Torah 
Fri Feb 22, 2008 at 02:31:21 AM EST
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Many times in my rabbinic life, Jews and non-Jews have confessed to me their concern that they're not "good Jews" or "good Christians" because their faith isn't rock solid. Somehow, there's a perception floating in the ether that there is somewhere a class of religious people who feel close to God always, who never experience doubt, and who accept without question the ups and downs of the world. Personally, I've never met one of these people, and I feel better believing that they don't exist at all.
In this context, it is striking that this week's parashah, Ki Tissa contains both the moment of supreme closeness to God and the moment in which the bond between God and the Jewish people almost breaks altogether. On the one hand, Moses encounters God "panim el panim"--face to face, in the most personal encounter that a biblical character (or perhaps anyone) ever has with God. On the other hand, while Moses is on top of Sinai receiving the Torah, the people down below are crafting an idol to worship. At the very moment of the enactment of the covenant between God and the people, the people distance themselves from God through the creation of a golden calf. How can this intense closeness and this relationship-threatening distance live in such close proximity?
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Thu Feb 14, 2008 at 13:33:40 PM EST
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There is a change taking place this week -- a shift in perspective. No, I am not joining the pundits and talking about a string of electoral victories, my comments are restricted to the parashah.
Through the book of Exodus, as we move further away from bondage and stretch our free legs we begin to lose sight of the hardship we once accepted as reality. As our distance from Egypt grows, our memory of slavery dwindles. We are a free people now, and our former lives are of little interest to us. God's concern for the loss of collective memory surfaces throughout the Torah to remind us time and again that we were "once slaves in Egypt" and that it was God who delivered us "out of the house of bondage." But is this recurring message designed to inspire obedience or consciousness of the world around us? As we continue to journey, does our freedom impact how we view the rest of the world?
In one week as we move from reading the parashah of T'rumah to the parashah of T'tzavveh, we shift from a discussion about the construction of the mishkan (the portable tabernacle that accompanied the burgeoning nation through the wilderness) to the details of the ritual objects within. Last week we focused on the building itself; this week we discuss the ritual service that will occupy the mishkan. We read of the light of the menorah that shines in the mishkan, the selection of the priests and the detail of their vestments, and the measurements of the sacrificial altar. The change is much more than physical, though; this week we shift our entire focus inward.
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Wed Feb 13, 2008 at 12:26:19 PM EST
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In Chapters 9 & 10, Rev. Rick Warren writes a good deal about Noah, describing all of the ways that Noah faithfully served God. Warren recounts how Noah spent 120 years building the Ark, an act of supreme dedication to and faith in God given that Noah lived hundreds of miles from the ocean and had never seen any rain.
I was struck by that kind of dedication to a purpose or a cause. I imagined what it would take for me to make that kind of effort. Picture the spectacle of this Ark being built, and when friends asked for an explanation all you can offer is that there will be a flood - something none of us have ever seen before - so you are preparing.
I guess this is the kind of dedication that filled the hearts of Joe Slovo, the a South African Jew and leader of the Communist Party during the anti-apartheid movement or Michael Schwerner the slain Jewish civil rights activist. Although the world was not yet ready to face the injustices of segregation, they worked tirelessly and risked their lives because of their dedication to a cause, a cause many refused to believe was worthy of their own attention.
But I was struck by a significant difference.
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Wed Feb 06, 2008 at 19:24:18 PM EST
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What kind of education do you need to understand this portion? Years in Yeshivah? Advanced university degrees? I don't think so. The bulk of this portion focuses on crafts like carpentry, metalwork, weaving and embroidery. One of the most common verbs in the portion is v'asita--you shall make it. What, me? Do I know how to plane acacia wood and join it to silver sockets? Do I know how to die wool and weave it into intricate patterns? Would I be able to make a tabernacle for God?
Our society devalues such handiwork, but the Torah finds sanctity in sweat.
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Fri Feb 01, 2008 at 12:16:12 PM EST
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Parashat Mishpatim -- Exodus 21:1-24:18
"And you shall not afflict the Ger the stranger, nor shall you oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." (Exodus 22:20)
This verse, which comes in the middle of our Torah portion, marks the first time in the Torah that we are commanded to not mistreat the Ger, the sojourner or the stranger. Some twenty verses later the Torah repeats this commandment and central Biblical value saying, "And you shall not oppress a stranger, for you have known the soul of the stranger in that you were strangers in the land of Egypt."
The Babylonian Talmud, in Baba Metzia 60a, counts as many as 46 places in the Torah in which Israel is commanded not to afflict, wrong, oppress, or pressure the Stranger. Four of those times we are told explicitly, as in these two verses in our parashah, not to mistreat the Stranger because we were strangers in the land of Egypt. In Leviticus we learn, "And you shall love him as yourself for you were strangers, Gerim, in the land of Egypt."
One could argue that because we were dehumanized, afflicted, and had our lives embittered at the hands of others, we therefore owe no compassionate treatment to others. But that is not the argument of the Torah. The Torah, by making this its most repeated mitzvah, is teaching us that one of the most essential characteristics of the covenantal society we are charged to build is the protection of the stranger who is called Ger as well as the openness, if not the imperative enthusiasm, to accept him or her into the covenant if he or she so chooses. And we do that because of our experience in Egypt.
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Thu Jan 17, 2008 at 17:01:26 PM EST
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The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God. God heard their moaning and God remembered God's covenant with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob. God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.Exodus 2:23-25
After 400 years of slavery, the Torah teaches that the Israelites cried out. This cry, explains the Ramban, is in response to their recognition that the new King of Egypt was even more wicked than the previous king. In the midrash the Israelites say, Our bones are dried up, our hope is gone; we are doomed (Ezekiel 37:11). After years of suffering from oppression, the Israelites have finally reached their limit and in this pit of despair their cry is heard by God. This begins the Torah's telling of God's appearance to Moses at the burning bush and his enlistment as prophet, teacher and leader. God finally takes note of the Israelites and it seems to be spawned by their crying out.
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Wed Jan 09, 2008 at 23:59:19 PM EST
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The telling of the ten plagues draws to a close and our narrative takes a new direction this week, with God laying out the first commandments (mitzvoth) that are directed to the people of Israel (as opposed to earlier commandments given to the forefathers individually to be passed on). These charges - to establish the months, make the Passover sacrificial offering and to celebrate the holiday with its precepts are the first directives to a people on the cusp of freedom and redemption.
The first law is the establishment of the calendar. Much has been written about the nature of the Jewish lunar calendar - it's representation of our ongoing and cyclical spiritual renewal both individually and as a community. And yet for something so important to the spirituality of a nation and our connection with God, the power to declare the months is neither held by the Divine nor placed on an individual ruler, but rather on the Sanhedrin, the high court of the nation that will be established. And even as power rests with the court, it must rely on the testimony of eyewitnesses to the new moon. In essence, God's first charge is to assign to us the power to set the cycles of our spiritual growth, but in order to fulfill this charge, we must establish and utilize a clearly understood and respected system of courts and legal due process.
The next precept is the sacrifice of the Paschal lamb and the related observances of Passover. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the 19th century founder of German Modern Orthodoxy, teaches that this commandment is inherent to the creation of the concept and structure of a Jewish people. The commandment establishes the principle of equality in law
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Wed Jan 09, 2008 at 19:31:59 PM EST
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A little late getting this post up, but I wanted to recommend a recent op-ed by JFSJ President Simon Greer in the Forward about the sub-prime lending crisis.
Jewish Funds for Justice, through its Tzedec program, has been investing in community economic development for ten years now and remains the only national Jewish program of its kind. The Jewish values that guide the program led Tzedec into relationships with the very lending institutions that have done so well during the current mortgage crisis, while remain focused on higher risk borrowers in lower income communities.
It is a running theme here at jspot, but this op-ed provides some excellent examples of how relevant and insightful traditional text can be when confronting contemporary issues.
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Fri Jan 04, 2008 at 13:09:43 PM EST
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Parshat Va'era bridges two defining moments in the formation of the Israelites' national identity: the first, which took place in last week's Torah portion, comes in Exodus 1:9, when, for the first time, the people are referred to as an am, a nation. Notably, it is an outsider--in fact, their oppressor, Pharaoh-- who identifies them as such.
Next week, we'll read of a second pivotal moment, when God brings the final plague--the slaying of the first born-- on the people of Egypt. A close reading of the text informs us that avoiding this plague was not automatic for the Israelites; rather each household had to mark its doorposts with blood in order to identify as part of the community that would not be touched by the mashchit (destroyer). In other words, each member of the collective has to opt into the national unit, choosing her own identity.
In between these two moments, where identity goes from being defined by a complete outsider to being defined by the individual Israelites themselves, is Parshat Va'era. In this parsha, the identity of the Israelite people is divinely established, as a by-product, almost, of the plagues.
In two instances, the Israelite people are explicitly separated out, made distinct from the Egyptians. In the first case, the land of Goshen, where the Israelites reside, is "made distinct" (Exodus 8:18) from the rest of the land, and is unaffected by the plague of erov (meaning is unclear: either swarms of insects or wild beasts). Similarly, the Israelites' livestock is "made distinct" from that of the Egyptians, and does not suffer the plague of animal pestilence (Exodus 9:4).
Through the first three Torah portions of the book of Exodus, we experience the formation of identity through three modalities: that of an oppressor defining his subjects, that of a divine force defining its people, and that of self-determination. Common to these three modalities is the fact that the origins of our national identity are rooted in 'otherness,' being defined against something else.
While there may be some clarity in understanding oneself in contrast to what one is not, there is also danger in seeing oneself solely as an other, separate from the rest of the world. And indeed, while otherness and outsiderness is part of our foundational narrative, our tradition is nevertheless bothered by it, and its potential for callousness. A number of correctives come from rabbinic and later traditions, such as the midrash in which God silences the angels for celebrating the Egyptians' drowning in the Red Sea (T.B. Megillah 10b), and the practice of spilling a drop of wine from our cups (lessening our joy) when we recite the plagues at the Passover seder.
Last week, Rabbi Lauren Holtzblatt's beautiful post described the challenge and importance of embracing the responsibility that comes from seeing the other. For me, Parshat Va'era, and the surrounding Torah portions, extend this challenge, asking us to hold ourselves distinct while simultaneously striving to bridge the divide.
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Fri Dec 28, 2007 at 13:27:16 PM EST
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In this week's parsha, parshat Shmot, God hears the crying out of the Israelites and comes to visit Moses in the famous burning bush. Moses has already proven himself to be an unusual character as he also hears the cries of the Israelites and responds to their oppression.
During the scene of the burning bush Moses both shows his unique character- that of turning aside and seeing the bush--he is one who notices what is going on in the world, but he also has the trait of covering his face when the vision becomes too great.
In Exodus 3:6 God appears to Moses and says, "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob." Just at this moment Moses hides his face because he is afraid to look at God. Moses possesses the curiosity and spiritual awareness to notice the bush on fire, but when given the opportunity to have an encounter with God, he turns away as if to say that the actual act of seeing will be more than he can handle.
Later on in the book of Shmot Moses will plead with God to show him God's face and God will refuse. Picking up on this, the Talmud, in tractate Berachot 7a, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korcha tells us that God will say to Moses, "You shall not see my face" (Exodus 33:23) God says: "When I wanted to show you my face, you did not want to see it. Now that you want to see it, I do not want to show it." Rav Kook teaches that Moses had missed an extraordinary opportunity when he turned away from the burning bush.
The act of seeing can be incredibly powerful. It is a moment of recognition, of responsibility, of witnessing what is present in the world. Through seeing, we can encounter another's pain, anguish, or even greatness and as a result become responsible for that person or being.
Emmanuel Levinas, the 20th century French philosopher, writes about the responsibility that comes with seeing the other. He says: 'The face is not the mere assemblage of a nose, a forehead, eyes, etc. it is all that, of course, but takes on the meaning of a face through the new dimension it opens up in the perception of being... To speak at the same time as knowing the Other, is making oneself known to him. I not only think of what he is for me, but also simultaneously, and even before, I am for him.' (In Difficult Freedom: Essays on Judaism)
When Moses looks away from God perhaps he is saying, I am not ready yet for the great responsibility that you are placing on me. A responsibility to end a people's oppression, to be accountable in the struggle towards freedom. Eventually Moses comes around and leads with a beautiful, modest power.
The encounter between Moses and God at the burning bush is so powerful for me. How many times have each one of us walked by someone asking for help on the city streets- only to look away out of fear of the responsibility for the other. How many times have we looked into the face of the world and hid our own faces out of fear of the responsibility of taking on the pain and work it takes to fix this broken world. I have to continually return to this parsha to remind myself that I must look. We must all look because that is what God is asking of us. And with the looking comes a great responsibility to act.
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