Tzav - The Offerings of a Broken Heart

One particular text that I have wanted to spend more time with is Vayiqra Rabbah. It is, for the student of midrash, a fascinating work. Like all classical rabbinic midrashim of the amoraic (talmudic) period, it is a product of the sages of Eretz Yisrael. As a literary work, it tends to follow structures, and its contents are largely homiletical: one can imagine that its contents were originally sermons in ancient synagogues (unlike exegetical midrashim, which tend to interpret a specific verse or phrase ad seriatim.) It also takes the contents of a book that was no longer applicable to the day to day life of Jews in the post Temple era and derived lessons that were relevant to ongoing Jewish life.

(N.B. One often sees references to the Midrash Rabbah. There is no such thing as the Midrash Rabbah, and even though you may see books with that title, it does not really exist. It is the invention of publishers who thought that the diverse works with the name Rabbah were part of a unified whole, but they are distinct works that were compiled at different times by different editors following different rules of composition.)

זבחי אלקים רוח נשברה... תהילים נא19

אמר ר’ אבא בר יודן

כל מה שהפסיל בבהמה הכשיר באדם

מה פסל בבהמה? עורת או שבור... ויקרא כב:22

הכשיר באדם: לב שבור ונדכה אלקים לא תבזה תהילים נא: 19

אמר ר’ אלכסנדרי

ההדיוט הזה, אם משתמש בכלי שבור, גניי הוא לו

אבל הקב”ה, כל כלי תשמישיו שבורין הן

דכתיב: קרוב ה’ לנשברי לב שם, לד:19

הרופא לשבורי לב שם, קמז: 3

ואת דכא ושפל רוח להחיות רוח שפלים ולהחיות לב נדכאים. ישעי’נז:15

A broken spirit is a sacrifice to Hashem... (Ps 51:19)
Rabbi Abba bar Yudan said:
Whatever was disqualified from the animals (for the purpose of sacrifices) was permitted from man (in his service of Hashem).
What is disqualified among the animals? Anything blind or injured... (Lv 22:22) –
But is permissible among man: Hashem will not despise the broken and crushed heart. (Ps 51:19)
Rabbi Alexandrai said:
If the simple servant used a broken utensil, it would cause him insult,
But to Hashem, all the utensils who serve Him are imperfect,
As it says, Hashem is close to the broken hearted, (Ps 34:19)
It is He who heals the broken hearted, (Ps 147:3)
[He is] with the crushed and dispirited, to revive those of fallen spirit and to revitalize crushed hearts. (Is 57:15)

What are we to make of this statement? Here are a few thoughts.

As I mentioned, Vayiqra Rabbah takes a book that largely relates to the sacrificial service of the Beit Hamiqdash and deals with the reality of a time where such service is no longer tenable. This was a harsh reality in the first centuries following the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE; after all, the sacrifices were ordained by the Torah, Hashem’s word and expectations. For many, this reality was too hard to take, and this lead to a spiritual crisis. The brilliance of the sages of the centuries that followed is that they successfully enabled and empowered Jews to rebuild a spiritually meaningful existence based on personal and communal practice, and on the powerful element of hope. Jews may have despaired because they could not fulfill the mitzvot connected to sacrifice, depressed by their ritual imperfection. Rather than dwell on this imperfection, the sages pointed to verses like Hosea 14:3,  ונשלמה פרים שפתינו, our lips will compensate for bullocks, making prayer, the service of the heart, a powerful replacement for the sacrificial service.

But this homily goes a step further. In looking at the sacrifices, we see that they tended to be animals without blemish, examples of physical perfection. Yet, those of us who would offer sacrifices were anything but perfect. Despite our best efforts, imperfection is endemic to the human condition. In the end, the perfect gets offered as a sacrifice on the altar, burned to ashes, but we live on.

It matters not just in the way we look at ourselves, but also in the way we perceive those around us. Hashem accepts us as broken utensils, doing our best to fulfill His will in the best way that we can, as long as we make that effort and reach for the bar. We are often too willing to judge the actions or motivations of others, expecting them to live up to a standard that may work for ourselves, but the Ultimate Judge will make the final determination.

The lemma for this homily is from Psalm 51, a psalm attributed to David after he was confronted by Nathan after he acted on his lust for Batsheva (v. 2; see 2 Sam 11-12 for the story.) It is a powerful example, how the great king, progenitor of the dynasty from which the messiah will come, could despair his own failings and seek the compassion of a merciful God. This verse, זבחי אלקים רוח נשברה, לב שבור ונדכה אלקים לא תבזה, A broken spirit is a sacrifice to Hashem; Hashem will not despise the broken and crushed heart, has come to my attention several times in connection with Jewish prayer. Tanakh does not hide the failings of its heroes, and we can learn from them. But when we take an example like that of David, we can learn how we can turn those failings around, looking at our actions as offerings to Hashem in our efforts to make better of our imperfect selves. In our efforts to reach up to that bar that is always just above us, we bring ourselves that much closer to Hashem, and achieving that closeness is the ultimate meaning of קרבן - offering, approaching, coming nearer.

Passover - A Festival of Memory

The following appeared as an unsigned Editorial in the Jewish Journal - Boston North in the March 18, 2010 issue. http://tinyurl.com/ygrqvhl

The festival of Passover celebrates one of the formative events in the life of the Jewish people. It would be tempting to call it a celebration of history, but there is a difference.


 The Haggadah tells us, “In every generation, each of us must see ourselves as if we personally had come out of Egypt.” We are to personalize the experience, to internalize it. The Torah tells us, on numerous occasions, to remember the exodus, to remember that we were once slaves in Egypt.




There is a difference between history and memory. History is largely an exercise in taking events from the past and analyzing them, maybe for an educational exercise, maybe as a means of preventing the recurrence of past mistakes. History is impersonal, and the past always remains the past, never brought up to date.





Memory is different. We see this through a variety of rituals in Jewish traditions, especially the seder, when we reenact the exodus and the slavery in Egypt. Past is made present, and we are there. There is no past, present or future. Time is stratified, and we are inserted into those events that we recall from millennia before. The past is virtually present and alive, a part of our being. And it has relevance in our present lives.






For Passover celebrates redemption, enjoining us in a belief that there is always a better day ahead for the Jewish people. It celebrates freedom, a concept that seems hard wired into the mindset of the Jew, who has always treasured freedom not only for himself, but for anyone shackled and enslaved.




 And it celebrates responsibility, the oft repeated mitzvah that we are to show love and concern for the stranger, because we were strangers in the land of Egypt.






But unless we take an active part in passing this memory and our connection to it on to the next generation, this memory will be lost. We are all responsible for bringing this memory to life in our homes and throughout our community, to insure that this memory is not forgotten.

Vayiqra - Adam and Opportunity

On the surface, much of the book of Vayiqra contains the type of details that will make one’s eyes glaze over. The idea of sacrificial worship is virtually meaningless today, as it has been for close to two thousand years. These technicalities, however, did not prevent exegetes from looking at it at a deeper level, allowing them to derive many pearls of wisdom from its arcane verses.

The book opens with an interesting and unusual comment:

אדם כי־יקריב מכם קרבן לה

When/If an individual among you should bring a sacrifice unto Hashem...(Lv 1:2)

This is the general introductory comment to the laws of sacrifices. But why begin with the word אדם? As we continue reading this parasha, we will see passages like this again and again; however, no where else will we see אדם. We will see נפש, and elsewhere we will find איש. What is the significance of this usage here?

There is something striking about the usage of אדם here. The noun in itself is symbolic of the limitations of mortality. Throughout the narratives in the first chapters of Genesis, the first man is referred to as האדם, the man - אדם first appears as a proper noun in the genealogy in Ch. 5 - making the name appear more as an afterthought. The name is derived from אדמה, earth, as in dirt, from which man was created. (I sometimes translate אדם as earthling, though admittedly with tongue firmly planted in cheek.)

אדם conjures the image of the solitary, primordial man, created alone, naked, and unashamed, apart from the social animal of איש (you can have a plural of איש, but never of אדם unless you append בני to it.)

We know one thing about אדם - that his solitary nature is not good. ויאמר ה’ אלקים לא־טוֹב היוֹת האדם לבדוֹ - Hashem said: it is not good for man to be alone. (Gn 2: 18) While nearly everything created was described as good, כי טוב, this is the one thing that is not good, לא טוב. With this, the woman, אישה, is created, and אדם is now referred to, for the first time, as איש.

Now, אדם is followed by another interesting word, כי, a conditional particle way too easily overlooked, but that can convey two possible messages. It can mean when (as a relative, not an interrogative, adverb,) or it can mean if. We have two very different possibilities: One takes an offering for granted, when he makes an offering, the other a possibility, if he makes an offering. Under both circumstances, we read this first offering as a voluntary one, not one that has conditions of obligation attached to it.

Let us look back at the choice of אדם here as opposed to איש. As I said, אדם exists alone, but איש lives in a social domain. He lives in a world of order and hierarchies. Likewise, איש can have a master, but אדם has no master, other than God. And with this understanding, we can determine how we might understand the use of כי in this verse.

אדם is the essential existential individual, who alone is presented with an opportunity. He can act, or he can ignore. He can engage in worship, in praise, in fulfilling mitzvah, in offering service to Hashem. Everything that אדם, that lonely human, does is predicated on כי, if. For him, everything is volitional, and he accounts to no one except Hashem alone. But אדם does not exist in a vacuum. He is given opportunities, and it is up to him to chose whether or not to respond to the opportunity presented to him.

לא טוב היות האדם לבדו - It is not good for man to be alone; he cannot exist in this world as a solitary individual. He cannot remain aloof of others, but must engage in a world that makes demands of him, and of which he will make demands as well. This is particularly true of the religious person. Religion, which is supposed to act as a civilizing force in life, is not intended to isolate, but to integrate the individual into the larger framework of life. We can derive a lesson from this verse as follows: אדם, כי יקריב - מכם When an individual makes an offering, he becomes one from among you. His commitment to worship, by the very nature of that worship, makes him part of the greater whole, something larger than himself.

If we look carefully at the content of Jewish liturgy, we find the truth to this. Because Jewish prayer does not focus on the needs of the individual, but on all of us. The Amida, the core of Jewish liturgy, is composed of prayers that are all first person plural.

Ideally, the individual transitions from אדם to איש, and once he steps beyond his own limitations, his approach to worship changes. He is no longer isolated in his existential bubble, and his prayer is no longer a matter of כי - if, but כי - when. Because he is now an inhabitant of a world where he is no longer an אדם, a finite human being limited by his singularity or his own mortality, but as one נפש among many, one איש among others.

In this world that Hashem created, we serve Him best when we reach beyond ourselves, when we care for others, when we find a mate, and engage in others as created בצלם אלקים, in the image of Hashem, as He created each one of us.

Vayaqhel/P’qudei - Building a Tabernacle in Time

The Torah lacks non-sequiturs. It is carefully constructed, well planned in the same way that an architect makes certain that no brick or beam is redundant or out of place. My analogy is intentional in introducing this week’s Torah reading, which deals mostly with the details for the construction of the Mishkan, the tabernacle which became the center of sacred service during the years of desert wandering and the years of conquest of Canaan, a reading that opens with the following passage:

א וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה אֶת־כָּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשׂת אֹתָם: ב שֵׁשֶׁת יָמִים תֵּעָשֶׂה מְלָאכָה וּבַיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי יִהְיֶה לָכֶם קֹדֶשׁ שַׁבַּת שַׁבָּתוֹן לַה’ כָּל־הָעֹשֶׂה בוֹ מְלָאכָה יוּמָת: ג לֹא־תְבַעֲרוּ אֵשׁ בְּכֹל משְׁבֹתֵיכֶם בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת

Moshe gathered the entire community of the children of Israel and he said to them: These are the words that Hashem has commanded you to fulfill: You shall perform work for six days, but the seventh day shall be sanctified for you, a Sabbath, wholly unto Hashem. All who work on that day shall die. Do not kindle fire in any of your habitations on the day of the Sabbath. (Ex 35:1-3)

The rabbis of the Talmud made sense of this juxtaposition by associating the use of the word מלאכה, labor, in this passage with its use in the description of the work of creating the Mishkan in order to determine what was considered prohibited labor on Shabbat.

It is an association that makes sense on several levels. With exception of this passage, which delineates the kindling of fire, an earlier passage on gathering and cooking food (cf. Ex. 16:21-26), and a later narrative that speaks of the man who violated Shabbat by gathering wood (cf. Nu 15:32-36), we would not know what else can or cannot be done on Shabbat. Likewise, with the building of the Mishkan, which was understood as a symbolic reenactment of the Creation, anything that would go into its creation would be likened to acts of Creation, and would thus be prohibited on the day on which we are to cease from creative labors, just as Hashem did.

As humans, we have a tendency towards putting value on tangible things. We can easily grasp the concept of sanctity of material items and space, but it is difficult to get one’s hands around the idea that time can be imbued with value and sanctity. The idea of sacred time was an innovation of Judaism. The very first mention of sanctity in the Torah relates to Shabbat, and that alone, of all things created, was sanctified by Hashem. We never find mention of anything else being sanctified by Hashem; all other sanctifications are the result of human designation.

Shabbat enjoys a place of preeminence among the mitzvot. There is only one exception for which it may be violated: to save a human life. Even though the Mishkan was to be constructed as Hashem’s dwelling in Israel’s midst, any act related to its construction was also prohibited on Shabbat.

In order to make the sanctity of Shabbat somewhat easier to grasp, Shabbat can be contextualized. It may be compared to that tangible item which was about to become the sacred core of the Jewish people - the Mishkan itself. And from this association, we can draw a concept of Shabbat, treating time as if it were tangible. We can look at Shabbat as if it were a Mishkan in time.

This analogy is not entirely mine; in his book The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man, Abraham Joshua Heschel called the Shabbat “A Palace in Time.” Not that there is a spatial quality to the day, but it gives us an opportunity to appreciate time in a way that is similar to the way we value space, or what takes up space. For our lives are spent in pursuit of things material, starting with the basic needs for survival, but soon going beyond needs and into wants. Humans, by nature, are engaged in a continuous conquest of matter and space. But ultimately, there is one thing that we can never conquer but we can easily squander, and that is our most precious commodity: time.

So, for one day in the week, for 25 hours, we treat time as if it were our Mishkan. We approach her singing the psalms of David in Kabbalat Shabbat. We greet her with the joy and anticipation of a groom awaiting his bride under the chuppah through the poetry of Shlomo Halevi Alkabetz in L’cha Dodi:

בּוֹאִי בְשָׁלוֹם עֲטֶרֶת בַּעְלָהּ

גַּם בְּרִנָּה וּבְצָהֳלָה

תּוֹךְ אֱמוּנֵי עַם סְגֻלָּה

בּוֹאִי כַלָּה, בּוֹאִי כַלָּה

לְכָה דוֹדִי לִקְרַאת כַּלָּה

פְּנֵי שַׁבָּת נְקַבְּלָה

Come in peace, O crown of her husband,

Come with song and jubilation,

Into the midst of the faithful of the treasured people,

Enter, O bride! Enter, O bride!

Come, my Beloved, to greet the bride;

Let us welcome the presence of Shabbat. (L’cha Dodi)

In many rites, we include a passage drawn from the Zohar that describes the mystery of Shabbat:

וְכָל שׁוּלְטָנֵי רוּגְזִין, וּמָארֵי דְדִינָא כֻּלְהוּ עַרְקִין, וְאִתְעַבְּרוּ מִנָּהּ

וְלֵית שׁוּלְטָנָא עִלָּאָה אָחֳרָא בְּכֻלְּהוּ עָלְמִין בַּר מִנָּהּ

וְאַנְפָּהָא נְהִירִין בִּנְהִירוּ עִלָּאָה, וְאִתְעַטְּרַת לְתַתָּא בְּעַמָּא קַדִּישָׁא

וְכֻלְהוֹן מִתְעַטְּרִין בְּנִשְׁמָתִן חַדְתִּין

Then all powers of wrath and all other rulers flee and vanish from before her.

No power other than her’s rules in all the worlds.

Her face radiates a supernal light, and in [this] world below she is crowned with her holy people,

all of whom are crowned with new souls... (Raza d’Shabbat; Zohar 2:135)

We make our meals festive events, spiced with wine and seasoned with delicacies. Our tables are adorned with two loaves of bread, a reminder of the miracle of the manna in the wilderness, and the double portion given on Friday to feed Israel for that day and the next. The Shabbat candles transform the power that fire has, to create and destroy, into a source of warmth and light, a glow that brings delight into our hearts. We sing songs to words of medieval poets expressing joy, faith, and love, along with a hope for a future of which the Shabbat is just a preview:

מֵעֵין עוֹלָם הַבָּא יוֹם שַׁבָּת מְנוּחָה

כָּל הַמִּתְעַנְּגִים בָּהּ, יִזְכּוּ לְרֹב שִׂמְחָה

מֵחֶבְלֵי מָשִֽׁיחַ, יֻצָּלוּ לִרְוָחָה

פְּדוּתֵֽנוּ תַצְמִֽיחַ, וְנָס יָגוֹן וַאֲנָחָה

A foretaste of the world to come is the day of Sabbath rest.

All who take delight in it will be worthy of great joy.

They will be delivered with relief from the birthpangs of the Messiah,

May our redemption spring forth, and sadness and sighing flee away. (Mah Yedidut)

Shabbat rest takes on much greater meaning than one usually associates with rest. It becomes an offering, a form of prayer; or to put it paradoxically, a service to Hashem:

אֱלֹקינוּ וֵאלֹקי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, רְצֵה נָא בִמְנוּחָתֵנוּ

Our God and God of our ancestors, may You find favor in our rest. (Shabbat Amida)

מְנוּחַת אַהֲבָה וּנְדָבָה

מְנוּחַת אֱמֶת וֶאֱמוּנָה

מְנוּחַת שָׁלוֹם וְשַׁלְוָה וְהַשְׁקֵט וָבֶטַח

מְנוּחָה שְׁלֵמָה שָׁאַתָּה רוֹצֶה בָּהּ

יַכִּירוּ בָנֶיךָ וְיֵדְעוּ כִּי מֵאִתְּךָ הִיא מְנוּחָתָם

וְעַל מְנוּחָתָם יַקְדִּישׁוּ אֶת שְׁמֶךָ

A rest of love and generosity,

a rest of truth and faith,

a rest of peace and tranquility, calm and trust;

complete rest in which You find favor.

May Your children recognize and know that their rest comes from You,

and that by their rest they sanctify Your name. (Amida for Shabbat Mincha)

Shabbat is a day to check every day concerns at its door as we find shelter from everyday worries within its walls.

אִם־תָּשִׁיב מִשַּׁבָּת רַגְלֶךָ עֲשׂוֹת חֲפָצֶיךָ בְּיוֹם קָדְשִׁי וְקָרָאתָ לַשַּׁבָּת עֹנֶג לִקְדוֹשׁ ה’ מְכֻבָּד וְכִבַּדְתּוֹ מֵעֲשׂוֹת דְּרָכֶיךָ מִמְּצוֹא חֶפְצְךָ וְדַבֵּר דָּבָר: אָז תִּתְעַנַּג עַל־ה’ וְהִרְכַּבְתִּיךָ עַל־בָּמֳותֵי [בָּמֳתֵי] אָרֶץ וְהַאֲכַלְתִּיךָ נַחֲלַת יַעֲקֹב אָבִיךָ כִּי פִּי ה’ דִּבֵּר

If you keep your feet from breaking Shabbat, and from pursuing your needs on My holy day, if you call the Shabbat a delight, and the Lord’s holy day honorable, and if you honor it by not going your own way or attending to your own affairs, or speaking idle words,then you will find joy in Hashem, and I will cause you to ride on the heights of the earth and to feast on the inheritance of Jacob, for the mouth of Hashem has spoken. (Is 58: 13-14)

I am fortunate to have observed Shabbat all my life. To observe it never meant a change in my lifestyle, but I first began to appreciate it best while in college. That was my only real break from my studies, when I would join with others and celebrate the joy of the day; and my appreciation has grown over the years. But I do envy those who did make the decision to make Shabbat a meaningful part of their lives; I cannot imagine it being an easy decision to make or to keep. But we now live in a time when we are faced by ever increasing demands. Time is precious, and it is ever fleeting. We need structures in our lives to bring sanctity into it, if for no other reason, to simply maintain our humanity. Life is precious, and those near and dear are precious, but we run the risk of losing sight of all those wonderful things if we don’t take time to stop and smell the roses. Shabbat really is not that difficult to do; all it takes is a willingness to put on the brakes, some family, friends, food, and wine, and a heart open to the joyful experience of simply being human and appreciating the many blessings provided us by Hashem. If you follow Isaiah’s advice, you may find yourself riding on the heights of the earth, and you may find yourself revisiting that tabernacle in time with greater joy and appreciation.

שבת שלום ומברך

See also http://marksblogspot.blogspot.com/2008/03/refuge-from-technology.html

For a wonderful version of L’cha Dodi sung by David D’Or, see http://tinyurl.com/yj62mje (or, for a shorter, non-video version, http://tinyurl.com/ybfng4d )

Ki Tissa - Where is God in Time of Peril?

It is precisely at those moments of natural disaster that we are most likely to question our faith in God. Five years ago, we witnessed Hurricane Katrina and the Southeast Asian Tsunami, and in the past several weeks, the severe earthquakes in Haiti and Chile. The question often goes: If there is a God, why do such disasters exist?

In the wake of the disaster in Haiti, we heard how some self-appointed spokesmen for God blamed the earthquake on how the people of that small nation sold their souls to the devil during their successful slave revolt more than a century ago. Those who are religious readers of James Carroll’s Monday columns in the Boston Globe (http://tinyurl.com/yglmmml) would see how effectively that argument can be disposed of from the perspective of a devout and thoughtful Catholic. This subject ties in well to a passage in this week’s Torah reading for a Jewish perspective.

The question of theodicy - the existence of evil in a world created by a benevolent God, is one of the oldest and most complex questions. At the end of the day, there can be no clear cut answer, for faith with safety nets loses its existential nature, and thus becomes less faith and more a matter of fact. Faith exists only in an environment where the most difficult questions are possible, sometimes even necessary. For the person of deep faith, the question “Why?” becomes a prayer, a search for understanding, and not a refutation of the divine will

At the time of Katrina and the Tsunami, my friend, Rabbi Nechemia Schusterman, taught an important lesson that stems from this week’s parasha. Moshe stands before God following the incident of the Golden Calf, engaged in a lengthy defense of Israel after its engagement in idolatry. Hashem is poised to “withdraw” from Israel, allowing them to go on with Moshe and a yet to be named angel to guide the way. Moshe bargains with Hashem, who agrees to take the lead. Moshe then asks Hashem:

וַיֹּאמַר הַרְאֵנִי נָא אֶת־כְּבֹדֶךָ: וַיֹּאמֶר אֲנִי אַעֲבִיר כָּל־טוּבִי עַל־פָּנֶיךָ וְקָרָאתִי בְשֵׁם ה’ לְפָנֶיךָ וְחַנֹּתִי אֶת־אֲשֶׁר אָחֹן וְרִחַמְתִּי אֶת־אֲשֶׁר אֲרַחֵם: וַיֹּאמֶר לֹא תוּכַל לִרְאֹת אֶת־פָּנָי כִּי לֹא־יִרְאַנִי הָאָדָם וָחָי: וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ הִנֵּה מָקוֹם אִתִּי וְנִצַּבְתָּ עַל־הַצּוּר: וְהָיָה בַּעֲבֹר כְּבֹדִי וְשַׂמְתִּיךָ בְּנִקְרַת הַצּוּר וְשַׂכֹּתִי כַפִּי עָלֶיךָ עַד־עָבְרִי: וַהֲסִרֹתִי אֶת־כַּפִּי וְרָאִיתָ אֶת־אֲחֹרָי וּפָנַי לֹא יֵרָאוּ: פ

And [Moshe] said: Show me your glory. He [Hashem] replied: “I will cause all My goodness to pass before you, and I will proclaim The Name before you, the grace that I grant and the compassion that I bestow.” [Hashem] added: “You will be unable to see My Face, for man cannot see Me and live.” Hashem said: “There is a place with Me; you will stand on that rock; when My Glory passes by, I will place you in the cleft of the rock, and I will shield you with My Hand until I have passed by. I will then remove My Hand, and you will see My Back, but My Face shall not be seen. (Ex. 33:18-23)

What exactly is going on here? R. Nechemia explained that Moshe was not asking for merely a visual, but something much deeper. What Moshe sought was to understand the very essence of theodicy, something so large and unfathomable that it is beyond the pale of human understanding. The key to this passage is in the the word צור, which means rock, but is also a strait, a siege, and trouble. In placing Moshe in the cleft in the rock, בנקרת הצור, He is placing him in the troubled space that so many have experienced throughout time. Hashem prevents Moshe from seeing the Divine Presence as it passes by while Moshe remains in that dire strait; it is only after He has passed, only in retrospect, that he may be able to see and understand some sense of what has occurred.

Tanakh offers us a few stunning examples like this one of those seeking a direct understanding of how Hashem allows bad things to happen. A notable example comes from the story of Elijah:

וַיָּבֹא־שָׁם אֶל־הַמְּעָרָה וַיָּלֶן שָׁם וְהִנֵּה דְבַר־ה’ אֵלָיו וַיֹּאמֶר לוֹ מַה־לְּךָ פֹה אֵלִיָּהוּ: וַיֹּאמֶר קַנֹּא קִנֵּאתִי לַה’ | אֱלֹהֵי צְבָאוֹת כִּי־עָזְבוּ בְרִיתְךָ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת־מִזְבְּחֹתֶיךָ הָרָסוּ וְאֶת־נְבִיאֶיךָ הָרְגוּ בֶחָרֶב וָאִוָּתֵר אֲנִי לְבַדִּי וַיְבַקְשׁוּ אֶת־נַפְשִׁי לְקַחְתָּהּ: וַיֹּאמֶר צֵא וְעָמַדְתָּ בָהָר לִפְנֵי ה’ וְהִנֵּה ה’ עֹבֵר וְרוּחַ גְּדוֹלָה וְחָזָק מְפָרֵק הָרִים וּמְשַׁבֵּר סְלָעִים לִפְנֵי ה’ לֹא בָרוּחַ ה’ וְאַחַר הָרוּחַ רַעַשׁ לֹא בָרַעַשׁ ה’: וְאַחַר הָרַעַשׁ אֵשׁ לֹא בָאֵשׁ ה’ וְאַחַר הָאֵשׁ קוֹל דְּמָמָה דַקָּה: וַיְהִי | כִּשְׁמֹעַ אֵלִיָּהוּ וַיָּלֶט פָּנָיו בְּאַדַּרְתּוֹ ...

[Eliyahu] came to the cave and stayed there. Then, the word of Hashem came to him and asked: Eliyahu, why are you here? [Eliyahu] said: I have been extremely zealous for Hashem, God of the Hosts, for Israel has despised Your covenant, they have destroyed your altars and killed your prophets by the sword, and now I am left alone, and they seek to take my life. And He said: Go out and stand on the mountain before Hashem. Hashem passed by, and there was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks before Hashem - but Hashem was not in the wind. After the wind, an earthquake - but Hashem was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake, a fire - but Hashem was not in the fire. After the fire, there was a soft, quiet voice. When Eliyahu heard this, he covered his face in his mantle... (1K 19: 9-13)

A brief recap of Elijah’s story is in order: Elijah prophesied during the reign of Ahab. Ahab was a powerful and ruthless king, known along with his quen Jezebel for their pagan excesses and moral lapses. Elijah had prophesied a drought that lasted 3 years, bringing the land to a standstill, one that ended only with the contest between him and the four hundred fifty prophets of Ba’al on Mount Carmel. After the prophets of Ba’al had lost the contest, Elijah had the prophets seized and killed. Now, Elijah’s life was in danger, and he fled into the desert, going as far as Horeb, which we also know as Mount Sinai, the scene of the drama in this week’s parasha. Elijah was one of the few prophets of Hashem who escaped massacre at the hands of Jezebel, and he had good reason to take the threat on his life seriously. His fear and frustration is evident in this chapter: where is God amidst all this evil? In this laconic passage, we can imagine Elijah standing where Moshe stood, witnessing the passing of destructive forces, of wind, earthquake, and fire, but Hashem is not discernible in any of these. Hashem becomes apparent only afterwards, in the most subtle manner imaginable: the קול דממה דקה, the still, small voice, the one that we can hear only if our ears, hearts, and minds are tuned in to it.

Hashem’s answer to Elijah’s troubled protest is to go back and do what he has to do.

Where can Hashem be found in disaster? Hashem can be found among those who go and do, who heed the still, small voice of Godliness, who show compassion and caring by opening their hearts, those who give of what they have, those who pick themselves up from the comforts of home and help those who have nothing to give in return.

We cannot hope to understand why tragedy takes place in a world created by a good God. As God begins His long response to Job, He asks:

אֵיפֹה הָיִיתָ בְּיָסְדִי־אָרֶץ הַגֵּד אִם־יָדַעְתָּ בִינָֽה׃

Where were you when I laid the Earth’s foundations? Speak if you have understanding! (Jb 38: 4)

Some things are beyond our comprehension. That does not mean that we cannot ask the question “Why?” We can ask why, in the hope that we will, at some point, be privileged with some understanding, howbeit incomplete. And in looking at it from this perspective, asking why becomes not a protest, but a prayer.

Zakhor - The Essence of Remembering Amalek

זָכוֹר אֵת אֲשֶׁר-עָשָׂה לְךָ עֲמָלֵק בַּדֶּרֶךְ בְּצֵאתְכֶם מִמִּצְרָיִם. אֲשֶׁר קָרְךָ בַּדֶּרֶךְ, וַיְזַנֵּב בְּךָ כָּל-הַנֶּחֱשָׁלִים אַחֲרֶיךָ--וְאַתָּה, עָיֵף וְיָגֵעַ; וְלֹא יָרֵא אֱלֹהִים. וְהָיָה בְּהָנִיחַ ה’ אֱלֹהֶיךָ לְךָ מִכָּל-אֹיְבֶיךָ מִסָּבִיב, בָּאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר ה’-אֱלֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לְךָ נַחֲלָה לְרִשְׁתָּהּ--תִּמְחֶה אֶת-זֵכֶר עֲמָלֵק מִתַּחַת הַשָּׁמָיִם -- לֹא תִּשְׁכָּח

Remember [זָכוֹר] what Amalek did to you on the way when you left Egypt. How he surprised you along the way, and cut down all the stragglers in the rear while you were tired and weary, and he had no fear of God. Therefore, when Hashem, your God, gives you rest from all your enemies surrounding you, in the land that Hashem, your God, is giving you as hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory [זֵכֶר] of Amalek from under heaven; do not forget! (Dt 25:17-19)

The obligation to “blot out the memory of Amalek” is unique among the mitzvot of the Torah. We readily assume that it demands an act of genocide, mostly due to I Sam. 15, where Samuel tells Saul to eradicate every Amalekite and even their livestock. We can also derive that conclusion from the response to the original story of the Amalekite attack in Ex 17:8-16, especially:

וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ אֶל-מֹשֶׁה, כְּתֹב זֹאת זִכָּרוֹן בַּסֵּפֶר, וְשִׂים בְּאָזְנֵי יְהוֹשֻׁעַ: כִּי-מָחֹה אֶמְחֶה אֶת-זֵכֶר עֲמָלֵק מִתַּחַת הַשָּׁמָיִם... וַיֹּאמֶר, כִּי-יָד עַל-כֵּס יָ-הּ, מִלְחָמָה לַה’ בַּעֲמָלֵק--מִדֹּר דֹּר

God said to Moshe: Write this as a remembrance (זִכָּרוֹן) in a book, and make certain that Joshua hears it, for I will utterly eradicate the memory (זֵכֶר) of Amalek from under heaven... And [Moshe] said, by hand on the throne of God, Hashem will battle Amalek in every generation. (vv.14, 16)

It should be noted that both of these passages, the one in Devarim and the one in Shemot, present a paradox: we are to blot out the memory of Amalek while remembering what Amalek did, or that God is to engage in eternal combat with the Amalekites. How are we to make sense of these passages given this paradox?

The very idea of זכרון, remembering, intensifies both the command and the paradox. Prof. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, who died during the past year, authored his seminal monograph on the nature of memory in the Jewish tradition in the early 1980s. Jewish tradition has hardly a sense of history. This might seem a shocking, even heretical statement. But there is a difference between history and memory. History is largely a exercise in taking events from the past and analysing them, maybe for an educational exercise, maybe as a precaution to not repeat the mistakes of the past. But in history, the past always remains the past, and the past is never brought up to date.

Memory, and the Jewish obligation of זכור, is very different. We see this through a variety of rituals in Jewish traditions, especially the Passover Seder, when we re-enact the exodus and the slavery in Egypt. Past is made present, and we are there. There is no past, present or future - just as there is no past, present, or future tense in Biblical Hebrew. Time is stratified, and we are inserted into those events that we recall from millennia before. We are instructed in the Haggadah: בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרָיִם, “in every generation, one is obligated to see himself as if he, himself, left Egypt.” The past is virtually present and alive, a part of our being. And it has relevance in our present lives.

זכר can also be a sensory act. We find the following usage in Hos 14:8: זִכְרוֹ כְּיֵין לְבָנוֹן, “his scent shall be like wine from Lebanon.” [I admit that there is some controversy to the accuracy of this translation, but work with me here...] There is something about some sensory acts, the Proustian memory, that involuntarily brings back a memory from time gone by.

How does this leave us with Amalek? Amalek’s acts are not to be thought of as simply the act of one attacker at one moment in time, but a state of mind that is filled with hatred and loathing, that takes advantage of the weak and weary, and that lacks any fear of Hashem.

In a literal sense, Amalek no longer walks in this world. But the spirit of Amalek is another matter.

Through these passages, Amalek represents all haters of Israel that have risen throughout the generations. The smallest of all peoples on God’s earth, we are also more despised per capita than any other, and we have probably suffered, and survived, more efforts at annihilation than any other people. For us, that comes with the territory. Despite that, we face the daunting task of being an or lagoyyim, a light unto the nations, a civilizing force. We must always be mindful of what Amalek did, and what its “spiritual” heirs continue to do.

On a larger scale, Amalek represents a reprehensible aspect of human nature, the will to take advantage over those who are weaker than us, to exercise power when it is possible. It is a part of our yetzer hara, our evil inclination.

In both cases, we need to remember and stand with those who have suffered, remembering what Amalek did to you - meaning, to us, as we left Egypt, putting our soles in the sandals of the weak and weary, so that we can understand, with empathy, why we must always remember to destroy Amalek once we reach our safe haven.

“Religious”... and crooked?

My fear right now is that some things will be soon forgotten, and nothing will have changed.

But the reality is that in the past year, the Orthodox Jewish community, and the Jewish community as a whole, has been stung by some stunning revelations of corruption. Most recently, it was the arrest of several rabbis, mostly from within the tight knit Syrian Jewish community of the Jersey Shore, who were involved in money laundering, while others were involved in trading in human organs for transplant. There was Dina Wein Reis, who lived in an opulence that was funded by her defrauding major corporations. Bernard Madoff, who was not Orthodox, travelled almost exclusively in Jewish circles, benefited, then nearly ruined, many Jewish philanthropies and philanthropists. And a year ago, the raid on Rubashkin and their many violations of labor and immigration laws. There are others as well, many others, that could be added to this list of shame.

Many Jews, when they hear news like this, worry what non-Jews think. I don’t usually worry much about what non-Jews think about us. Those who are anti-Semites will always find what to add to their arsenal. At a time when we hear about plenty of crimes and indiscretions committed by clergy, one can find what to say about any religious group.

What concerns me first is what Jews will think.

Many Jews regardless of their level of ritual observance of Judaism still take pride in its moral and ethical obligations. But there is more to Judaism than ethical monotheism. Covenantal Judaism is a holistic system that includes both interpersonal obligations and commitments between the Jew and God. When one sets himself apart in the garb of a “religious Jew” or under the title of Rabbi, that person should live up to the whole package - it isn’t just about how we deal with God, but also with those who are created in God’s image - Jew and gentile alike. When a Jew sees a “religious Jew” engage in illegal activities, whether it is fraud or the trafficking in human kidneys, what is that person supposed to think? The conclusions are counterintuitive, that neither God nor the ritual aspects of Jewish life make a person a better human being in the eyes of one’s fellow man.

When a Jew engages in unethical practices, it denigrates the importance of all mitzvot. Our tradition teaches us that good business practices are as important as Shabbat observance, that compassion to human beings is as meaningful as kashrut. Our homes are as sacred as our synagogues, and our spouses and children as sacred as any sacred item we can possess.

And yet, what the gentiles might think is also important, but not for the reasons that we usually think.

The task of the Jew in this world, the essence of Jewish chosen-ness, is kiddush hashem, the sanctification of God’s name through the living embodiment of God’s will. The term that we use for the actions of those like the rabbis and others mentioned earlier is hillul hashem, a desecration of God’s name. Traditionally, these terms are used to express the concern for how Jewish behaviors will appear to non Jews, and how those actions might lead them to either sanctify, or vilify, God. We now need to think about the examples set within our community. Often, observant communities apply pressure to members to maintain their particular ritual standards. Perhaps the same communal pressure should apply to the observance of those mitzvot bein adam lachaveiro, those interpersonal obligations of justice, compassion, fairness, and domestic well being, that are meant to protect the dignity and integrity of those whom God created in His own image.

It is also the task of Jewish educators across the spectrum to teach about values that go beyond the letter of the law. Halacha does not spell out the specifics of business and financial practices that may apply in today’s market place, but we can certainly derive from the Torah how we should conduct our dealings. We also have a halachic principle that states dina d’malchuta dina - the law of the state is the law, and we are obligated to abide by it.

On the surface, many Jewish laws that apply in the public realm do not technically apply to the relationships between Jews and gentiles. The sages of the Talmud, however, tended to eliminate those differences mipnei darkei shalom, loosely translated, to promote the ways of peace. Some explain that the rabbis instituted this as a means of protecting Jews as a minority in a hostile majority culture. But shalom, peace, is so important a value that leads me to conclude that such critiques are cynical in character. Our interpersonal and business relationships with the gentile world do matter, and as such, we need to treat everyone with dignity as a means of bringing Godliness into this world. Cheating or mistreating a non-Jew is not acceptable Jewish behavior, as it inhibits darkei shalom, the ways of peace. And excusing such behaviors due to a history of victimization is no longer acceptable, as this sort of behavior against Jews in our society in our day is the exception, not the rule that it once was.

We are at the threshold of the month of Ellul, the period that precedes the New Year and marks the beginning of the introspective penitential season. It is a time when schools resume their classes and communities initiate activities for a new annual cycle. It is appropriate at this time that Jewish schools, synagogues, and community institutions commit themselves to instituting programs and curricula on Jewish interpersonal and business ethics. It isn’t enough to say that living as a Jew has to do with Shabbat or holidays, synagogue and tzedakah. It is about living it, adopting behaviors that allow it to permeate our lives in our homes and at work, in our dining rooms and our board rooms. That is a challenge that we should all consider as we prepare to begin a new year.

To bring an end to mourning on Tish'ah b'Av

Tish’ah b’Av is an extraordinary day on the Jewish calendar. On the one hand, we are in mourning on that day, and yet we fast, something that one does not do while mourning. It is an inverted day in that we do not put on Tefillin for Shacharit (the morning prayers,) but we wait until Mincha that afternoon to fulfill that obligation that is none the less upon us. We strip the synagogue of decorations, the coverings of the ark and the table, but we return them to their places before Mincha. All this to commemorate the destruction of a building, bricks and mortar, a place that was supposed to serve as the spiritual nexus between Israel and God.

The prophets are very clear as to the reasons for the destruction of the Temple by the hands of foreigners. It wasn’t because of any procedural abnormalities within its precincts per se, but mostly because of behavior outside its walls. Ritual obeisance was meaningless when a Jew treated others with total disregard, when selfishness ruled the day, when the weakest members of society were left to fend for themselves. A people who treated others in this way was not worthy of a nexus of bricks and mortar; if it really wanted one, it would have to change its ways.

After the first Temple was destroyed and a newer but simpler one was built in its place only decades later, a question was posed to Zechariah, a prophet in the early days of the new Temple:

הַאֶבְכֶּה בַּחֹדֶשׁ הַחֲמִשִׁי הַנָּזֵר כַּאֲשֶׁר עָשִׂיתִי זֶה כַּמֶּה שָׁנִים

Shall I weep during the fifth month (Av)? Shall I continue to abstain as I have these many years? [Zc 7:3]

It was not an outrageous question. After all, the fast and other prohibitions of Tish’ah b’Av were not decreed by the Torah, but by the prophets in response to the calamity of the Temple’s destruction. Now that a new one was built in its stead, was fasting and abstinence still warranted?

Zechariah’s prophetic response is not a short and simple yes or no answer; prophetic responses are rarely short and simple. The response, taking up two chapters of this short book, is, in essence, as follows: Our fasting on this day is not something that we do for God’s benefit, but for ourselves. The time has not come for us to stop fasting, for we still have to be mindful of the perversion of justice, both legal and social, that is rampant in society. God wants nothing more than a return of His people to Zion, where they would live an exemplary life in security. Once this new order is achieved, Israel can look forward to the following:

כֹּה־אָמַר ה’ צְבָאוֹת צוֹם הָרְבִיעִי וְצוֹם הַחֲמִישִׁי וְצוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי וְצוֹם הָעֲשִׂירִי יִהְיֶה לְבֵית־יְהוּדָה לְשָׂשׂוֹן וּלְשִׂמְחָה וּלְמֹעֲדִים טוֹבִים וְהָאֱמֶת וְהַשָּׁלוֹם אֱהָבוּ

Thus says God of Hosts: The fasts of the fourth month (Tammuz), the fast of the fifth month (Av), the fast of the seventh month (Tishrei - Tzom Gedalyah) and the fast of the tenth month (Tevet) shall be, for the house of Judah, for rejoicing and happiness, for joyous festivals; but you must love truth and peace. [Zc 8:19]

The concluding verses of this chapter make clear why the contingency - a domestic justice and peace loving Israel - is so important to God. See the scenario of the final verse:

כֹּה־אָמַר ה’ צְבָאוֹת בַּיָּמִים הָהֵמָּה אֲשֶׁר יַחֲזִיקוּ עֲשָׂרָה אֲנָשִׁים מִכֹּל לְשֹׁנוֹת הַגּוֹיִם וְהֶחֱזִיקוּ בִּכְנַף אִישׁ יְהוּדִי לֵאמֹר נֵלְכָה עִמָּכֶם כִּי שָׁמַעְנוּ אֱלֹהִים עִמָּכֶם

Thus says God of Hosts: at that time when ten men from nations of every tongue will grasp the corner of the cloak of a single Jew saying, ‘We will accompany you, for we have heard that God is with you.’ [Zc 8:28]

Tish’ah b’Av commemorates disaster after disaster that occurred on or around the same date on the calendar: the destruction of both Temples, the fall of Betar, the expulsion from Spain, the start of the First World War (which led to the near annihilation of European Jewry in the Second World War,) just to name a few, all calamities that were visited upon Israel by foreign peoples. but Tish’ah b’Av, as Zechariah would have us understand it, is not a day for laying blame with others for our misfortunes. It is a day for introspection, to gain an understanding of our own failings as a people, and how those failings cause us to forsake our mission in this world.

Zechariah’s vision is one of a world that is awaiting the Jewish people to be Jews, as exemplars of how good humans can be to one another, maintaining a peaceful and just society that would exude godliness. The proof that God is with Israel is not sought through wonders and miracles, but through the very behavior of the Jewish people as a whole, with a sense of justice that is tempered with compassion and caring.

Sadly, we are nowhere near the point of realizing Zechariah’s vision. But. just as we change the tone of the day at Mincha time from one of despair to one of hope and comforting, we cannot lose hope that we can do better. In bringing that about, we do more than create a temple in Jerusalem, but we build an earth that lives in the image of the Godly realm, filled with love and justice, compassion and well being for all who were created in God’s image.

Pinchas - What to Make of his Zeal

As religious zealotry and violence in the name of God gain influence on contemporary events, we find an opportunity to consider this approach to religious life in the two Torah portions that we read on these two Shabbatot, the parshiot of Balaq and Pinchas. The story that overlaps these two parshiot raises important questions on the nature of zealotry in a system that makes demands on one’s love of God.

The story, in brief, goes as follows: Balaq, king of Moab, sends Balaam on a mission to lay a curse upon Israel, a mission that proves unsuccessful. The Moabites fear Israel because of recent successes in battles against neighboring Amorite kingdoms. Instead of cursing Israel, Balaam is forced by God to bless the people. What could not be achieved by magic might otherwise be achieved by lust and seduction. And so, Moabite women set out to seduce the men of Israel who act on their lust, leading them to participate in the Ba’al cult of the Moabites, a cult that may have included ritual prostitution. A plague breaks out among the Israelites, and God tells Moses that in order to assuage his anger, the ringleaders are to be rounded up and impaled. Apparently, before this happens, a prominent Israelite man and a notable Moabite woman are seen in the Israelite encampment, flaunting their relationship. Incensed by the scene, Pinchas, the grandson of Aaron, takes a spear, enters the tent, and catching them in the act, he thrusts his spear through both of them at once. Numbers 25:11-12 records God’s reaction to this act:

פִּינְחָס בֶּן־אֶלְעָזָר בֶּן־אַהֲרֹן הַכֹּהֵן הֵשִׁיב אֶת־חֲמָתִי מֵעַל בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּקַנְאוֹ אֶת־קִנְאָתִי בְּתוֹכָם וְלֹא־כִלִּיתִי אֶת־בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּקִנְאָתִי: לָכֵן אֱמֹר הִנְנִי נֹתֵן לוֹ אֶת־בְּרִיתִי שָׁלוֹם: וְהָיְתָה לולּוֹ וּלְזַרְעווֹ אַחֲרָיו בְּרִית כְּהֻנַּת עוֹלָם תַּחַת אֲשֶׁר קִנֵּא לֵאלֹהָיו וַיְכַפֵּר עַל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל

Pinchas, son of Eleazar, son of Aaron the Priest, assuaged My anger from the Israelites when he took My zeal upon himself in their midst, preventing me from destroying Israel in My anger. Therefore, let it be said: Behold, I give him My covenant [of] peace. It should be for him and his descendants a covenant of eternal priesthood for having been zealous for his God and atoning for Israel.

While space does not allow for an extensive examination of the concept of zealotry -qin’ah – here, we can make a few observations. This term is found in several occasions in the Bible, for instance, in the Decalogues. One interesting citation helps to define it, but in the process raises more questions than it answers. In Shir haShirim (Song of Songs) 8:6-7 we read:

כִּי־עַזָּה כַמָּוֶת אַהֲבָה
קָשָׁה כִשְׁאוֹל קִנְאָה
רְשָׁפֶיהָ רִשְׁפֵּי אֵשׁ שַׁלְהֶבֶתְיָה:
מַיִם רַבִּים לֹא יוּכְלוּ לְכַבובּוֹת אֶת־הָאַהֲבָה
וּנְהָרוֹת לֹא יִשְׁטְפוּהָ
אִם־יִתֵּן אִישׁ אֶת־כָּל־הוֹן בֵּיתוֹ בָּאַהֲבָה
בובּוֹז יָבוּזוּ לווֹ

…For love is fierce as death,
Passion (qin’ah) is mighty as Sheol [the netherworld];
its darts are darts of the mightiest flame.
Vast waters cannot extinguish love,
nor can rivers drown it;
if a man offered all the wealth of his household for love,
he would be treated with utter contempt.

The parallel between love and qin’ah (translated in the NJPS edition as “passion”) is clearly drawn, but what of the description of this love? While at once a testimony to the power of love, the metaphor draws on indomitable destructive forces, and while one might surrender his worldly possessions in the pursuit of this love, he may in the process lose his dignity as well. The question, thus, it what type of love is described here? Is it a love marked by mutuality, or is this a love that is marked by infatuation, of ego, of self-love? Which is one more likely to describe with fierce metaphors?

The problem in applying this interpretation of qin’ah to Pinchas’ actions is that he is rewarded with God’s covenant of shalom for this impulsive act of violence. Is a covenant of shalom a fitting reward?

If you thought that discomfort with the zealous act of Pinchas is something for moderns, think again. The Talmud is also troubled by this act of summary justice, as are several commentaries over the ages. It is clear that Pinchas, in lancing both Zimri and Cozbi in flagrante, disregarded all the laws of jurisprudence and would deserve punishment himself for taking matters into his own hands.

Pinchas is hardly mentioned otherwise in Tanach. One other mention is found in Psalm 106:28-31:

וַיִּצָּמְדוּ לְבַעַל פְּעוֹר וַיֹּאכְלוּ זִבְחֵי מֵתִים:
וַיַּכְעִיסוּ בְּמַעַלְלֵיהֶם וַתִּפְרָץ־בָּם מַגֵּפָה:
וַיַּעֲמֹד פִּינְחָס וַיְפַלֵּל וַתֵּעָצַר הַמַּגֵּפָה:
וַתֵּחָשֶׁב לווֹ לִצְדָקָה לְדֹר וָדֹר עַד־עוֹלָם:

They attached to Ba’al P’or and ate offerings of the dead.
They angered with their actions and You brought forth a plague.
Pinchas stood and prayed and You ended the plague.
You accounted it to his merit for all generations forever.

This is not the same story we read in the Torah. The licentiousness is sanitized, but more importantly, so is Pinchas’ action. Finally, detail of the reward goes unspecified. Of course, Ps 106 is an historical summary, so one does not expect the detail as the event is recorded. But Pinchas prayed? That goes unmentioned in the Torah; what is mentioned is that his passionate act of killing Zimri and Cozbi brought an end to the plague.
Perhaps the Psalmist is less than comfortable with Pinchas?

We would say that the reward for Pinchas’ zealous act is the eternal priesthood, but in looking at his actions, is this really a reward? Pinchas’ action is marked by its spontaneity, its spur of the moment reaction to the act that he witnessed. But the priesthood allows for little spontaneity; in fact, one might say that in all its rules and rituals it leaves no room for one to act in a spontaneous manner. If such is the case, then we might see this “reward” as a measure of control, as if God were saying to Pinchas to get into a routine that would prevent such sudden behavior, even if the cause or outcome is correct.
But what makes the outcome here correct? Consider the events before Pinchas took up his spear:

וַיִּחַר־אַף ה' בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל: וַיֹּאמֶר ה' אֶל־מֹשֶׁה קַח אֶת־כָּל־רָאשֵׁי הָעָם וְהוֹקַע אוֹתָם לַה' נֶגֶד הַשָּׁמֶשׁ וְיָשֹׁב חֲרוֹן אַף־ה' מִיִּשְׂרָאֵל: וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אֶל־שֹׁפְטֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הִרְגוּ אִישׁ אֲנָשָׁיו הַנִּצְמָדִים לְבַעַל פְּעווֹר

... And God was inflamed with Israel. God said to Moshe: Take all the leaders of the people and impale them before God in open daylight, and God’s fierce anger with Israel will subside. Moshe said to the judges of Israel: Each of you, kill those of your men who have attached themselves to Ba’al Pe’or. (24:4-5)

There is some ambiguity here. Does God want Moshe to impale the leaders of the people, or does God want him to impale just the ringleaders responsible for fraternization with the Moabite women? Moshe then instructs the judges to kill those who engaged in the wayward behavior. Apparently, nothing happens, except –

וְהִנֵּה אִישׁ מִבְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל בָּא וַיַּקְרֵב אֶל־אֶחָיו אֶת־הַמִּדְיָנִית לְעֵינֵי מֹשֶׁה וּלְעֵינֵי כָּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל וְהֵמָּה בֹכִים פֶּתַח אֹהֶל מווֹעֵד

And here came an Israelite man and he brought this Midianite woman before Moshe and before the Israelite community; they were all weeping before the Tent of Meeting. (v. 6)

As the scene unfolds, the leaders - Moshe and those before the Tent - sit and weep, taking no action.

In earlier incidents, when expresses a will to punish all of Israel for grievous misdeeds, Moshe intercedes and God is mollified. Here we see no intercession by Moshe; we also do not see him following through on God’s instructions, but changing them, and they are not carried out. Pinchas sees the inaction, and he also knows that there is a plague running rampant throughout the camp. Did he know God’s instructions to Moshe? Was he aware of the instructions Moshe had given to the judges? We do not know any of this. What we do know is that he acted - he mollified God’s anger by impaling both the Israelite man - a leading Shimonite - and the woman - a leading Moabite, when they acted en flagrante.

The picture of Moshe and the leaders, sitting and weeping at a time when something needed to be done is disturbing. A leader cannot afford the luxury of weeping. Leadership demands deliberation and decisive action. Pinchas acted to fill the vacuum of leadership left open by Moshe and the leaders. When leaders abdicate their responsibilities, that is the point when social and legal institutions break down, when chaos and anarchy can take over, when instinctive reaction takes the place of judicious action.

While Zimri and Cozbi were certainly guilty of their offense, Pinchas acted as judge and witness, denying the two due process, and yet, he did what needed to be done.

In the end, we are left with something nebulous. Sometimes zealous actions may be needed, but there is a problem with spontaneous action. Pinchas’ reward may be a backhanded one, saying that yes, he did the right thing, but he must curb his enthusiasm lest his zeal get out of hand.

A mishnaic thought on lasting love (mAvot 5:16)

During the months between Passover and Rosh Hashannah, it is customary to study a chapter of Mishna Avot (or Pirkei Avot) on a weekly rotation. Avot, a mishnaic tractate, is unusual because it is entirely non-legal in content within the highly apodictic context of the larger corpus of the Mishna. It contains a variety of maxims as well as other interpretations of biblical ideas. This coming Shabbat we (re)read chapter 5, a chapter that is mostly organized by numerically organized statements, until we get to the following passage in mishna 16:

כָּל אַהֲבָה שֶׁהִיא תְלוּיָה בְדָבָר, בָּטֵל דָּבָר, בְּטֵלָה אַהֲבָה
וְשֶׁאֵינָההּ תְּלוּיָה בְדָבָר, אֵינָהּ בְּטֵלָה לְעוֹלָם

Love that is dependent on something, once that something is negated, so the love is negated.
[Love] that is not dependent on something, it is never negated.

Most commentaries that I have seen tend to approach this mishna from a literal level. Love that depends on some form of gratification, whether it is material or physical, is destined to failure as soon as the gratifying factor is no longer evident. Taken on that level alone, it would seem that this statement is little more than a truism.

But there are layers to this statement that, when peeled back, reveal deeper meanings than the surface meaning. Take, for instance, the noun דָּבָר . It can be understood as a thing, something physical or material, and hence the literal interpretations of this passage. But דָּבָר can also refer to words. Words can be full of meaning, but words can also pass through the air as little more than sound waves. As important as communication is to a healthy relationship, it cannot be based on words alone. Words need to be a prelude to actions that have significance. Words can be an expression of affection or romance, but love cannot exist on that alone. How often does love take root in a situation where words are spoken and promises are made, only to find those words sooner or later to become בָּטֵל, unfulfilled, wasted, abrogated, meaningless? Yes, this mishna can be telling us that love which is dependent solely on words but otherwise unsubstantiated is doomed to failure when those words are devoid of meaning, when they are little more than sweet sentiments. But the relationship that goes beyond words, where there is a good faith effort to honor those words, (bearing in mind that sometimes our best efforts fail,) the effort has meaning that allows the relationship to survive its many trials and tribulations.

There is yet another level to this passage, this one dependent on the concluding statement: Love that is not dependent on something, it is never negated. The word לְעוֹלָם translated above as never, has deeper implications. לְעוֹלָם is eternal - forever. When love is real and meaningful, even death cannot abrogate it. I can recall seeing people who have lost a mate, but for whom the love of the lost mate remained palpable and even sustaining for the surviving spouse, even when that survivor went on to find a new partner.

The mishna can also teach us an important lesson about the relationship between the individual and God. That relationship is not one that should be founded upon what material benefit one derives from it, but rather as a true relationship, even though it is not a relationship between equals. It is typical for people to turn to God in a time of need, but what about between those times? It is a tremendous challenge to build a relationship with God, who is at once omnipresent yet invisible. We may believe in God as Creator and Provider, but sometimes those very attributes get in the way of developing a relationship that goes beyond self interest.

It is interesting that this mishna does not condemn love that is dependent on something. In fact, it is love, but it is self love, a love that does not extend beyond meeting the egoistic needs of the lover. Self love is not necessarily wrong, but self love alone is not sustainable, and in fact can lead to self loathing. Such is the example of Amnon’s “love” of Tamar. Once love can surpass the love of self and be given in full to another that it becomes mutual, and with that it becomes something that can become eternal. Jonathan’s love for David exemplifies the negation of self interest in the face of a relationship. Saul told his son Jonathan that David stood between Jonathan and his would-be eventual kingship, yet Jonathan did not let the thought of crown and power to interfere with his love for his friend.

When it comes to love, this mishna challenges us to look beyond the ourselves and our own needs in order to make a loving relationship that is lasting and meaningful.

שבת שלום!

Hanukkah And Christmas: Does Proximity Make for Affinity?

I came across the following passage last week that I felt was worth sharing. It comes from Unlocking the Torah Text by Shmuel Goldin, a book on the weekly Torah portions from Bereshit [Genesis], and it was a concluding comment on the story of Jacob wresting with the angel:

Hanukkah, the holiday that most clearly celebrates the Jewish nation’s ongoing historical victory against the forces of assimilation, has become, in our day, the most assimilated Jewish festival.

Hanukkah-Christmas clubs, seasonal parties, public religious displays and more all conspire to create, in the minds of many, an equality between two vastly different religious events. In many households, Hanukkah becomes a “Jewish Christmas” as, throughout the community, the spirit of the “Judeo-Christian ethic” fills the air. Theological harmony is assumed where no such harmony exists.

Monumental chasms separate Jewish philosophy from Christian philosophy. We disagree on such basic issues as the concept of sanctity and its relationship to the physical world, the ability of man to interface with God directly, the notion of original sin, and more. If we fail to recognize and be sensitive to these differences, if we fail to teach our children about these differences, then we run the real risk of assimilating, God forbid, into a culture not our own.

The image of our forefather Yaakov [Jacob] struggling through the darkness of night with the “angel of Esav [Esau]” is presented to us each year at the time of the year when that image is most necessary. If we are to survive as a people, we cannot allow artificial harmony to blind us. We must certainly strive for respectful, harmonious coexistence and cooperation with our non-Jewish neighbors, we should certainly acknowledge and appreciate the specific values and goals that we share, but not at the expense of losing our uniqueness.

How do you react to this passage? Has Hanukkah lost its distinct meaning due to its proximity to Christmas? Have we allowed our desire for harmony to go too far? Do we make too much of Hanukkah as a result? What should we do, as a community, and as individuals?

Your comments are welcome.

Divine espousal - וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי

On any given morning, as one wraps the straps of the tefillin around one’s fingers, the following verses, drawn from the second chapter of Hosea, are recited:

וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי לְעוֹלָם

וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי בְּצֶדֶק וּבְמִשְׁפָּט וּבְחֶסֶד וּבְרַחֲמִים

וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי בֶּאֱמוּנָה וְיָדַעַתְּ אֶת־ה

I will espouse you forever;

I will espouse you with righteousness and justice, kindness and mercy;
I will espouse you with faithfulness,
and you will know God. (vv. 21-22)

If the point of the prophet is that God will reconcile with Israel and espouse her once again after her faithlessness, what is the function of all these nouns?

I have said these words daily for years, and I have thought about them time and again, both in the context of my practice and in study. What I have discovered over time is that these verses are tightly constructed to provide the necessary elements for developing an intimate relationship, not only between a Jew and God, but also between loving partners.

The first element is time. A relationship does not come with an expiration date; it does not spoil like milk in a bottle, and it does not need to be renewed like a driver’s license. A relationship is eternal and continual; it takes time to develop and requires commitment and work, and it builds upon experience, some good, but also some which is not good. The commitment of eternity demands that we not just look at the good, but that we work through that which is not - I don’t use the term “bad” here because with the right care and nurturing, even the bad can be turned into a positive, growing experience.

Next comes two couplets: צדק - righteousness and משפט - justice, חסד - kindness and רחמים - mercy. (The Hebrew words for each are not as easy to convey in English, and thus the translations are approximate.) On a cursory level, the members of each couplet seem redundant. Taken as a pair, צדק and משפט speak to the need for fairness, limits, and rules, but there is a difference. צדק is concerned with maintaining a fair balance and rectifying wrongs. משפט focuses on the actual rules with which the partners in a relationship must abide. צדק is the abstract, a mindset that enables the concrete משפט to function.

As for the second couplet חסד and רחמים are concerned with caring and emotional well being. חסד generally speaks to concrete acts of kindness, the embodiment of רחמים that is the abstract force for care and concern, its emotional underpinnings. As a pair, חסד and רחמים are both needed in a relationship. It isn’t just the acts of kindness or just the caring that matter, but the emotion and love that accompany those acts as they work in concert.

If we look at the way these couplets are laid out, we find the order is reversed: 

צדק
- fairness -abstract משפט - rules -
concrete

X
חסד
- actions - concrete רחמים - caring -
abstract

It appears that there is no prioritization here; all elements are needed in a healthy, growing relationship.

With time, right action and proper nurturing, confidence grows and אמונה, faith in each other becomes more deeply rooted. As we enter into a relationship, we do so with blind faith in the other. But just as a pot needs to simmer for the ingredients to meld into a soup, the same is true in a marriage.

The final element is דעת, generally translated as knowing, but better conveyed as intimate knowledge. My understanding of Genesis 4:1- וְהָאָדָם יָדַע אֶת־חַוָּה אִשְׁתּוֹ, “Adam knew Eve his wife,” is not simply a reference to sexual intimacy, but also emotional intimacy. They had experienced each other in their mastery over the garden, their failure, their duplicity, their shame and their pain. Emotional intimacy is achieved when partners are able to bare themselves and to see the other in their emotional nakedness, their ability to accept each other and themselves in each others’ presence, warts and all, and to find comfort and renewal in that presence.

Hosea begins with the story of the prophet’s marriage to Gomer. Despite her serial infidelity, Hosea loved Gomer. It was in the context of this tumultuous relationship that he prophesied about the reification of the relationship between husband and wife: 

וְהָיָה בַיּוֹם־הַהוּא נְאֻם־ה’ תִּקְרְאִי אִישִׁי וְלֹא־תִקְרְאִי־לִי עוֹד בַּעְלִי

And on that day, declares God, you will call me ishi (my husband=my man) and no longer will you call me ba’ali (my husband=my master). (v.18)
Hosea redefines the marital relationship, not based on economics, status, or subordination, but instead as a mutual covenant; equals, as partners in a loving relationship. Just as a man would refer to his wife as ishti, so a woman would refer to her husband as ishi, and no longer as ba’ali.

It is not happenstance that this chapter is recited shortly before we celebrate Shavu’ot, the festival that celebrates the revelation at Sinai. The marriage metaphor is often used in relation to Shavu’ot and the Sinai encounter; some synagogues place a chuppah on the bima, and some Sephardim have the custom of reading a ketubah before the Torah is read. Shavu’ot celebrates that initial encounter between God and Israel, joining each other lovingly and eternally.

Likewise, this passage makes for a suitable introduction to the book of Bamidbar. The nascent relationship between God and Israel is tested time and again throughout this book. Just as Gomer did to Hosea, Israel tested God through numerous rebellions and infidelities, and yet, God’s love of Israel never failed.

And every morning, we reaffirm that ongoing love between God and Israel as we wrap the straps of tefillin around our fingers like a wedding band, binding us eternally in a loving relationship between us and God.

Perhaps a similar ritual is called for in this day and age, where marriage has become so fragile, to reaffirm the love and commitment needed between spouses.

A Refuge From Technology

Stand still in a shopping mall for a few minutes and observe the passers by. What you are likely to see are people somehow tethered to the invisible: people talking on cellphones, texting, thumbing BlackBerrys, tapping iPhones, or listening to iPods. They are oblivious to their environment and the people around them. They have found the perfect excuse to do as they were taught as children, to avoid strangers.

But it isn’t just strangers that they avoid. You can find small groups of people where each one is talking or texting someone else who isn’t present. If evolution could speed up, humans might soon appear with a short third arm with the sole purpose of supporting an electronic device close to their heads.

I am not a luddite. I am supportive of the development of new technologies and I am engaged in their distribution. I am an avid user of the internet and much of what the consumer digital world has to offer.

But there is a limit.

In recent weeks I have seen articles that bring to mind some real concerns about the abuse of such wonderful devices that were hardly known little more than a decade ago. One article bemoaned the loss of boredom, which is an important element in spurring creativity. With ubiquitous sources for occupation and entertainment, who needs to be creative? Another article addressed the communication gap developing between parents and children over text messaging. Families now have to contend with texting at the table during family meals. Some communities are attempting to declare weekly moratoriums on digital communications to encourage people to interact face to face, to enable families to share time together without intrusion.

The simple truth is that we have become a generation of techno-junkies. We have taken these very valuable tools and made them into a source for obsession and addiction. In the process we have made it seem that those who can be remotely accessed are more important to us than those who are in our presence. Tele-communication has become the preferred form of communication over face to face interaction, displacing family and community, and we have become enslaved to devices that we can fit in our pockets, to the point where we treat those we physically encounter with rudeness and total disregard.

The idea of a moratorium brought to mind the ideal of Shabbat. Abraham Joshua Heschel, the 20th century Jewish philosopher and activist, described Shabbat as “a palace in time,” one day out of seven when we can elevate ourselves and our environment by sanctifying that most uncontrollable element in our lives, the passage of time. It struck me, in thinking about how these technologies have taken such a dynamic role in our lives, that we have even less control over our lives now than we did ten years ago. We are never out of reach, and work can follow us when we are on vacation and even when we go into the bathroom.

Heschel’s metaphor may be in need of an upgrade.

I would remind owners of iPods that rechargeable batteries are not immortal. There are things that we can do to prolong the life of a battery, like allowing the battery to drain completely before recharging it at least once monthly. Constant recharging diminishes its capacity over time; allowing it to drain enables the battery to function better and longer. The same is true for a human being. As we allow technology to take over our lives, our senses become increasingly dulled to the world immediately around us, to those who are present in our lives, to our families, our neighbors, and our communities. We need a moment when we can recover from the ravages of time and technology, when we can recapture the essence of being human.

To upgrade Heschel’s metaphor would rob it of its poetic beauty. But just as a palace might be protected by fortifications, time, as well, seems in dire need of buttressing against those elements that continually rob us of it. We need Shabbat now as a fortification in time, as a refuge from the increasingly hurried pace of our lives, for without that refuge, we may never gain sight of a palace.

“But is it really bad for the Jews?” - The return of the Latin Mass for Good Friday

When looking inside the cover page of many Hebrew texts published in Europe over the last several centuries, one can find the imprimatur of a censor, often an apostate Jew, who made certain that nothing contained therein was offensive to the Church. Some editions of the Talmud had passages about Jesus and the Apostles removed. While some of these passages are problematic to contemporary sensitivities, they are part of our history, and these passages have found their way back into editions of the Talmud published today. We no longer have to contend with the censorship of the Catholic Church.

In this post-Holocaust era, a form of détente has developed between Jews and the Catholic Church. In the early 1960s, under the pontificates of John XXIII and Paul VI, the Vatican enacted sweeping reforms, among them the repudiation of its own anti-Semitic successionist theology and ushering in a period of dialogue that continues to this day. This is no small matter, as the Vatican has influence over millions of adherents around the globe.

Today, Jews are looking askance at recent promulgations of Pope Benedict XVI permitting parishes to return to the Latin Mass. At the heart of the conflict are passages in the Good Friday liturgy regarding the Jews. Good Friday commemorates the crucifixion of Jesus, and under Christian domination Jews often suffered from public humiliation and pogroms particularly on Good Friday and Easter for their historical role in his death and for our continued rejection of the christ. Prior to 1955, the mass included the following passage:

Let us pray also for the perfidious Jews: that Almighty God may remove the veil from their hearts; so that they too may acknowledge Jesus Christ our Lord. Almighty and eternal God, who dost not exclude from thy mercy even Jewish faithlessness: hear our prayers, which we offer for the blindness of that people; that acknowledging the light of thy Truth, which is Christ, they may be delivered from their darkness. Through the same Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, for ever and ever. Amen. [Italics mine.]

Over the years, the passage underwent several minor changes, until 1970, when the liturgy was edited in accord with the reforms of Vatican II:

Let us pray for the Jewish people, the first to hear the word of God, that they may continue to grow in the love of his name and in faithfulness to his covenant. Almighty and eternal God, long ago you gave your promise to Abraham and his posterity. Listen to your Church as we pray that the people you first made your own may arrive at the fullness of redemption. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The differences are striking. Since 1970, Catholics under the dominion of the Vatican accepted the covenant between God and Israel, and they prayed for Jews to grow within that covenant. If anything was left open to question, it was the vague yet subtly stated hope that Jews “may arrive at the fullness of redemption.” The language of this version of the mass remains in effect for the vast majority of Catholics who enjoy the recitation of the liturgy in their own languages, also in accordance with Vatican II.

Not all Catholics took to the liturgical changes of Vatican II. For many, the loss of the Latin mass meant a break in an aesthetically meaningful tradition, while some felt that numerous changes left the church in a state of liturgical anarchy. Some within the church violated its canons and became separated from its umbrella. Under John Paul II and now under Benedict XVI, efforts have been underway to heal the rift. In recent months, the pope issued a letter that expanded on permissions granted by John Paul II, allowing for the recitation of the Latin Mass under some conditions. The liturgy had to follow the Latin version edited in 1962, but earlier this month, the Vatican released a change in the prayer for the Jews:

Let us also pray for the Jews: That our God and Lord may illuminate their hearts, that they acknowledge Jesus Christ is the Savior of all men. Almighty and eternal God, who want that all men be saved and come to the recognition of the truth, propitiously grant that even as the fulness of the peoples enters Thy Church, all Israel be saved. Through Christ Our Lord. Amen.

The proposed change attempts to strike a middle ground, intended to mollify theological conservatives while removing some of the earlier egregious language against the Jews. For Jews, however, as well as for some Catholics, this amounts to a turning back of the clock, a regression from building of bridges between the Catholic Church and the Jewish community. “This is a drastic retreat from the most important theological development of the modern era,” wrote James Carroll, a Catholic, in a Globe Op-Ed.

How are we to look at this development?

On the one hand, it takes considerable hubris for any one faith to make liturgical demands on another. Part of interfaith dialogue is the acceptance of differences between faiths and learning how to deal with those differences in a dignified manner. Some Catholics argue that there are Jewish prayers that they find objectionable, but they raise no alarms. This may be true, but nowhere in Jewish liturgy will you find a singling out of any faith, and most peoples mentioned ceased to exist long before Jewish liturgies crystalized. Jewish liturgy may call for the universal recognition of God, but that is the same God that Christians and Moslems share with Jews, and our faith and tradition withholds salvation from no one because they are not Jewish.

For Jews, Christian theologies and liturgies like this one can strike a raw nerve. It is hard to ignore two millenia of anti-Semitism that was nurtured by such prayers, and it is impossible to forget that in the past century six million Jews were reduced to ashes in the wake of a theology of hate, not to mention the countless others that perished in the Crusades, the Inquisition, and pogroms. Given the theological reforms of Vatican II, we might have expected a little more sensitivity.

In the end, if the Vatican will not otherwise demur from the past forty-two years of theological teachings on Jews and Judaism, how many churchgoers will understand and be adversely influenced when their priest intones:

Oremus et pro Iudaeis: Ut Deus et Dominus noster illuminet corda eorum, ut agnoscant Iesum Christum salvatorem omnium hominum. Omnipotens sempiterne Deus, qui vis ut omnes homines salvi fiant et ad agnitionem veritatis veniant, concede propitius, ut plenitudine gentium in Ecclesiam Tuam intrante omnis Israel salvus fiat. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.

Not many, I suspect.

The Sukkah: The Shack as a Symbol of Strength

I was fortunate to spend a year of college in Israel, studying at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I have many wonderful recollections of that year, but there is one that always comes back to me during this season.

It was 1981, months before the final Israeli withdrawal from Sinai. When the university offered tours of the Sinai for visiting students, commencing the day after Simchat Torah, I knew that this was an opportunity that I could not let pass. I developed a great appreciation for the barren beauty of deserts that year and during subsequent trips to Israel, always enjoying the trips down the Arava Road to Eilat, or wandering in the Negev, around Be’er Sheva, Sde Boker, Arad, Avdat, and Mitzpe Ramon.

My trip along the eastern tier of the Sinai (what then remained under Israeli administration) introduced me to places that were mentioned in the Bible, like Hatzerot and Di-Zahab. There was so much to see and do in this desolate wasteland, but one memory remains vivid. It was during a visit to a Bedouin encampment in Hatzerot. There we were led into a structure for guests. I looked up and took note of the roof, offering more shade than sunlight but with the blue sky visible. As I had just celebrated Sukkot in Jerusalem the week before, I knew that I was now sitting in a sukkah just like those that our ancestors lived in as they made their 40-year trek from the slavery of Egypt to their promised homeland of Eretz Yisrael. I felt great excitement sitting in this sukkah in a place where our forebears had made similar sukkot over three thousand years earlier. Indeed, the sukkah is a durable symbol that reaches back to our earliest years as a people.

Rabbinic law goes into detail concerning the construction of the Sukkah, which may seem strange for a temporary structure intended to last only a week. But these laws are intended to guarantee one thing: that a kosher Sukkah is one that may be sturdy enough to withstand routine elements, but not solid as to be invulnerable to excessive conditions.

It may seem stranger to consider the use of the Sukkah as a metaphor. We find in our tradition a recurring reference to sukkat shalom, a shelter of peace. If the Sukkah is, at best, a temporary structure with a porous roof, should we not hope to find the shelter of peace described as a permanent structure, perhaps a binyan shalom?

Peace, by its very nature, is a fragile structure. It is always susceptible to collapse from strong winds, but it needs to be strong enough to withstand the day to day pressures that could bring down a weaker structure. Peace does not exist in fortresses where people live in isolation from others; nor does it flourish in closed quarters that allow no light to permeate its inner parts.

This metaphor has a place in the celebration of Sukkot. The Torah speaks of seventy sacrifices offered during the seven days of Sukkot; rabbinic tradition has it that each of those offerings corresponds to one of the seventy nations believed to exist in biblical times. These offerings were brought for the welfare of these peoples, even though their religions and cultures were anathema to the ways of the Jewish people. And still, each of these peoples, as part of the family of humankind, were peopled by those likewise created in the image of God, and still worthy of ritual offerings on their behalf.

Fragility is a theme of this holiday. It comes at the time when the cold winds start to blow, when in Eretz Yisrael the rains just start to come. It is a time of material uncertainty, a time when our future sustenance comes to question. Only days after standing in judgment for our lives before God, we stand again, now with palm, myrtle, willow, and etrog, pleading hosha’na! Save us! Give us, we pray, a year of sustenance. For those of us who live in urban society, we may fail to grasp the importance of this moment, but this holiday was fraught with meaning in agrarian Israel.

But as serious as this holiday is, it is celebrated with the greatest of joy. It is ironically known as z’man simchateinu, the time of our rejoicing. This sobriquet for the holiday is derived from Lev. 23:40: “you shall take [the four species] and rejoice before the Lord, your God, for seven days.” The Mishna speaks of the water drawing festival during Sukkot as a celebration unparalleled. “Whoever had not seen the water drawing celebration never witnessed a joyous celebration in his days,” says the Mishna (Sukkah 5:1.) If the focus of the holiday is the fragility and unpredictability of nature and human sustenance, doesn’t it seem ironic, even audacious, for such celebration?

Such juxtapositions are not uncommon in Judaism. Yom Kippur, with its themes of repentance and judgment, is not a morose day, but a day of joy, a celebration of both our capacity to seek forgiveness and to mend our ways, as well as a faith in a loving and forgiving God. Sukkot, with its overriding concern for continued sustenance, is celebrated with a joy that comes from a confidence of faith in God as provider. Prayer from a position of confidence, even at a moment of grave concern, is stronger than petition from despair and anguish, when one is most in need. But even more important is the rejoicing that is part of the obligation connected with the observance of the holiday, as if to say that we should not become overwhelmed by our concern over what the future might bring.

For now, we should sit back and enjoy our meals in the sukkah, with the hope that we will be strong enough to withstand the occasional winds that affect our lives.