, pathetic voice pipes up, "I'm not," and he's promptly silenced by the people around him. 

You may already be imagining where I'm going with this blog post; Life of Brian offers us another poignant critique of something found in this week's Torah portion. Leviticus, chapter 24, verses 10-16, tells the story of a man who blasphemes

God. In the midst of a fight with another man, the Torah tells us he 'pronounced the Name in blasphemy, and was brought to Moses... and placed in custody until the decision of Adonai was made clear to them.' And what follows in the text is the legal precedent for not taking the Name of God in vain, and the punishments for transgressing this law. However, what is so difficult about this story is that we don't really know WHAT the guy did. What was his crime specifically, so that we can all learn from his mistakes? Was it just pronouncing God's Name? Was the problem that he did so in a non-ritual context? Or did he specifically curse God in the heat of the moment?

Life of Brian highlights this confusion for us in a fabulous scene where a man is being tried for blasphemy. In self defense, the man declares, "All I said to my wife was, 'That piece of halibut was good enough for

Jehovah.'" The crowd gasps in horror, as the man blasphemed once again in telling his story. The 'judge' in this case, standing as they all are by the side of the road, proclaims the man's offense, but in reading aloud the details of the case, he too uses the name 'Jehovah,' and someone throws a rock at the judge. An argument ensues, the judge tries to defend himself, uses 'Jehovah' one more time, and is swiftly stoned by the crowd. 

Is it a crazy scene? Sure. But it's a poignant critique because we do this to ourselves. We obsess over the minutia of religion and chastise one another for supposed offenses, always eager to judge another for their wrong-doings while

ignoring our own. Even the Torah itself seems to be challenging our assumptions about legal systems - stating in verse 16 that the community should stone the blasphemer to death... and then in verse 17 (the VERY NEXT line) tells us that no one should ever kill anyone else. Huh? Blasphemy, in my opinion, is really a red herring; it's not the REAL issue we need to worry about (is it blasphemous to say that?). God isn't offended or hurt by blasphemy. God can take it, I promise you. But we can hurt ourselves, and we can hurt each other. We swear 'by God,' and then we lie. We insist we'll be honest, faithful, and reliable 'as God is my witness,' and then we betray, deceive, and injure. 

Satire is indeed comedy, but it comes with a mirror. Sometimes it isn't obvious what we're meant to see in the reflection, but it isn't just the pronouncing of God's name, and it sure ain't halibut either. Maybe all of us - as individuals - need to figure out what we see. Whatever it is, let's not miss the opportunity when it's given to us. The lesson is too good, and funny, to be wasted.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of James Cridland on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of exfordy on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of tt2times on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of LaurelRusswurm on Flickr

Kedoshim: Responding First With Holiness

What does it mean to be holy? It seems like such a simple little question, but it doesn't really have a simple answer; if it has any answer at all. Even the Torah avoids offering a straight-forward solution! We are told in this

week's parashah, "You shall be holy for I, the Lord your God, am holy" (Leviticus, 19:2). Ok, great. But what does THAT mean?? We aren't given an explanation of the word 'holy,' and we aren't told what it is about God that is holy, or what aspects of that holiness we could and should emulate. Once again, that is the brilliance of the Torah. No easy answers; just invitations to search for meaning in each of our own lives. Yet in light of the vicious attack on the finish line of the Boston Marathon, this question is more important to us than ever.

It's easy to get bogged down and distracted by the Temple-related topics of our Torah portion. You might be tempted to say that holiness is (limited to) sacrifice, cleanliness, adherence to ritual laws and customs, mitzvot, and all manner of ancient verbiage that we

associate with the Bible. But we're kind of letting ourselves off the hook then, aren't we? If 'holiness' is an outdated term, then I don't have to worry about things like holy behavior, holy speech, and holy relationships; when, in fact, they are perhaps more current now than ever before. We NEED to answer the question, 'what does it mean to be holy?', because it can reshape how we live our lives. The Book of Leviticus offers us this quandary, having to interpret holiness, and the Book of Deuteronomy does this to us as well. There, we are told to walk in God's ways, but again, what does that mean? Rabbi Shai Held, in an incredibly beautiful article in Tablet Magazine, offers us an answer.

Rabbi Held says: "If you want to really serve God, and not just go through the motions, then learn to care for people in moments of profound pain." Walking in God's ways, and engaging in holy behavior, they are both about accepting the discomforts in life, and actually leaning into the pain. Especially the pain of others. Life isn't all about joy and happy endings, and we need to challenge ourselves to stay in those moments of tension, and provide empathy, support, and love to the people around us. 

And in the case of the Boston Marathon bombings, we saw this with the first responders who ran TOWARDS the injured and the dead, not away from them. Now, not everyone can do that, at least not with regards to a terrifying explosion. However, again, let us not be distracted by the specifics of this scenario - as we were with the sacrifices and impurities of our Torah portion - and let's instead focus on the lesson we must learn. Rabbi Held gives it to us straight: "Faced with a situation that makes us stare the depth and extent of out vulnerability in the face, most of us want to flee. Here, then, is Judaism’s message: You want to serve God? Run towards the very people and places you most want to run away from. You want to be religious? Learn to be present for other people when they are in pain. All the rest is commentary."

We can all be first responders. Maybe not in the midst of a terror attack - God forbid - but in everyday life. Lean into the discomfort.

Don't run away from people in pain or in the midst of a life crisis. Don't try to talk about the weather or baseball or the Senate. Be present for one another and seek out opportunities to walk in God's ways with incredible holiness and meaning. The tragedy in Boston has left us all devastated and searching for answers. But at least there is one lesson we can learn from this. We can learn to be first responders to life, and to thereby live with greater holiness each and every day.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of soniasu_ on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of Elaron on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of The Israel Project on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of HarshLight on Flickr

Tazria-Metzora: When the 'Lepers' Speak Up

Earlier today, I was looking back at some of my previous blog posts on this week's Torah portion, mainly to make sure I don't repeat myself, but also to see what kinds of things I was writing about last year, the year before, and the year before that (I've been doing this whole

blogging thing for a while now!). I found myself focusing especially on a post from two years ago, which I entitled 'An Appeal to My Fellow Lepers.' It mainly talked about the dominance of the Orthodox rabbinate in Israel, and how we cannot let ourselves be bullied around by them any longer. Well, on the one hand, it's still a big problem. On the other, change IS coming to the Israeli Chief Rabbinate. The question is, will it lead to any new policies or practices? I'd like to share with you a few thoughts about religion in Israel today, and how it still very much relates to this week's Torah portion about cleanliness and purity laws.

We tend to let ourselves be easily distracted. Our parasha this week is an infamously 'icky' one, about leprosy, skin disease, and mold. But that's not REALLY what it's

about at all; we just have a hard time getting past the symptoms mentioned in this part of the Torah. Nevertheless, they are indeed symptoms of a larger problem: the question of who's IN and who's OUT. Who is part of the Establishment? What does it mean to be relegated to the margins of society, and how do we treat the people who inevitably live their entire lives there? In some ways, it's actually much easier to just think of this Torah portion as talking about gross skin diseases, because we can dismiss it as irrelevant and unpleasant. But what if the REAL source of discomfort for us is how current this topic actually is?

Right now in Israel, we are on the verge of a religious shift. It's not quite on the level of choosing a new Pope for Catholics, but it's significant. The Chief Rabbis in Israel (there are two of them) serve ten year terms, and they are both ending in 2013. So there's a big debate right now in Israel over who should be the next Chief Rabbi, and how this person will address the growing rifts in Israel. 

Because it's an enormous problem. The status quo today leaves hundreds of thousands of Israelis on the margin, just because they're secular, gay, or simply not religious enough to meet the chief rabbinate's standards. In a recent article on Ynet, Yizhar Hess, the Executive Director of the Masorti Movement in Israel, writes compellingly about this concern. He specifically focuses on a rabbinic organization called Tzohar, who have put forth a candidate for Chief Rabbi. Hess addresses the 'nice guy-ism' of the Tzohar rabbis, but how ultimately they STILL don't accept the validity of any non-Orthodox group. He laments, "Tzohar rabbis are good people who can speak the secular lingo fluently; however, they are miles away from embodying the solution for the problematic relationship between the state and religion in Israel."

We like to think of Israel as 'our' country. We want to believe that we belong there, and that we, as Conservative Jews, would be accepted by the Israeli establishment. But the sad reality is that we would not. None of us. And the divide between Orthodoxy and everyone else is growing all the time. Yet we are not the lepers of this week's Torah

portion. We shouldn't be treated as outsiders, at the mercy of those in charge, and grateful for any act of kindness they show us. Are there easy solutions to this (or seemingly any other Israeli) problem? No. But we can't avoid talking about it either, simply because it's uncomfortable, unpleasant, or complicated. We love Israel, and we all have just as much stake in the past, present, and future of the country as do the Orthodox. We just need to stay informed and up-to-date, and keep emphasizing our rights within the Jewish State. Otherwise, we're going to keep being treated as lepers. I don't know about you, but I'm getting tired of it.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Miss Blackflag on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of rbrwr on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of Minamie's Photo on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of zeevveez on Flickr