Rabbi’s Corner (Congregation Beth El, Edison, NJ): Beha’alotecha - The Heavy Burden of Authority

Rabbi’s Corner: Beha’alotecha, 5785 - The Heavy Burden of Authority

Leadership is tough. It may seem exciting and make a person feel important, but once you take on that mantle, it very often ain't so easy at all! Public scrutiny, scant praise yet *ample* blame, and a good number of people who are certain they could do your job better than you can. I’m speaking, of course, from the perspective of our ancient Torah. Well, primarily anyway… This week's parashah shows us some of Moses' greatest leadership challenges throughout the Exodus. As usual, the people are complaining. This time the manna isn't enough for them - they want meat! In addition to all the “normal” kvetching, Moses loses one of his favorite and most-trusted advisers: his father-in-law, Jethro. He also has to endure some harsh scolding from God, and perhaps  worst of all, he faces a coup from his own siblings! The job is getting the best of Moses, and he feels compelled to ask God for help.

God acquiesces to Moses' request for some relief, and instructs him to pick 70 elders who will be imbued with the Divine spirit, and who will share the weary load of leadership. What follows is a fascinating scene where the elders are chosen and proceed to the Tent of Meeting, where God will somehow “slice” off part of Moses’ (seemingly quite tangible) link to God and divvy it out to the other newly-minted leaders. However, just as that’s about to take place, two elders - Eldad and Meidad - remain behind in the Israelite camp, yet appear to still be receiving this Calling from God. They start speaking in tongues, and Moses' advisers fear their unsanctioned acts, separated from the other elders, will somehow undermine Moses' authority. They beg him to stop these "rogue" elders, but Moses surprises them by declaring, "Are you jealous for my sake? I wish that all God's people were prophets and that Adonai would put God’s Spirit on them all!" Moses isn't looking for more control; he's looking for less, and he would happily give it all away in a heartbeat!

Now, I feel kind of bad criticizing Moses - after all, the guy has had a rough couple of years. However, to me the notion of every Israelite being a prophet, being a leader, is pretty frightening. It would yield a cacophony of people offering instructions, with none to listen or learn. Whether you like it or not, leadership is necessary. Without it, you're going to end up with anarchy and chaos. Someone needs to make decisions and be held accountable… and yes, also hear (and endure) the people's kvetching. Moses selfishly hopes to relinquish control, even though God clearly considers him the best person for the job. In our lives, we too must strive to figure out what our greatest potential is, and do everything we can to live up to it. Not everyone is meant to be a leader or a prophet, but we all have limitless potential.

The Talmud teaches us, "In a place where there is no leader, strive to be a leader." We should seek out opportunities to be at our best, chances to make the world a better place for the people around us. But what happens in a place where there already is a leader? There is still a role for us to play, and many ways we can help out and contribute. We can all be part of the larger collective, and make the whole system function better for everyone by adding our own, unique skills. One of the reasons the Israelites struggled so much throughout their time in the desert was because Moses never became fully comfortable in his role. He always wished someone *else* could have stepped up and relieved him of his heavy burden. Sometimes we don't get to choose where life will take us, but we can always affect our own lives, and make the most of every situation. Don't wait for the "Spirit of God" to come down and anoint you a leader. Follow instead those most wonderful words of Mahatma Gandhi: "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

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

Korach (repost from 2011): The Challenge of Feedback Continues

One of the hardest gifts to receive is critique. We talked about this a few weeks ago, when I wrote that Tochecha, rebuke, is a present that we give one another, that can help us learn, grow, and improve. But unfortunately, it's never as easy as that. Feedback gets taken the wrong way, someone feels offended, and relationships end in the blink of an eye. And so rather than dealing with the perilous realm of critique, we keep our mouths shut.

That was my blog post from a few weeks ago. This week, I would like to explore the other side of the same issue; the person refusing to accept the feedback. What if we're not the person trying to make a "friendly" observation; what if we're the one being observed? We need to ask ourselves: Am I willing to be open to comments, even if they're painful and might require serious introspection and maybe even change? In our current Torah portion, we see that even Moses - one of our greatest leaders - struggles with this very question.

At the start of the parasha, we are told that a relative of Moses, Korach, "betook himself... to rise up against Moses"(Num. 16:1-2). Together with his band of rebels, Korach declares, "You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord's congregation?" (16:3) The attack is directed squarely at Moses, and his role as the leader of the Israelites. Yet in Moses' response to the attack, he amazingly redirects the criticism, stating: "Truly it is against the Lord that you and all your company have banded together. For who is Aaron that you should rail against him?" (16:11) Aaron? Why does Moses claim the attack is against Aaron? Or against God? Could it really be that Moses thinks Korach is angry at both God and Aaron, yet not angry at him??? I am amazed at how Moses deflects the issue and paints himself as a mediator on the sideline.

But don't we ourselves act the same way? When someone tries to criticize us, we too find reasons why it isn't really applicable. The person was rude or crazy; the comment was unwarranted or unfair; we tell ourselves that other people do the same thing, so why was I being singled out for criticism??? We'll jump through endless hoops to avoid having to confront the possibility that we aren't perfect. How differently might this Biblical feud have ended if Moses had sat down with Korach and tried to understand his issues? Feedback, critique, even criticism; they all open the door for new opportunities. They give us a chance to grow and become better people.

The rabbis of the Talmud ask and answer an important question: "Who is wise? One who learns from all people" (Pirkei Avot, 4:1). Note that it says, "from all people." It's easy to learn from teachers, scholars, even an occasional rabbi. It's harder to learn from someone who is offering rebuke; though perhaps there is all the more to learn from that person. If/when you are feeling attacked, try to take a step back and not lash out right away. And don't deflect their observations. Be curious about your own emotions, allow yourself time to reflect on what they are saying, and try to seize the precious opportunity to learn something. You may be surprised at what you discover, and you may even wind up thanking them... well, maybe eventually.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of erika g. on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of paradiseranche on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of barry.pousman on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of Kissimmee - The Heart of Florida on Flickr

5. CC image courtesy of Lazurite on Flickr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Pinchas: What About MY Point-of-View??

How could anyone be expected to appreciate another  person’s perspective, if s/he never knew there was another way to see things? As human beings, we are conditioned since birth to see the world through our own eyes, our cultural lens, and our inherited biases. That’s how you develop a sense of self, identity, and pride in who you are. However, EVERYONE’s point-of-view is different, so we eventually have to learn to take others into account, in order to learn empathy, compassion, and curiosity. It’s fine to expect the world to think/act/behave like you when you’re four years old… less so when you become an adult. 

This week, the Torah wants to teach us the value of multiple perspectives… and in particular emphasizes how critical it is that people who don’t feel seen or acknowledged speak up and advocate on their own behalf. Our specific example comes in the form of five daughters (with wonderfully unpronounceable names…) whose father died in the wilderness before the Israelites could enter the Promised Land. These confident women approach Moses (and God) and point out that since their father is dead, and they have no brothers, their families will receive no land allocation once they enter Canaan. They declare: “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Num. 27:4) Moses brings the matter before God, and God agrees with the daughters. 

What I find especially striking here is the notion that God hadn’t considered this before! Or any issue, for that matter!! It never occurred to God that families with only daughters could lose their inheritance? The idea of God learning and adjusting is unique in-and-of-itself, and I kind of love it. If even God can be persuaded… shouldn’t we humans be willing to hear new ideas and allow our thinking to shift and evolve? But even if that *isn't* the case, and God DID already know, I still think there’s a powerful lesson here: Speak up for yourself! Advocate on your own behalf, because someone else truly might not have seen it from your vantage point. Perhaps they did… but you’re never gonna know until you step up, come forward, and let others know what you’re experiencing. 

And from a leadership perspective I think the lesson is equally crucial! You don’t know what others are seeing or feeling. There’s simply no way for you to know! So you have to solicit feedback and create an environment where people feel their input is valued and heard. For me, as a white, straight, cisgender male, I need to invite anyone and everyone to offer their opinions - their own Takes on Torah, if you will… - to enrich and expand my outlook. I can’t know what it looks like from your seat, so please tell me. But it isn’t all on you to speak up. I’m not released from any obligation to be inclusive, just because others haven’t spoken up. It is absolutely my responsibility to create the space and vulnerability for others to know their input is welcome and appreciated. This Biblical story is about one, ancient, brave, trailblazing, confident group of women; but right now, today, we all can truly learn from their example!

Balak: God Already Knows the Answer… Do You?

I like questions a lot. If you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, I have to believe that statement doesn’t come as a surprise to you AT ALL. At the Passover Seder, I always like to spend the most amount of time on the questions in the Haggadah… as well as the ones NOT in the text, but which we, ourselves, might ask. Introspection (asking questions of oneself…) is always a central theme for me during the High Holidays, and whenever I see questions in the Torah text (or have questions of my own *for* the Torah…), I light up! And sometimes the very best questions in the Bible are not, in fact, asked by humans at all. As an aside - and a reward for you blog-readers - I will offer a hint that you might hear more about these Divine Questions in this year’s High Holiday services… There is something really special about the moments when God asks a question - ANY question - in the Torah, for one, obvious reason: Doesn’t God, being Omnipotent, already know the answer?

This week, the question I wanted to focus on is also unique, because it’s not being posed to one of our ancestors, or indeed to any Israelite or even an ally of our forbearers! Our parashah is entirely depicted from the perspective of Balak, the king of the Moabites, who reaches out to a non-Israelite prophet, Bilaam, to curse the Israelites on his behalf. Theologically speaking, it always fascinates me that God intervenes at all, because I wouldn’t have thought that the curse of an idolatrous prophet would be something God (or we) would worry about at all! Nevertheless, God shows up in this story, and questions Bilaam about his intentions regarding Balak and his emissaries. In one of their first little tête-à-têtes, we find the question that peaked my interest: “God came to Bilaam and said, ‘What do these people want of you?’” (Num. 22:9) How puzzling, don’t you think, that God wouldn’t know why these emissaries of Moab and Midian have come to Bilaam?? Gosh, and here I thought God was omniscient and all…

As with so many of these wonderful, Divine, often-rhetorical questions, I firmly believe that God already knows the answer. So what, then, is the purpose of asking it in the first place?? Wouldn’t it make more sense for God to say to Bilaam (assuming our God and Bilaam talk at all, which I’ve still not gotten over…), “Don’t speak! I know what you’re going to ask me… and the answer is ‘NO!!’” In my estimation, there’s actually more going on here. God is showing us - here and in several other no-brainer questions - that the real work has to happen inside us. GENUINE learning comes from within, not from an external source. The best teachers know that lecturing from the front of the room only ever gets you so far. If you can provoke students to think critically, challenge assumptions, and draw their own conclusions, that learning may prove to “stick” in their brains a whole lot better. God is modeling that for us, throughout the Tanach.

In Bilaam’s case, God may be curious to see how much the prophet is willing to disclose about why these men are approaching him: “Why do *you*, Bilaam, think they are here… and how do you feel about that?” Every person has a unique and individual perspective, so asking several individuals what they heard, what they understood, and what they think should happen next, may often yield vastly different answers and opinions. So God wants to know, what does Bilaam think is being asked of him, and does he understand the ramifications of cursing an entire people on their behalf? In the end, I feel strongly that God is challenging us to take ownership of our lives and our experiences. Don’t sleep-walk through life and do what’s expected of you or what is comfortable/easy, when you can achieve *so much* more by being active, alert, curious, and interested! We should be pushing ourselves to make a positive impact on the world, and on the people around us, by asking ourselves good and tough questions on a regular basis. And I guess the Torah is cautioning us; if you don’t ask yourselves those questions, God may just show up and ask them of you. What then??

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. geralt on Pixabay
2. George Parilla on Flickr
3. Conmongt on Pixabay
4. Barry Schwartz 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

Naso: Fighting... whether Philistines or Palestinians

Our Torah portion this week, Naso, includes a peculiar set of laws (in Numbers, chapter 6) regarding the nazirite. This isn’t a tribe or a separate people, but rather a title; a conscious choice that someone might make to *become* a nazirite. They vow to abstain from drinking or consuming any byproduct of wine or grapes, to not cut their hair, and to not go near a dead body. We honestly don’t learn much more about what it means to make this choice... and perhaps most importantly WHY. But the Haftarah, assigned to this Torah portion by the ancient rabbis, is the story of the most famous nazirite, Samson. Well, it’s *almost* the story of Samson; it really tells the tale of his parents, in the Book of Judges, and it ends with his birth. If you’ve read about the escapades of Samson (and not just that he had long hair and super-strength), you probably understand why the rabbis thought it best to just end with him being born. (He’s kind of a violent fellow...) I thought maybe we could look at Samson here though, for just a little bit, especially considering the uncomfortably apt fact that he fought the Philistines in Gaza.

Before I get into it though, a word about the Philistines and the Palestinians: Historically speaking, it is both true and false that the two terms are linked. The Biblical Philistines - enemies of Samson, Saul, and David - were a sea-faring people who lived along the Mediterranean coast for several hundred years, before they were defeated by the Assyrian Empire in the 6th Century BCE. Even after the people were gone, and their culture along with them, the region retained the name “Philistia.” It was not, however, until the Roman emperor Hadrian put down a Jewish rebellion in 135 CE (so seven hundred years later...), that he officially renamed the area “Palestine.” And it’s likely that Hadrian did so specifically to stick it to these pesky Jews who challenged his authority, and therefore named the region after an ancient Israelite enemy. Not until the Ottoman Empire, into the 20th Century, did the local non-Jewish residents begin referring to themselves as Palestinians. But I also want to make it abundantly clear that even though the modern-day Palestinians may not be direct descendants of the Philistines, they reasonably DO share DNA with them, and they absolutely have legitimate and long-standing claims on the land. 

My point, therefore, is NOT to discredit the Palestinians right to statehood in Gaza and the West Bank. Rather, I want us to observe that history repeats itself, and what we see going on today, in 2021, feels eerily similar to the wars and conflicts of our Biblical predecessors from nearly 3,500 years ago. And just like today, it is hard to parse out who-started-what-and-when, and who is “really” to blame... if such a thing even exists. Over the course of three chapters in the Book of Judges, Samson battles the Philistines repeatedly, and often single-handedly. They wrong him, he kills a lot of people in retaliation, which leads them to threaten - and perpetrate - violence, which sets him off again, thus angering the Philistines, and round and round we go. Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it? And so tragically and pointlessly current. Both peoples have been in the region for millennia. No one is leaving, no one will concede, and everyone continues to fight. 

There is also something terrifyingly prophetic about how the story of Samson ends. He is ultimately captured by the Philistines, and subsequently blinded. In one final act of vengeance, Samson regains his Herculean strength for a moment, and demolishes the Philistines’ idolatrous Temple of Dagon; killing himself and thousands of his enemies in the process. And yes, all of this took place in - you guessed it - Gaza. So I think we have to ask ourselves in 2021: is this all one, big suicide mission? Today there is a cease-fire, but soon enough Hamas will resume terrorizing Israel with thousands of rockets, while the Israeli military will continue its relentless assault on Hamas targets in Gaza... often nestled in civilian neighborhoods and municipal buildings. Will it ever end? History does not offer us a lot of comfort in response, that much is clear. But maybe - just maybe - our ancient texts can challenge us to break the cycle. We’ve tried annihilation for millennia. In the end, they are still here and so are we... just with a lot more grief and mourning for the civilian casualties. I pray fervently that the leaders in that region look to history for some guidance and cautionary tales. And I hope and pray and plead that they do so before they demolish the proverbial temple; before it is too late, and they have killed everyone. Only time will tell...

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of: 
1. wannapik.com
2. Bukvoed on Wikimedia Commons
3. 周小逸 Ian on Flickr
4. Matanya on Wikimedia Commons

B'Midbar: There's A Time to Relax... and a Time to Grow

This week, we are starting the fourth book of the Torah, B'Midbar. In English, it is called the Book of Numbers (which honestly isn't the most helpful or descriptive of titles...). More than perhaps any of the other books, I truly prefer this one's Hebrew name over the English. The first book of the Torah is our origin story, from Adam & Eve, through Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and his wives, and Joseph bringing the family down to Egypt. The second book focuses on the Exodus story (hence it becomes the name of the book...) and some of the very initial travels of the Israelites into the desert. Then the third book pauses in the narrative to give us the law code of the Levitical priests as well as some basic principles for Israelite living, and - of course - the Commandments. The fifth book will mainly focus on Moses' own retelling of the story, and his farewell address to the people. This book now, B'Midbar, really gets into the trials and tribulations of the Israelites during their wanderings in the desert.

Twice in that first paragraph (above) I mentioned the term "desert," which is sometimes used as the translation for the Hebrew name of our book. But I actually much prefer to translate "Midbar" as "wilderness." Because the emphasis isn't so much on the topography surrounding them, nor on the prevalence of sand, sun, or vast dunes. This is the most important and formative time for our ancient ancestors, and the experience that will transform them from a ragtag band of former slaves, into a nation-building, cohesive people that is ready to conquer territory and defend it. So what I love about the term Midbar is that it really evokes a neutralizing of everything that came before. It's almost like a blank canvas, a reset, and a new opportunity for the Children of Israel to redefine themselves and shape their own destiny.

What especially resonates with me about this notion is the importance of different experiences throughout our lives. We sometimes think that the ideal would be safety, security, calm, and ease. Maybe a picturesque home in a quiet suburban neighborhood, where nothing difficult or challenging ever takes place. And yet, we do not grow in such an environment. It is like the cool-down portion of an exercise routine. Sure, it would be lovely if we could sit in a sauna for an hour and build muscle, but that's just not how it works! We need effort, exertion, resistance, and yes, pain. So safety and calm are great for vacation, for replenishing our energy, and for taking stock. But then we have to venture out into the proverbial wildernesses of our lives, because THAT is where growth happens.

When we change the term from "desert" to "wilderness," we also open up to some important connections to our own experiences. Most of us haven't spent 40 years hiking through a desert... but maybe we have felt lost, cold, afraid, and alone, fumbling our way through the metaphoric "wildernesses" of addictions, terrible illnesses, heartbreaking loss, and - I venture to say for EVERYONE on the planet right now - chaotic, life-altering pandemics. It isn't relaxing or enjoyable, but it is actually necessary for us to evolve, build resilience and inner strength, and to discover abilities within ourselves that we may never know we ever had to begin with. The Israelites experience absolutely transformative change in their midbar, and we should aspire to do the same. We honestly don't get to determine WHAT happens to us in life; we only get to decide how to respond to it, how to learn from what we've been through, and we can choose to be strengthened by it. To me, that is the lesson of ALL the wilderness experiences we may go through in life. It isn't easy, and it may in fact be harrowing and daunting. Nevertheless, we march on, and we do our best to grow and evolve with every step we take.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Rabbi Gerber's library
2. David Stanley on Flickr
3. Christopher Chappelear on Flickr
4. PDPics on Pixabay

Matot-Masei - What Have We Been Doing All This For??

This week, we’re finishing up the Fourth Book of the Torah, B’midbar (Numbers). After this, the Fifth (and final) Book, Devarim/Deuteronomy, is mainly just a recapitulation of all that has happened to the Israelites on their Exodus from Egypt. 

So whatever place they arrive at in our parashah, that’s pretty much as far as they’re going to go. Just the Jordan to cross, and they’re IN the Holy Land! And that’s been the goal all along, right? Not only to escape slavery, nor merely to receive the Torah at Mount Sinai, and not even “just” to congeal as a people and become a nation... but THE LAND - that’s the Grand Prize! Isn’t it? Well, I’m not so sure. The Torah, in fact, doesn’t seem 100% sure about this either, and, perhaps MOST surprisingly, even Moses kind of leaves some room for question. Sooo... now what?

Everything was going swimmingly. 40 years of wandering has passed, the people are stronger and more battle-tested; they are ready for The Conquest - capital T, capital C. Then, a band of no-good-niks 

go and mess it all up. The two tribes of Reuben and Gad, along with half (??) of the tribe of Menashe approach Moses with a request: “If we have found favor in your eyes, give us this land as an inheritance; do not move us across the Jordan [River].” (Numbers 32:5) What an outrage!! What chutzpah!! We wandered and wandered for 40 years, only so you can stay on the OTHER side of the Jordan and not claim the Holy Land for us and for God?!?! Moses is incensed, and yells at these agitators that even uttering such a petition has surely already enraged The Divine!! But their audacity continues. Instead of apologizing and backing away slowly, they try to negotiate. They offer to leave their families and belongings in this land they have requested, and enter the land WITH the rest of the Israelites, to help them conquer it (and then they'll return home, back across the Jordan). Well, you can only IMAGINE what Moses has to say about that, right???

Moses says “sure.” Yup, you heard that right. Moses agrees to their proposal. Ummmm... well that’s a little confounding, isn’t it? Back to my original assertion, wasn’t it a central and essential goal of this Exodus to conquer THE LAND?? 

And not just to conquer it, but to settle it and build our homes there? I think it’s fair to say that that’s what we’d been led to believe the whole time. Nevertheless, the Torah goes on to tell us that this is exactly what happens with the two-point-five tribes, and even in later books of the Tanach, we see that this community does indeed remain in Jordan for hundreds of years. As I’ve stated in previous blog posts, not only is this the first real Diaspora Jewish community, but one might even argue that the Diaspora was established BEFORE a community was formed in Israel; starting with the moment these families and possessions were kept back on the other side of the river. 

I believe the Torah is teaching us a fundamental lesson here. Maybe even several lessons. First of all, the safety and protection of the Land of Israel is ALL our responsibility; whether we live there or not. But interestingly, choosing to NOT live in the land is also a valid option! Even today, those of us living outside the State of Israel are sometimes made to feel guilty, as if residing elsewhere is an “inferior” choice, or perhaps even a “cop-out.” 

But the Torah itself doesn’t seem to feel that support and settlement are one and the same. So why should we? Second, perhaps a more global lesson (not tied to the question of Zionism) is that I love how the Torah shows us that each person and group may have their own destiny. What’s right for one person isn’t right for everyone. We don’t have to feel ashamed or apologetic when our journey leads us to unexpected places; life is FULL of unplanned shifts, changes, and resets. I highly doubt that Reuben, Gad, and Mena (cause it’s only half of “Menashe”...) were hatching this plan for 40 years. They had every intention of sharing the Promised Land with the other tribes... but life took them in a different direction. We may feel surprised, challenged, and even disappointed when things change in a BIG way. But we also have to learn to adapt and accept. If Moses (and God) could do it, I think we’re capable as well. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. Library of Congress on Wikimedia Commons

2. Piqsels

3. Andrew Dawes on Flickr

4. Jonathan Billinger on Wikimedia Commons