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Faster than a speeding bullet.
Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Is it a bird, is it a plane.
No … it’s a nice Jewish boy.
It may surprise you all to know that Superman is Jewish. I am not trying to claim him as one of our own in the way that we like to find Jewish roots for every celebrity. The man of steel is really Jewish.
The two creators of Superman, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, grew up in the Jewish community of Cleveland in the first half of the twentieth century. And they drew upon the experiences of an immigrant Jewish community to create a Jewish hero who could be embraced by American society, and ultimately the world.
Superman and the American Jews of the 1940s shared defining characteristics. They were immigrants who had come to America from a foreign world; his world was Krypton, ours was Eastern Europe. Superman’s entire family and race had been wiped out by a disaster of epic proportions, his home was destroyed. For the Jews witnessing the Holocaust, they watched as their home communities were devastated and their families killed.
And just like the American Jewish community, Superman sought to find a way to assimilate, and become a part of American society. He assumed the identity of Clark Kent as a way of fitting in, and it was only in secret that his true identity could be revealed. He shed the clothing of Krypton, and assumed the look of a shy and insecure American journalist. Like many Jews, he also hid his Hebrew name. On Krypton, Superman was not Clark Kent, he was Kal-El, a beautifully symbolic name, which is derived from the Hebrew, ‘Kol El’ meaning either ‘All is God’, or ‘The voice of God’. It is in the line of names which includes Israe-El, Micha-El, Gavri-El and my own Dani-El.
I like to think of Superman as Kol-El – The Voice of God. He was sent to Earth to remind us of God’s message, and to help us hear God’s still small voice in the world. Superman’s core values are Jewish values; he pursues truth, justice and the American way. Truth and Justice may seem obvious as Jewish values, but if we take the American way to represent the words of the Declaration of Independence ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ we can again see that Judaism is present.
When Superman was sent to earth by his parents; his father said to him about us: ‘They only lack the light to show them the way. For this reason, above all-their capacity for good-I have sent them you.’ Superman was sent to earth to help bring out the good in us, to help us to be the best we can be, and to make this world a better place.
However, Superman is only able to accomplish his purpose on earth when he stays true to his heroic identity. The ‘S’, emblazoned on his chest, and the cape are not the costume, they are his true essence. The costume which Superman dons is the two piece suit of Clark Kent and the cowardice which accompanies it. He is unique amongst the Superheroes; Spiderman is really Peter Parker, and Batman is really Bruce Wayne – they conceal their humanity and assume a costume to be heroes. Superman, on the other hand, strips himself of his heroic qualities to become human; heroism is his nature, humanity is his costume.
This is the disturbing truth concealed in the Superman stories; when the man of steel looks at human society, he sees us as weak, cowardly and unheroic. Clark Kent is his attempt to assimilate into this culture. We require a saviour from Krypton to save us, as we are incapable of saving ourselves. In a comparable vein, neither Peter Parker nor Bruce Wayne are heroes; they need to conceal their human identity, and don a mask, so that they may behave in a heroic way as Spiderman and Batman respectively.
Why can’t humans be heroes? Why do comic book creators require that their heroes come from distant planets or conceal their humanity in masks and costumes? Why is it so unbelievable that humans are capable of heroism?
When we look at the world around us, it is disturbing to see just how similar our reality is to the fantasy created in comic-books. After all, it is our reality on which the fantasy is based. In today’s society, it is easy to spot the villains; it is much harder, however, to locate the heroes. This past year we have witnessed gunmen going on rampages in Tuscon, where Congressowman Giffords was shot, in Carson City and in several other places across the country. We are still suffering the after effects of the greed which brought the global economy to a standstill. And we have listened as the voices of bigotry and hatred have grown louder, both in the Middle East and closer to home.
If this is what humanity has become, is it any surprise that we require a superhero to come down from a distant planet to save us? If this is what humanity has become, is it any surprise that humanity and heroism are adversarial terms instead of interchangeable ones? If this is what humanity has become, is it any surprise that human nature is often used as an excuse for someone’s negative qualities rather than their positive ones?
In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super.
Superheroes present us with a magic solution for the problems and ills within society. It is highly reminiscent of the messianic idea which dominated Judaism from the destruction of the Second Temple through to the birth of Reform Judaism. Our ancestors accepted their situation as oppressed, humiliated and landless because they accepted an idea that a Messiah would eventually come and save them. They accepted an imperfect world, and more significantly, they accepted their powerlessness to change it. They waited for their Messiah to come, and we are still waiting.
Reform Judaism said something different. We rejected the idea that a Messiah would come and save us, and instead we developed an understanding of a Messianic Age. This time would not come about as a result of God or an external superhero.
Instead, we will be the builders of a Messianic Age.
We will be the masters of our destiny.
We will not wait for the world to become a better place; we will begin the work of making our world better.
The wait for a Messiah encouraged passivity; the need for a Messianic Age is a call to action. We need to hear the call, and we need to respond!
Becoming humans who are super, and repairing the entire world may appear like quite a daunting task, but we achieve it one good deed at a time. The Jewish idea of Tikkun Olam, repairing the world, is built upon the idea that every positive action, no matter how small, helps to make the world a better place, and takes us one step further on the path to fixing our broken planet. Mitzvot are accumulated, and they grow beyond what could initially have been imagined.
Fred Scarf and Shiri Gumbiner met in Study Hall in 2004 during their freshman year of High School in California, and they soon became best friends, going everywhere together. They had plans for the future, and were looking forward to eventually attending their High School prom together. When they met Shiri had already been diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer, and despite the aggressive treatment she received, she passed away that August, when she should have been preparing for her sophomore year.
Fred wanted to do something to honor the memory of his friend, but as a 15 year old he was uncertain about where to start. In a Barnes and Noble, he stumbled across a book: “How to Form a Nonprofit Corporation.” Despite the fact that this seemed like an impossible goal, he also realized it would be the perfect way to honor Shiri. During that year he divided his time between homework and filling in the mountain of paperwork required to set up a 501c3.
His initial aim was to raise money to fund research into finding a cure for osteosarcoma, and he did this by selling t-shirts, which simply said: ‘I’m fighting bone cancer by wearing this shirt’. But he soon realized there were other ways that he could make a difference, and honor the memory of his friend. Shiri was never able to attend her High School Prom, and Fred knew that many other teenagers were also missing out on this opportunity. So in 2007, he set about organizing a prom for teens with life-threatening illnesses, giving these patients an opportunity to enjoy that special night that everyone looks forward to and remembers. At the first prom, there were 16 teenagers. At the most recent prom, held at the Madame Tussauds Museum in California, hundreds of young people attended, many of them taking time out from their treatment to be there.
In 2008 Fred was a recipient of a Diller Teen Tikkun Olam Award, and in 2010 he was recognized as one of CNN’s heroes. Fred wanted to honor the memory of his friend and to help other people in a similar situation. He started out small and he has made a tremendous difference in the lives of hundreds if not thousands of young people. He is a human who is super, offering a heroic example we can seek to emulate.
Rabbi Shimon ben Zoma asks the question in Pirkei Avot: ‘eyzeh hoo giboor?’ ‘Who is a hero?’ And he answers; the hero is the one who suppresses his evil inclination, the yetzer harah. I agree with Shimon ben Zoma, but I would phrase my answer slightly differently. The hero is the one who maximizes his good inclination, the yetzer tov.
We are heroes when we pursue what is good and right. We are heroes when we act courageously in the pursuit of justice. And we are heroes when we help to make the world a better place. When it comes to heroism, we always have a choice. Superman could have hidden his powers, or used them for sinister purposes; instead he chose to be a hero. He chose to follow his good inclination and use his powers to fight for what is right. We need to make the same decision, behaving in a way which is worthy of our best qualities.
I would like to clarify that I am not suggesting that we need to be perfect or infallible; on the contrary, many of our heroes were far from it. Moses, who like Superman was destined to be a guiding light, leading the Israelites to freedom, certainly had his flaws. He tried to avoid God’s call, at times he lacked faith, he was insecure, absent from his family and had a tendency to lose his temper. But Moses overcame his shortcomings to find the good within them; I believe it was Moses’ imperfections that helped make him the person that he was and helped him lead us to be the people we would become.
Even Superman, our Jewish man of steel, was fallible. When exposed to Kryptonite he became weak and frail, and he would on occasion succumb to his anger and seek revenge. But every day was a new day to make it right; every day was another opportunity for heroism to triumph. Being super and heroic does not mean being perfect in an imperfect world; being super and heroic means trying to make our imperfect world a better place. To be superhuman is an impossibility. Such a thing does not exist, nor should it exist. But to be a human who is capable of super acts – therein lies a word of possibility.
In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super.
When Abraham received his call from God, he was told ‘Lech Lecha’ – ‘Go forth!’ This enigmatic phrase called on him to undertake a journey to an unknown destination. But it also called on him to discover himself, as the Hebrew could also be translated as ‘go to yourself.’ To be the Patriarch of the Jewish people, he did not simply have to journey to a promised land; he had to discover the promise within.
This Rosh Hashannah, as we begin our Jewish new year, I am committing to undertake my own Lech Lecha. Just like Abraham, I do not know the destination to which I am journeying, but I know how it begins. It begins with the internal journey; it begins with self-reflection. I will take time to discover what is inside me, who I am and who I want to be. Then I will attempt to begin the journey towards heroism.
Abraham did not undertake his journey alone; he had a community to support him. Looking out at all of you, my new community; I ask, who will join me? Who will join me on this journey of Lech Lecha? Who will search within themselves to discover the courage, righteousness, and heroism that exists within us all? Who will join me to try to make a difference one mitzvah at a time, until together we can save the world. Together we can ascend Sinai, the mountain of our human potential, reaching up to the stars; rather than looking up to them for salvation.
This coming year, how will we change the world? Whom will we protect? What are we willing to fight for?
The story is told of a man who came up to Heaven, the angels asked him questions about his life and the way he lived. As the final question one angel asked him: ‘Do you have any scars?’ The man was puzzled and thought for a moment before responding ‘No, none that I can think of.’ The angel looked at him and said: ‘So was there nothing worth fighting for?’
The story does not mean that we have to go out into the world ready for a physical fight, but it does suggest that we should be prepared to ‘fight for what is right’ and be prepared to bear the emotional scars and bruises. Humanity is something worth fighting for. Being a hero is not always easy, and it can be difficult to make a difference, but we must be prepared for the struggle.
This new Jewish year, we must fight to make humanity worthy of heroism. We must fight to make humanity synonymous with heroism. We must fight to make humanity heroic.
Kal-El, a nice Jewish boy from Krypton, was endowed with super powers. He chose to use these super powers for the good of humanity, and so he became Superman. Each one of us has the power to be a superhero; each one of us has been endowed with gifts to make a heroic contribution to society. If we can do this, then we will not need a super-human to come and save us, for we will have saved ourselves, saved each other, and in turn, helped save the world.
In a world where no-one can be super-human, we need to be humans who are super.
Shana Tova.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Noach - Many languages or just one
In my family, my sister and I have very few complaints about the way that our parents raised us. I still regret the fact that I never got the Millennium Falcon, but over the years I have come to terms with this loss. The one major complaint, which continues as a subject of heated debates, is that fact that my parents did not bring us up bilingually. My mother’s first language is Hebrew and my father’s is English; so we were perfectly positioned to be fluent in both. But for reasons, which are still discussed, and as a result of the scholarship of the day, we were raised only speaking English. I have developed a comfort with Hebrew over the years; but I really wonder what might have been different had I really been bilingual. For one, it would have made my rabbinical studies significantly easier…
While in my family we tend to blame my mother for not speaking to us in Hebrew, perhaps we should really blame those people who decided to build the Tower of Babel. For it was as a result of their endeavor that God filled the world with a multiplicity of languages. And this eventually led to the early 1980s, and my upbringing with just one language.
Following on from the story of the flood it is not so surprising that the people of the time said ‘come, let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky’ (Genesis 11:3). However, according to the text, the building project was not motivated by a desire to survive a potential future natural disaster, instead they desired: ‘to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world’ (Genesis 11:3). This anonymous group of people was united by their common language and their common goal.
From the text it is evident that God was less than pleased by the prospect of the world uniting together as one, to build a tower with its top reaching up to the heavens. When reading the text it almost appears that their ability to build this tower will be symbolic of their ability to achieve anything they desire, a situation, which God is eager to prevent. The solution to this problem appears to be the common language and so God says: ‘Let us, then, go down and confound their speech’ (Genesis 11:7). Following the introduction of a diversity of languages God ‘scattered them from there over the face of the whole earth’ (Genesis 11:8), causing exactly the situation they sought to avoid. But then the place receives a name ‘Babel’ (Genesis 11:9), something which they had aspired to.
The story poses a whole variety of questions: Why was God scared by the potential of all humanity working together? Do we understand the introduction of different languages as a punishment or as a method to stop human cooperation? And what does God gain by scattering humanity across the planet?
We can imagine what the world would be like with all of humanity united by one language, but this appears to run contrary to God’s plan. Perhaps the clue is in the story which immediately precedes the Tower of Babel. The story of Noah reasserts the fact that we are all descended from the same source; all of us are the children of Noah, as we were all the children of Adam and Eve. And yet God does not desire a world of uniformity and conformity; God wants a world filled with difference and diversity.
The image at the end of the story of Noah is that of the rainbow, a natural phenomenon, where seven different colors come together to form something so much more beautiful and awe-inspiring than the mere sum of its parts. A red or orange bow in the sky would look nice, but a rainbow with seven distinct colors is something spectacular. Perhaps the rainbow is not just the sign of the covenant with Noah, but also the symbol of what humanity could achieve when embracing our differences alongside our similarities.
It is easy to work with, befriend and support people who are like us. The challenge is to work with people who are different, to befriend the stranger and to support people from different races, religions and cultures. Then we will not worry about building towers; we will instead celebrate our combined rainbows.
While in my family we tend to blame my mother for not speaking to us in Hebrew, perhaps we should really blame those people who decided to build the Tower of Babel. For it was as a result of their endeavor that God filled the world with a multiplicity of languages. And this eventually led to the early 1980s, and my upbringing with just one language.
Following on from the story of the flood it is not so surprising that the people of the time said ‘come, let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky’ (Genesis 11:3). However, according to the text, the building project was not motivated by a desire to survive a potential future natural disaster, instead they desired: ‘to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world’ (Genesis 11:3). This anonymous group of people was united by their common language and their common goal.
From the text it is evident that God was less than pleased by the prospect of the world uniting together as one, to build a tower with its top reaching up to the heavens. When reading the text it almost appears that their ability to build this tower will be symbolic of their ability to achieve anything they desire, a situation, which God is eager to prevent. The solution to this problem appears to be the common language and so God says: ‘Let us, then, go down and confound their speech’ (Genesis 11:7). Following the introduction of a diversity of languages God ‘scattered them from there over the face of the whole earth’ (Genesis 11:8), causing exactly the situation they sought to avoid. But then the place receives a name ‘Babel’ (Genesis 11:9), something which they had aspired to.
The story poses a whole variety of questions: Why was God scared by the potential of all humanity working together? Do we understand the introduction of different languages as a punishment or as a method to stop human cooperation? And what does God gain by scattering humanity across the planet?
We can imagine what the world would be like with all of humanity united by one language, but this appears to run contrary to God’s plan. Perhaps the clue is in the story which immediately precedes the Tower of Babel. The story of Noah reasserts the fact that we are all descended from the same source; all of us are the children of Noah, as we were all the children of Adam and Eve. And yet God does not desire a world of uniformity and conformity; God wants a world filled with difference and diversity.
The image at the end of the story of Noah is that of the rainbow, a natural phenomenon, where seven different colors come together to form something so much more beautiful and awe-inspiring than the mere sum of its parts. A red or orange bow in the sky would look nice, but a rainbow with seven distinct colors is something spectacular. Perhaps the rainbow is not just the sign of the covenant with Noah, but also the symbol of what humanity could achieve when embracing our differences alongside our similarities.
It is easy to work with, befriend and support people who are like us. The challenge is to work with people who are different, to befriend the stranger and to support people from different races, religions and cultures. Then we will not worry about building towers; we will instead celebrate our combined rainbows.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Sermon: Shabbat Bereishit - Any price is to high, and any price is worth paying
I know that it might not be cool to admit, but I enjoy the Star Trek movies, and even the television series. I wouldn’t classify myself as a Trekkie; I can’t recall details from every episode, I don’t speak any Klingon, and I struggle to do the Vulcan salute, based on our own hand shape for the Priestly blessing. But I like the stories, characters, and I actually think there is a lot that we can learn from those brave men and women who boldly went where no man had gone before.
As many of you will know Captain Spock, from the Planet Vulcan, was noted for his dedication to living his life by logic and reason, with no allowances for emotional responses. In one of the movies, when he himself is about to die, there is a moving exchange with his close friend and commanding officer, Admiral James T. Kirk. With Spock accepting the fact that he is about to die, he reassures Kirk: ‘were I to invoke logic, logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few’. There is no arguing with the Vulcan logic.
And yet in the next installment of the movie series, Kirk and the crew of The Enterprise risk their ship, their careers and their lives to save Spock. And in the poignant moment where the two friends are reunited, Spock is unable to understand why they have come back to rescue him. To that question Kirk simply responds: ‘Because the needs of the one … outweigh the needs of the many’. Human emotion, devoid of logic and reason, can sometimes alter the balance between what should be done, and what must be done.
For the people of Israel, and Jews around the world, this debate between logic and emotion has been played out in the case of the release of Gilad Shalit in exchange for 1,027 convicted terrorists.
On Tuesday last week, as we prepared for the celebration of Sukkot, it was announced that a deal had been signed between the Israeli Government and Hamas for the release of Gilad. When I first heard the news I was overwhelmed with joy and excitement. I could honestly not focus on any of the work at hand, and instead found myself compulsively searching the internet looking for stories and articles, desperate for every piece of information, which would further prove that the reports were true. At the same time there was a part of me that remained hesitant and unconvinced, fearing that something would derail the initiative. I experienced a sense of excitement marked by suspicion, hope mixed with fear.
As that week progressed it became increasingly clear that the exchange would go through and that Gilad would finally be returning home. And at the same time we learnt about who would be moving in the opposite direction. Ahlam Tamimi, the woman who drove a suicide bomber to the Sbarro Pizza restaurant in Jerusalem, which killed 15 people out for lunch. The perpetrators of the lynching of two Israeli soldiers in the Gaza Strip, Abed el-Aziz Salha and Rami Ibrahim were also on the list. And Abed al-Hadi Ganaim who in 1989 seized control of the 405 bus and drove it of a cliff, killing 16 of its passengers. As the list of the 477 prisoners to be exchanged in the first stage of the transfer was made public, there was resentment at the price being paid, anger over punishments going unserved, and fear as to what these murderers and terrorists may do in the future.
And then on Tuesday morning we awoke to pictures of Gilad Shalit as he began his walk to freedom. He was recognizable as the young man in the picture which was on our bimah until Wednesday; but he looked paler and almost emaciated. He walked hesitantly, but for many who had feared that this day would never come it was simply a relief to see him alive and free. We shed tears of joy for a son being reunited with his parents. We celebrated Israel’s commitment to bringing every child home. And we watched the embraces which he received from the Prime Minister, the Chief of Staff and finally his parents.
And at the same time we were forced to watch the scenes from the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, where terrorists and murderers were given a heroes welcome. We listened as the crowds celebrated their triumph and called for more Israeli soldiers to be kidnapped to free other Palestinian prisoners. And I wondered about what hopes there are for our shattered peace process.
It is not logical that 280 people serving life sentences should be released from prison unrepentant and unreformed. It is not logical to release terrorists who have been responsible for death and destruction, providing them the opportunity to kill and maim again in the future. And it is not logical that one person’s life is worth the lives of 1,027 others.
When looked at through the eyes of logic, this is a terrible deal. It encourages terrorists to kidnap more Israeli soldiers. It allows murderers to go free to kill again. And it sends a message that what cannot be achieved by negotiation can be gained by force.
But it is not always about what is logical. Sometimes the logical course of action is the wrong course of action. Sometimes it is about the heart ruling the head. Sometimes the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
In this week’s Torah portion of Bereishit we read about the creation of the world, and how we are all descended from Adam and Eve. The Rabbis were fascinated by the idea that the whole of humanity descends from one single human being, and they interpreted these verses in a variety of directions. In one interpretation, the Jerusalem Talmud suggests that we are all descended from one human being so as to teach us that whoever destroys a soul, it is as though that person destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is as though that person saved the entire world. Within Jewish tradition, while it is important to save as many lives as possible, the saving of a single life is given a supreme value, equivalent to saving the entire world. Gilad Shalit was that single life, saved by the Government of Israel in a deal, which despite many many grave reservations, brought him home safe and sound.
On October 7th 2000 three Israeli soldiers: Adi Avitan, Benny Avraham and Omar Sawaid were abducted across the Lebanese border by Hezbollah terrorists disguised as UN soldiers. Their cause was adopted by the British Jewish youth movements, who campaigned tirelessly for information about their fate, and for their release. At that time Haim Avraham, the father of Benny travelled tirelessly around the world meeting with Jewish groups, Synagogues and politicians to campaign for the release of his son. I had the opportunity to meet him on several occasions, and these encounters left an indelible mark.
Haim and his family were trapped in an unbearable situation, not knowing the fate of their son, and whether he was dead or alive. They clung to a hope that Benny would return to them safe and sound, but they worried about how he might be suffering at the hands of Hezbollah and they feared that he may already have been killed. He was stuck in a state of limbo, unable to move forward with his own life, without knowing about the fate of his son. When a soldier is killed, the family is informed and able to begin the process of mourning. But Haim, despite losing his son, could not grieve or mourn; the uncertainty left him trapped in a situation of daily despair, anguish and mental torture.
Almost three and a half years after his son was captured, a deal was agreed between Hezbollah and Israel. Over four hundred prisoners were released in exchange for the bodies of Adi, Benny and Omar. And finally Haim Avraham could begin to mourn for the loss of his son.
According to Jewish law this imperative to redeem captives is a mitzvah rabba – a commandment of great importance. In the Talmud it explains the reasoning behind this by teaching that captivity is worse than famine, the sword or death, because it encompasses all of these three punishments. And it is not just the captive who suffers these trials, but everyone who cares for him is also afflicted by pain and suffering. Redeeming the captives was so significant that Maimonides said that money intended for feeding or clothing the poor should be diverted and used instead for redeeming captives. And it was even permissible to sell a Torah scroll if the money raised would help bring people back home.
This week the State of Israel fulfilled this imperative and brought Gilad Shalit back home. We are filled with joy at the sight of Gilad back with his family, but we know that Israel has paid a heavy price to buy his freedom.
In his article about the release of Gilad Shalit, Rabbi Avi Weiss drew our attention to the contrast between the words of Ecclesiastes and the interpretation of the great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai.
In Ecclesiastes we read that famous passage: ‘A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven… A time for killing and a time for healing… a time for weeping and a time for laughing… a time for love and a time for hate, a time for war and a time for peace.’ Ecclesiastes imagines a world of ‘either-or’, a world in which there are set times for different emotions, we do not simultaneously love and hate, but independently and separately we experience our emotions.
Yehuda Amichai takes issue with the words of Eccelsiastes, in his poem: ‘A Man in His Life’, he writes.
‘A man doesn't have time in his life to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have a season for every purpose.
Ecclesiastes was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,’
We do not experience our emotions independently. There are times in our lives when we love and hate, when we laugh and cry. Life is not black and white; it is a rainbow of colors and shades, blended and mixed together in different proportions at different times throughout our lives. The release of Gilad Shalit is one of those moments when we feel the stark contrast between positive and negative emotions. We celebrate and we mourn, we are filled with joy and regret; there is hope and there is fear.
The Jewish wedding is a reminder of this important lesson. At the end of the ceremony, a moment of supreme joy, as we celebrate two people who have committed themselves to each other in love; a glass is broken as a reminder that our world is still broken. The shattered glass is a highly potent symbol, once broken it cannot ever be repaired. On the occasion of Gilad’s release the broken glass represents the hundreds of lives shattered by terrorists who have been granted their freedom. We experience joy and sadness.
And yet on Tuesday I was so very proud to be a Jew and to be a Zionist.
On Tuesday Israel made a statement about the type of country she is. A country which cares so deeply for human life that it is willing to release 1,027 terrorists to save one of its children.
On Tuesday Israel demonstrated that commitment which she has to every single one of her children, all of whom are required to serve in the army to defend the Jewish State. There was something so powerful about watching Staff Sergeant Shalit first saluting Prime Minister Netanyahu and the Chief of General Staff, only to be embraced by them moments later. This was not about rank or status it was about the joy the entire country felt at the return of their son.
We cannot know the consequences of releasing 1,027 terrorists from Israeli prisons, and if history is any guide the majority of them will in all likelihood return to their violent struggle.
But for now we can celebrate the fact that Gilad Shalit is back home. Today we can enjoy our first Shabbat services for over a year without his picture on the bimah. And tonight Gilad has celebrated Shabbat with his family for the first time in over five years.
Any price which Israel was forced to pay was always going to be too high, but any price was always going to be worth paying.
In the international media Israel will often be accused of having a disproportionate response to acts of terror. This week we saw the real inequality and imbalance present in Israeli society; we saw that Israel disproportionally values the life of each and every one of her citizens.
This week we saw Israel fulfilling the dream that she would serve as an Or LeGoyim, a light unto the nations.
This week I am especially proud to be a Zionist and a member of the Jewish family.
As many of you will know Captain Spock, from the Planet Vulcan, was noted for his dedication to living his life by logic and reason, with no allowances for emotional responses. In one of the movies, when he himself is about to die, there is a moving exchange with his close friend and commanding officer, Admiral James T. Kirk. With Spock accepting the fact that he is about to die, he reassures Kirk: ‘were I to invoke logic, logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few’. There is no arguing with the Vulcan logic.
And yet in the next installment of the movie series, Kirk and the crew of The Enterprise risk their ship, their careers and their lives to save Spock. And in the poignant moment where the two friends are reunited, Spock is unable to understand why they have come back to rescue him. To that question Kirk simply responds: ‘Because the needs of the one … outweigh the needs of the many’. Human emotion, devoid of logic and reason, can sometimes alter the balance between what should be done, and what must be done.
For the people of Israel, and Jews around the world, this debate between logic and emotion has been played out in the case of the release of Gilad Shalit in exchange for 1,027 convicted terrorists.
On Tuesday last week, as we prepared for the celebration of Sukkot, it was announced that a deal had been signed between the Israeli Government and Hamas for the release of Gilad. When I first heard the news I was overwhelmed with joy and excitement. I could honestly not focus on any of the work at hand, and instead found myself compulsively searching the internet looking for stories and articles, desperate for every piece of information, which would further prove that the reports were true. At the same time there was a part of me that remained hesitant and unconvinced, fearing that something would derail the initiative. I experienced a sense of excitement marked by suspicion, hope mixed with fear.
As that week progressed it became increasingly clear that the exchange would go through and that Gilad would finally be returning home. And at the same time we learnt about who would be moving in the opposite direction. Ahlam Tamimi, the woman who drove a suicide bomber to the Sbarro Pizza restaurant in Jerusalem, which killed 15 people out for lunch. The perpetrators of the lynching of two Israeli soldiers in the Gaza Strip, Abed el-Aziz Salha and Rami Ibrahim were also on the list. And Abed al-Hadi Ganaim who in 1989 seized control of the 405 bus and drove it of a cliff, killing 16 of its passengers. As the list of the 477 prisoners to be exchanged in the first stage of the transfer was made public, there was resentment at the price being paid, anger over punishments going unserved, and fear as to what these murderers and terrorists may do in the future.
And then on Tuesday morning we awoke to pictures of Gilad Shalit as he began his walk to freedom. He was recognizable as the young man in the picture which was on our bimah until Wednesday; but he looked paler and almost emaciated. He walked hesitantly, but for many who had feared that this day would never come it was simply a relief to see him alive and free. We shed tears of joy for a son being reunited with his parents. We celebrated Israel’s commitment to bringing every child home. And we watched the embraces which he received from the Prime Minister, the Chief of Staff and finally his parents.
And at the same time we were forced to watch the scenes from the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, where terrorists and murderers were given a heroes welcome. We listened as the crowds celebrated their triumph and called for more Israeli soldiers to be kidnapped to free other Palestinian prisoners. And I wondered about what hopes there are for our shattered peace process.
It is not logical that 280 people serving life sentences should be released from prison unrepentant and unreformed. It is not logical to release terrorists who have been responsible for death and destruction, providing them the opportunity to kill and maim again in the future. And it is not logical that one person’s life is worth the lives of 1,027 others.
When looked at through the eyes of logic, this is a terrible deal. It encourages terrorists to kidnap more Israeli soldiers. It allows murderers to go free to kill again. And it sends a message that what cannot be achieved by negotiation can be gained by force.
But it is not always about what is logical. Sometimes the logical course of action is the wrong course of action. Sometimes it is about the heart ruling the head. Sometimes the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.
In this week’s Torah portion of Bereishit we read about the creation of the world, and how we are all descended from Adam and Eve. The Rabbis were fascinated by the idea that the whole of humanity descends from one single human being, and they interpreted these verses in a variety of directions. In one interpretation, the Jerusalem Talmud suggests that we are all descended from one human being so as to teach us that whoever destroys a soul, it is as though that person destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is as though that person saved the entire world. Within Jewish tradition, while it is important to save as many lives as possible, the saving of a single life is given a supreme value, equivalent to saving the entire world. Gilad Shalit was that single life, saved by the Government of Israel in a deal, which despite many many grave reservations, brought him home safe and sound.
On October 7th 2000 three Israeli soldiers: Adi Avitan, Benny Avraham and Omar Sawaid were abducted across the Lebanese border by Hezbollah terrorists disguised as UN soldiers. Their cause was adopted by the British Jewish youth movements, who campaigned tirelessly for information about their fate, and for their release. At that time Haim Avraham, the father of Benny travelled tirelessly around the world meeting with Jewish groups, Synagogues and politicians to campaign for the release of his son. I had the opportunity to meet him on several occasions, and these encounters left an indelible mark.
Haim and his family were trapped in an unbearable situation, not knowing the fate of their son, and whether he was dead or alive. They clung to a hope that Benny would return to them safe and sound, but they worried about how he might be suffering at the hands of Hezbollah and they feared that he may already have been killed. He was stuck in a state of limbo, unable to move forward with his own life, without knowing about the fate of his son. When a soldier is killed, the family is informed and able to begin the process of mourning. But Haim, despite losing his son, could not grieve or mourn; the uncertainty left him trapped in a situation of daily despair, anguish and mental torture.
Almost three and a half years after his son was captured, a deal was agreed between Hezbollah and Israel. Over four hundred prisoners were released in exchange for the bodies of Adi, Benny and Omar. And finally Haim Avraham could begin to mourn for the loss of his son.
According to Jewish law this imperative to redeem captives is a mitzvah rabba – a commandment of great importance. In the Talmud it explains the reasoning behind this by teaching that captivity is worse than famine, the sword or death, because it encompasses all of these three punishments. And it is not just the captive who suffers these trials, but everyone who cares for him is also afflicted by pain and suffering. Redeeming the captives was so significant that Maimonides said that money intended for feeding or clothing the poor should be diverted and used instead for redeeming captives. And it was even permissible to sell a Torah scroll if the money raised would help bring people back home.
This week the State of Israel fulfilled this imperative and brought Gilad Shalit back home. We are filled with joy at the sight of Gilad back with his family, but we know that Israel has paid a heavy price to buy his freedom.
In his article about the release of Gilad Shalit, Rabbi Avi Weiss drew our attention to the contrast between the words of Ecclesiastes and the interpretation of the great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai.
In Ecclesiastes we read that famous passage: ‘A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven… A time for killing and a time for healing… a time for weeping and a time for laughing… a time for love and a time for hate, a time for war and a time for peace.’ Ecclesiastes imagines a world of ‘either-or’, a world in which there are set times for different emotions, we do not simultaneously love and hate, but independently and separately we experience our emotions.
Yehuda Amichai takes issue with the words of Eccelsiastes, in his poem: ‘A Man in His Life’, he writes.
‘A man doesn't have time in his life to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have a season for every purpose.
Ecclesiastes was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,’
We do not experience our emotions independently. There are times in our lives when we love and hate, when we laugh and cry. Life is not black and white; it is a rainbow of colors and shades, blended and mixed together in different proportions at different times throughout our lives. The release of Gilad Shalit is one of those moments when we feel the stark contrast between positive and negative emotions. We celebrate and we mourn, we are filled with joy and regret; there is hope and there is fear.
The Jewish wedding is a reminder of this important lesson. At the end of the ceremony, a moment of supreme joy, as we celebrate two people who have committed themselves to each other in love; a glass is broken as a reminder that our world is still broken. The shattered glass is a highly potent symbol, once broken it cannot ever be repaired. On the occasion of Gilad’s release the broken glass represents the hundreds of lives shattered by terrorists who have been granted their freedom. We experience joy and sadness.
And yet on Tuesday I was so very proud to be a Jew and to be a Zionist.
On Tuesday Israel made a statement about the type of country she is. A country which cares so deeply for human life that it is willing to release 1,027 terrorists to save one of its children.
On Tuesday Israel demonstrated that commitment which she has to every single one of her children, all of whom are required to serve in the army to defend the Jewish State. There was something so powerful about watching Staff Sergeant Shalit first saluting Prime Minister Netanyahu and the Chief of General Staff, only to be embraced by them moments later. This was not about rank or status it was about the joy the entire country felt at the return of their son.
We cannot know the consequences of releasing 1,027 terrorists from Israeli prisons, and if history is any guide the majority of them will in all likelihood return to their violent struggle.
But for now we can celebrate the fact that Gilad Shalit is back home. Today we can enjoy our first Shabbat services for over a year without his picture on the bimah. And tonight Gilad has celebrated Shabbat with his family for the first time in over five years.
Any price which Israel was forced to pay was always going to be too high, but any price was always going to be worth paying.
In the international media Israel will often be accused of having a disproportionate response to acts of terror. This week we saw the real inequality and imbalance present in Israeli society; we saw that Israel disproportionally values the life of each and every one of her citizens.
This week we saw Israel fulfilling the dream that she would serve as an Or LeGoyim, a light unto the nations.
This week I am especially proud to be a Zionist and a member of the Jewish family.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Bereishit - In the Beginning
The age old question has always been; what is our purpose here on earth? Could the answer be found in the very first Torah portion?
At the beginning of Bereishit’s second story of creation, there is a sense in which the world is waiting for humans to be created. The world lies barren 'because the Eternal God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no human to till the soil' (Genesis 2:5). The idea that there is no point to a complete creation without humans to nurture the land gives human beings a great deal of purpose, accompanied by a great deal of responsibility.
Humanity is effectively the key which unlocks creation. This idea stands in stark contrast to the first creation story, which has a fully functioning world before man and woman are created. We are the final act of creation, and the world appears to be fully functional with or without us.
Yet in the second story of creation, not only are we humans important for the functioning of the earth, but we are also literally a part of it: 'the Eternal God formed man from the dust of the earth' (Genesis 2:7). The very name for the first man, Adam, comes from the Hebrew word adamah, which means earth. We come from the earth, and our presence on the earth enables it to flourish.
Though God ‘planted a garden’ (Genesis 2:8), we were the ones created to till its soil. There is a sacred partnership that exists between us and God from the very beginning of creation. It is not just our bodies that were made in the image of God, but the purpose of those bodies as well – we were created to be God’s partners here on earth, to complete the divine act of creation.
According to the Talmud, this partnership is renewed each and every week when we recite the Vayechulu (Genesis 2:1-3). Words in prayer are obviously important, but we must ask ourselves: what are we doing to fulfil our part of the partnership?
Each one of us should ask whether our presence on earth serves to help with the completion of God's creation – Tikkun Olam (repairing the world); or whether our presence is the reason the world needs to be repaired?
In the Talmud, this very subject is debated by Hillel and Shammai, who conclude that it would have been better if we were not created. One need only pick up a newspaper to read about the ways in which we are harming God’s creation rather than tending to it, damaging our environment rather than caring for it, and destroying nature rather than nurturing it.
As we once again return to the story of creation in Bereishit, we have an opportunity to reconnect with our original purpose here on earth. In a week, the Hebrew month of Cheshvan begins, which has been reclaimed as Jewish Social Action Month. With an entire month devoted to social action and Tikkun Olam, there is no better time than now to act upon our obligation, and reclaim the honour of truly being God’s partner in the ongoing work of creation. So we can no longer ask; what our purpose is, but rather if we are fulfilling it?
At the beginning of Bereishit’s second story of creation, there is a sense in which the world is waiting for humans to be created. The world lies barren 'because the Eternal God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no human to till the soil' (Genesis 2:5). The idea that there is no point to a complete creation without humans to nurture the land gives human beings a great deal of purpose, accompanied by a great deal of responsibility.
Humanity is effectively the key which unlocks creation. This idea stands in stark contrast to the first creation story, which has a fully functioning world before man and woman are created. We are the final act of creation, and the world appears to be fully functional with or without us.
Yet in the second story of creation, not only are we humans important for the functioning of the earth, but we are also literally a part of it: 'the Eternal God formed man from the dust of the earth' (Genesis 2:7). The very name for the first man, Adam, comes from the Hebrew word adamah, which means earth. We come from the earth, and our presence on the earth enables it to flourish.
Though God ‘planted a garden’ (Genesis 2:8), we were the ones created to till its soil. There is a sacred partnership that exists between us and God from the very beginning of creation. It is not just our bodies that were made in the image of God, but the purpose of those bodies as well – we were created to be God’s partners here on earth, to complete the divine act of creation.
According to the Talmud, this partnership is renewed each and every week when we recite the Vayechulu (Genesis 2:1-3). Words in prayer are obviously important, but we must ask ourselves: what are we doing to fulfil our part of the partnership?
Each one of us should ask whether our presence on earth serves to help with the completion of God's creation – Tikkun Olam (repairing the world); or whether our presence is the reason the world needs to be repaired?
In the Talmud, this very subject is debated by Hillel and Shammai, who conclude that it would have been better if we were not created. One need only pick up a newspaper to read about the ways in which we are harming God’s creation rather than tending to it, damaging our environment rather than caring for it, and destroying nature rather than nurturing it.
As we once again return to the story of creation in Bereishit, we have an opportunity to reconnect with our original purpose here on earth. In a week, the Hebrew month of Cheshvan begins, which has been reclaimed as Jewish Social Action Month. With an entire month devoted to social action and Tikkun Olam, there is no better time than now to act upon our obligation, and reclaim the honour of truly being God’s partner in the ongoing work of creation. So we can no longer ask; what our purpose is, but rather if we are fulfilling it?
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Blogging Elul - Judaism, a religion of preparation
The month of Elul has now begun, and with it the countdown towards Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. One of the striking features of Judaism is the way in which preparation forms an important part of our calendar and general religious observance.
In most religions the call to prayer marks the beginning of the formal service. The muezzin ascends the minaret and sings the words of the adhan calling Muslims to the Mosque for the service to begin; and the bells ring out to mark the beginning of Church services. However, in Judaism the Barechu – which is our call to prayer, appears in the midst of the service. In our morning service, the prior sections of birkat hashachar – the morning blessings and pesukei dezimra – the passages of song, prepare us for the formal call to prayer, when we rise to enter into God’s presence. And according to the Mishnah (Berachot 5:1) The pious men (hasidim harishonim) of old used to wait an hour before praying in order that they might concentrate their thoughts upon their Father in Heaven.
The 49 days of the Omer, which we begin counting on the second night of Pesach, are a way of preparing ourselves for the festival of Shavuot and the giving of Torah. Our ancestors in the wilderness did not immediately reach Mount Sinai for God’s revelation, and our calendar recreates this with the Omer, as we count towards the festival of Shavuot. We move from the physical freedom, which we acquired at Pesach, to the spiritual freedom, which we acquire with Torah on Shavuot. Each night we recite the blessing for the Omer and we count, so as to consciously mark the move and transition from Pesach to Shavuot.
And before we come to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we have the month of Elul. All too often when we have jobs which need to be done we wait until the last minute to do them. In the lead up to Yom Kippur our jobs are teshuva – repentance, tefilla – prayer and tzedakkah – charity (deeds of righteousness), all of which avert the evil decree. Rather than waiting until Yom Kippur we have the ten days from Rosh Hashanah, and the thirty days of Elul to begin work on these tasks. Each day of Elul we sound the shofar, which calls us to attention and reminds us that Yom Teruah - the day of the Shofar (another name for Rosh Hashanah) is approaching and that we should begin preparing for the High Holy Days today.
With all of this preparation it is interesting to note that Pesach, is the only Torah festival with no obvious lead up (even for Sukkot we begin our work immediately at the end of Yom Kippur, putting the first nail into our Sukkah). Perhaps this element of the calendar is a reminder that our ancestors were forced to leave Egypt in such a rush that there was not even time for the bread to rise. And so our calendar includes no obvious time for preparation.
Through Elul our calendar is urging us to do what we can today to prepare for our High Holy Day festivals, and to not wait until tomorrow. Before we know it Rosh Hashanah will be upon us, and rather than the marathon of Elul, we will have the sprint of the Ten Days of Repentance (and eventually just the 25 hours of Yom Kippur). As Hillel used to say: “If not now, when?”
In most religions the call to prayer marks the beginning of the formal service. The muezzin ascends the minaret and sings the words of the adhan calling Muslims to the Mosque for the service to begin; and the bells ring out to mark the beginning of Church services. However, in Judaism the Barechu – which is our call to prayer, appears in the midst of the service. In our morning service, the prior sections of birkat hashachar – the morning blessings and pesukei dezimra – the passages of song, prepare us for the formal call to prayer, when we rise to enter into God’s presence. And according to the Mishnah (Berachot 5:1) The pious men (hasidim harishonim) of old used to wait an hour before praying in order that they might concentrate their thoughts upon their Father in Heaven.
The 49 days of the Omer, which we begin counting on the second night of Pesach, are a way of preparing ourselves for the festival of Shavuot and the giving of Torah. Our ancestors in the wilderness did not immediately reach Mount Sinai for God’s revelation, and our calendar recreates this with the Omer, as we count towards the festival of Shavuot. We move from the physical freedom, which we acquired at Pesach, to the spiritual freedom, which we acquire with Torah on Shavuot. Each night we recite the blessing for the Omer and we count, so as to consciously mark the move and transition from Pesach to Shavuot.
And before we come to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we have the month of Elul. All too often when we have jobs which need to be done we wait until the last minute to do them. In the lead up to Yom Kippur our jobs are teshuva – repentance, tefilla – prayer and tzedakkah – charity (deeds of righteousness), all of which avert the evil decree. Rather than waiting until Yom Kippur we have the ten days from Rosh Hashanah, and the thirty days of Elul to begin work on these tasks. Each day of Elul we sound the shofar, which calls us to attention and reminds us that Yom Teruah - the day of the Shofar (another name for Rosh Hashanah) is approaching and that we should begin preparing for the High Holy Days today.
With all of this preparation it is interesting to note that Pesach, is the only Torah festival with no obvious lead up (even for Sukkot we begin our work immediately at the end of Yom Kippur, putting the first nail into our Sukkah). Perhaps this element of the calendar is a reminder that our ancestors were forced to leave Egypt in such a rush that there was not even time for the bread to rise. And so our calendar includes no obvious time for preparation.
Through Elul our calendar is urging us to do what we can today to prepare for our High Holy Day festivals, and to not wait until tomorrow. Before we know it Rosh Hashanah will be upon us, and rather than the marathon of Elul, we will have the sprint of the Ten Days of Repentance (and eventually just the 25 hours of Yom Kippur). As Hillel used to say: “If not now, when?”
Monday, August 15, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Vaetchanan (Deuteronomy 5:1-24) - It's our Covenant
While I have no specific memory of the event, I love the idea that, together with all Jews of every generation, I stood at Mount Sinai when God gave us the Ten Commandments. We were also all witness to God’s revelation; and by reclaiming the Sinai experience as our own we include ourselves in the community who actually accepted God’s laws and commandments.
One may consider that this midrashic idea began in this week’s Torah portion. Standing on the banks of the Jordan, about to enter the Holy Land, Devarim is essentially Moses’ farewell address to the people, and a history lesson recounting the previous forty years. And this week he recalls the Sinai experience, although here he speaks of a place called Horeb (a subject for another Dvar Torah).
Having gathered the Israelites together Moses declares: ‘Adonai made a covenant with us at Horeb. It was not with our parents that Adonai made this covenant, but with us, the living, every one of us who is here today’ (Deuteronomy 5:2-3). At first glance this may seem reasonable enough, and it provides an appropriate preamble for the recollection of the Ten Commandments. The only problem is that there is a potential factual inaccuracy.
The Israelites stood at Sinai (Horeb) and God did speak to us there; however (aside from the later midrash) it was not the same community which now stood on the banks of the Jordan. After the spies gave their false account of the Promised Land, God decreed that ‘they shall not see the land which I swore to their ancestors’ (Numbers 14:23) – Moses even recalled this event in last week’s Torah portion (Deuteronomy 1:35). The community about to enter Israel was the next generation; at most they were children when God revealed Godself at Sinai. They were certainly not the generation who publicly declared: ‘Naaseh venishmah – we will do and we will listen’ (Exodus 24:7).
Despite this, Moses explicitly makes it clear that the covenant was not made with that previous generation, but that it was a covenant ‘with us, the living’. On the one hand this was a statement to the people about to enter the Land of Israel; they too stood at Sinai and made the covenant with God. But it was also an eternal statement which could be read by each generation anew. And today, as we read Vaetchanan, we hear Moses’ words that the covenant was made ‘with us, the living’. We therefore also stood at Sinai, as the midrash suggests, witnessing God’s revelation firsthand. Despite no actual memory of the event, we remember that we too were signatories to the covenant with God.
This week’s Torah portion appears to begin midway through a story as Moses continues ‘I pleaded with Adonai at that time, saying “…Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan…’ (Deuteronomy 3:23-25). The portion division reminds us, as we read Vaetchanan, that Moses will not be joining us in the Promised Land. Despite leading us from slavery to freedom, Moses will not lead us indefinitely. We must be prepared to take ownership of our destiny and our covenant with God. We possess this ability because, even if we don’t remember it, we stood at Sinai, and the covenant was not made with our ancestors, but it was made with us. Knowing this we can journey together into the Promised Land.
One may consider that this midrashic idea began in this week’s Torah portion. Standing on the banks of the Jordan, about to enter the Holy Land, Devarim is essentially Moses’ farewell address to the people, and a history lesson recounting the previous forty years. And this week he recalls the Sinai experience, although here he speaks of a place called Horeb (a subject for another Dvar Torah).
Having gathered the Israelites together Moses declares: ‘Adonai made a covenant with us at Horeb. It was not with our parents that Adonai made this covenant, but with us, the living, every one of us who is here today’ (Deuteronomy 5:2-3). At first glance this may seem reasonable enough, and it provides an appropriate preamble for the recollection of the Ten Commandments. The only problem is that there is a potential factual inaccuracy.
The Israelites stood at Sinai (Horeb) and God did speak to us there; however (aside from the later midrash) it was not the same community which now stood on the banks of the Jordan. After the spies gave their false account of the Promised Land, God decreed that ‘they shall not see the land which I swore to their ancestors’ (Numbers 14:23) – Moses even recalled this event in last week’s Torah portion (Deuteronomy 1:35). The community about to enter Israel was the next generation; at most they were children when God revealed Godself at Sinai. They were certainly not the generation who publicly declared: ‘Naaseh venishmah – we will do and we will listen’ (Exodus 24:7).
Despite this, Moses explicitly makes it clear that the covenant was not made with that previous generation, but that it was a covenant ‘with us, the living’. On the one hand this was a statement to the people about to enter the Land of Israel; they too stood at Sinai and made the covenant with God. But it was also an eternal statement which could be read by each generation anew. And today, as we read Vaetchanan, we hear Moses’ words that the covenant was made ‘with us, the living’. We therefore also stood at Sinai, as the midrash suggests, witnessing God’s revelation firsthand. Despite no actual memory of the event, we remember that we too were signatories to the covenant with God.
This week’s Torah portion appears to begin midway through a story as Moses continues ‘I pleaded with Adonai at that time, saying “…Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan…’ (Deuteronomy 3:23-25). The portion division reminds us, as we read Vaetchanan, that Moses will not be joining us in the Promised Land. Despite leading us from slavery to freedom, Moses will not lead us indefinitely. We must be prepared to take ownership of our destiny and our covenant with God. We possess this ability because, even if we don’t remember it, we stood at Sinai, and the covenant was not made with our ancestors, but it was made with us. Knowing this we can journey together into the Promised Land.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Korach (Numbers 17:6-26) - The Wilderness in 2011
In the midst of a year it is hard to tell exactly how it will be remembered in the future. And while 2011 has brought many big new stories, it is likely that this year will be remembered for the protests and revolutions which spread across the Middle East. This year has already seen the overthrow of Tunisian President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali and Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, while in Yemen, Syria and Libya, dictators cling to power amidst continued protest and revolution. Across these countries, the people were united in their calls for a democratisation of their political system and the introduction of free and fair elections, alongside a variety of other reforms.
It is therefore interesting to read this week’s Torah portion of Korach against the backdrop of this news story. The man for whom the parasha is named is traditionally considered to be one of the Torah’s real bad guys. The Rabbis taught in the Talmud that from the time when God created the world, God knew that Korach was going to be trouble, and on the eve of that first Shabbat, following the six days God had spent creating the world, as one of the final ten things to be created, God create the mouth of the earth to swallow up Korach (Pesachim 54a). God knew in advance that this man was going to be trouble, and prepared an appropriate punishment for him at the very beginning.
There is something tragic about Korach. When we read about his challenge to Moses, it is hard to see what he did that was so wrong. He challenged Moses and Aaron, saying to them: ‘You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Eternal is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Eternal’s congregation?’ (Num 16:3). In our modern context, we could almost read Korach’s challenge as a call for a democratisation of the Israelite political order, he might well have been one of the people taking to the streets in 2011.
However, we might wonder what Moses and Aaron had done to warrant a challenge from Korach and his followers. While Korach’s call may sound reminiscent of the calls on the Arab streets this year, it is clear that Moses and Aaron cannot be compared to the Middle Eastern dictators. In fact during this episode one could argue that Moses and Aaron demonstrate once again why they were so well suited to lead the Jewish people.
Twice in this Torah portion God calls on Moses and Aaron to remove themselves from the community so ‘that I may annihilate them in an instant’ (Num. 16:21 and 17:10). The first time as the community stood behind Korach at the Tent of Meeting, waiting to see whom God would choose. And the second time after Korach and his followers had been swallowed up by the earth (and destroyed by fire), when the Israelites complained that Moses and Aaron had brought death upon the community.
With all that the Israelites had done to try and test Moses since he assumed the leadership of the community, one might have forgiven him, had he simply stepped to one side and allowed God to destroy the people. We could have understood if these two final incidents were the proverbial straws which broke the camel’s back, and led Moses to finally despair of his charges.
Instead the response of Moses and Aaron is the same on both occasions: ‘And they fell on their faces’ (Num. 16:22 and 17:10). Even when facing a potential mutiny, they did not resort to violence, and instead protected the people from God’s potentially devastating decree. They risked their own lives, opposing God and defending the people.
Moses and Aaron were worthy leaders because they defended their people, even when the people were in the process of challenging their authority to lead. And as God unleashed a plague on this rebellious group, ‘Moses said to Aaron, Take a censer, and put fire in it from the altar, and put on incense, and go quickly to the congregation, and make an atonement for them; for anger has come out from the Lord; the plague has begun’ (Num. 17:11). It is hard to imagine the dictators of 2011 protecting their people in the midst of their protest, or not seeking retribution in its aftermath.
Moses and Aaron did not deserve the challenge which Korach brought. They defended the people, setting aside their own personal interests, to make sure that the people were protected and saved when threatened by God. They may not have been democratically elected by a majority of the Israelite population, but they provided a leadership which prioritised the people’s needs above their own. And in the way they behaved, they provided a model of leadership which people across the world can appreciate.
It is therefore interesting to read this week’s Torah portion of Korach against the backdrop of this news story. The man for whom the parasha is named is traditionally considered to be one of the Torah’s real bad guys. The Rabbis taught in the Talmud that from the time when God created the world, God knew that Korach was going to be trouble, and on the eve of that first Shabbat, following the six days God had spent creating the world, as one of the final ten things to be created, God create the mouth of the earth to swallow up Korach (Pesachim 54a). God knew in advance that this man was going to be trouble, and prepared an appropriate punishment for him at the very beginning.
There is something tragic about Korach. When we read about his challenge to Moses, it is hard to see what he did that was so wrong. He challenged Moses and Aaron, saying to them: ‘You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Eternal is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Eternal’s congregation?’ (Num 16:3). In our modern context, we could almost read Korach’s challenge as a call for a democratisation of the Israelite political order, he might well have been one of the people taking to the streets in 2011.
However, we might wonder what Moses and Aaron had done to warrant a challenge from Korach and his followers. While Korach’s call may sound reminiscent of the calls on the Arab streets this year, it is clear that Moses and Aaron cannot be compared to the Middle Eastern dictators. In fact during this episode one could argue that Moses and Aaron demonstrate once again why they were so well suited to lead the Jewish people.
Twice in this Torah portion God calls on Moses and Aaron to remove themselves from the community so ‘that I may annihilate them in an instant’ (Num. 16:21 and 17:10). The first time as the community stood behind Korach at the Tent of Meeting, waiting to see whom God would choose. And the second time after Korach and his followers had been swallowed up by the earth (and destroyed by fire), when the Israelites complained that Moses and Aaron had brought death upon the community.
With all that the Israelites had done to try and test Moses since he assumed the leadership of the community, one might have forgiven him, had he simply stepped to one side and allowed God to destroy the people. We could have understood if these two final incidents were the proverbial straws which broke the camel’s back, and led Moses to finally despair of his charges.
Instead the response of Moses and Aaron is the same on both occasions: ‘And they fell on their faces’ (Num. 16:22 and 17:10). Even when facing a potential mutiny, they did not resort to violence, and instead protected the people from God’s potentially devastating decree. They risked their own lives, opposing God and defending the people.
Moses and Aaron were worthy leaders because they defended their people, even when the people were in the process of challenging their authority to lead. And as God unleashed a plague on this rebellious group, ‘Moses said to Aaron, Take a censer, and put fire in it from the altar, and put on incense, and go quickly to the congregation, and make an atonement for them; for anger has come out from the Lord; the plague has begun’ (Num. 17:11). It is hard to imagine the dictators of 2011 protecting their people in the midst of their protest, or not seeking retribution in its aftermath.
Moses and Aaron did not deserve the challenge which Korach brought. They defended the people, setting aside their own personal interests, to make sure that the people were protected and saved when threatened by God. They may not have been democratically elected by a majority of the Israelite population, but they provided a leadership which prioritised the people’s needs above their own. And in the way they behaved, they provided a model of leadership which people across the world can appreciate.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Shelach Lecha (Numbers 14:1-19) - Fear of the Unknown and Faith
From 1993 until 2007 a significant part of every summer revolved around RSY-Netzer and the programme of events they offered (Shemesh, Israel Tour and Kayitz-Netzer). I was a chanich (participant), a madrich (leader), a rosh (head of camp), and then I spent several more years filling any role which was needed. It therefore might come as something of a surprise that I threw something of a fit the night before my first RSY-Netzer experience. I had said previously that I wanted to go on summer camp, but as it became real I was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of spending two weeks away from home with a group of strangers.
It wasn’t the summer camp specifically; it was more about a fear of doing something new. I’m one of those people who doesn’t like change, isn’t keen on surprises, and would quite happily stay at home (or at least within a 5 mile radius) most of the time. In my family my sister is the adventurous one, travelling all over the world and searching out new experiences; while I am much happier going to places I already know.
I can therefore sympathise with the Israelites in this week’s Torah portion, who were petrified about the prospect of advancing on the Land of Israel. After the spies gave their account of the land: ‘the whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept that night’ (Numbers 14:1). They were so frightened by the prospect of the inhabitants of the land that ‘they said to one another, ‘Let us head back for Egypt’ (Numbers 14:4).
The ten spies gave an account of the land which terrified the people, warning them of the ‘giants’ living there, and the futility of any attempt to conquer the land. However, with or without the spies report, it is likely that the people would still have been fearful of this unknown land and the mysterious inhabitants within it. They were so frightened that they preferred the certainty of slavery in Egypt, rather than the mystery of the land promised by God.
It was only Joshua and Caleb, who stood up before the people and offered an alternative report: ‘The land we traversed and scouted is an exceedingly good land. If pleased with us, Adonai will bring us into that land’ (Numbers 14:7-8). They were not concerned about the inhabitants of the land, they had faith that God would deliver them into the land, which had been promised to them.
When people step into the unknown it is important to remember that God is with us wherever we travel. With a little faith in God, Caleb and Joshua were confident that the people would be able to conquer the unknown land, and at the same time conquer their fear of the unknown.
This community was unable to overcome their fear and so they were never able to enter the Promised Land, dying in the wilderness. They serve as a cautionary tale for all of us. With a little bit of faith in God the unknown can become a little less scary, and we can reach our own Promised Land.
It wasn’t the summer camp specifically; it was more about a fear of doing something new. I’m one of those people who doesn’t like change, isn’t keen on surprises, and would quite happily stay at home (or at least within a 5 mile radius) most of the time. In my family my sister is the adventurous one, travelling all over the world and searching out new experiences; while I am much happier going to places I already know.
I can therefore sympathise with the Israelites in this week’s Torah portion, who were petrified about the prospect of advancing on the Land of Israel. After the spies gave their account of the land: ‘the whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept that night’ (Numbers 14:1). They were so frightened by the prospect of the inhabitants of the land that ‘they said to one another, ‘Let us head back for Egypt’ (Numbers 14:4).
The ten spies gave an account of the land which terrified the people, warning them of the ‘giants’ living there, and the futility of any attempt to conquer the land. However, with or without the spies report, it is likely that the people would still have been fearful of this unknown land and the mysterious inhabitants within it. They were so frightened that they preferred the certainty of slavery in Egypt, rather than the mystery of the land promised by God.
It was only Joshua and Caleb, who stood up before the people and offered an alternative report: ‘The land we traversed and scouted is an exceedingly good land. If pleased with us, Adonai will bring us into that land’ (Numbers 14:7-8). They were not concerned about the inhabitants of the land, they had faith that God would deliver them into the land, which had been promised to them.
When people step into the unknown it is important to remember that God is with us wherever we travel. With a little faith in God, Caleb and Joshua were confident that the people would be able to conquer the unknown land, and at the same time conquer their fear of the unknown.
This community was unable to overcome their fear and so they were never able to enter the Promised Land, dying in the wilderness. They serve as a cautionary tale for all of us. With a little bit of faith in God the unknown can become a little less scary, and we can reach our own Promised Land.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
2 Religions, Separated by 1 Messiah (My Dorchester Abbey Sermon)
As a Rabbi, I feel incredibly honoured to have been invited to speak to you today by my dear friend David Gifford, and I want to thank you all for the opportunity to speak to you today.
My training to become a Rabbi involved time in England, Israel and America. While in the United States, I was introduced to Winston Churchill’s humorous observation, that Britain and America are ‘two countries divided by one language’. As I consider the relationship between our two religions; I wonder if I could adapt his words and claim that we Jews and Christians, are two religions divided by one Messiah.
At the core of our two traditions we share the Five Books of Moses, we both adhere to the 10 Commandments as centrally instructive, and we all believe in the one God. The major difference, at least originally, appears to be over the question of the Messiah.
Rabbi Irving Greenberg, who was a keen advocate of interfaith dialogue, suggested that we Jews and Christians should stop worrying about our different beliefs in the Messiah. And when, in the future, the Messiah eventually comes, we can simply use the popular chat up line: “Do you come here often?” to find out if this is his first or second visit.
For Jews there has been a hope and expectation that a Messiah will one day come to earth, and on that day the world will be redeemed by God. This was such an important belief within Jewish tradition that it was included in the 13 articles of faith articulated by arguably the greatest Rabbi of all time, Moses Maimonides, he claimed: ‘At the end of days, an anointed one will come redeeming those who wait for God to save.’
However, over the years the Jewish expectation for the Messiah to arrive has diminished. And while the door is opened in anticipation every Passover for a messenger to announce the coming of the Messiah, very few really expect to find Elijah standing at the door. This lack of belief in the immanent arrival of the Messiah was such that a popular story developed.
In a small Russian Jewish village, the community council decided that they should pay a poor Jewish peasant, one ruble a week to sit at the town’s entrance, to be the first person to greet the Messiah when he arrived.
The man’s brother came to see him, and was puzzled about why he had accepted such a low-paying job.
“It’s true,” the poor man responded, “the pay is low. But” he added, “the job is permanent.”
Whether the Messiah is coming for the first or second time, both of our religions share a belief that the Messiah will one day come, and together we wait for that day.
If you will permit me a moment, I would like to offer my rabbinic understanding of the passage which was read today from the Book of Acts. The people around Jesus appear eager to experience the re-establishment of the Kingdom to Israel, or at least to know when it might be. I am sure all of us would like to witness the coming of the Messiah, and if not witness it; at least know when to expect his arrival. But to this request Jesus responds: ‘It is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority.’ There is frustration that the date is not for humans to know, but there is also consolation as God will be responsible for sending the Messiah at a specific time in the future.
This situation is not so different from the one we find ourselves in today. We believe that the Messiah will come, but we have no idea when that coming will be. The challenge is what to do while we wait.
And to this the passage offers us a telling response. The two men dressed in white, standing beside the people, instruct them: ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will so come in like manner as you saw Him go into heaven.’
I understand these men as telling the people, stop looking up at the sky waiting for the Messiah to come down to you. The Messiah will come, but waiting passively for his arrival will neither accelerate his coming, nor make the world worthy for him to redeem it. These two men recognised that the danger of the messianic ideal was that people would wait passively for the saviour, rather than working to help save themselves and the world in the interim.
While we wait for a Messiah to come, we cannot be absolved of our responsibilities to the world in which we are currently living.
In the first century Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, who is generally considered to have been the saviour of Judaism when the Second Temple was destroyed, taught: ‘If you should happen to be holding a sapling in your hand when someone comes to tell you that the Messiah has arrived; finish planting the sapling, and only then go and greet the Messiah.’ There is an element of caution over false messiahs, but more significantly there is a reminder that even with a Messiah we have an obligation to the world in which we are living.
One of the most important ideas which Reform Judaism highlighted within Jewish tradition is the concept not just of a Messiah, but of a Messianic Age. This idea suggests that rather than waiting for a Messiah to come down from Heaven to save us, we should be working to redeem this world, and make it a world fitting for a Messiah, rather than a world which requires a Messiah.
In both of our religious traditions we have many texts which tell us about what the redeemed world will look like. In Judaism, one of the central prayers, the Aleinu, paints a picture of what God’s kingdom on earth will look like: ‘Soon let us witness the glory of Your power; when the worship of material things shall pass away from the earth, and prejudice and superstition shall at last be cut off; when the world will be set right by the rule of God, and all humanity shall speak out in Your name, and all the wicked of the earth shall turn to You.’
With the picture of what the redeemed world looks like, we need to listen to those men of Acts who told us to stop ‘gazing up into heaven’ and instead we need to work today to redeem our world.
In Judaism this idea of working to make the world a better place is given the term: ‘Tikkun olam’ translated either as ‘healing the world’ or ‘repairing the world’. When we look around at the world in which we live, it is clear that this world is not perfect, this world is not complete, this world needs our help. And in this way we are called upon to be active in making the world a better place rather than waiting for a Messiah to save us.
The idea of repairing the whole world may at first seem rather daunting, but we are not called upon to complete this work on our own. Instead we are simply asked to play our part and to help in the way which we are able to. No two people in this Abbey can repair the world in the same way because no two people are the same. We have to consider our individual skills, our passions and the way in which we can make a difference.
Together our small individual actions will accumulate to have an impact beyond what we initially could have imagined. Within Judaism there is an idea that the observance of every good deed matters and the Rabbi I mentioned earlier, Moses Maimonides, used to say; imagine the world is balanced on a scale between good and evil. With a single action you have the power to tip the scale for good and for evil.
Like Moses we may not see the Promised Land towards which we are journeying, but as the Rabbis of old taught, lo alecha hamlacha ligmor, velo atah ben chorine lehitpatel mimena – It is not your duty to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.
As Jews and as Christians, we can be the builders of a Messianic Age.
We can be the masters of our destiny.
We will not wait for the world to become a better place; we will begin the work of making our world better.
The wait for a Messiah can encourage passivity; the need for a Messianic Age can be a call to action. We, collectively, need to hear the call, and we need to respond!
And perhaps when we have taken responsibility for making this world a better place, maybe then the Messiah will come down to help us in our task. While we Jews and Christians wait for the Messiah to come we need to be active in making his job easier. We need to create a world which is not crying out in need of a Messiah, but rather a world which is worthy of God’s anointed.
My training to become a Rabbi involved time in England, Israel and America. While in the United States, I was introduced to Winston Churchill’s humorous observation, that Britain and America are ‘two countries divided by one language’. As I consider the relationship between our two religions; I wonder if I could adapt his words and claim that we Jews and Christians, are two religions divided by one Messiah.
At the core of our two traditions we share the Five Books of Moses, we both adhere to the 10 Commandments as centrally instructive, and we all believe in the one God. The major difference, at least originally, appears to be over the question of the Messiah.
Rabbi Irving Greenberg, who was a keen advocate of interfaith dialogue, suggested that we Jews and Christians should stop worrying about our different beliefs in the Messiah. And when, in the future, the Messiah eventually comes, we can simply use the popular chat up line: “Do you come here often?” to find out if this is his first or second visit.
For Jews there has been a hope and expectation that a Messiah will one day come to earth, and on that day the world will be redeemed by God. This was such an important belief within Jewish tradition that it was included in the 13 articles of faith articulated by arguably the greatest Rabbi of all time, Moses Maimonides, he claimed: ‘At the end of days, an anointed one will come redeeming those who wait for God to save.’
However, over the years the Jewish expectation for the Messiah to arrive has diminished. And while the door is opened in anticipation every Passover for a messenger to announce the coming of the Messiah, very few really expect to find Elijah standing at the door. This lack of belief in the immanent arrival of the Messiah was such that a popular story developed.
In a small Russian Jewish village, the community council decided that they should pay a poor Jewish peasant, one ruble a week to sit at the town’s entrance, to be the first person to greet the Messiah when he arrived.
The man’s brother came to see him, and was puzzled about why he had accepted such a low-paying job.
“It’s true,” the poor man responded, “the pay is low. But” he added, “the job is permanent.”
Whether the Messiah is coming for the first or second time, both of our religions share a belief that the Messiah will one day come, and together we wait for that day.
If you will permit me a moment, I would like to offer my rabbinic understanding of the passage which was read today from the Book of Acts. The people around Jesus appear eager to experience the re-establishment of the Kingdom to Israel, or at least to know when it might be. I am sure all of us would like to witness the coming of the Messiah, and if not witness it; at least know when to expect his arrival. But to this request Jesus responds: ‘It is not for you to know times or seasons which the Father has put in His own authority.’ There is frustration that the date is not for humans to know, but there is also consolation as God will be responsible for sending the Messiah at a specific time in the future.
This situation is not so different from the one we find ourselves in today. We believe that the Messiah will come, but we have no idea when that coming will be. The challenge is what to do while we wait.
And to this the passage offers us a telling response. The two men dressed in white, standing beside the people, instruct them: ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will so come in like manner as you saw Him go into heaven.’
I understand these men as telling the people, stop looking up at the sky waiting for the Messiah to come down to you. The Messiah will come, but waiting passively for his arrival will neither accelerate his coming, nor make the world worthy for him to redeem it. These two men recognised that the danger of the messianic ideal was that people would wait passively for the saviour, rather than working to help save themselves and the world in the interim.
While we wait for a Messiah to come, we cannot be absolved of our responsibilities to the world in which we are currently living.
In the first century Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, who is generally considered to have been the saviour of Judaism when the Second Temple was destroyed, taught: ‘If you should happen to be holding a sapling in your hand when someone comes to tell you that the Messiah has arrived; finish planting the sapling, and only then go and greet the Messiah.’ There is an element of caution over false messiahs, but more significantly there is a reminder that even with a Messiah we have an obligation to the world in which we are living.
One of the most important ideas which Reform Judaism highlighted within Jewish tradition is the concept not just of a Messiah, but of a Messianic Age. This idea suggests that rather than waiting for a Messiah to come down from Heaven to save us, we should be working to redeem this world, and make it a world fitting for a Messiah, rather than a world which requires a Messiah.
In both of our religious traditions we have many texts which tell us about what the redeemed world will look like. In Judaism, one of the central prayers, the Aleinu, paints a picture of what God’s kingdom on earth will look like: ‘Soon let us witness the glory of Your power; when the worship of material things shall pass away from the earth, and prejudice and superstition shall at last be cut off; when the world will be set right by the rule of God, and all humanity shall speak out in Your name, and all the wicked of the earth shall turn to You.’
With the picture of what the redeemed world looks like, we need to listen to those men of Acts who told us to stop ‘gazing up into heaven’ and instead we need to work today to redeem our world.
In Judaism this idea of working to make the world a better place is given the term: ‘Tikkun olam’ translated either as ‘healing the world’ or ‘repairing the world’. When we look around at the world in which we live, it is clear that this world is not perfect, this world is not complete, this world needs our help. And in this way we are called upon to be active in making the world a better place rather than waiting for a Messiah to save us.
The idea of repairing the whole world may at first seem rather daunting, but we are not called upon to complete this work on our own. Instead we are simply asked to play our part and to help in the way which we are able to. No two people in this Abbey can repair the world in the same way because no two people are the same. We have to consider our individual skills, our passions and the way in which we can make a difference.
Together our small individual actions will accumulate to have an impact beyond what we initially could have imagined. Within Judaism there is an idea that the observance of every good deed matters and the Rabbi I mentioned earlier, Moses Maimonides, used to say; imagine the world is balanced on a scale between good and evil. With a single action you have the power to tip the scale for good and for evil.
Like Moses we may not see the Promised Land towards which we are journeying, but as the Rabbis of old taught, lo alecha hamlacha ligmor, velo atah ben chorine lehitpatel mimena – It is not your duty to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.
As Jews and as Christians, we can be the builders of a Messianic Age.
We can be the masters of our destiny.
We will not wait for the world to become a better place; we will begin the work of making our world better.
The wait for a Messiah can encourage passivity; the need for a Messianic Age can be a call to action. We, collectively, need to hear the call, and we need to respond!
And perhaps when we have taken responsibility for making this world a better place, maybe then the Messiah will come down to help us in our task. While we Jews and Christians wait for the Messiah to come we need to be active in making his job easier. We need to create a world which is not crying out in need of a Messiah, but rather a world which is worthy of God’s anointed.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Preaching at Dorchester Abbey
On Sunday I was invited to preach at Dorchester Abbey in Oxford (www.dorchester-abbey.org.uk - it is a truly beautiful Church and well worth a visit if you are in the area). This was the first time I had been invited to speak in a non-Jewish religious service, and I was deeply honoured; especially as this service was also honouring my dear friend David Gifford, the CEO of the Council of Christians and Jews (www.ccj.org.uk). The community was so very welcoming, and I look forward to visiting again in the future.
Here are three observations:
1. Taking a moment for a private blessing, amongst the clergy, before we began the service was a very powerful experience for me. The blessing allowed us to mark a break in time between the rushing around to make sure everything was ready, and the beginning of a religious service. I certainly entered the prayer space in a different frame of mind as a result of the moment the clergy shared together.
2. The music was magnificent. Dorchester Abbey has a wonderful choir, and having the opportunity to sit alongside them, served to really elevate my prayer experience. Having been back in England for the last 2 years I have not heard prayers/hymns/anthems sung in English during services, and I really do feel the experience of singing in one's native language is very powerful. And perhaps we should consider singing more English prayers in the British Reform Movement - just a thought. My favourite piece of music was 'For the Beauty of the Earth' by John Rutter, (you can listen to a version of it here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaMkj4_H8WM).
3. I know I am not the first Rabbi to preach in a Christian service, but it was a first for me. And it is a wonderful statement for how far Jewish-Christian relations have progressed in the last 50+ years that Rabbis may preach in a Church, and Reverends may preach in a Synagogue. We are two different religions, but we do both spring from the same root, and the opportunity to pray together, learn together and simply talk together is so very important. Signing the book at the Abbey which records all preachers who have given sermons there was especially meaningful, as I wrote Rabbi alongside my name, and wondered about what my great grandparents would have thought about this experience.
I guess the last thing to say is thank you to David, and the Clergy and community of Dorchester Abbey (and my mum for coming with me).
I will be posting the sermon I delivered tomorrow.
Here are three observations:
1. Taking a moment for a private blessing, amongst the clergy, before we began the service was a very powerful experience for me. The blessing allowed us to mark a break in time between the rushing around to make sure everything was ready, and the beginning of a religious service. I certainly entered the prayer space in a different frame of mind as a result of the moment the clergy shared together.
2. The music was magnificent. Dorchester Abbey has a wonderful choir, and having the opportunity to sit alongside them, served to really elevate my prayer experience. Having been back in England for the last 2 years I have not heard prayers/hymns/anthems sung in English during services, and I really do feel the experience of singing in one's native language is very powerful. And perhaps we should consider singing more English prayers in the British Reform Movement - just a thought. My favourite piece of music was 'For the Beauty of the Earth' by John Rutter, (you can listen to a version of it here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaMkj4_H8WM).
3. I know I am not the first Rabbi to preach in a Christian service, but it was a first for me. And it is a wonderful statement for how far Jewish-Christian relations have progressed in the last 50+ years that Rabbis may preach in a Church, and Reverends may preach in a Synagogue. We are two different religions, but we do both spring from the same root, and the opportunity to pray together, learn together and simply talk together is so very important. Signing the book at the Abbey which records all preachers who have given sermons there was especially meaningful, as I wrote Rabbi alongside my name, and wondered about what my great grandparents would have thought about this experience.
I guess the last thing to say is thank you to David, and the Clergy and community of Dorchester Abbey (and my mum for coming with me).
I will be posting the sermon I delivered tomorrow.
Extracts from my farewell sermon
On the 3rd June I delivered a sermon at the farewell service for Micol and me at West London Synagogue. If you would like to receive the full sermon please send me an e-mail.
A colleague recently shared with me the anecdote that: ‘Non-Jews leave, but don’t say goodbye; while Jews say goodbye, but never leave.’ Having researched this matter a little bit further, I discovered something called “The Jewish Goodbye”. It's when you start your goodbyes and end up walking out the door a minimum of 30 minutes later. The amount of time increases exponentially depending on how many other Jews there are in the room.
With this in mind, the goodbye which Micol and I are beginning are going to be really Jewish; for as we have our farewell service today, we will take almost four more weeks to actually leave. I guess that with a congregation of over 1600 Jewish families, an exponential time increase is only to be expected...
In this week’s Torah portion amidst a whole range of commandments and instructions we receive the words of the Priestly blessing. These words which we use to bless our children, to consecrate a marriage and to conclude our services, are found here first. We ask for God’s blessing, protection and grace, before asking God, with our final words, to grant us shalom – peace and wholeness.
This Torah portion feels especially appropriate for our farewell service. As a child, sitting in the pews, often down there on the left hand side, I received these words as a blessing from the Rabbis of my youth, Rabbis Hugo Gryn and Jackie Tabick. And as a Rabbi myself, I have taken my place upon this bimah, sharing these words with my community, as they were once shared with me.
The Priestly blessing was articulated in the Torah as a way of linking us to God. But on another level it serves as a way of linking us to each other, to generations who went before us, and generations not yet born. These words have been an ever present for our people since they were given to us in the Torah.
The beauty of this blessing is not just in the words, and not just in the connection to other generations; there is a beauty in the intimacy which it envisages. We ask for God not just to bless us, but we ask for a moment where we can see God’s face. God’s face will be lifted up to us, and God’s face will shine upon us. Only then, with the experience of God, face-to-face, can we conclude our service, taking that moment with us as we leave the comfort of the community.
As we prepare to say Shalom to our time at West London Synagogue, I certainly feel that in saying goodbye we will be less whole, leaving behind a community which has become our family. But we take with us hundreds of shining faces who have become a part of our lives and we are more complete because of the relationships we have formed.
Yet, at the same time, shalom is not forever! While today we say shalom, as ‘goodbye’, we look forward to saying our shalom of ‘hello’ in the future. The Priestly blessing returns each time we come together in the synagogue for a service, and just like the priestly blessing we look forward to returning in the future. And so I will end with these parting words: Shalom Chaverim: ‘Hello friends’, ‘Goodbye friends’ and ‘Peace friends’.
A colleague recently shared with me the anecdote that: ‘Non-Jews leave, but don’t say goodbye; while Jews say goodbye, but never leave.’ Having researched this matter a little bit further, I discovered something called “The Jewish Goodbye”. It's when you start your goodbyes and end up walking out the door a minimum of 30 minutes later. The amount of time increases exponentially depending on how many other Jews there are in the room.
With this in mind, the goodbye which Micol and I are beginning are going to be really Jewish; for as we have our farewell service today, we will take almost four more weeks to actually leave. I guess that with a congregation of over 1600 Jewish families, an exponential time increase is only to be expected...
In this week’s Torah portion amidst a whole range of commandments and instructions we receive the words of the Priestly blessing. These words which we use to bless our children, to consecrate a marriage and to conclude our services, are found here first. We ask for God’s blessing, protection and grace, before asking God, with our final words, to grant us shalom – peace and wholeness.
This Torah portion feels especially appropriate for our farewell service. As a child, sitting in the pews, often down there on the left hand side, I received these words as a blessing from the Rabbis of my youth, Rabbis Hugo Gryn and Jackie Tabick. And as a Rabbi myself, I have taken my place upon this bimah, sharing these words with my community, as they were once shared with me.
The Priestly blessing was articulated in the Torah as a way of linking us to God. But on another level it serves as a way of linking us to each other, to generations who went before us, and generations not yet born. These words have been an ever present for our people since they were given to us in the Torah.
The beauty of this blessing is not just in the words, and not just in the connection to other generations; there is a beauty in the intimacy which it envisages. We ask for God not just to bless us, but we ask for a moment where we can see God’s face. God’s face will be lifted up to us, and God’s face will shine upon us. Only then, with the experience of God, face-to-face, can we conclude our service, taking that moment with us as we leave the comfort of the community.
As we prepare to say Shalom to our time at West London Synagogue, I certainly feel that in saying goodbye we will be less whole, leaving behind a community which has become our family. But we take with us hundreds of shining faces who have become a part of our lives and we are more complete because of the relationships we have formed.
Yet, at the same time, shalom is not forever! While today we say shalom, as ‘goodbye’, we look forward to saying our shalom of ‘hello’ in the future. The Priestly blessing returns each time we come together in the synagogue for a service, and just like the priestly blessing we look forward to returning in the future. And so I will end with these parting words: Shalom Chaverim: ‘Hello friends’, ‘Goodbye friends’ and ‘Peace friends’.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Naso (Numbers 6:1-21) - Living Life to the Fullest
Growing up at West London Synagogue one of the songs which was very popular in my youth was about five constipated men in the Bible. The song began with Cain, who was not able; he was followed by Moses, who took two tablets, then Bilaam, who couldn’t shift his ass, Samson who brought the house down and Solomon who sat for forty years. Each verse played with an element of that character’s story to imply a trouble with bowel function. Like many young boys at the time I was most fascinated with the character of Samson. With his flowing hair and superhuman strength, he was the Bible’s answer to He-Man (sorry if that reference dates me), and I was intrigued by this Biblical superhero.
It was only later in life that I began to realise that this man was actually a far more complex character than I had ever imagined. Samson turned out to be a far more flawed character than I had ever realised as a child. What I also learnt was that Samson is often considered to be the Bible’s most famous example of a Nazirite (even if he was not particularly good at adhering to the laws which accompanied that status).
In this week’s Torah portion the laws for the Nazirite are given by God to Moses. This person utters a vow to become a Nazirite (something that Samson never did) and are then committed that, ‘they shall abstain from wine and any other intoxicant’ (Numbers 6:3), ‘no razor shall touch their head’ (Numbers 6:5) and ‘they shall not go in where there is a dead person’ (Numbers 6:6). These three obligations form the bulk of what it meant to be a Nazarite, and were observed for a fixed period of time.
At the end of a person’s time as a Nazarite (they would specify the time when making the vow) a number of sacrifices were required. ‘The priest shall present them before the Eternal and offer the sin offering and the burnt offering’ (Numbers 6:16). While one may expect sacrifices of celebration and praise of God, it is striking that amidst the Nazarites sacrifices was a sin offering. This requirement makes it clear that the Nazirite way of life was not required, or possibly even desired, by God, and so needed an offering of atonement at the end of the period.
For us the presence of the sin offering may serve as a reminder that Judaism is not a religion which expects its adherents to ‘afflict’ themselves or live in a monastic way to serve God. Instead Judaism is a religion which wants us to celebrate life and to enjoy life to the fullest. We do not need to follow the excesses of Samson, but we need to find a way to enjoy living our lives. The Nazirite sacrificed his or her full enjoyment of life for a set period of time, and was required to atone for this sin.
We no longer have the Priestly system to make the Nazirite vow, but we can ensure that we live our lives in such a way so as not to require a sin offering at their conclusion.
It was only later in life that I began to realise that this man was actually a far more complex character than I had ever imagined. Samson turned out to be a far more flawed character than I had ever realised as a child. What I also learnt was that Samson is often considered to be the Bible’s most famous example of a Nazirite (even if he was not particularly good at adhering to the laws which accompanied that status).
In this week’s Torah portion the laws for the Nazirite are given by God to Moses. This person utters a vow to become a Nazirite (something that Samson never did) and are then committed that, ‘they shall abstain from wine and any other intoxicant’ (Numbers 6:3), ‘no razor shall touch their head’ (Numbers 6:5) and ‘they shall not go in where there is a dead person’ (Numbers 6:6). These three obligations form the bulk of what it meant to be a Nazarite, and were observed for a fixed period of time.
At the end of a person’s time as a Nazarite (they would specify the time when making the vow) a number of sacrifices were required. ‘The priest shall present them before the Eternal and offer the sin offering and the burnt offering’ (Numbers 6:16). While one may expect sacrifices of celebration and praise of God, it is striking that amidst the Nazarites sacrifices was a sin offering. This requirement makes it clear that the Nazirite way of life was not required, or possibly even desired, by God, and so needed an offering of atonement at the end of the period.
For us the presence of the sin offering may serve as a reminder that Judaism is not a religion which expects its adherents to ‘afflict’ themselves or live in a monastic way to serve God. Instead Judaism is a religion which wants us to celebrate life and to enjoy life to the fullest. We do not need to follow the excesses of Samson, but we need to find a way to enjoy living our lives. The Nazirite sacrificed his or her full enjoyment of life for a set period of time, and was required to atone for this sin.
We no longer have the Priestly system to make the Nazirite vow, but we can ensure that we live our lives in such a way so as not to require a sin offering at their conclusion.
Two Minutes of Torah: Bamidbar (Numbers 1:44-54) - The Equality of Numbers
At the moment we are conducting a survey of our West London Synagogue young adults so that we can try to gain some insight into how successful our programme of events has been (so far the results do look good). I have been told that there is a magic number we need to aspire to, which will give us a significant enough sample group to make some statements based on our results. The survey is anonymous, and so all I can look at is numbers on the screen. Each person is a number. I know their gender, year of birth and a variety of other facts about their religious upbringing and their Jewish involvement, but I do not know who they are. In replacing names with numbers an element of each person’s identity is lost.
In reflecting on people becoming numbers the song from Les Miserables comes to mind as Javert and Jean Valjean sing against each other. For those of you who are not familiar with the musical, Jean Valjean was a prisoner who escaped and Javert is the man who has taken on the task of finding him. As they sing together Javert keeps asserting the Jean Valjean should be known by his number 24601, suggesting that he is unworthy of having a name, remaining an eternal prisoner in his eyes. In contrast Jean Valjean asserts his name rather than accepting the label of a number. In this way, when we think of people as numbers it is often in situations where people are imprisoned or considered unworthy of having a name.
This week’s Torah portion is all about numbers (hence the English name of this Biblical book) as Moses and Aaron conduct the census. God’s initial instruction to Moses was: ‘Take a census of the whole Israelite company by the clans of its ancestral houses, listing the names, every male, head by head’ (Numbers 1:2). While the instruction requires the listing of names, the names are not given and instead we receive a set of numbers.
After going through the numbers of each tribe we read the conclusion: ‘All the Israelite males, aged twenty years and over, enrolled by ancestral houses, all those in Israel who were able to bear arms – all who were enrolled came to 603,550’ (Numbers 1:45-46). Considering this only accounts for the adult males, one can only imagine how many Israelites actually left Egypt, and what their caravan must have looked like as they journeyed through the wilderness.
While we may feel uneasy with the idea of recording people as numbers rather than by their names, there is an equality which comes from the process of the census. Apart from tribal affiliation there is no distinction made between any of the men who were counted. We know nothing of them as individuals, there is no distinction between rich or poor, powerful or weak; they are all Israelite men.
What is also significant is the fact that each man counts and is counted.
In reflecting on people becoming numbers the song from Les Miserables comes to mind as Javert and Jean Valjean sing against each other. For those of you who are not familiar with the musical, Jean Valjean was a prisoner who escaped and Javert is the man who has taken on the task of finding him. As they sing together Javert keeps asserting the Jean Valjean should be known by his number 24601, suggesting that he is unworthy of having a name, remaining an eternal prisoner in his eyes. In contrast Jean Valjean asserts his name rather than accepting the label of a number. In this way, when we think of people as numbers it is often in situations where people are imprisoned or considered unworthy of having a name.
This week’s Torah portion is all about numbers (hence the English name of this Biblical book) as Moses and Aaron conduct the census. God’s initial instruction to Moses was: ‘Take a census of the whole Israelite company by the clans of its ancestral houses, listing the names, every male, head by head’ (Numbers 1:2). While the instruction requires the listing of names, the names are not given and instead we receive a set of numbers.
After going through the numbers of each tribe we read the conclusion: ‘All the Israelite males, aged twenty years and over, enrolled by ancestral houses, all those in Israel who were able to bear arms – all who were enrolled came to 603,550’ (Numbers 1:45-46). Considering this only accounts for the adult males, one can only imagine how many Israelites actually left Egypt, and what their caravan must have looked like as they journeyed through the wilderness.
While we may feel uneasy with the idea of recording people as numbers rather than by their names, there is an equality which comes from the process of the census. Apart from tribal affiliation there is no distinction made between any of the men who were counted. We know nothing of them as individuals, there is no distinction between rich or poor, powerful or weak; they are all Israelite men.
What is also significant is the fact that each man counts and is counted.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Bechukotai (Leviticus 26:30-46) - Our Planet needs a Rest
Growing up in RSY-Netzer we would often have programmes and sessions relating to the subject of the environment, and our role in protecting and caring for it. On these occasions a text from Greenpeace became very popular as an educational trigger. Rather than thinking of the world as 4,600 million year old, we were asked to consider our planet as if it was a person of 46 years of age. We know nothing of the first seven years of this person’s life; while dinosaurs and the great reptiles only appeared one year ago, when the planet was already 45.
‘Mammals arrived only 8 months ago and in the middle of last week. Man-like apes evolved into ape-like men and at the weekend the last ice-age enveloped the earth. Modern man has been around for four hours. During the last hour man discovered agriculture, the industrial revolution began a minute ago and during those 60 seconds of biological time modern man has made a rubbish tip of paradise.’
The Greenpeace text always made for uncomfortable reading, and challenged us to consider our actions in this world, and the way in which it might impact on our environment. When we fill up our car with petrol, when we switch on the lights at home, when we turn up the heat we rarely think about the consequences to the natural world, we think about our own needs. Our behaviour is legitimate and understandable, but at the same time Greenpeace challenges us to consider the impact of our actions.
This week’s Torah portion begins in the midst of a gruesome account of what will happen to us if we disobey God’s commandments. As it states: ‘I will act against you in wrathful hostility; I, for My part, will discipline you sevenfold for your sins’ (Leviticus 26:28). As part of this punishment the land is to be laid desolate, the cities shall be ruined and the people will be scattered across the world (Leviticus 26:33).
And while we are suffering, the land will receive much needed sustenance: ‘Then shall the land make up for its Sabbath years throughout the time that it is desolate and you are in the land of your enemies; then shall the land rest and make up for its Sabbath years. Throughout the time that it is desolate, it shall observe the rest that it did not observe in the Sabbath years while you were dwelling upon it’ (Leviticus 26:34-35).
The text does not tell us that we are punished for neglecting the Sabbatical year, we are simply told the consequences if ‘you do not obey Me’ (Leviticus 26:18). However, it seems that there is an expectation that if we are breaking God’s laws, then this would include the commandment for the land to rest every seven years. While we are punished, the land will be allowed to rest and flourish, without our intervention.
It is painful to admit that our current stewardship of this planet has not been as successful and as nurturing as we might have hoped. We could argue about the extent to which we have made a ‘rubbish tip of paradise’, but the sentiment appears to be justified. The Sabbatical year was a safeguard amongst God’s commandments, a way of protecting the environment, and curtailing our abuse at least once every seven years.
While I doubt a Sabbatical year is enforceable today, it is clear that the world could do with some help. As the Greenpeace text tells us, if the world is 46 years old, then ‘a human life in this timespan lasts a mere 18 seconds. Let’s not waste anymore precious time’. With this small amount of time at our disposal, we cannot wait for a Sabbatical year, and with Hillel’s words we should be inspired to act for ‘if not now, when?’
‘Mammals arrived only 8 months ago and in the middle of last week. Man-like apes evolved into ape-like men and at the weekend the last ice-age enveloped the earth. Modern man has been around for four hours. During the last hour man discovered agriculture, the industrial revolution began a minute ago and during those 60 seconds of biological time modern man has made a rubbish tip of paradise.’
The Greenpeace text always made for uncomfortable reading, and challenged us to consider our actions in this world, and the way in which it might impact on our environment. When we fill up our car with petrol, when we switch on the lights at home, when we turn up the heat we rarely think about the consequences to the natural world, we think about our own needs. Our behaviour is legitimate and understandable, but at the same time Greenpeace challenges us to consider the impact of our actions.
This week’s Torah portion begins in the midst of a gruesome account of what will happen to us if we disobey God’s commandments. As it states: ‘I will act against you in wrathful hostility; I, for My part, will discipline you sevenfold for your sins’ (Leviticus 26:28). As part of this punishment the land is to be laid desolate, the cities shall be ruined and the people will be scattered across the world (Leviticus 26:33).
And while we are suffering, the land will receive much needed sustenance: ‘Then shall the land make up for its Sabbath years throughout the time that it is desolate and you are in the land of your enemies; then shall the land rest and make up for its Sabbath years. Throughout the time that it is desolate, it shall observe the rest that it did not observe in the Sabbath years while you were dwelling upon it’ (Leviticus 26:34-35).
The text does not tell us that we are punished for neglecting the Sabbatical year, we are simply told the consequences if ‘you do not obey Me’ (Leviticus 26:18). However, it seems that there is an expectation that if we are breaking God’s laws, then this would include the commandment for the land to rest every seven years. While we are punished, the land will be allowed to rest and flourish, without our intervention.
It is painful to admit that our current stewardship of this planet has not been as successful and as nurturing as we might have hoped. We could argue about the extent to which we have made a ‘rubbish tip of paradise’, but the sentiment appears to be justified. The Sabbatical year was a safeguard amongst God’s commandments, a way of protecting the environment, and curtailing our abuse at least once every seven years.
While I doubt a Sabbatical year is enforceable today, it is clear that the world could do with some help. As the Greenpeace text tells us, if the world is 46 years old, then ‘a human life in this timespan lasts a mere 18 seconds. Let’s not waste anymore precious time’. With this small amount of time at our disposal, we cannot wait for a Sabbatical year, and with Hillel’s words we should be inspired to act for ‘if not now, when?’
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Behar (Leviticus 25:19-38) - The 'Commoner' and the Prince
While watching the Royal wedding, both on the television and twitter, I was struck by the number of times that Kate Middleton, now the Duchess of Cambridge, was described as a ‘commoner’. In terms of coverage, one of the major features of the marriage was the fact that Prince William had chosen to marry someone who was not of noble birth. The wedding was a reminder of the fact that British society contains a landed upper class, born into status (and often wealth) as a result of family history and lineage.
However, while the media may have described Kate as ‘commoner’, she has clearly not emerged from poverty, with a family though not aristocratic, are certainly financially very secure and well off. The status of ‘commoner’ today includes a vast range of people, including some who are super-wealthy and others who are homeless on the streets of our cities. While we have a landed aristocracy in Britain, we also have a significant population who have nowhere to live and no place to sleep.
In many western societies there is a growing gap between the wealthiest and the poorest ends of society. In a report from 2010 Britain was ranked seventh in the world in terms of the gap between rich and poor. This week’s Torah portion puts in place a corrective to ensure that the gap between the extremes would never be allowed to grow too wide in the Promised Land.
God says specifically ‘The land shall not be sold for ever, for the land is mine, you are strangers and sojourners with me’ (Leviticus 25:23). While land may be bought and sold, the Torah makes clear that in reality no-one can truly own the land, and so no sale of land can ever be permanent. Alongside this the Torah makes clear the laws for redeeming land which may have been sold in the past, allowing family members to buy back property which had to be sold due to trying circumstances.
However, when the land cannot be bought back there is still an added safeguard: ‘that which is sold shall remain in the hand of the person who bought it until the Jubilee Year, and in the Jubilee it shall go out and return to original owner’ (Leviticus 25:38). The Jubilee Year provided a safety net within the society so that no-one could be indefinitely impoverished; everyone was protected so that once every 50 years their property would be returned. Israelite society was constructed in such a way as to ensure that no-one could be left languishing forever; everyone would eventually be caught and supported.
In our society while there is today some social mobility, the situation one is born into is still the greatest predictor on where they will find themselves fifty years later. As the Government’s own report from 2010 stated: ‘the evidence we have looked at shows the long arm of people’s origins in shaping their life chances, stretching through life stages, literally from cradle to grave.’ People can rise up while others fall down, but for the overwhelming majority their situation at birth will largely define their place at death.
Kate Middleton proves what the fairytales always knew; the regular girl can become a Princess. But she is still the exception, not the rule. We need to embrace and adapt the idea of the Jubilee Year to ensure that the poorest members of our society are protected. Not in terms of the specific return of land, but the assurance that no-one will be left to languish with no support or sustenance from society. The Jubilee Year was not a law for a Promised Land, but a law which enabled us to build the Promised Land; we must aspire to build such a land wherever we live today.
However, while the media may have described Kate as ‘commoner’, she has clearly not emerged from poverty, with a family though not aristocratic, are certainly financially very secure and well off. The status of ‘commoner’ today includes a vast range of people, including some who are super-wealthy and others who are homeless on the streets of our cities. While we have a landed aristocracy in Britain, we also have a significant population who have nowhere to live and no place to sleep.
In many western societies there is a growing gap between the wealthiest and the poorest ends of society. In a report from 2010 Britain was ranked seventh in the world in terms of the gap between rich and poor. This week’s Torah portion puts in place a corrective to ensure that the gap between the extremes would never be allowed to grow too wide in the Promised Land.
God says specifically ‘The land shall not be sold for ever, for the land is mine, you are strangers and sojourners with me’ (Leviticus 25:23). While land may be bought and sold, the Torah makes clear that in reality no-one can truly own the land, and so no sale of land can ever be permanent. Alongside this the Torah makes clear the laws for redeeming land which may have been sold in the past, allowing family members to buy back property which had to be sold due to trying circumstances.
However, when the land cannot be bought back there is still an added safeguard: ‘that which is sold shall remain in the hand of the person who bought it until the Jubilee Year, and in the Jubilee it shall go out and return to original owner’ (Leviticus 25:38). The Jubilee Year provided a safety net within the society so that no-one could be indefinitely impoverished; everyone was protected so that once every 50 years their property would be returned. Israelite society was constructed in such a way as to ensure that no-one could be left languishing forever; everyone would eventually be caught and supported.
In our society while there is today some social mobility, the situation one is born into is still the greatest predictor on where they will find themselves fifty years later. As the Government’s own report from 2010 stated: ‘the evidence we have looked at shows the long arm of people’s origins in shaping their life chances, stretching through life stages, literally from cradle to grave.’ People can rise up while others fall down, but for the overwhelming majority their situation at birth will largely define their place at death.
Kate Middleton proves what the fairytales always knew; the regular girl can become a Princess. But she is still the exception, not the rule. We need to embrace and adapt the idea of the Jubilee Year to ensure that the poorest members of our society are protected. Not in terms of the specific return of land, but the assurance that no-one will be left to languish with no support or sustenance from society. The Jubilee Year was not a law for a Promised Land, but a law which enabled us to build the Promised Land; we must aspire to build such a land wherever we live today.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Emor (Leviticus 22:26-23:16) - The Importance of Time Off
For the people of Britain it’s been a good couple of weeks. First we had the Easter Bank Holiday weekend, which allowed us four days out of the office, a fitting end for the festival of Pesach. And then thanks to William and Kates’ decision to get married on a Friday, we received another holiday bonus, with Friday for the wedding (and I might add it was a wonderful ceremony) and Monday as the May Day Bank Holiday. I don’t think it is any coincidence that over that period of time, everyone appeared to be in an good mood. Now I realise that the unseasonal excellent weather also contributed to the rising happiness index, but I am in no doubt that the long weekends had a lot to do with the smiles on everyone’s faces.
Quite often we fall into the Monday-Friday routine, which sees us lurching from weekend to weekend, essentially ‘surviving’ the working week, so that we may have two days of respite, before beginning the cycle all over again. I don’t know about you, but I was very ready to accept three-day working weeks and four-day weekends as the model for life from now on.
However, we should not be complacent about simply having one day off each week, let alone two. One of my favourite Shabbat readings is by the author Francine Klagsbrun; she shared the experiences of her father, a Russian immigrant to America at a time when there were no labour laws (I’ve shared it here before). She recalls him saying: ‘People worked long hours, seven days a week, without rest. But imagine, more than three thousand years ago the Bible commanded that all work stop for an entire day every single week, and not only for the ancient Israelites but for all who lived among them, including slaves. And not only for people, but for animals as well. What a revolutionary practice that was.’
In this week’s Torah portion, as God introduces the Jewish calendar: ‘Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: “These are My fixed times, the fixed times of Adonai, which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions’ (Leviticus 23:2). Before moving to look at the festivals themselves God reaffirms the obligation of Shabbat: ‘On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day there shall be a Sabbath of complete rest, a sacred occasion’ (Leviticus 23:3).
While we may grow complacent of Shabbat as a day off from work and a festive occasion, we should not lose sight of the importance of the day, and the fact that it is an ordained holy day from God. It is at the beginning of the festive calendar. Shabbat in many ways forms the basis for the other festivals, which adapt the Shabbat obligations for their specific contexts.
Alongside Shabbat the other festivals (just like our British Bank Holidays) provide us with an opportunity to break the routine of the regular calendar with ‘sacred occasions, which you shall celebrate each at its appointed time’ (Leviticus 23:4). Succot and Pesach sit exactly six months apart, and between them, in both directions we have a variety of festive days to make sure that the calendar’s routine is broken up at regular intervals.
On a weekly basis Shabbat provides us with a day of rest, and at regular intervals our festivals provide us celebratory occasions. At this time of the year as we move from Pesach to Shavuot, our anticipation for this next festival can hardly be contained, and perhaps this is the reason why we count the Omer, providing a channel for our excitement to build as we prepare to celebrate.
But in case Shavuot seems too far away, or if the next Bank Holiday is not soon enough, Shabbat appears each and every week to ensure that the cycle of work is broken once every seven days. I guess it’s lucky that it didn’t take God ten days or more to create the world.
Quite often we fall into the Monday-Friday routine, which sees us lurching from weekend to weekend, essentially ‘surviving’ the working week, so that we may have two days of respite, before beginning the cycle all over again. I don’t know about you, but I was very ready to accept three-day working weeks and four-day weekends as the model for life from now on.
However, we should not be complacent about simply having one day off each week, let alone two. One of my favourite Shabbat readings is by the author Francine Klagsbrun; she shared the experiences of her father, a Russian immigrant to America at a time when there were no labour laws (I’ve shared it here before). She recalls him saying: ‘People worked long hours, seven days a week, without rest. But imagine, more than three thousand years ago the Bible commanded that all work stop for an entire day every single week, and not only for the ancient Israelites but for all who lived among them, including slaves. And not only for people, but for animals as well. What a revolutionary practice that was.’
In this week’s Torah portion, as God introduces the Jewish calendar: ‘Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: “These are My fixed times, the fixed times of Adonai, which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions’ (Leviticus 23:2). Before moving to look at the festivals themselves God reaffirms the obligation of Shabbat: ‘On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day there shall be a Sabbath of complete rest, a sacred occasion’ (Leviticus 23:3).
While we may grow complacent of Shabbat as a day off from work and a festive occasion, we should not lose sight of the importance of the day, and the fact that it is an ordained holy day from God. It is at the beginning of the festive calendar. Shabbat in many ways forms the basis for the other festivals, which adapt the Shabbat obligations for their specific contexts.
Alongside Shabbat the other festivals (just like our British Bank Holidays) provide us with an opportunity to break the routine of the regular calendar with ‘sacred occasions, which you shall celebrate each at its appointed time’ (Leviticus 23:4). Succot and Pesach sit exactly six months apart, and between them, in both directions we have a variety of festive days to make sure that the calendar’s routine is broken up at regular intervals.
On a weekly basis Shabbat provides us with a day of rest, and at regular intervals our festivals provide us celebratory occasions. At this time of the year as we move from Pesach to Shavuot, our anticipation for this next festival can hardly be contained, and perhaps this is the reason why we count the Omer, providing a channel for our excitement to build as we prepare to celebrate.
But in case Shavuot seems too far away, or if the next Bank Holiday is not soon enough, Shabbat appears each and every week to ensure that the cycle of work is broken once every seven days. I guess it’s lucky that it didn’t take God ten days or more to create the world.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Kedoshim (Leviticus 19:23-37) - Loving ourselves to love others
‘Love your neighbour as yourself’ (Leviticus 19:18) is such a popular commandment that it has become known as “The Golden Rule”, with versions of it existing across virtually every religious tradition. Hillel, when pressed by a student interested in converting to Judaism, reformulated it as ‘That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow; that is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary; go and learn’ (Talmud Shabbat 31a). Both formulations contain the important concept of treating others in the way that you yourself want to be treated; however, the Biblical verse also contains an important instruction for how we should relate to ourselves. If we are instructed to ‘love your neighbour as yourself’ then it requires us to not just love the other, but also to love ourselves.
The formulation of the commandment therefore possesses within it an important instruction for the way in which we relate to ourselves before we are able to be in relationship with others. We need to be secure in ourselves, positive about ourselves and ultimately love ourselves if we are going to also love others.
While this commandment may be challenging for the way it calls on us to relate to ourselves, it does not require us to stray too far from our comfort zone as it asks us to love our neighbour. In its most literal sense this might refer to the people we live alongside, and in a broader sense it may be members of a shared place or community, but it is likely to be people we share something in common with.
In contrast several verses later we are offered a slightly different commandment, which may be considered far more challenging. ‘And if a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. But the stranger who dwells with you shall be to you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself…’ (Leviticus 19:33-34). This may seem to be a somewhat harder commandment to follow as it challenges us not just to love ourselves, and not just to love those people who are like us, but it calls us on us to love the ‘other’, the person who is different. We don’t just need to avoid treating them in ways we would not want to be treated, but we need to actually love them.
The progression of Leviticus 19 allows us to engage first with love for ourselves and love for our neighbour, before then requiring us to expand our circle and love the stranger. And just in case there was any doubt about why we should be following this commandment the end of the verse states: ‘…for you were strangers in the land of Egypt; I am Adonai your God’ (Leviticus 19:34). It is our experience of having been strangers which is given as the first reason for following this commandment. And just in case that was insufficient alongside it we are reminded that this instruction comes from Adonai.
And this is not the only time we are commanded to love in our Torah. We are also instructed: ‘Love Adonai your God, with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your might’ (Deuteronomy 6:5). While this instruction appears in a different Book of the Torah, we may already be achieving this through the Leviticus instructions. As each one of us is created in the image of God, with the Divine spark within us, when we love our neighbour and the stranger we also love God. We are challenged to recognise and love the Divine spark in our neighbour and the stranger, but we must also recognise it in ourselves. When we truly love ourselves, we can then love our neighbour, the stranger and ultimately God.
The formulation of the commandment therefore possesses within it an important instruction for the way in which we relate to ourselves before we are able to be in relationship with others. We need to be secure in ourselves, positive about ourselves and ultimately love ourselves if we are going to also love others.
While this commandment may be challenging for the way it calls on us to relate to ourselves, it does not require us to stray too far from our comfort zone as it asks us to love our neighbour. In its most literal sense this might refer to the people we live alongside, and in a broader sense it may be members of a shared place or community, but it is likely to be people we share something in common with.
In contrast several verses later we are offered a slightly different commandment, which may be considered far more challenging. ‘And if a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. But the stranger who dwells with you shall be to you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself…’ (Leviticus 19:33-34). This may seem to be a somewhat harder commandment to follow as it challenges us not just to love ourselves, and not just to love those people who are like us, but it calls us on us to love the ‘other’, the person who is different. We don’t just need to avoid treating them in ways we would not want to be treated, but we need to actually love them.
The progression of Leviticus 19 allows us to engage first with love for ourselves and love for our neighbour, before then requiring us to expand our circle and love the stranger. And just in case there was any doubt about why we should be following this commandment the end of the verse states: ‘…for you were strangers in the land of Egypt; I am Adonai your God’ (Leviticus 19:34). It is our experience of having been strangers which is given as the first reason for following this commandment. And just in case that was insufficient alongside it we are reminded that this instruction comes from Adonai.
And this is not the only time we are commanded to love in our Torah. We are also instructed: ‘Love Adonai your God, with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your might’ (Deuteronomy 6:5). While this instruction appears in a different Book of the Torah, we may already be achieving this through the Leviticus instructions. As each one of us is created in the image of God, with the Divine spark within us, when we love our neighbour and the stranger we also love God. We are challenged to recognise and love the Divine spark in our neighbour and the stranger, but we must also recognise it in ourselves. When we truly love ourselves, we can then love our neighbour, the stranger and ultimately God.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Acharei Mot (Leviticus 16:1-17) - The Sounds of Silence
Every Wednesday evening we have been studying the Book of Job in the WLS adult education class (you can join us at 8:30pm when we resume on the 4th May). It has been a wonderful experience to read this fascinating book alongside a great class, always finding new meaning and interpretations within the text. On a weekly basis we have all been struck by the inability of Job’s friends to offer any solace, and their amazing ability to make the situation worse with their ‘words of comfort’. In the light of Job’s complete suffering one is left thinking that it would have been better if the friends had not opened their mouths at all. Silence would have been better than these ‘words of comfort’.
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As children we are often told: “If you can’t say something nice then don’t say anything at all,” and perhaps someone should have shared this pearl of wisdom with Job’s friends. Sometimes there are no words to say; in the face of suffering silence can be the best option.
In this week’s Torah portion Aaron is facing up to the loss of his two sons, Nadav and Avihu, who were consumed by fire when they approached the Tabernacle with strange fire (Leviticus 10:1-2). It is hard to imagine the suffering which Aaron had endured witnessing the death of his sons while serving the God whom he served as High Priest. The first words of the portion demonstrate that this event was still fresh in the mind of Aaron and possibly the community as we read: ‘And Adonai spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron’ (Leviticus 16:1).
God recognises that in the aftermath of the death of one’s children, any words of comfort will be unsatisfactory, and instead God therefore moves immediately to the articulation of a ritual. ‘Aaron shall come into the holy place with a young bullock for a sin-offering and a ram for a burnt-offering’ (Leviticus 16:3). Following from this we are then told about the ritual of the two goats, one to be sacrificed to Adonai and the other to be cast out for Azazel (Leviticus 16:7-8), the ritual for the Yom Kippur sacrifice of atonement.
One may consider God to be rather callous by laying down a ritual, rather than offering Aaron any words of comfort. But on the other hand God’s continued relationship and engagement with Aaron may be symbolic of the fact that God was there for him, with no words offered, because no words would have been sufficient.
People mourn in different ways, and we always need to be conscious of what the individual mourner needs, rather than thinking about what we want to provide as the comforter. For Aaron the ability to move from loss to a task may well have been the best way for him to begin to move on from the death of his sons.
The silence also came from Aaron, who was unable to speak. Immediately after his sons’ death the text tells us: ‘And Aaron was silent’ (Leviticus 10:3); in the aftermath of this tragedy, he was unable to utter any words. It was only when he felt compelled to speak on behalf of his sister (Miriam) who had been afflicted by leprosy, that Aaron spoke to Moses his brother, pleading on her behalf (Leviticus 12:11-12). Through the loss of his sons Aaron lost his speech, but with the return to ritual service, Aaron found a way to continue.
At the end of this chapter we read: ‘And he [Aaron] did as Adonai had commanded Moses’ (Leviticus 16:34). We do not know what Aaron thought, we do not know how he felt, but we do know that after the tragedy he had suffered, he was able to continue with his life. Through the silence and the ritual he found a way to continue.
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As children we are often told: “If you can’t say something nice then don’t say anything at all,” and perhaps someone should have shared this pearl of wisdom with Job’s friends. Sometimes there are no words to say; in the face of suffering silence can be the best option.
In this week’s Torah portion Aaron is facing up to the loss of his two sons, Nadav and Avihu, who were consumed by fire when they approached the Tabernacle with strange fire (Leviticus 10:1-2). It is hard to imagine the suffering which Aaron had endured witnessing the death of his sons while serving the God whom he served as High Priest. The first words of the portion demonstrate that this event was still fresh in the mind of Aaron and possibly the community as we read: ‘And Adonai spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron’ (Leviticus 16:1).
God recognises that in the aftermath of the death of one’s children, any words of comfort will be unsatisfactory, and instead God therefore moves immediately to the articulation of a ritual. ‘Aaron shall come into the holy place with a young bullock for a sin-offering and a ram for a burnt-offering’ (Leviticus 16:3). Following from this we are then told about the ritual of the two goats, one to be sacrificed to Adonai and the other to be cast out for Azazel (Leviticus 16:7-8), the ritual for the Yom Kippur sacrifice of atonement.
One may consider God to be rather callous by laying down a ritual, rather than offering Aaron any words of comfort. But on the other hand God’s continued relationship and engagement with Aaron may be symbolic of the fact that God was there for him, with no words offered, because no words would have been sufficient.
People mourn in different ways, and we always need to be conscious of what the individual mourner needs, rather than thinking about what we want to provide as the comforter. For Aaron the ability to move from loss to a task may well have been the best way for him to begin to move on from the death of his sons.
The silence also came from Aaron, who was unable to speak. Immediately after his sons’ death the text tells us: ‘And Aaron was silent’ (Leviticus 10:3); in the aftermath of this tragedy, he was unable to utter any words. It was only when he felt compelled to speak on behalf of his sister (Miriam) who had been afflicted by leprosy, that Aaron spoke to Moses his brother, pleading on her behalf (Leviticus 12:11-12). Through the loss of his sons Aaron lost his speech, but with the return to ritual service, Aaron found a way to continue.
At the end of this chapter we read: ‘And he [Aaron] did as Adonai had commanded Moses’ (Leviticus 16:34). We do not know what Aaron thought, we do not know how he felt, but we do know that after the tragedy he had suffered, he was able to continue with his life. Through the silence and the ritual he found a way to continue.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Metzora (Leviticus 14:1-20) - Alms for an Ex-Leper
I am rather fond of the Monty Python boys and their brand of comedy, and while it might sound strange I rather enjoy the way that they make fun of religion and religious sensibilities. It is therefore unsurprising that I particularly enjoy their film the ‘Life of Brian’. While some may consider it sacrilegious, I think it provides a humorous take on what first century Israel might have been like, and how religions developed there. In one of the scenes we watch as lepers beg for money from passers-by and Michael Palin’s character hops around requesting: ‘alms for an ex-leper’. In response to the question who cured you? He explains: ‘Jesus did, sir. I was hopping along, minding my own business. All of a sudden, up he comes. Cures me. One minute I'm a leper with a trade, next minute my livelihood's gone. Not so much as a by your leave. “You're cured mate.”’
The leper in ‘Life of Brian’ draws on the New Testament and the suggestion that Jesus could miraculously cure leprosy. In Matthew 8:1-3 after completing his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus touched a leper, curing him of his disease. To read both the TaNaKh and the New Testament, one would imagine that this was a rather widespread disease in the Biblical period. In this week’s Torah portion we do not read of an individual miraculous cure, instead we read ‘the Torah of the leper in the day of his cleansing’ (Leviticus 14:2).
The leper at this point no longer has the disease of the skin, but this does not automatically mean that he or she is ready to return to the camp; instead there is a purification ritual for the leper. The first part involves: ‘two live pure birds, cedar wood, crimson stuff, and hyssop to be brought for the one to be purified’ (Leviticus 14:4). And after this part of the ritual ‘the one to be purified shall wash those clothes, shave off all hair, and bathe in water – and then shall be pure’ (Leviticus 14:8).
However, although this then permitted entry into the camp, the person was still forbidden from entering his or her tent for seven days; and on the eighth day a further sacrificial ritual was required involving lambs and flour. At the conclusion ‘the priest shall offer the burnt offering and the meal offering on the altar; the priest shall make expiation for that person, who shall then be pure’ (Leviticus 14:20).
In the discussion of these rituals there is no suggestion of a miracle leading to the cure of leprosy and the person’s purification. But with the sacrifices involved one might consider a deeper understanding of what was actually happening. Perhaps we can liken the first ritual involving birds and the shaving of hair to a medical procedure, which was intended to ensure that the disease had been removed from the body. After this course of treatment, there was then a further ritual, which involved the lambs and the offering of a sacrifice, marking the conclusion and successful recovery from the disease.
Implicit in the inclusion of a sacrifice at the end of the treatment is an acknowledgement of thanks to God for the cure and the recovery. While we may no longer offer sacrifices, there is something powerful about a ritual which marks the end of an illness and a return to full health. We say a prayer for healing for those members of our community who are suffering or ill, but we do not recite a prayer to celebrate their recovery from illness. The Birkat HaGomel (on page 241 in the MRJ Siddur) is a prayer which is traditionally recited after a life-threatening experience, offering an opportunity to thank God for survival. And perhaps we need to supplement this with a prayer for recovery from illness, which may not have been life-threatening, but is equally worthy of note and prayer.
It is also worth noting that the leper was not rushed back from his or her sick bed, and went through an eight day process before being permitted to assume a full role back in the society. In part this may have been due to the societal concerns about the transmission of the disease, but it also meant that the ex-leper had an opportunity to readjust and reacclimatise back into society. Perhaps if the leper in the ‘Life of Brian’ had been allowed this ritual, rather than receiving a miraculous cure, he might have adjusted better upon his return to health and society.
The leper in ‘Life of Brian’ draws on the New Testament and the suggestion that Jesus could miraculously cure leprosy. In Matthew 8:1-3 after completing his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus touched a leper, curing him of his disease. To read both the TaNaKh and the New Testament, one would imagine that this was a rather widespread disease in the Biblical period. In this week’s Torah portion we do not read of an individual miraculous cure, instead we read ‘the Torah of the leper in the day of his cleansing’ (Leviticus 14:2).
The leper at this point no longer has the disease of the skin, but this does not automatically mean that he or she is ready to return to the camp; instead there is a purification ritual for the leper. The first part involves: ‘two live pure birds, cedar wood, crimson stuff, and hyssop to be brought for the one to be purified’ (Leviticus 14:4). And after this part of the ritual ‘the one to be purified shall wash those clothes, shave off all hair, and bathe in water – and then shall be pure’ (Leviticus 14:8).
However, although this then permitted entry into the camp, the person was still forbidden from entering his or her tent for seven days; and on the eighth day a further sacrificial ritual was required involving lambs and flour. At the conclusion ‘the priest shall offer the burnt offering and the meal offering on the altar; the priest shall make expiation for that person, who shall then be pure’ (Leviticus 14:20).
In the discussion of these rituals there is no suggestion of a miracle leading to the cure of leprosy and the person’s purification. But with the sacrifices involved one might consider a deeper understanding of what was actually happening. Perhaps we can liken the first ritual involving birds and the shaving of hair to a medical procedure, which was intended to ensure that the disease had been removed from the body. After this course of treatment, there was then a further ritual, which involved the lambs and the offering of a sacrifice, marking the conclusion and successful recovery from the disease.
Implicit in the inclusion of a sacrifice at the end of the treatment is an acknowledgement of thanks to God for the cure and the recovery. While we may no longer offer sacrifices, there is something powerful about a ritual which marks the end of an illness and a return to full health. We say a prayer for healing for those members of our community who are suffering or ill, but we do not recite a prayer to celebrate their recovery from illness. The Birkat HaGomel (on page 241 in the MRJ Siddur) is a prayer which is traditionally recited after a life-threatening experience, offering an opportunity to thank God for survival. And perhaps we need to supplement this with a prayer for recovery from illness, which may not have been life-threatening, but is equally worthy of note and prayer.
It is also worth noting that the leper was not rushed back from his or her sick bed, and went through an eight day process before being permitted to assume a full role back in the society. In part this may have been due to the societal concerns about the transmission of the disease, but it also meant that the ex-leper had an opportunity to readjust and reacclimatise back into society. Perhaps if the leper in the ‘Life of Brian’ had been allowed this ritual, rather than receiving a miraculous cure, he might have adjusted better upon his return to health and society.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Tazria (Leviticus 13:47-59) - Sick Clothing
As we continue through the book of Leviticus, this week we break from the focus on sacrifices and move to the subject of impurity, skin disease and bodily discharges. Often the Jewish calendar allows us to combine the Torah portions of Tazria and Metzora, so that in one single Shabbat we are able to read both of these passages. However this year, as we add an additional month for the Jewish leap year, we have a fortnight in which to read all about purification after childbirth, leprosy, more leprosy and purification required after human discharges. As you can imagine these are not my favourite Torah portions.
When discussing the disease of tzaraat, or leprosy as it is commonly translated, one of the interesting features is the fact that the disease afflicts both a person’s skin and a person’s clothing: ‘The garment also where the disease of leprosy is, whether it is a woollen garment, or a linen garment’ (Leviticus 13:47). The disease is not even limited to bodies or clothing, as it is possible for the walls of a house to be affected by leprosy as well (Leviticus 14:34-45).
The fact that leprosy could affect houses and clothing suggests that it could not have been limited to leprosy (Hansen’s disease) as we know it today (a fact backed up by Encyclopaedia Judaica).
One of the most famous cases of leprosy in the Tanakh affected Moses’ sister Miriam, she was struck down after Aaron and she had been talking about Moses’ Cushite wife. The text tells us: ‘Miriam had become leprous, white as snow; and Aaron looked upon Miriam, and, behold, she was leprous’ (Numbers 12:10). In this context leprosy appears as a punishment for Miriam, directly caused by God. This idea appears to be supported by building leprosy, as it states: ‘When you come to the land of Canaan, which I give to you for a possession, and I put the disease of leprosy in a house of the land of your possession’ (Leviticus 14:34).
If we view leprosy as a punishment from God, then it may be understandable for a person to be afflicted with it, but it seems stranger for clothes and buildings to suffer as well.
In the ancient world when the garment was diseased the priest shut up the garment for seven days, and then checked if the disease had spread (Leviticus 13:50-51). Today if we found a garment with the ‘disease’ I imagine we would throw it straight in the washing machine, and then consider it fully cleansed.
For us today the idea of diseased garments need no longer apply to a disease that is ‘reddish or greenish in the garment’ (Leviticus 13:49). Instead we may consider garments to be diseased based on the way that they are made. Clothes created by underage workers might be considered diseased. Garments which are made by people in unsafe conditions may be considered afflicted. And outfits which use harmful chemicals may be considered leprous.
In our modern world perhaps we need to look for the disease before we buy the item of clothing, viewing it as something which needs to be eradicated through our shopping rituals, rather than a seven day purification ritual. If we use our purses and wallets to demonstrate our displeasure with certain practices in the fashion industry, perhaps we can then purify our garments of the leprous disease.
When discussing the disease of tzaraat, or leprosy as it is commonly translated, one of the interesting features is the fact that the disease afflicts both a person’s skin and a person’s clothing: ‘The garment also where the disease of leprosy is, whether it is a woollen garment, or a linen garment’ (Leviticus 13:47). The disease is not even limited to bodies or clothing, as it is possible for the walls of a house to be affected by leprosy as well (Leviticus 14:34-45).
The fact that leprosy could affect houses and clothing suggests that it could not have been limited to leprosy (Hansen’s disease) as we know it today (a fact backed up by Encyclopaedia Judaica).
One of the most famous cases of leprosy in the Tanakh affected Moses’ sister Miriam, she was struck down after Aaron and she had been talking about Moses’ Cushite wife. The text tells us: ‘Miriam had become leprous, white as snow; and Aaron looked upon Miriam, and, behold, she was leprous’ (Numbers 12:10). In this context leprosy appears as a punishment for Miriam, directly caused by God. This idea appears to be supported by building leprosy, as it states: ‘When you come to the land of Canaan, which I give to you for a possession, and I put the disease of leprosy in a house of the land of your possession’ (Leviticus 14:34).
If we view leprosy as a punishment from God, then it may be understandable for a person to be afflicted with it, but it seems stranger for clothes and buildings to suffer as well.
In the ancient world when the garment was diseased the priest shut up the garment for seven days, and then checked if the disease had spread (Leviticus 13:50-51). Today if we found a garment with the ‘disease’ I imagine we would throw it straight in the washing machine, and then consider it fully cleansed.
For us today the idea of diseased garments need no longer apply to a disease that is ‘reddish or greenish in the garment’ (Leviticus 13:49). Instead we may consider garments to be diseased based on the way that they are made. Clothes created by underage workers might be considered diseased. Garments which are made by people in unsafe conditions may be considered afflicted. And outfits which use harmful chemicals may be considered leprous.
In our modern world perhaps we need to look for the disease before we buy the item of clothing, viewing it as something which needs to be eradicated through our shopping rituals, rather than a seven day purification ritual. If we use our purses and wallets to demonstrate our displeasure with certain practices in the fashion industry, perhaps we can then purify our garments of the leprous disease.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Shemini (Leviticus 10:1-15) - The Dangers of Sacred Space
I have a very complicated relationship with the Kotel (the Western Wall in Jerusalem). When I was in Jerusalem for my gap year, and a friend in England was seriously ill, I went to the Kotel to pray and to place a note in the wall, asking for her recovery. I believed that there was a special significance to that place and that a prayer placed in the cracks of that wall could make a difference. Later that same year I returned to the Kotel on Shavuot with a group of Reform and Conservative Jews, so that we could celebrate the festival in an egalitarian community. As we stood there we were shouted at, had stones thrown at us, and required the protection of the police to ensure our safety.
I feel a connection to the Kotel as part of the support wall of the plaza upon which the Temple once stood. But at the same time I do not like the fact that it has essentially become a Haredi synagogue, in which my Jewish practice is not welcome. This relationship is further complicated by the fact that I also feel uneasy with the tension which exists between the Jewish and Muslim communities in relation to the sacred space of the Temple Mount.
Sacred space holds a power over us on a theoretical level, but as we read in the Torah it may also be dangerous. When Moses approached the burning bush, encountering God for the first time, he was told: ‘Do not come any closer; take off your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground’ (Exodus 3:5). Precautions had to be taken before stepping onto the sacred ground.
In the wilderness, the Tabernacle represented portable sacred space, and it too was a dangerous place to enter. ‘Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, took each of them his censer, and put fire in it, and put incense on it, and offered strange fire before Adonai, which God commanded them not. And there went out fire from Adonai, and devoured them, and they died before Adonai’ (Leviticus 10:1-2). The text does not explain exactly what the brothers did, but the strange fire which they brought to the Tabernacle led to their death.
Some have suggested that it was the nature of the fire which caused the punishment, while others have proposed that they were somehow in an unfit state to approach the Tabernacle with an offering for God. The text is not clear; however, it does clarify that whatever they did, it was not commanded by God. They behaved in a way which God had not requested, and their punishment was to be consumed by the very substance they had brought to the Tabernacle – fire.
Nadav and Avihu were consumed, literally by the fire, but perhaps also metaphorically by their devotion to the sacred space of the Tabernacle. As Priests they were among the select group of people serving in the Tabernacle, and yet this was not sufficient, they had to find a way to be close to the sacred space, even when God did not require it. They did not worship in the way which had been commanded, and instead they brought strange fire to God, fire which then consumed and killed them.
The passion and zeal which is often expressed around the Kotel and the Temple Mount may be considered the strange fire of our generation. People treat the place in a way which God never commanded, and I would imagine that God does not welcome it. This strange fire of today, just like the strange fire of Nadav and Avihu, is dangerous, with the power to consume and destroy us. We must be careful that we are not consumed by the idea of a sacred space or holy ground. As a Jewish people we have survived for almost two thousand years without a Temple, and we have found ways of bringing God into our midst and into our communities without requiring one specific concrete structure. Our survival is testimony to the fact that we have learned the lessons of Nadav and Avihu.
I feel a connection to the Kotel as part of the support wall of the plaza upon which the Temple once stood. But at the same time I do not like the fact that it has essentially become a Haredi synagogue, in which my Jewish practice is not welcome. This relationship is further complicated by the fact that I also feel uneasy with the tension which exists between the Jewish and Muslim communities in relation to the sacred space of the Temple Mount.
Sacred space holds a power over us on a theoretical level, but as we read in the Torah it may also be dangerous. When Moses approached the burning bush, encountering God for the first time, he was told: ‘Do not come any closer; take off your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground’ (Exodus 3:5). Precautions had to be taken before stepping onto the sacred ground.
In the wilderness, the Tabernacle represented portable sacred space, and it too was a dangerous place to enter. ‘Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, took each of them his censer, and put fire in it, and put incense on it, and offered strange fire before Adonai, which God commanded them not. And there went out fire from Adonai, and devoured them, and they died before Adonai’ (Leviticus 10:1-2). The text does not explain exactly what the brothers did, but the strange fire which they brought to the Tabernacle led to their death.
Some have suggested that it was the nature of the fire which caused the punishment, while others have proposed that they were somehow in an unfit state to approach the Tabernacle with an offering for God. The text is not clear; however, it does clarify that whatever they did, it was not commanded by God. They behaved in a way which God had not requested, and their punishment was to be consumed by the very substance they had brought to the Tabernacle – fire.
Nadav and Avihu were consumed, literally by the fire, but perhaps also metaphorically by their devotion to the sacred space of the Tabernacle. As Priests they were among the select group of people serving in the Tabernacle, and yet this was not sufficient, they had to find a way to be close to the sacred space, even when God did not require it. They did not worship in the way which had been commanded, and instead they brought strange fire to God, fire which then consumed and killed them.
The passion and zeal which is often expressed around the Kotel and the Temple Mount may be considered the strange fire of our generation. People treat the place in a way which God never commanded, and I would imagine that God does not welcome it. This strange fire of today, just like the strange fire of Nadav and Avihu, is dangerous, with the power to consume and destroy us. We must be careful that we are not consumed by the idea of a sacred space or holy ground. As a Jewish people we have survived for almost two thousand years without a Temple, and we have found ways of bringing God into our midst and into our communities without requiring one specific concrete structure. Our survival is testimony to the fact that we have learned the lessons of Nadav and Avihu.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Two Minutes of Torah: Tzav (Leviticus 7:22-38) Why Kosher?
In my American Jewish history class, the teacher, Dr. David Kaufman, shared the joke about the modern Jewish family who don’t have two sets of plates and utensils, but instead have three sets. As is expected they have a set for milky foods and they have a set for meaty foods, but they also have a third set for the treif (non-Kosher) food. I am not sure whether any Jewish family keeping separate plates for milk and meat, actually keeps another set for treif food, but it reminds us that today the Kashrut rules people follow are not necessarily what they once were.
What we eat is an important concern within the Torah, and we receive a variety of rules and regulations at different points relating to what animals we can and cannot eat, and also in relation to the parts of the animal which we should and shouldn’t eat.
While next week we will read about the various animals which are kosher. In this week’s Torah portion we are told about two parts of the animal which we are forbidden to eat. First we read: ‘Speak to the people of Israel, saying, You shall eat no kind of fat, of ox, or of sheep, or of goat’ (Leviticus 7:23). And then ‘Moreover you shall eat no kind of blood, whether it is of bird or of beast, in any of your dwellings’ (Leviticus 7:26).
Within the Torah laws are divided into two categories: mishpatim and chukim. The mishpatim are the laws for which we can discern a rational explanation, frequently in relation to creating an orderly society. In contrast the chukim are laws for which there is no rational explanation, we cannot be sure why God commands us to behave in the way specified. Kashrut belongs to this category of chukim, for which no explicit reasons are given in the Torah. For example at no point does it say, ‘you shall eat animals who chew the cud and who have split hooves because they are good for you’ we are simply told that these are the animals which are classified as kosher.
People will often try to discern reasons for the laws of kashrut as a way of explaining, or even justifying, them. And it is clear that with the two regulations in this week’s Torah portion we can detect good reasons for following the laws. Today we know that fatty foods are generally considered to be unhealthy and bad for us. And we can also understand a prohibition against blood, which is the source of life. The prohibition against fatty foods may be considered practical, while the exclusion of blood is ideological.
Some would argue that the kashrut laws are written in the Torah, and therefore we follow them without question or hesitation, with no need for a reason or justification.
For me the kashrut laws quite simply make me conscious of what I eat. From the time when I bought lunches in the school cafeteria, I have been aware that my decision of what to eat, and what not to eat, was related to my Jewish identity. The very existence of kashrut laws makes sure that whenever we eat we are reminded that we are Jewish. The specifics of the laws are not as important, as is the awareness which they encourage. Just as the tzitzit is supposed to be a reminder of the commandments throughout the day, the kashrut laws are simply a reminder of Jewish identity.
And on a secondary level the kashrut laws make us aware of what we eat. We cannot indiscriminately buy food; we have to check that the food is kosher. Today perhaps that exploration should not just be for non-kosher ingredients, but also for non-kosher means of production and farming. We can expand our definition of kashrut, not into three sets of plates, but rather into food which is kosher both in ingredients and production. We can decide what to eat based on both requirements. Then we can truly achieve a kashrut which is practical and ideological.
What we eat is an important concern within the Torah, and we receive a variety of rules and regulations at different points relating to what animals we can and cannot eat, and also in relation to the parts of the animal which we should and shouldn’t eat.
While next week we will read about the various animals which are kosher. In this week’s Torah portion we are told about two parts of the animal which we are forbidden to eat. First we read: ‘Speak to the people of Israel, saying, You shall eat no kind of fat, of ox, or of sheep, or of goat’ (Leviticus 7:23). And then ‘Moreover you shall eat no kind of blood, whether it is of bird or of beast, in any of your dwellings’ (Leviticus 7:26).
Within the Torah laws are divided into two categories: mishpatim and chukim. The mishpatim are the laws for which we can discern a rational explanation, frequently in relation to creating an orderly society. In contrast the chukim are laws for which there is no rational explanation, we cannot be sure why God commands us to behave in the way specified. Kashrut belongs to this category of chukim, for which no explicit reasons are given in the Torah. For example at no point does it say, ‘you shall eat animals who chew the cud and who have split hooves because they are good for you’ we are simply told that these are the animals which are classified as kosher.
People will often try to discern reasons for the laws of kashrut as a way of explaining, or even justifying, them. And it is clear that with the two regulations in this week’s Torah portion we can detect good reasons for following the laws. Today we know that fatty foods are generally considered to be unhealthy and bad for us. And we can also understand a prohibition against blood, which is the source of life. The prohibition against fatty foods may be considered practical, while the exclusion of blood is ideological.
Some would argue that the kashrut laws are written in the Torah, and therefore we follow them without question or hesitation, with no need for a reason or justification.
For me the kashrut laws quite simply make me conscious of what I eat. From the time when I bought lunches in the school cafeteria, I have been aware that my decision of what to eat, and what not to eat, was related to my Jewish identity. The very existence of kashrut laws makes sure that whenever we eat we are reminded that we are Jewish. The specifics of the laws are not as important, as is the awareness which they encourage. Just as the tzitzit is supposed to be a reminder of the commandments throughout the day, the kashrut laws are simply a reminder of Jewish identity.
And on a secondary level the kashrut laws make us aware of what we eat. We cannot indiscriminately buy food; we have to check that the food is kosher. Today perhaps that exploration should not just be for non-kosher ingredients, but also for non-kosher means of production and farming. We can expand our definition of kashrut, not into three sets of plates, but rather into food which is kosher both in ingredients and production. We can decide what to eat based on both requirements. Then we can truly achieve a kashrut which is practical and ideological.
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