Parashat Toldot: A Collision of Fate

Claude Monet: Gare Saint Lazare, 1877

From the Jewish Journal of LA:

The years turn and turn, slowly at first, like the wheels of a train as they roll from the station. Bit by bit, momentum gathers. In the window, scenery starts to flicker and flit. We catch glimpses of a gray mountain capped with snow, a shanty red barn long abandoned. The train hurtles by a lake so still that it casts an unearthly reflection of the heavens, and then it, too, is gone. Suddenly, the train lurches. It pulls up to a platform. We disembark. Behind the train, twin tracks of silver vanish in the distance. We’ve traveled far and traveled quickly. “It went by so fast,” we say.

But the tracks point the way back. We know the train’s path. We can retrace our steps and measure gain and loss, joy and ache. To search the past, though hard on the soul, is easy on the eyes. Hindsight is 20/20, we say. But what of the future? What of looking upon the tracks ahead — instead of those behind — and studying them like a travel guide before a journey? When we know what lies ahead, are there parts of life we savor more? Are there traps and pitfalls we might circumvent? 

This week’s Torah portion, Toldot, begins with a prophecy. Rebecca, after 20 years of unrequited prayer, is finally with child — twins in fact: Esau and Jacob. But the pregnancy is unbearable. “The children struggle together within her.” Fearing she may lose the pregnancy, she cries out: “If it be so, wherefore do I live?” (Genesis 25:22; Malbim’s Commentary).

The Lord responds to her outcry: “In your womb are two nations; two peoples shall your bowels disperse. One people shall be stronger than the other people; and the elder shall serve the younger” (Genesis 25:23). Although her fear of miscarriage is allayed, another anxiety dams her heart: How does one raise two siblings who already contend in the womb and whose own children will contend long after they die?

It comes as no surprise that Esau and Jacob are nothing alike. Esau is a wild bear of a man, “a cunning hunter in the fields.” Jacob is an “innocent” who prefers to “dwell among the homely tents.” Yet, what does surprise us is how Rebecca and Isaac raise their sons. Instead of trying to bridge their differences, they widen the chasm and add bitter spices to the boiling stew of strife. “Now Isaac loved Esau, because he ate of his venison; but Rebecca loved Jacob” (Genesis 25:28).

Rabbi Hezekiah ben Manoah, the medieval French commentator, points out that Isaac’s love was inconstant and conditional; he would express his approval of Esau in return for a helping of freshly hunted meat. In contrast, Rebecca’s love for Jacob was constant and unconditional, flowing to Jacob without preemption (Hizkuni on Genesis 25:28).

Atop favoritism and asymmetric love, there is the added sorrow for what each boy lacks. Jacob grows up longing for his father’s approval. Esau, on the other hand, is deprived the wholehearted love of his mother. Jealousies abound. Each train, it seems, has left the station, and the tracks are surely crossed.

Rabbi J.H. Hertz, the late U.K. chief rabbi, suggests that had Isaac and Rebecca raised their sons differently, spreading their love out more evenly, the whole saga of stolen birthrights and blessings may have been averted (Soncino, Genesis 25:28). But before we judge, we ought to ask ourselves if we are any better. When we think on the future, near and distant, can we, with a little effort, anticipate the mistakes we will undoubtedly make? Knowing our likes and dislikes, fears and faults, can we predict the pitfalls that will trip us up? And yet, though we know where the train tracks surely lead, how many of us still board the train, crowding the carriage with our lapses in judgment? 

Sometimes, though, we are afforded a second chance. The heart senses the wrongness of the way; the eyes search ahead and see what difficulties await. There is hope. Train wheels turn slowly at first; perhaps there is time to step back onto the platform.

Rabbi Yehuda Hausman is a Modern Orthodox rabbi who teaches in Los Angeles. He writes about the weekly parasha on his blog, rabbihausman.com

Parashat Vayera: Young At Heart

James Tissot: Abraham's Counsel to Sarai circa: 1896-1902

‘And the Lord appeared unto him by the terebinths of Mamre, as he sat in the tent door in the heat of the day.’ (Genesis 18.1) 

It is not strange to find an old man, ninety-nine years of age, sitting at the entrance of a tent, soaking up the day’s heat. For such a man would appear to be resting. The midday siesta is an ancient custom still observed in many lands. All are entitled to a little respite from toil under the sun. Why should this man be any different? (Shadal on Gen. 18:1; II Samuel 4:5)

But this elderly man is no ordinary man, for he is our Patriarch Abraham—who left the substance and security of his native country for an elusive promise and an ethereal dream. Indeed, this is the husband of Sarah, the rescuer of Lot, the binder of Isaac, and the father of faith. Far be it to imagine such a man dozing in the middle of the day!

Naturally, some of our Sages taught otherwise. Abraham was not resting so much as recuperating, for he was circumcised just three days before. (Cf. Gen. 17:24) Thus God appears, so to speak, ‘to visit the infirmed.’ Moreover, the strange messengers that Abraham entertains in the opening scenes of this week’s portion may have been partly sent to distract Abraham from residual pain. (Rashi 18:1; Cf. Baba Metziah 86b)

Either way, what unfolds is as incongruous as snow in Los Angeles or dolphins with feathers and wings. Lifting his eyes and sighting these three strangers in the distance, Abraham rouses himself from his afternoon lethargy, from the weariness of age, or from incapacitating pain….and he begins to run. He dashes toward these travelers to entice them with promises of wash-water, good food, and shade. He then races to the tent, to Sarah, and harries her with breathless instructions to make cakes. “Make ready, quickly, three measures of fine flour, knead it, and make cakes!” (Gen. 18:6)

It’s perhaps the funniest scene in Genesis…Sarah certainly knows how to make cakes! She is ninety years old. (There is little she doesn’t know.) But before Sarah can retort, Abraham has darted away and gone ‘running to slaughter a calf.’ (18:7)

Where does Abraham get the energy? How does a man of ninety-nine, flit and fly like a boy of nine? Never mind the incongruity of the very old acting like the very young—is Abraham’s behavior even possible?!  

Many rationalists of the Middle Ages argued that the entire episode of Abraham and the three messengers took place in a vision or dream. (Guide of the Perplexed II.42) Thus Abraham, the centenarian, never ran about like a kindergartener at recess; instead, what occurred took place in his mind’s eye, as ‘he dozed soundly in the afternoon sun.’ (Radak 18:1; Cf. Ibn-Kaspi  Num. 22:23)

Though rationalists have a habit of stripping religion of the otherworldly and the mythical—not always to our liking—in this case, the rationalists may have done us a service. For if dreams say anything about our souls, Abraham’s dream tells us that he is young at heart. He dreams himself running about in youthful exuberance, chiding his wife like a recent bridegroom in a new home. His bones may be weary, but his spirit races…his soul skips between the tents and terebinths of Mamre.

I leave you with a few words of W.B. Yeats:

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hand and sing, and louder sing…

(Sailing to Byzantium - 1928)

Yom Kippur: Candles in Every Place

Portuguese Synagogue, Amsterdam

'Before Yom Kippur, we light candles in every place—within synagogues, study halls, dark passages and on account of the infirm.' – Rabbi Yosef Karo - Code of Jewish Law O.H. 310.3

The Day of Atonement is a day of introspection. The inner eye of critique is loosed upon the record of our deeds.  And the record is never good. The heart thunders:  ‘How have I wronged my fellowman!’ The lips whisper: ‘How have I wronged my Maker!’ Regret runs deep and swells like the sea.

But though it be a day devoted to reflection, and though we may be caught up in the tempestuous swirl of our own thoughts, Rabbi Yosef Karo reminds us that Yom Kippur is much more than that…it is a day not just for oneself, but for others as well.

Many, who rarely see the inside of a sanctuary, will come on Yom Kippur.  Of these, some will have difficulty seeing, hearing or following...and they’ll need light to find their way.  

So over the holiday, try to look up occasionally from one’s prayer book and search about you. To the left, there may be an unfamiliar face in want of reassurance. To the right, another searches aimlessly for the correct page. In the aisle, an elderly woman struggles to find her seat. By the entrance, a lone Jew stands for the first time in a sanctuary…afraid, but wanting to be drawn in.

There are many kinds of light that need kindling. Especially for Yom Kippur, we must light candles every place.

               

A Meaningful Fast.

A Poem: On the Eve of Yom Kippur

On the Eve of Yom Kippur

Autumn turns my thoughts to rain, to pebbled ice

To sins of late and sins of yore.

Each deed is but one brick of scarlet,

Together they make a wall of shame.

Exiled, I flee the wind

I hear not her voice drifting.

I hide within the trees

Yet my heart is wet with searching.

I want summer, quiet and still,

But the twisting road is always the better story.

           

They say surrender is winter white—

Like the Day of Atonement

Like Adam, on the day of his making

And later, his unmaking.

I stare at the sky, not white or grey,

The setting sun is the color of war.

                         

                                    

Rosh Hashanah Text Study

Please feel free to print and distribute...
Shana Tova!!

http://www.scribd.com/doc/66556023/Rosh-Hashana-Teshuva-Reflection-yehuda-Hausman-PDF
http://www.scribd.com/doc/66555188/Three-Reflections-for-the-High-Holidays

Parashat Nitzavim-Vayelech: Lost and Found

Just thirty minutes outside of Baltimore, there are dozens of smooth country roads that flow like rivers between banks of undulating forest.  As my wife and I coasted past rolling hills of green, we had the impression of driving over waves.  Red barns and silver silos stood guard upon billowing crests while small ponds and brooks flowed through steep troughs.

Here and there, we found meadows picketed by wooden fences. Some were glazed recently with white paint, other fences were the color of smoke, the paint long peeled, the wood weathered and decayed. Beyond the fences, cattle grazed on tall grass.  There was one breed that had short wooly hair growing in patches of charcoal and ivory. Another breed had a coat that was cherry-brown and leathery like a chestnut horse.  We passed a long slope of trees that stretched like a cat into the distance, an endless forest of red maple, scarlet oak, hickory, white pine…. This being late September, scattered flecks of gold and red had begun to emerge like stars amid a velvet canopy of green. They were the first touches of the sunset we call ‘autumn.’

Yet as we drove, a polite but peaky robotic voice interrupted this visual feast with careful instructions. The voice belonged to my cellular phone. “Take next right in half a mile...Bear left at fork in-the-road…Continue straight toward destination…” As our eyes were lost in the scenery below, the phone’s navigational program guided us via satellites found high above. Though the convergence of Mother Nature and high technology was rather jarring, had we ignored the guiding voice, we would have been doubly lost in those trees, and we would have never arrived at our destination.

The one flaw of the navigation program was that each time I took a wrong turn or came upon a road that was not on one of its maps, the voice would suddenly announce: “recalculating…recalculating….” We would then wait anxiously for the phone to regain its bearings, to set a new course, to give us new directions. One time, however, the phone failed to find its way.  As the minutes slowly passed, and no new course was forthcoming, we began to worry. It felt strangely as if it too were lost—perhaps just as lost as we were....

In this week’s double Torah readings, Nitzavim-Vayelech, we find a prophetic vision of Israel’s repentance and return. Amidst our preparations for the coming High Holidays, the passage is thematically apt. “Then you shall turn to the Lord your God, and hearken to his voice…you and your children, with all your heart and all your soul. Then the Lord your God will return your captivity, and have compassion upon you, and will return you from among the peoples…” (Deut. 30:2,3)

Some understand the phrase “the Lord your God will return your captivity” to mean that God will change your fortune, restore you as in days of old. (Shadal; Cf. Jeremiah29.14; 39.25) Yet the Sages of the Talmud rendered the expression differently: ‘The Lord your God shall return with your captivity.’ As if to say, when Israel went into exile, God went along for the ride and remained banished, so to speak, till Israel’s long-awaited repentance and return. (Megillah 29a; Cf. Torah Temima and Rashi Deut. 30.3)

There is something quite startling about this image of God, exiled among the exiled, adrift and suffering by our side. For it implies that when we turn astray, God turns with us. And when we are lost, so too is God. One wonders if somewhere a small thin voice is crying out desperately, ‘recalculating… recalculating…’

When the navigation voice finally returned, it did so after I had done something that hearkened back to days of old.... I looked at the road, at the signs, at the sun, and then calculated which way was east and west and north and south, till I situated myself. Then I chose a road that seemed to head in the right direction. Immediately the voice returned: “continue straight toward destination.”

We were both found.

Shabbat Shalom

Ki Tetzeh: The Plight of the Captured Woman

In the ancient Greek city-state of Sparta, boys were required to keep their hair short in youth, then, as they reached maturity, they were permitted to grow their hair long as a symbol of strength and virility. Indeed, Plutarch records that Spartan warriors would "curl and adorn their hair" in preparation for battle, "as a fine set of hair would make the handsome more beautiful and the ugly more terrible." (Lycurgus 22) 

In contrast, Spartan women, young and old, kept their hair long, the exception being a bride on her wedding day. In Spartan tradition, the bride was first "kidnapped" by her husband-to-be, who would leave her in the hands of a bridesmaid. The bridesmaid would then clip her hair short so she resembled a boy. Shorn of this symbol of masculinity and martial power - not to mention femininity - she awaited the groom in the bridal-chamber. (Lycurgus 15.3; cf. Mortals and Immortals; Off with her head!) If there was any good in this horrid ritual, it may have been to remind the groom that his bride was not an adversary on the field of battle to be conquered or defeated. Yet this lesson came at a terrible price. For a Spartan man to learn to eschew violence in the bedroom, a young woman had to be robbed of her locks of womanhood and humiliated on the day of her wedding. 

In this week's portion, Ki Tetzeh, we find a number of biblical laws that are quite disturbing to modern sensibilities. Perhaps most disconcerting of all are the martial laws that relate to the captured woman. The Torah begins matter-of-factly: "When you go to war...and see among the captives a woman of beauty whom you desire and wish to take for a wife." (Deut. 21.10,11) It then prescribes a series of rituals that must be done before the Israelite man can marry her. "You shall bring her inside your home, where she shall shave her head, and let her nails grow..." She is then given “a month to weep and mourn for her mother and father.” If at this point, the man still desires to marry her, he may do so, and if not, he must set her free. (21.13-14)

Rabbi Bachya ben Asher notes that the purpose of these rituals is to make the captive woman less attractive; thus the shorn hair, unkept nails, and month of mourning. Moreover he adds that the enduring sight of the captive woman "weeping and pained" is intended to stir within the man a sense of compassion so that he is moved to give her freedom. (Commenting on vs. 21.13) To put it starkly, having suffered war, the loss of her family, capture, and possibly rape, the captive woman was made to undergo further humiliations just so that her captor could develop enough empathy to set her free. Such was the emotional obtuseness of men, even Israelite men, of that age. 

In a similar vein, we later find the Torah explaining why a victim of rape is innocent of blame. "But unto the damsel thou shalt do nothing; there is in the damsel no sin worthy of death; for as when a man rises against his neighbor, and slays him, even so is this matter." (Deut. 22.26) Already in Talmudic times, the sages wondered what need was there to to say that a victim of rape is as blameless as a victim of murder. Surely, that was and should be obvious! (Cf. Sanhedrin 74a) However, if one considers the mores of 9th century BCE Sparta, the common practices of war three millenia ago, or even the "honor killings" that we hear of today, the concept of a "blameless rape victim" requires education, for it was not obvious to men of that time and the point is still too often missed by many a man today.


To return to the plight of the captive woman and her stiff-hearted captor.... Though repugnant to us, there is an enduring lesson in psychology that is contained in the process by which the captor is finally led to empathize with his captive. Anyone who has fought heatedly with a friend or a loved one knows how easy it is to forget the damage of hurtful words. Ill remarks and thoughtless insults are flung unabated until one sees in the eyes of the other the sting of hurt or tears of pain. 


It is an unfortunate flaw of human nature that we are often blind to the pain we cause until we see some outer sign of damage and humiliation. It should not be so. Better if long before the senseless quip is loosed on kin or fellow, we ask ourselves how it would feel if the arrow were shot in one's direction.

Shabbat Shalom

Parashat Shoftim: Winter’s Fruit – A Recollection

It was a day hollowed of warmth and full of February’s wrath. The wind hurled mists of ice and powder drifts against the light infantry of hats, coats and doubled scarves. If New England wind had teeth, that day those teeth would have shorn flesh off the bone.

Inside a toasty restaurant in Boston, a door bell chimed, and a customer entered accompanied by a blast of cold air. A first glance revealed a worn coat, patched and frayed. Looking closer, one noticed a faded denim shirt that hung untucked over torn jeans. Above this mess, there stood a head of matted hair; below the hair, a man’s face, smudged with grease and caked in old sweat. The fellow would not have looked out-of-place asking for quarters outside a coffee shop. As it was, he was shown a seat and handed a menu. Nervous and flustered, I watched him flip the menu for several minutes till a neighboring woman helped him order.

So gracious was he for her help that he announced to the restaurant his wish to pay for her meal. “I won $7000 today in the lottery. Let me buy you lunch. Actually, I want to buy everyone lunch,” he went on. The woman smiled, “No, you keep your money.”  Then the man stood up and repeated the offer to each of us in the room. We each shook our heads. He needed the money more than any of us.

Though it seemed right at the time to refuse the gift of a destitute man, as I left the restaurant, I could not help but feel that the day had grown much colder.  

In this week’s portion, Shoftim, we find a variety of laws related to the waging war. For example: “When you lay siege to a city for many days, in making war against it to take it, you shall not destroy the (fruit) trees thereof by wielding an axe against them; because you may eat of them, do not cut them down; for is the tree of the field a man, that it should be besieged by you?” (Deuteronomy 20.19)

The commandment to spare the fruit is understood by some as a lesson in compassion. What has this tree done to you? Rooted to the ground it can neither surrender nor flee, why should it share the sorry fate of the city? (Rashi on 20.19) In contrast, there are those who see the commandment as being preoccupied with human welfare. Fruit trees sustain us with their fruit. What purpose is there in using them for bulwarks and battering rams when non-fruit trees can be used instead? (Ibn-Ezra, Hirsch) Indeed, the general prohibition against needless destruction (Bal Tashchit) is learned from the above verse. (Cf.Torah Temima)

Yet, I would like to suggest a third reason for the prohibition. When laying a siege, the Israelite army is also commanded to first offer the city ‘terms of peace.’ If the inhabitants accept, surrendering themselves as servants, the inhabitants must be spared. If not, war is waged. (20:10-12) In a similar vein, the fruit tree has essentially surrendered. It has offered its service: the fruit of its limbs. It would be criminal to fell what gives freely and cannot flee. “Is the tree of the field a man, that it should be besieged by you?”

Thinking back to that arctic day in Boston, some eight or nine years ago... A beggar blew in from the street. He offered us fruit in the very heart of winter. How excited he must have been to have an opportunity to feed others for a change. But we shook our heads and refused. It was as if we took an axe and felled a fruit tree. There is value in knowing when to give. So too there is a value in knowing when to accept.

Shabbat Shalom

Parashat Re'eh: Seeing with Sixth Sense

Do we have a sixth sense?

There is a commandment: “Ye shall be holy; for I the Lord your God am holy” (Leviticus 19:2). But how do we know we are on the right path? Some of us might run through a checklist: “I gave charity; check. I loved my neighbor today; check. I lit Shabbat candles; check.” But for most of us, doing right just feels right — like a satisfying chord of music. Likewise, doing wrong just feels wrong, like hearing a beginner scrape at a violin.
How are we to understand this? That our bodies are attuned to holiness the way the ear is attuned to music? I once overheard a woman say of her favorite synagogue: “It’s the only place where I feel spirituality.” Stranger yet, her friend nodded her head in agreement, “I feel the same way.”

But perhaps the idea is not so strange. We pause when a piano sonata is played beautifully. We can discern when a painting is transformed into a work of art. We can get lost in the petals of a rose or swept up in the majesty of mountains — we admit to an aesthetic sense, a musical sense, a sense of joy or a sense of sorrow.

But might we also have a sacred sense — a sixth sense, if you will — a sense of the holy?

The challenge, though, is not in admitting that we have it; that’s easy. We know when a sermon sets the heart alight. We know when an old synagogue melody stirs the wind in our chest. The true test is tuning it, evolving it, so that we begin to listen for holiness not on the rare occasion but every day amid the mayhem of our lives. This task is far from easy.

Read the rest in this week's Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles: "Seeing with the Sixth Sense"

I hope to see your comments there!

Parshat Eikev: To Walk Humbly Before God

Life is full of movement. We walk here, drive there, and fly our way to a thousand places in between. So what keeps us grounded wherever we go? What keeps us from sliding off the road?

This week’s portion begins: “And it shall come to pass, because (Eikev) you hearken to these laws, keep them, and do them; that the Lord your God shall keep unto you the covenant and the kindness which He swore to your fathers.” (Deut. 7:12)

Many a commentator dwell on the Hebrew word eikev, a most unusual synonym for “because.” They point out that if the same letters were vocalized differently—“aw-keiv”—it would mean “heel.” The 18^th century Hassidic Master, Rebbe Elimelech of Lizhensk, suggested that the word alludes to the most basic element of divine service: humility. Just as the entire body is supported by the heel of one’s foot, so too, all of a person’s sacred life is supported by humility. Recognition of one’s limits, from the meekness of the intellect to the body’s fragility, opens the heart to love of God and love of one’s fellow.

Yet humility also has a way of opening the mind, spurring us to go forth and to discover. Our Sages inquire why the Ark of the Covenant was made of acacia-wood instead of silver or gold. The obvious answer is that a wooden Ark is lighter than one made entirely of gold, and therefore, it could be more easily carried by the Israelites as they traveled from place to place. (Hizkuni Ex. 25.10) Yet the Netziv writes that the Ark was made of wood to remind us that the knowledge it contained—the Tablets of the Law—is acquired through humility. (Emek HaDavar on Deut. 10.1) In a similar vein, Rabbi Bachayeh mentions a tradition that all the measurements of the Ark end in halves—2 ½ x 1 ½ x 1 ½ cubits—to remind us that wisdom is acquired when we think of our studies as being partial and incomplete. (Ex. 25.10) When we acknowledge what we lack and do not know, we begin to learn wherever we go.

Last summer, my wife and I drove across country with a great number of belongings stowed in the trunk. As we crossed into New Mexico, we saw some 50 miles ahead, a vast thunderhead lurking in the distance. Shaped like a dark portabella, its canopy stretched across the heavens, while its more narrow central column—absolutely opaque—led straight down to the heart of the earth. As we drew closer, we saw that the highway was heading directly into the storm. My wife insisted that we turn off the road, but there was no place to turn. We had no choice but to continue among a caravan of trucks.

Suddenly, rain, as thick as a cornfield, struck our car. I did my best to remain behind an 18-wheeler that managed to break through the torrent of water. For the next hour, the truck was the only thing I could see. As water began to pool on the highway, I thanked the Lord that my small car was weighted with several hundred pounds of belongings. The tires—the heels of our car—remained rooted to the ground; they did not slide or skid.

So little holds us here, and when we realize that, we begin to understand the measure of much greater things.

Parashat V'etchanan: Remembering Our Soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq

I gave a sermon last Shabbat on the importance of remembering our soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq and how their sacrifices embody what it means to love "with all your heart, all your soul, and all your might." (Deuteronomy 6:5) Please keep our soldiers in your prayers till, with God's help, they return home.

Remembering Our Soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq
Last Saturday, a military helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. 30 U.S. service members were killed from the Army and Navy. On Sunday, the papers reported that it was the largest single-day loss of life since hostilities began in Afghanistan nearly ten years ago. Many reporters mentioned that 17 Navy Seals were aboard, but none, they assured us, were involved in the raid on bin Laden’s compound three months before. If anyone wondered why this was relevant, or how this fact could in any way lessen the tragedy, no explanation was forthcoming. But then, Monday arrived. The morning bell tolled on Wall Street. Our media went back to talking about things like credit ratings, unemployment, and the declining market. The soldiers had been quickly forgotten.

In this week’s portion, V’etchanan, there is a recurring theme woven through the Parashah. The theme is ‘devotion to God’. The Parashah begins with Moses’ supplication to the Almighty, “I beseeched the Lord at that time…” (Deuteronomy 3:23). It ends with a warning “not to go astray”. (Deut. 7:4,11) Along the way, we have further warnings, “not to test the Lord” (6:16); “not to forget the Lord” (6:12). We have reminders “to fear God…and to serve Him.” (6:13) We have the oft-quoted phrase, “do what is right and good in the sight of the Lord” (6:18); as well the expression that’s become a bumper sticker in Israel. “There is none besides Him.” אֵין עוֹד, מִלְּבַדּוֹ (4:35)

And yet there is more. There is the repetition of the Ten Commandments. I am the Lord your God…you shall no other gods besides me. (5:6,7) More significantly, there is the articulation of what has become the central credo of the Jewish people: the Shema Yisrael prayer and the first paragraph of the Shema: “And you shall love the Lord your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and all your might.” (6:4,5) וְאָהַבְתָּ, אֵת יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ, בְּכָל-לְבָבְךָ וּבְכָל-נַפְשְׁךָ, וּבְכָל-מְאֹדֶךָ

So the question is: why must this message be repeated again and again? For other commandments in the Torah, it suffices to tell us once or twice, sometimes even three times—like the commandment not to cook milk and meat together— why must we be told a dozen times: ‘fear the Lord,’ ‘serve the Lord,’ ‘cling to God,’ ‘love God’…? We get it.

The Italian commentator, R. Ovadiah Sforno makes an observation on verse in shema: וְדִבַּרְתָּ בָּם, בְּשִׁבְתְּךָ בְּבֵיתֶךָ וּבְלֶכְתְּךָ בַדֶּרֶךְ, וּבְשָׁכְבְּךָ וּבְקוּמֶךָ. “…You shall speak of them when sitting in your house, and when walking by the way; when you lie down (at night), and when you rise up (in the morning). (6:7) The Sforno comments: “Through this repetition, you’ll always remember them.” כִּי בְּזאת הַהַתְמָדָה תִּזְכְּרֵם תָּמִיד

Put simply: That which is repeated constantly, we remember, that which is not repeated constantly, we forget. Even something as important as God, we’d forget unless devotion was shown and articulated daily. Thus we are compelled to think of God each time we walk through a doorway and see a mezuzah; each time we eat a sandwich; before sleeping; upon arising.

In the third volume of his work, Gesher HaChaim, Rabbi Tuchazinski tells a very striking story that illustrates the capacity of humans to ignore and to forget. In 1918, a friend of his, a doctor, had returned from the War, settling again in Jerusalem. This doctor had ‘taken in part in some of the fiercest battles of World War I. He had lain in the trenches and saw many soldiers fall about him.’ Hearing this, R. Tuchazinski asked him: ‘What were you thinking as you lay in those trenches and those bullets flew overhead?’ The doctor responded that ‘the first time, he was so fearful he recited Vidui—confession—he was sure the end was near. The second time, somewhat less fearfully, he managed to throw himself in a trench. But by the third and fourth times, even though more casualties were falling than before, his fear had subsided, and he was able to survey the surrounding scene and fulfill his duties as a doctor.’

Such is the force of human nature…after a while, one can learn to ignore the savagery of war… after a while, one can learn to ignore the Creator of the Universe. It’s for this reason that we need constant reminders and refrains: Cling to God, Love God, Worship God, Keep God’s Commandments…

It should not surprise us that 30 soldiers can get killed, and within a day or two, they are quickly forgotten. We are nowhere near the front. We experience little of its savagery or violence. This war in Afghanistan has dragged on for nine years. And these soldiers are not the first to fall in combat. More than 1500 have died in Afghanistan; More than 4500 in Iraq—we’ve seen a lot of names added to the list. Names like Officer Louis J. Langlais, 44, of Santa Barbara, Calif., or Sgt. Andrew W. Harvell, 26, of Long Beach, Calif…

The irony of it is…if you want an example of what it means to love something “with all your heart, and all your soul, and all you might.” בְּכָל-לְבָבְךָ וּבְכָל-נַפְשְׁךָ וּבְכָל-מְאֹדֶךָ …Look no further than these soldiers. For love of country, they leave their jobs, they leave their families. They go a year or more without seeing spouses or children. They think of us constantly. How often do we think of them?

I want to end by mentioning a discussion in the Talmud that is based on the beginning of this morning’s portion. The question is asked how long should one pause between back-to-back prayer services—say the end shacharit—and the beginning of musaf? (Berachoth 30b)The answer offered: ‘One should pause long enough to enter a plea-ful frame of mind, based on the verse: I beseeched God... V’etchananon el Hashem. (Deuteronomy 3:23). Because at its heart that’s what prayer is about—beseeching God—asking for his intercession in our daily lives.

The Talmud Yerushalmi adds: How long should this take, minimally? Kedei Hiluch Dalet Amot. “The amount of time it takes to walk four cubits”—in other words, a few seconds.

If I can make a suggestion, the next time one reads or hears a piece of news about the fighting in Afghanistan or Iraq, take a moment or two to pause…long enough, at least, for a sense of supplication—a sense of pleading—to fill the heart; long enough, to ask God silently to intercede on behalf of our soldiers, to protect them from harm. It might be helpful to think of the verse: בְּכָל-לְבָבְךָ וּבְכָל-נַפְשְׁךָ וּבְכָל-מְאֹדֶךָ To reflect on what it means to sacrifice “with all your heart, all your soul, all your might.”

And perhaps if we do this each time we read the news, in the morning and at night…we’ll do something to make sure that these soldiers are not forgotten. In Sforno’s words: “Through repetition, you’ll remember them always.” הַהַתְמָדָה תִּזְכְּרֵם תָּמִיד כִּי בְּזאת Always.

Parashat V'etchanan: The Trip Home from Wall Street

We saw the thunder, heard the lightning. Though the sky was black like pitch, Mount Sinai was ablaze with “a fire that reached to the heart of heaven.” (Deut. 4:11) From amidst the fire, a voice thundered: I am the Lord your God who brought you forth from Egypt... (Deut. 5:6) And we trembled with awe and fright.

Less remembered than the voice that shook the winds and stirred the earth is the smaller voice that followed. After the ecstasy of Revelation, God instructed Moses: “Go tell the people: ‘return to your tents.’” (Deut 5:27) In other words: ‘Go home. Go back to your family and spouse—return to life as usual.’ (Cf. HaEmek Davar; Torah Temima)

Across one’s life, there are moments of great elation and moments of great sorrow. There is ecstasy and agony, deep loss and heartfelt gain. Yet most of life is not lived at one extreme or the other. We do not vacillate between weddings and funerals, between the aloneness of the Ninth of Av and the transcendence of the Day of Atonement. We live in the in-between, in that space far from the edges, among bills and groceries, dinner and work—we live at home in our tents.

This past week, some of us may have caught images of ashen-faced stockbrokers as they exited their Wall Street offices and made their way toward the trains. A trillion dollars in U.S. capital vanished in an afternoon, three trillion in two weeks. (Bloomberg) The news reinforced what we already know. Unemployment numbers are miserable. We know many who struggle—we know ourselves to struggle. When the Standard & Poor downgraded the U.S. credit rating, they articulated what most of us felt. The government has no great plan to fix our economy. They barely managed to agree on a lukewarm plan to curtail this nation’s debt. We are on our own.

Yet, even when there is little one can do, there is usually a place where one can go. One can board a train like those stockbrokers, or take a bus, or a car. From there, we might ascend from a valley or descend from a mountain, but always we find our way to the plains...where we have made our homes...where we have pitched our tents.

Shabbat Shalom

Parashat Devarim: "These are the Words..."

"These are the words that Moses spoke unto all Israel on the other side of the Jordan, in the Wilderness, in Arevah, opposite Suf, between Paran and Tophel, and Lavan, and Hazeroth, and Di-Zahav.” -Deut. 1:1

In the 1960’s, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel would read galleys of his books to those who attended his 7:30am lectures at the Jewish Theological Seminary. Heschel was an exquisite writer, undoubtedly. Moreover, Heschel’s involvement in civil rights, the Vietnam War, and Vatican II certainly made him an exciting personality. Yet, as this Rabbi (with his Old World accent) intoned chapter after chapter from his latest work, it was not uncommon for many of his students to drift asleep.

This week we begin the book of Deuteronomy—the last of the Five Books of Moses. There is a tradition that Moses taught the entire book of Deuteronomy on a single day—namely, the day of his death. This view may have been popularized by an early Medieval Jewish sect, the Karaites. (See Ibn Ezra 1:2) But for whatever reason, the tradition caught on. A thousand years later, I was taught as much in day-school.

As endearing as the legend is, it contains not a few problems. The Book of Deuteronomy comprises over a hundred laws—seventy of which appear nowhere else in the Torah. It would be hard to imagine Moses reading these laws straight through, word for word, out of a scroll.  How did he keep everyone’s attention? What if a hand shot up with a query? Did the entire congregation stop for discussion?

The 19^th century commentator, the Netziv, presents a novel alternative to this quandary. He suggests that after Israel’s successful conquests along the Plains of Moab, the Children of Israel no longer camped altogether as they had done throughout their journeys in the Wilderness. Instead, they began to spread out over many miles and settle these newly conquered areas. Thus it was necessary for Moses to travel from place to place and deliver his words on many occasions. “He gathered the people once in the Wilderness, once in Arevah, once opposite Suf, once between Paran and Tophel, once in Lavan, once in Hazeroth, and once in Di-Zahav.” Moreover, at each gathering “he would speak of a different subject from this book.”(Ha’Emek Davar - Deut. 1:1)

Moses was aware that the mind can only absorb so much, so he taught accordingly, one portion of the book at a time. He also knew there is nothing like personal attention. Despite his age and the respect owed to him, the congregation did not travel to Moses, rather he went forth to each congregation. It might have sufficed to send forth copies of Deuteronomy to outlying communities, but Moses made it so his words would be heard directly from his lips.

 Each passing day, we hear less and less from people’s lips, and more and more from recordings and copies. We receive bulk mail, mass bulletins, countless evites and invitations via the internet or post. We watch recorded broadcasts and programs on the web or on television. We choose the phone over the meeting, and then choose email over the phone.  

It is rather fitting to consider the behavior of Moses—Moses who traveled to each camp, who spoke his last words face-to-face with each group, who may have also repeated himself a few times, just so others could hear that “these are the words” uttered from his lips. 

Shabbat Shalom!

Parashat Masei – The Power of Small Objects

There is an assumption that we control technology. We can use it for good or evil—to build or to wreck. We develop it, we manipulate it, we employ it to our own ends… but how often do we stop to consider that it too has influence, it too has power, and that as much as we think we control technology, it very much controls us?

In this week’s portion, Masei, there is a short discourse on the various materials an assailant might use to smite a victim. The first material is iron: “If he smote another with an instrument of iron, so that he dies, he is a murderer.” (Numbers 35:16) The second is stone: “If he smote with a stone in his hand, so that he dies, he is a murderer.” (35:17) The last is wood: “If he smote with an instrument of wood in his hand, so that he dies, he is murderer. (35:18)

The Sages point out that the description of violence executed with wood or stone differs somewhat from the description of violence executed with an object of iron. With wood and stone, the Torah mentions that the object be “in his hand.” But with iron no such stipulation is made. Based on this distinction, our Sages conclude that a person cannot be found guilty of murder if the wood or stone weapon used (in the attack) is less than the size of one’s hand. This contrasts with iron where “there is no minimum size, for even an iron object as small as a needle can be lethal.”  (Sanhedrin 76b; Sifrei: 9)

What is remarkable about this teaching is that the rabbis of the Talmud stopped to consider the potency of each object. A splinter of wood might prick the skin, a pebble might loosen a tooth, but only a needle can pierce the heart or neck. An object, even a pin-sized one, requires us to understand not only what we can do with it, but what it can do to us.  

I would like to finish with a bit of history. In the early 1900’s, the fountain pen began to replace the dip pen and inkwell. There were obvious advantages to the fountain pen. Its writing was smooth and fluid while the line made by a dip pen would vacillate from thick and blotchy to faded and thin. More importantly, with its internal ink cartridge, the user of a fountain pen could write at great length without refilling. In contrast, the dip pen ran dry after a line or so and needed to be continuously re-submerged.

For good reason, many young lawyers and businessmen quickly adopted these marvelous new pens. They could now write twice as much, twice as quickly; and behold, the missives multiplied like rabbits. But quite a few traditionalists clung to the inkwell, complaining to anyone who might listen: ‘Sure, they may write twice as fast, but without the pause between dipping and writing, they think a great deal less.’  

Perhaps, it’s worth reflecting on this between the next email and text message: ‘Sure, we write twice as much and twice as quickly, but are we thinking a great deal less?’

Shabbat Shalom

Parashat Matot: "The Buck Stops Here"

Some armies have a command structure that is very top heavy.  The general will make every decision, large or small, and each decision will get passed down the chain of command. In other armies, the command structure is more elastic. High Command will provide general strategy, but individual officers and captains will be left to decide much of the specifics. The appeal of the first approach is likely greater discipline throughout the ranks. No captain will attack or retreat without a command from above.

As for the second approach, though at times it will lack overall coordination, it makes up for this lack tenfold by harnessing the independent creativity and intelligence of dozens, if not hundreds of individual captains and officers. In the fog of war, a brilliant general can be preoccupied or out of contact, but an intelligent officer can still utilize his wits to create a working plan of action.

This week’s portion, Matot, describes a war between 12,000 warriors of Israel and the forces of the five kings of Midian. The war is strange on many fronts, but Rabbi Solomon D. Luzzato points out one of the strangest details of all. ‘No general is named to lead the offensive.’ (Shadal on Num. 31:8) In earlier battles against Og and Bashan, Moses seems to direct operations. (Num. 21:33) Similarly, when Israel fought Amalek, Joshua commanded Israel's forces. (Ex. 17:9) Here though, we are left to wonder, why is no one appointed?

Yet the absence of a central military leader plays out in a curious way. When the army returns bearing captive Midianite women—spared more out of lust than compassion—Moses' wrath burns not against one specific commander, but against all the captains and officers of the army. “And Moses was wrath with officers of the army, the captains of the thousands and the captains of the hundreds who came back from the military service of the war….” (Numbers 31:14)

One might imagine that had there been a General Commander the mistake would have been avoided. But a valuable lesson ensues. Later in the Torah portion, these very same captains and officers approach Moses and Elazar the High Priest and offer valuables won in war “as atonement for their souls before the Lord.” (31:50) It is not a coincidence that the gold vessels offered are women’s jewelry— ‘bracelets and buckles, earrings and anklets.’ The objects of atonement suggest the nature of the sin: Israel’s lust for the women of Midian. (S.R. Hirsh)

Yet there is a larger lesson. In the absence of a central leader, each individual captain bears responsibility for his actions and each must answer for his deeds. There is no attempt to “pass the buck” up and down the chain of command.  In many armies, when mistakes are made, soldiers in the lower ranks will claim ‘I was just following orders.’ Not so in the army of Israel. Each officer is held accountable and must come forward to make atonement for his soul.

Shabbat Shalom

Blessed are They Who Sow and Do Not Reap

I decided to try my hand at translating a Hebrew poem by the poet Avraham Ben Yitzchak. The poem was translated a number of years ago by Peter Cole, who I admire greatly, but I thought I could render the selfless generosity embodied in the poem somewhat more pointed... 

Indeed, there are people who sow, so that others (the poor) might reap. Indeed, there are people who give in absolute anonymity, without any desire for recognition. For them, this is a matter of pride. And Ben-Yizchak's poem is a tribute to those who desire no tribute. Below is the Hebrew original, followed by my English translation.

אשרי הזורעים ולא יקצורו

אַשְׁרֵי הַזּוֹרְעִים וְלֹא יִקְצֹרוּ כִּי יַרְחִיקוּ נְדוֹד. אַשְׁרֵי הַנְּדִיבִים אֲשֶׁר תִּפְאֶרֶת נְעוּרֵיהֶם הוֹסִיפָה עַל אוֹר הַיָּמִים וּפִזְרוֹנָם וְהֵם אֶת עֶדְיָם הִתְפָּרָקוּ - עַל אֵם הַדְּרָכִים. אַשְׁרֵי הַגֵּאִים אֲשֶׁר גֵּאוּתָם עָבְרָה גְבוּלֵי נַפְשָׁם וַתְּהִי כְעַנְוַת הַלֹּבֶן אַחֲרֵי הֵעָלוֹת הַקֶּשֶׁת בֶּעָנָן. אַשְׁרֵי הַיּוֹדְעִים אֲשֶׁר יִקְרָא לִבָּם מִמִּדְבָּר וְעַל שְׂפָתָם תִּפְרַח הַדּוּמִיָּה. אַשְׁרֵיהֶם כִּי יֵאָסְפוּ אֶל תּוֹך לֵב הָעוֹלָם לוּטֵי אַדֶּרֶת הַשִּׁכְחָה וְהָיָה חֻקָּם הַתָּמִיד בְּלִי אֹמֶר.

Blessed Are They Who Sow

But Do Not Reap…

Blessed are they who sow but do not reap—

For they shall ward off wandering.

Blessed are the generous—the splendor of their youth

Would add unto the light of days and their extravagance—

Who thrust aside their jewelry at the crossroads.

Blessed are the proud—their pride surpasses the borders of their soul

Becoming the white humility

That follows the rainbow after it ascends into a cloud.

Blessed are the knowing ones—their heart calls out from the desert

And on their lips the silence blooms.

Blessed are they—for they shall be gathered to the heart of the world,

Enwrapped in a cloak of forgetfulness,

An eternal judgment of quiet.

Avraham Ben Yitzchak

Trans. Yehuda Hausman

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik and the Mechitza

Last week, I shared an excerpt from Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm’s piece found in the anthology: The Sanctity of the Synagogue. Looking back, we saw how the passage of half-a-century made Rabbi Lamm’s arguments somewhat foolish, though at the very hour of composition his arguments must have seemed quite formidable. Today, I share an excerpt from one of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s essays in the collection. After briefly mentioning the halachic and historical arguments for maintaining separate pews, he makes what I would call a “definitional” argument in which he describes his understanding of the very nature of prayer. "During prayer man must feel alone, removed, isolated...." For those who accept his definition of prayer, or at least, his ideal of prayer, it is worth reflecting how so many of our synagogues seem to have strayed from this ideal. Even with separate pews, frivolity prevails. Sadly, conversations had with neighbors, seated to one's right or left, are often more earnest than those had with the Creator. What can be done? To start, the queries need to be turned to the right address: 'Lord, what can I do to pray better?'

In the meantime here is the excerpt: 

'Thirdly, the entire concept of “family pews'' is in contradiction to the Jewish spirit of prayer. Prayer means communion with the Master of the World, and therefore withdrawal from all and everything. During prayer man must feel alone, removed, isolated. He must then regard the Creator as an only Friend, from whom alone he can hope for support and consolation. Behold, as the eyes of servants look unto the hand of their master, as the eyes of a maiden unto the hand of her mistress; so our eyes look unto the Lord our God, until He be gracious unto us (Psalms 123:2)  

Clearly, the presence of women among men, or of men among women, which often evokes a certain frivolity in the group, either in spirit or in behavior, can contribute little to sanctification or to the deepening of religious feeling; nor can it help instill that mood in which a man must be immersed when he would communicate with the Almighty. Out of the depths have I called Thee, O Lord (Psalms 130: 1), says the Psalmist. Such a state of being will not be realized amid "family pews."' (The Sanctity of the Synagogue: Page 116)

Parashat Pinchas: Among Illusions

“Little feet, little feet are playing 

 Hopscotch among the landmines."

-Shail D. Patel

A great deal of life is inevitable. We grow up. We age. There is illness. There is death. Like a pothole on a narrow road, one can slow the car or push the gas, but the pit is unavoidable.

Yet how often do we yearn to skip the bumps and leap the holes, to play ‘hopscotch among the landmines’? How often do we hold onto the hope that the unexpected—the miraculous—shall somehow conquer the inevitable?

Towards the end of this week’s portion, two seemingly unrelated passages are placed side-by-side. The first passage contains the story of the daughters of Zelophehad. As their father died without male heirs, these daughters ask that his portion of the Land of Israel be given to them instead. To the daughters’ satisfaction, the request is granted by God. (Numbers 27:1-12)

In the passage that follows, we find God informing Moses of his eventual death. “Ascend the mountain of Avarim, and behold the land which I have given unto the children of Israel. And after you have seen it, you too shall be gathered among your people. Because you disobeyed my words in the wilderness of Tzin…” (Numbers 27:12-14)

Rashi suggests that the relationship between the two sections can be found in Moses’ reaction to God’s verdict concerning the daughters of Zelophehad. Seeing how they were permitted to inherit the land, Moses began to wonder: ‘Perhaps I too will be permitted to enter the land and inherit it.’ Though repeatedly barred from entrance, Moses clung to the hope that the Almighty might do the unexpected and lift the ban. Thus God comes and pricks the illusion: ‘Moses, you may look, you may even dream, but you shall not pass’

There is something to be said that the Five Books of Moses do not end here, with Moses climbing Mt. Avarim and passing from the world. There remains much for Moses to do…A new leader to appoint, battles to fight, an entire book’s worth of laws to teach and instructions to give… It’s as if God hands Moses his return ticket, and Moses just adds to his itinerary.

The message imparted by Moses’ behavior is simple. What time we have is short. It’s easy to squander it among illusions—playing hopscotch among the landmines—waiting for what cannot be. But there is so much else to do before the foot takes its last step. Better to ask, like Moses: 'What else can I fit on my itinerary?'

Parashat Balak: And Reason Shall Not Prevail

“In all things, reason should prevail,” wrote William Penn. Yet in quite a few things, there is no reason whatsoever.

In this week’s portion, we find Balak, the pagan king of Moab, desperately trying to protect his commonwealth. Israel has just routed Moab’s neighbors—the Bashonites and Amorites—and Balak knows that his nation may very well be next.  So he engages the services of a non-Israelite prophet, Bilaam, whose task is to get the God of Israel to curse the Jewish people.  

In terms of military history, praying to one’s personal deity for victory is hardly remarkable. That is what prayer is for. No more surprising is hiring a cleric to pray on one’s behalf, that is what clerics are for. What is surprising is that Bilaam is not asked to appeal to Moab’s gods for assistance but to enlist the enemy’s God—the Redeemer of Israel—instead.  

By way of an imperfect example, imagine if in the Middle Ages a Catholic general were to ask the Pope to invoke Muhammed as a way to curry advantage against an invading Moslem army. The idea abounds with absurdity. Even if Muhammed had any say in the matter, why should he forsake the people of the Koran for a people who entirely reject the Word of Allah?

Yet, this is Balak and Bilaam’s very strategy. ‘Make the God of Israel abandon his flock of monotheists and embrace the pagans of Moab.’ As to be expected, the plan fails miserably, which begs the question why was it attempted at all?

There is a funny comment that Rashi brings down on the verse: “And Bilaam awoke in the morning and saddled his donkey.” (Num. 22.21) Rashi writes, “From here we learn that hatred destroys common sense.” Bilaam had numerous servants that could have done all his packing, yet in his zeal to curse Israel, he saddled the donkey himself. The stubborn mule of passion stomped right over the cool stoicism of reason. Bilaam’s heart brimmed with so much hatred there was little room left for good sense to prevail.

In this there is a poignant reminder: The greater our passion or conviction, the greater the need for deliberation. As William Penn warns, “it is quite another thing to be stiff, than to be steady in an opinion.” The decisions of a stiff heart are rarely as good as those of a steady mind.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Norman Lamm and the Mechitza

Every so often, one reads something written some years ago, and one has the opportunity to witness great words eviscerated by the progress of time. Below is an excerpt from a collection of essays found in Sanctity of the Synagogue, edited by Baruch Litvin. The work was published in late 50's, when the mechitza issue was tearing quite a few synagogues apart, and, more than anything else, drove the decisive wedge between Orthodoxy and Conservative Judaism. The excerpt if from an essay by Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm, who would later go on to become President of Yeshiva University. His defense of the Mechitza amounts to an accusation of hypocrisy against Conservative rabbis who in the name of egalitarianism wished to remove the mechitza.  Considering the egalitarian trends that eventually swept through the Conservative movement, the essay should remind us how important it is to take the long-view if one intends to write for posterity. Tomorrow, I shall provide another excerpt, which to my mind, still rings true...by R. Joseph Soloveitchik. In the meantime, here is Rabbi Norman Lamm: 

"THE EQUALITY OF THE SEXES

Separate seating, we are told, reveals an underlying belief that women are inferior, and only when men and women are allowed to mix freely in the synagogue is the equality of the sexes acknowledged. To this rallying call to "chivalry'' we must respond with a demand for consistency. If the non- Orthodox movements are, in this matter, the champions of woman's equality, and if this equality is demonstrated by equal participation in religious activities, then why, for instance, have not the non-orthodox schools graduated one woman rabbi all these years? Why not a woman cantor? (Even in Reform circles, recent attempts to introduce women into such positions have resulted in a good deal of controversy) . Why are Temple presidents almost all men, and Synagogue boards predominantly male? Why are the women segregated in sisterhoods? If it is to be equality's then let us have complete and unambiguous equality.

The same demand for some semblance of consistency may well be presented, and with even greater cogency, to the very ones of our sisters who are the most passionate and articulate advocates of mixed seating as a symbol of their equality. If this equality as Jewesses is expressed by full participation in Jewish life, then such equality must not be restricted to the Temple. They must submit as well to the private obligations incumbent upon menfolk: prayer thrice daily, and be-tzibbur, in the synagogue; donning tallis and tephillin; acquiring their own lulab and ethrog, etc. These mitzvoth are not Halachically obligatory for women, yet they were voluntarily practiced by solitary women throughout Jewish history; to mention but two examples, Michal, daughter of King Saul, and the fabled Hasidic teacher, the Maid of Ludmilla.

Does not consistency demand that the same equality, in whose name we are asked to confer upon women the privileges of full participation in public worship with all its attendant glory and glamour, also Impose upon women the responsibilities and duties, heretofore reserved for men only, which must be exercised in private only? We have yet to hear an anguished outcry for such equal assumption of masculine religious duties. So far those who would desecrate the synagogue in the name of democracy's and “equality'' have been concentrating exclusively upon the public areas of Jewish religious expression, upon synagogues privileges and not at all upon spiritual duties. They must expand the horizons of religious equality..."

Kiddush by Candlelight – Parashat Chukkat

By candle light, one can mark each passing hour in the cascade of wax.  As wick gives way to flame, the blaze dwindles and the night yields to shadow.  To live in the ephemeral glow of candles is to know that light is finite and darkness inevitable.

Yet we live and breathe not by candle light, but by Edison’s incandescent bulb and the fluorescent innovations that followed. In contrast to candles, the electric bulb is a hundred times brighter. Its light rarely dims or flickers. It seems nearly infinite when set aside the sputtering tallow flame.

No doubt, we gained immeasurably when we gave up the wax candle for the electric blaze, but one wonders if we also lost immeasurably in the exchange. 

In this week’s portion, Chukath, there is a passing of the torch. The life of Aaron, the high priest, is set to expire, but before he is gathered to his people, God commands that his son be designated high priest in his stead. “The Lord said to Moses… ‘Take Aaron and Elazar his son, and bring them up to the Mountain upon the Mountain (Hebrew: Hor Hahar). There, you shall strip Aaron of his vestments, and put them on Elazar his son; and Aaron shall be gathered to his people, and there he shall die.” (Numbers 20:23-26)

While the foretelling of death is alarming, the awareness of the inevitable affords Aaron the contentment of watching his son don the garments of the high priest. “Happy is he who sees his crown given to his son,” quotes Rashi. 

Before the advent of electricity, the Sabbath candles were kindled not only to honor the Sabbath but to illuminate the home.  As dusk set in and the last rays of sun melted to darkness, Jewish families relied upon candles not only to see, but also to illuminate that which could not be seen.

In the half-light of the flame, the meal was all the more appreciated for its smell and taste. Not able to observe the full nuances of body language, one had to listen all the more attentively for the nuances of voice. It was natural to draw on memory to fill in the twinkle of an eye, the crack of a smile, or even one’s spouse’s silhouette. Yet the most important difference is spoken by the candles themselves. They say: ‘There is urgency to the evening.  Do what needs be done. Speak which needs be spoken.  Values, traditions, ideals that need be imparted, impart before the last candle burns to the wick and the light is gone.’

There is symbolism to Aaron being laid to rest in a place called Hor HaHar—a Mountain upon a Mountain.  When one has seen to it that one’s progeny builds upon what one has built, it is indeed like placing a mountain upon another mountain. Yet without the sense that time wanes, without the specter of darkness just over the horizon, what urgency is there to give over what we have? What rush is there to don our children in that which we cherish most—the vestments of the high priest—the great mountain of our tradition?

Perhaps, it is time we forget Edison for an evening, and have a Friday-night meal with a few candles instead.

Abusing Rabbinic Power

A Fabulous Piece by Rabbi Marc D. Angel:

Maintaining Purity and Integrity: Thoughts on Parashat Hukkat

The laws of the Red Heifer are considered to be among the inscrutable commandments of the Torah. The elaborate ritual was ordained for the purpose of purifying those who had become ritually unclean through contact with a dead body. One of the strange features of this procedure was that while it purified the impure, it defiled all those who were connected with the preparation of the ashes and water of purification “It purifies the impure, and simultaneously defiles the pure.” How could the exact same ingredients lead to opposite results? I suggest a possible explanation. 

Those engaged in purifying others might naturally come to think of themselves as being highly important individuals. The impure people must turn to them for help. Being in this position of spiritual power could easily lead the “purifiers” to aggrandize themselves, to subtly (or not so subtly) adopt feelings of superiority. To prevent this eventuality, the Torah declares that the purifiers must themselves be rendered impure. Thus, they will not develop an inflated sense of self-importance, because they will realize that they must become ritually defiled while they purify others. The process does not raise them above those they serve, but actually lowers their status of ritual purity.  (To Continue, Click Here.)