Round We Go Again: A Reflection for Shabbat Parah, 2 April 2016

Preparing to post my reflection from last night on my blog, I remembered that I’d recently cleared my browser’s history.  Therefore my blog did not come up after only three or so keystrokes as it usually does.  In fact, after I’d typed ‘rabbi’ I ended up on Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ blog, which I had apparently visited after clearing my history.  So, still not thinking quite clearly, I typed in ‘rabbidonlevy’ and the rest of the Blogspot URL and hit enter.

          The typing took me to a blog belonging to ‘rabbidonlevy,’ and I am in fact that Rabbi Don Levy.  But the blog is an old one, the one I used to write before I became ‘rabbidoninoz.’  It’s the blog I maintained for posting my weekly reflections, back when my gig was at Temple Beit Torah in Colorado Springs.

          Once there, I of course couldn’t just move to the correct blog and be done with it.  Naturally, I had to spend some time re-reading some of my weekly sermons written during my tenure on that pulpit, ending in 2011.  It reminded me of what a privilege it is to make a living, at least in part, by writing.  The result is that I was able to get a quick snapshot into the subjects that were compelling to me then – and compare them to what I write about nowadays.  It enabled me to compare how I was thinking then, with how I am thinking today.  It also afforded me a chance to see that I still make the same typos that I did back then…

          Five years ago, I was as interested in Israel and her perception in the world as I am today.  I was as interested in current affairs and how they reflect the ethics of the age, as I am today.  But I did not seem to be as interested in traditional Torah law, and how it aught to affect our daily behavior, as I am today.  Back then, I wrote about that very little.  Back then, I probably would not have written last night’s sermon about kashrut.  Not that I had anything against kashrut back then, mind you!  It’s just that other things were on my mind.

          I was thinking about that, because this is Shabbat Parah.  The parah, or cow that the name refers to, is the Red Heifer.  In the ancient cultus, the priests had to find a red heifer, burn it into ashes, and use those ashes to purify themselves to ensure their ritual fitness to offer the Korban Pesach – the Passover sacrifice.

          This narrative is not in this week’s cyclical Torah reading – it comes from the 19^th chapter of Numbers, way beyond where we’re reading this week.  But the 22 verses that convey the procedures of the Red Heifer, are read this morning as a special maftir, an additional reading.  This, because next week is Shabbat Hachodesh, the Shabbat when we celebrate Rosh Chodesh of Nissan, the month in which Pesach comes.  The Red Heifer narrative is added to the today’s reading, because this was the time of that purification rite when the Beit Mikdash still stood.

          This reminds me that, even when our focus and thoughts might change over the years, we are still repeating the cycles of reading, reacting, and experiencing.  That’s why a Jew can’t just take a ‘year off’ from celebrating, say, Passover.  Oh, an individual Jew might find themselves unable to celebrate Passover, or some other holiday or occasion, in its fullest in any particular year thanks to encroaching circumstances.  In the same way, we sometimes find ourselves unable to celebrate our birthdays because of contemporaneous events.  My poor daughter’s birthday is on September 12^th.  Already before 2001, we were sometimes unable to pay much attention to it because it tends to come right around Rosh Hashanah.  And of course in that fateful first year of the new millennium, a harrowing event occurred the day before that made us loath to hold a birthday party.

          So sometimes things get in the way, and after all that sounds just like life.  But we never entertain the notion that, because we’ve celebrated Passover so many times, we can afford to ignore it any particular year.  Because every year, if we allow it to, it will affect us in a slightly different way.  The differences in the way the particular Seder is conducted, or the social dynamic between those seated at the table, or the things we’re thinking about and why, will necessarily change the experience each time.

          As we announce the New Moon of Nissan, which will take place next Shabbat, it is a good time to think about how we prepare ourselves for upcoming festivals.  We no longer go out searching for a red heifer to burn to ashes in order for the priests to be ritually fit to offer the Passover sacrifice.  But this Shabbat is a wonderful time to reflect upon how we prepare ourselves for Passover, or any important occasion.  And how we prepare ourselves, intellectually, spiritually and otherwise for the important cyclical occasions of our lives.  Shabbat shalom.  

You Are What You Eat: A Reflection for Parashat Shemini, Friday 1 April 2016

Everybody who isn’t Jewish but knows anything about the Jewish religion, generally knows two facts regarding its positive requirements for its members.  One, that it requires its members to circumcise their male children.  And two, that it forbids its members to eat certain foods.  Beyond these two facts, many gentiles ‘know’ different things about Judaism and Jews, some of which are accurate and many of which are erroneous.  But regarding the ‘Top Two,’ which are of course accurate, most folks are aware.

          Regarding kashrut, the term for the overall system of dietary laws, many Jews and gentiles are aware that certain species are off the plate according to Jewish law.  Most likely, they are aware of the Torah’s aversion to Jews eating the meat of the swine.  (Notice I don’t say ‘pork’ like most people.  I like the sinister sound of ‘swine’…it better conveys some rationale for the ban!)  Until Clara and I first came to Australia, we never felt the equally adamant ban on shellfish.  Oh, we’ve lived in places where shellfish are popular.  But outside of Louisiana, where I had a student pulpit one year, we have never been in a place where the eating of

Shellfish so defines a people’s culture as it does in Australia.  Don’t get me wrong; Americans generally like their shrimp.  But not until we came to Australia, did we see the idea of eating little marine bugs elevated virtually to the status of religion.  And where buying, cooking, and eating prawns is an important ritual in several national holidays.  I’m not complaining, mind you…just observing!

            In the second year I was in Australia, a lady rang me and asked me to speak at the annual food festival in Maleny, in the Sunshine Coast Hinterland.  The woman, a Jew who had been part of the organising committee for this festival for a number of years, decided that this particular year she would include a symposium on Food and Spirituality.  Even though the festival took place at a very busy time for me, the weekend between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I decided to agree to speak.  The topic, and its inclusion in the program, intrigued me.  Interestingly, I was interviewed for no fewer than three radio programmes in the weeks leading up to the festival.  The curiosity concerning this small part of the festival, was interesting to me.

          I shared the panel with a Buddhist nun and an Aboriginal ‘holy woman.’  I was the first to speak.  I opened my talk – humorously, I thought at the time – by stating up front that the Jewish dietary practices forbid the consumption of prawns, kangaroo, imu, and crocodile…so pity the poor Australian Jew.  And then, of course, I proceeded to tell the audience about the long list of species that Jews can eat…and what are the criteria for inclusion or exclusion.

          The Aboriginal woman spoke next, and the first thing she said was the Jewish dietary laws, point to its being an imported, non-native tradition in Australia since it excludes most native species from the diet.  Then she launched into a 20-minute diatribe about how white people have ruined ‘her’ land.  During the Q & A, someone challenged her about her not addressing the connection between food and spirituality.  She thought for a moment, then responded plaintively:  My spirit is too broken, for me to think of spirituality!

          Regarding the Buddhist nun’s talk, I couldn’t hear or understand a word of what she said in her 20-minute mumble.  And I was even wearing my hearing aids!

          Many Jews, in trying to understand the laws of kashrut, try to assign various rationales to the system.  It’s hygienic, say some, pointing to the exclusion of various species that are considered amongst the filthiest animals in the realm.  But a someone I knew, who kept both chooks and pigs on his farm, once told me that the former – allowed under kashrut – were no cleaner then the latter – not allowed.  It has to do with humane treatment of animals, say others, pointing to the need to kill the animal almost instantly in a manner which will avoid making it suffer overly in dying.  But none of the kosher meat available here in Australia is certified free-range or cage-free.  If kashrut were really about humane treatment, wouldn’t today’s kosher authorities, at least talk about banning cage and stall-raised animals and eggs?  One would think, but…as far as I know, they do not.  There are other theories I’ve heard.  The consumption of meat and dairy together, cancel out the nutritive qualities of both.  Shellfish have little nutritive value at all.  It goes on and on.  All of these rationales, to be sure, carry some truth in them.  But they all, ultimately miss the point.

          ‘The Point’ can be drawn from the start of the list of can-eat’s and can-not-eat’s coming immediately after a passage concerning the sons of Aaron and how they were to perform the sin-offering.  So looking at the ‘big picture’ here, it seems that the essence of these laws lies in none of the above.  Rather, the way that the people as a whole choose, prepare and consume their food is affective for them in the way that what the priests do in the Ohel Mo’ed is for them.  It is a discipline that elevates the otherwise-mundane act of killing, cooking and eating into a way that the Jew can express his devotion fo Hashem.

          Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against searching out knowledge that points to the profound wisdom that G-d expressed through the Torah.  But at the end of the day, following or not following it – whether the laws of kashrut or whatever – is a decision that one makes out of a spirit of wanting to draw nearer to Hashem.  At the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about.  Shabbat shalom. 

Esther and Easter: A Reflection for 26 March 2016

Yesterday was Good Friday.  Tomorrow is Easter.

As a Jew, I don’t worry too much about the Christian Holy Week observances, which culminate in Easter Sunday.  Except to make sure that the fridge is full on Thursday, and to remember not to expect to get any shopping done until Tuesday.  At least here in Australia, where the weekend seems to have more of a ‘holiday’ feeling than it did back in the USA.

Back in my former life as a US Air Force chaplain, I had to concern myself with the Christian calendar.  This, because the facilities where I worked were under heavier use during Christian observances.  I had to be careful not to schedule anything that would be pre-empted by Holy Week’s Christian events.  We had a definite pecking order in the chaplaincy for scheduling events.  Religious services had priority over everything else, including religious education.  And special holy day occasions had priority over the ‘standard’ weekly Sabbath services.  So, at least in theory, Rosh Hashanah would trump the Christian Sunday.  And Good Friday would trump the Jewish Shabbat evening.  But thank G-d, we all tried very hard not to interfere with one another’s important days…and we largely succeeded.

Another area where we generally succeeded, was in finding time to appreciate one another’s observances by experiencing them.  Thus, I’ve been to several Protestant Easter Sunrise Services.  And the Russian and Greek Orthodox candlelight vigils on Saturday night.  And more than one Catholic Easter Mass.  They’re all different.  But they all incorporate the same kind of solemnity that we bring to Yom Kippur.  But my Christian colleagues, and our Christian neighbours in general, cannot seem to fathom why our other observances are not so solemn.

Although Easter Sunday is particularly solemn, any Sunday’s worship in any Christian tradition – except perhaps Pentecostal or Charismatic – is likely to be particularly solemn.  But the typical Shabbat in Jewish circles – in whatever ‘flavour’ or Judaism – is not likely to be solemn at all.  In the course of the service, we joke and laugh and generally have a good time.  And then there are the observances where the levity can get extreme.  Once I was talking to a woman from a Catholic background who had married a Jewish man, the older brother of a friend.  I was at this family’s home for Pesach.  Talking with the non-Jewish sister-in-law, I asked her what was the ‘strangest’ – to her eyes – thing that her Jewish in-laws do.  And she told me that the Pesach Seder, which we are at that moment waiting to start, was a good place to start.  She understood Pesach to have a significance for Jews, somewhat analogous to that of Easter for Christians.  And yet, her Jewish family had a habit of celebrating the Seder with much levity:  throwing rubber frogs and bugs, interrupting and mocking the leader, complaining that they were dying of hunger so could the leader please move it along.

I nodded my understanding, wondering what she would have thought if she’d attended a Jewish gathering at Purim or Simchat Torah.

I was thinking about this today.  Oh, I’m not planning to drop in on any Christian services this Easter Sunday.  Those days are over, and besides I wasn’t planning to give my Sunday morning Hebrew students a day off.  No, sir!  But I was thinking about the rare occurrence of Purim and Easter in the same week.  No, not the similar sound of ‘Esther’ and ‘Easter.’  Perhaps it’s possible that both names have their origins in the same pagan deity.  But ‘Esther’ could also be a derivative of ‘hidden’ from Hebrew.  And given the content of the story, it fits.

Purim is a ‘minor holiday’ in that it does not carry any requirements for cessation of normal activities.  Only the positive requirement of hearing the Book of Esther read.  For those who were with me Wednesday night, we did it by discussing aspects of the book, rather than go through a traditional reading.  I hope you found it thoughtful and helpful.  That aside, it was just another occurrence of Jews being Jews together.  As in, Let’s eat!  But solemn?  Not hardly.

   What is it about our communal observances, that we only selectively bring an element of solemnity to them?  That we are more likely to dress our holy times and occasions in a degree of levity that is off-putting, or at least mysterious, to our neighbours?  In all honesty, I can’t say that I have an answer.  Oh, I have a gut feeling.  Perhaps our history has taught us not to take ourselves overly seriously.  Even when the occasion would seem to be serious.  We have survived by looking at ourselves and responding with humour to the ways that other people view us, and the way we view ourselves.  Perhaps this is because there is enough tsurres connected to being a Jew, that we don’t feel its necessary to add to it by enforcing a communal solemnity.  Anyway, that’s my gut feeling as to why we often lack solemnity and decorum.  And until someone comes up with a better explanation, I’m sticking to it!  Shabbat shalom.

…Sometimes I Just Sits: A Reflection for Friday, 25 March 2016

In Mishna Avot, or Pirkei Avot as it is often called, we find many bits of profound wisdom.   One of my favourites is:  Who is wise?  He that learns from everyone.  This has taught me the important lesson of not dismissing anybody’s words.  Most of us tend to do that.  If someone does not look or sound like someone who would have wisdom to impart, our first instinct is to ignore them.  When we do, it is to our own loss.  No matter how unlettered, no matter how inarticulate, no matter how young…no matter how far someone is outside the image that makes one instinctively pay attention.  Everybody has something unique to share.

          If wisdom can – and does – come from the most unlikely places, then the opposite is surely true.  Sources that do fit the description of what we might expect to be a fountain of wisdom, often spout all kinds of nonsense.  Take university professors.  Most of us have an instinct to take them seriously.  Why shouldn’t we?  They must study many years to obtain a PhD degree.  Then there is the candidacy exam, an oral examination by a panel of faculty to make sure the student really know their subject.  Passing that hurdle, the student must come up with a dissertation topic that represents original research.  Then comes the arduous process of researching and writing it with a faculty referee who will often accept nothing but excellence in every assertion, in every reference, in every paragraph on every page of a paper that often reaches book length.  Then comes the oral defense of the dissertation.  And then finally, the first, untenured years of teaching when one can be let go for just about any offense, real or imagined.  So when one finally gets a job title that includes the word ‘professor,’ we tend to be impressed.

          All that would be well and good, except that we keep hearing nonsense from the mouths and keyboards of people whose job title includes the word professor.

          Take Ward Churchill, who used to teach Ethnic Studies at the University of Colorado, where my daughter is studying.  Churchill gained national attention when he wrote, shortly after 9-11, an essay entitled On the Justice of Roosting Chickens.  In it he infamously referred to the legions of those killed when the two airliners struck the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York, as little Eichmann’s.  The phrase little Eichmann’s is not original to Churchill; it was coined by Hannah Arendt in 1963 in support of her notion of the banality of evil.  For an American professor to use this phrase to describe innocent victims of a terror attack, struck a raw nerve among the public.  Despite the firestorm, Churchill would not very likely have lost his job over that statement.  But afterwards, some began investigating his writing and research as a whole.  That investigation turned up assertions he had published over the years in the guise of academic writing, which were shown to be patently false.  Churchill was finally fired in 2005, and a long process of legal steps failed to get him reinstated.

          One case does not indict an entire class of people.  There are many more documented cases of professor spouting nonsense.  Remember Joy Karega, the Oberlin College Associate Professor whom I mentioned a couple of weeks back?  Add to her, Melissa Click at the University of Missouri, thankfully now fired, who sought to prevent the documenting of a campus protest and cursed police who were only trying to keep a crowd orderly to prevent unintentional injury.  Then there is Bill Ayers, the gift that keeps on giving.  Cornell West, who having been driven out of Harvard and Princeton, is now poisoning young minds at Union Theological Seminary.  Edward Said, doing his part at Columbia.

But even in naming all these names, my point is not to indict the professorate, which surely includes thousands upon thousands of individuals doing their teaching, research and writing with the utmost integrity.  Rather, my point is that we should never assume that something outlandish from the mouth or pen of someone belonging to a class of person we almost automatically respect, represents wisdom.  Just as we should never automatically dismiss something profound from the mouths the of inarticulate.  We should be open to receiving wisdom from unexpected sources, and take in the words of the lettered with discernment.

I see this tendency in play every day.  People of a lettered class tend to look down their long noses at those without their level of education.  Politicians, and those advocating for a particular politician, love to dismiss those who support a competing politician’s supporters.  You remember President Obama’s 2008 dismissal of small town voters who weren’t polling for him:  They get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.  He said these words at a closed-door fundraiser in San Francisco, a city not especially known for religion and gun ownership.  A city of lettered people who are too smart for all that.  Well, it’s no surprise that the Dismisser-in Chief yet clings to his I’m smarter than you même with almost the exact same words in describing Donald Trump supporters, this in late December of last year in an interview on National Public Radio.

There’s a commercial that runs on television here when registration for the next semester is open.  Its purpose is to get young Australians thinking seriously about enrolling in TAFE.  For my readers outside Australia, TAFE is an acronym for Technical and Further Education.  A TAFE is the Australian equivalent of an American community college.  The commercial shows young adults engaged in many blue collar trades and tells the viewer:  Let’s celebrate the doers!  The point being, a society cannot run on cerebral pursuits alone.  We need clever people who are willing to work with their hands.  Otherwise, nothing gets built, nothing gets repaired…nothing that matters, gets done.  But many of those who purport to know better, are happy to tolerate the doers to the degree that they recognise we need them.  And disparage them when, in their “ignorance,” the make choices that the lettered classes know enough to avoid.  But the TAFE commercials rightly tell us that we should celebrate the doers.  Implied is that we should take them seriously.  And, if your hands are smooth from not engaging in physical work, you should never think yourself better.

Who is wise?  He who learns from everyone.  It is not always easy to remember to be open to learn from everyone.  Nor is it always easy to be ready to scrutinse the “wisdom” of those whom we hold in awe for one reason or another.  In Proverbs 9 we’re told תהילת חכמה יראת ה' – The beginning of wisdom is reverence for the Lord.  And I’m not one to argue with that!  But take it a step further.  Reverence for G-d, not reverence for credentials.  At the end of the day, the beginning of wisdom is discernment.  Open minds are better able to discern.  The root of my reverence for G-d is that His Torah, used as intended, serves as a tool to open one’s mind.

I was thinking about the notion of wisdom from unlikely sources the other day.  It was evening, and I was sitting with a blank look on my face.  Clara asked me what I was thinking about.  I told her I wasn’t thinking about anything.  And then suddenly the words of Winnie the Pooh came to me.  Okay, of A. A. Milne, the author of the Winnie the Pooh books.  Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.  Sometimes – often, for some of us – we overthink matters and therefore our thinking turns muddled.  Sometimes, we don’t need to be thinking deep thoughts.  Sometimes, just experiencing life in the moment, is enough.  Sometimes, just experiencing life in the moment, is superior!  Shabbat has begun, the time especially set aside for experiencing life in the moment.  Shabbat shalom!     

You Will Volunteer! A Reflection for Parashat Vayikra, 19 March 2016

When I was in the military, we had an expression:  Mandatory Fun.  Whenever the command would organise a recreational activity for the purposed purpose of morale-building or team-building, we would mutter about Mandatory Fun.  It was at once a dig at the leadership, who thought that organising some activity – and then requiring everybody to attend – was going to raise morale or strengthen team spirit.  And a dig at the very nature of military life, where everything is commanded…apparently also, recreation.

          It would remind me of the stories my father, alav hashalom, used to tell me of his army days.  The First Sergeant would get the company in formation and ask for six volunteers.  And of course, nobody would raise their hands.  They’d either been forewarned or had learnt their lesson on a previous occasion:  in the army, never volunteer for anything!  So after the sergeant’s call for volunteers, everybody would grab onto their trousers lest their hand accidentally go up.  And the sergeant would simply shrug and point at six men:  Okay, you’ve volunteered!

          So military life, one learns, is like 1984.  Just as Orwell’s Big Brother could rename the Ministry of War to the Ministry of Love, so too the military calls compulsion ‘volunteerism’ and ‘fun.’

           Traditional Jewish circles have long argued, as the military does, the value of voluntarism and free-will.  These days, the argument seems to have fizzled out.  There is little value in volunteering to do something – or refrain from something – as opposed to being compelled.  At least on the surface, this seems illogical.

          The Traditionalist today, will tell you that there’s no particular merit in participating in communal worship, for example, if it’s not mandatory for you.  In other words, if you’re a woman or a gentile.  Women are exempt from worship because it is time specific.  If they thought it was a good thing to attend worship anyway, they might neglect child-rearing.  Gentiles are exempt from worship because, well, because they’re gentiles.  So in many traditionalist settings, women are allowed to attend but not made to feel especially welcome.  And gentiles?  They will often never get past the door-keeper.

          Why should they attend?  If they’re not required, there’s little-to-no merit in doing so.  At least, that’s what appears to be the dominant view today.  Attending worship – among other things – isn’t about feeling good.  It’s about responding positively to an obligation.  If one hasn’t got that obligation…why bother?

          Again, at least to some of us in our own sensibilities, illogical.  Most of us have been trained to see that which you do voluntarily, as of greater merit than what you do out of compulsion.  But today, at least in some sectors of Orthodox Judaism, that is not seen.  I believe that what drives it, is the fear that Jews will come to a point where they don’t feel obligated.  And when they do…goodbye.  I look at my own congregation.  I know which members of our group feel obligated.  They are the ones who attend almost without fail.  If they happen to miss because something else gets in the way, they feel guilty and reorder their priorities so that the next time there will be no conflict.  The ones who attend not out of obligation, will let just about anything get between them and coming.  I say this not to chasten anybody.  Rather, I say it to give at least some credence to the notion that obligation is, at the end of the day, superior to feeling moved to do something.

          But the Torah doesn’t quite convey that message.  In today’s reading, in verse two of the first chapter of Vayikra, Leviticus, we read:  אדם כי יקריב מכם קורבן לה'...תקריבו קורבנכם – If a person from amongst you will yakriv a korban to Hashem…you should takrivu your Korban.  I’ve not translated the Hebrew verb yakriv/takrivu, or the noun Korban for a reason.  Both are often translated ‘sacrifice,’ which works grammatically as either a verb or a noun.  But ‘sacrifice’ does not entirely capture the spirit of what it’s about.  The root of both words – ק.ר.ב. – means ‘draw near.’  So the act of bringing forth an offering, and the object offered itself, both serve to enable the offeror to ‘draw near’ to Hashem.  And we’re definitely in the territory of voluntary offering, here.  So G-d’s message regarding something done voluntarily is, Bring it on!  Just because I didn’t command it of you, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t serve an important purpose!  And not only that, but the linguistic connotation is that it will draw one near to G-d.

          Look, we all know that normative Judaism is not, strictly speaking, Biblical Judaism.  We have a name for Judaism that is based exclusively in the Written Torah:  Kara’ism.  There’s nothing intrinsically evil about Kara’ism.  But the Jewish people decided centuries ago that it was beyond the pale, something outside the Jewish tradition even if it was started by Jews.  So we sometimes roll our eyes at our neighbours who have read ‘the Old Testament’ and ask us about the mechanics of bringing a bullock for a burnt offering at the temple.  If we’re patient and the neighbour is one whom we consider sincere, we might try to explain that Jewish practices today are not the practices laid out in the Book of Leviticus:  because the Temple no longer stands, yada yada yada.

Whilst we believe that certain dicta in the Torah – like ‘an eye for an eye’ – have never been understood literally, that there is merit in voluntarily bringing an offering, has only fallen into disrepute in some Jewish circles fairly recently.

It’s relatively easy to nod off to sleep during the weeks that we read the parts of the Torah that are about the ancient sacrificial system.  Yes, there is a strong logical tendency to shrug off the parts of the text that don’t particularly apply to us.  But if we did, we would miss some important lessons like this one.  There is indeed great merit in making an offering even when it is not required of us.  Or of praying.  Or of keeping the Sabbath.  Or kashrut.  It is important to recognise, and respond to obligations.  But volunteerism is not for naught.  Shabbat shalom.  

Of Rugrats and Revelations: a Reflection for Parashat Vayikra, 18 March 2016

Since Clara and I were in the throes of child-rearing in the second half of the Nineties, and in the ‘Naughties,’ we are of course painfully familiar with the children’s cultural cues from that period.  One television show, with which we’re quite familiar, is The Rugrats.  Of course, ‘rugrat’ is a not-too-complimentary slang word for a toddler who, having mastered crawling, always seems to be underfoot at inopportune moments.

          At first we didn’t like The Rugrats.  The visuals were too crude for our taste, and the voices were too exaggeratedly squeaky.  But then we began to get the point.  The show was not about the antics of young children.  Rather, it was the supposed view of the greater world through the eyes and interaction of young children.  The children, through their squeaky voices, were portrayed as engaging in thoughtful, analytical conversations.  But these conversations could only be heard and understood amongst the children themselves.  The adults around them were deaf to them; they only heard squeaks, coos, and cries.  It was never quite clear to me whether the children deliberately hid their conversations from the adults, or whether they simply communicated in a part of the spectrum that was beyond the hearing and comprehension of the adults.

          I was thinking of this when contemplating the opening verse of Vayikra, the Book of Leviticus.

          The content of the third of the Torah’s books is, for the most part, a recitation of the duties of the priests, now that the Ohel Mo’ed has been completed and is ready for service.  The greater world calls the book, ‘Leviticus’ as a reference to the tribe of Levi, who were set aside to serve Hashem and represent the people.  This, by tending to the rituals that were to invoke G-d’s presence among the Israelites.  In Jewish sources, the book is often referred to as Torat Kohanim – the instruction book for the priests – a similar descriptive.

          But the actual Hebrew name for the book, Vayikra, is from its opening verse:  ויקרא אל_­ משה וידבר ה' אליו מאוהל מועד לאמור – He called out to Moses, and Hashem spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying…

          G-d called out to Moses, and then He spoke.  Why is it necessary to use the two verbs here – He called out, and He spoke – regarding G-d’s communication to Moses?  The sages wrestled with this, because as you well know, they considered no letter, let alone word, in the Torah to be extraneous.

          Those who know me, know that I’m a nuts-and-bolts kind of guy.  I could never be a diplomat; I’m not one for flourishes.  Just give me the facts, then your interpretation of them.  I won’t necessarily agree with your interpretation, but after all that’s the nature of interpretations; they’re open to…interpretation!

          When my son, Eyal, was young – actually, up until fairly recently – he would typically approach me and start a conversation like this:

          Abba?

          Yes, Eyal?

          Can I ask you a question?

          (sigh) Of course you can.

          I would sometimes think in my desire to get on with the conversation, Okay, you’ve got my attention; now just get on with it!  But of course, the two stage request for attention was wholly reasonable.  If the subject of the conversation was to be a request of some sort, then Eyal wanted to make sure he had my ear.  He’s not a stupid kid after all, my son!  So I would smile, sometimes through gritted teeth, and brace myself for what Eyal wanted that time.  My get-down-to-the-nitty-gritty nature would sometimes cry out for Eyal to dispense with the dance.  Just tell me what you want, so I can say…no!  I guess I was a mean father…

          Hashem is not portrayed as making requests.  He is the G-d who commands.  So, why would he need to ‘call out’ to Moses preparatory to commanding him regarding the priests’ duties?  Did the Master of Creation need to soften Moses up?

          Hardly.  Rather, the sages understood the ‘calling out’ to be a comforting gesture.  Hashem is indeed a demanding G-d.  When he chooses someone – a people or an individual – for His service, he is not talking trivialities.  We can see this by following the long string of interactions between G-d and Moses.  From the capable, much is required.  But Hashem is a merciful father – infinitely more patient than me!  He speaks the language of man, in order to comfort men.

          And part of the ‘language of man’ is not just the words and constructions of language.  It is the intimacy of relationships.  Hashem speaks privately to Moses.  This, even though as Rashi points out, His voice is powerful enough to shatter trees and be heard throughout the world.  He chooses to speak in a small voice, in private communication that cannot be heard by those around Moses.  In a whisper, as it were.  Because in the privacy of a whisper, trust is built and cemented.

             The building of trust – in this case between Hashem and Moses – is what the notion of private speech, conveys.  In The Rugrats, it was the children’s struggles to understand a world full of adults, a race of aliens.  In the Torah, it is Moshe Rabbeinu’s struggle to reconcile a demanding G-d with a reluctant people.

          G-d called out to Moses in a gentle voice that only he, Moses, could hear.  The effect, both desired and actual, was that Moses could breathe easily, knowing that G-d was not pushing him harder than he would be able to bear.  A voice that can shatter cedars, is a wonderful asset.  The will to draw back and speak in a whisper, is a wonderful virtue.

          For a while, Eyal abandoned his script for making requests.  It was as if he’d heard my inner voice, crying out for directness.  Actually, it was Eyal’s imitation of German waiters.  The latter will stride up to the table, whip out their book of dockets and announce: So!  And the consonant sound was not the soft hiss of an English ‘S’ released through an open tongue.  Not, it was a demanding sound akin to the Hebrew Tsadee, pushed out through a curled-up tongue!  So!  is verbal shorthand for Hier kommt die rechnung!  Here comes the accounting!  This, as a prelude for the reckoning of the bill.  Only a German can load a single-syllable word with such meaning.  So!  All right, Jewish mothers have a talent for it also.  Nu??!  For a time, Eyal dropped his Abba? / Yes, Eyal? / can I ask you a question? / (sigh) Of course you can dance in favour of simply striding up to me and demanding:  So!

          We can laugh at So!  and at Nu??!  But we can take comfort from the intimacy of Vayikra.  Shabbat shalom.

What’s the Point? A Reflection for Parashat Pekudei, Saturday 12 March 2016

So this week’s Torah reading takes us to the end of the Book of Exodus.  As I pointed out in last night’s reflection, most of the Book is not about ‘the Exodus’ at all.  It’s about the setting up of a civil society and, in particular, it’s most important institution:  the priesthood and the Ohel Mo’ed, the Tent of Meeting.

          You would not be entirely off base in thinking that these chapters, about the establishment of the cultus, are not my favourite part of the Torah.  I guess it’s really no secret.  After all, during these weeks I sometimes struggle to offer a thoughtful drash based directly on the reading.  And I often resort to speaking about something having little or nothing to do with the weekly Torah portion when I compose my sermons.  But you won’t tell anybody, will you?  It’s no secret, but…maybe it can be our secret.  Because of course, the ‘party line’ is that every page off Torah is full of important lessons for life.  It’s just that the lessons practically jump off some pages, whereas on other pages it takes a magnifying glass to find them!

          So, sometimes as now it is good to stand back a bit from the page and look at the larger context.  For the insight I’m offering here, I’m indebted to my Sydney colleague, Rabbi Dr Raymond Apple.  There are the details of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle:  its design, it materials, how the materials were gathered.  Then there’s its rationale.  I’ve talked a little about this in past weeks.  The Mishkan – its name means ‘dwelling place,’ as in a dwelling place for G-d’s glory – must be impressive.  If it isn’t, if it is simply utilitarian, then what sort of message does that send?  Probably, that the Israelites don’t think it’s very important to provide a place where the glory of Hashem can dwell amongst them.  If given the choice they just constructed a ‘normal’ tent – perhaps larger than the typical family dwelling – for the purpose, then that would be a very important statement of priorities.  The Ark of the Covenant is the repository for the Tablets of the Law which Moses brought down from Sinai.  But it’s far more than just a cabinet to protect and carry the tablets.  No, it is a witness to the existence and centrality of the Law.  All the other furnishings of the Mishkan have their practical purpose and must be constructed ergonomically.  But each and every furnishing is also a witness to, and celebration of, the G-d who led the Israelites out of Egypt and is preparing to fulfil His promise to lead them back to their Promised Land.  To do justice to this function, requires more than just good, functional design and construction.  The Glory of G-d can only be contained in glory.

          As you remember from a few weeks back, I expressed some ambivalence about the importance of opulence in worship space.  This, in part because our group must be satisfied simply to have a space even if utilitarian.  And in part from my own experience that the most sublime moments I’ve experienced in communal worship, have been in very plain surroundings.  The most opulent or glorified of sanctuaries, does not ensure the kind of ruach, or spirit that create great worship experiences.  This might engender the question:  What’s the point?  What’s the point of this painstaking detail, and of the incredible expense of gathering the mixture of exotic materials to build the Mishkan?  Or the Heichal in Jerusalem that ultimately replaced it?  Or the Park Avenue Synagogue, or any number of other religious palaces which we Jews have erected in recent decades?

          Rabbi Apple points to midrashic souces as opining that the opulence and exacting specifications of the Mishkan were necessary as a counterpoint to the Golden Calf.  The Israelites had invested so much effort and material wealth into a deeply grievous sin, the Golden Calf.  It was therefore necessary for them to apply even more effort and material wealth to its antithesis, the Mishkan.  I’d never quite thought about it that way, but it makes perfect sense.

          We go through life, investing much effort and expense on various things that, in the final analysis, matter very little.  Stuff.  We fill our lives with stuff that delights for a short time, then breaks.  Or collects dust, the excitement of when we first bought it forgotten.  How much effort and expense do we apply to the building of that part of life that brings Hashem into our presence?  Comparatively little.  That’s less a sin, than an accurate picture of our priorities as actualised.  If we’re happy with that picture, we shouldn’t obsess over it.  If we don’t feel it is accurate, and yet it fits as a descriptor, then it is our privilege to change it.

          I’m not asserting that our Stuff is tantamount to the Golden Calf.  The latter was a terrible transgression in and of itself.  Our Stuff is not necessarily.  You know that I like Stuff!  It’s when we think that Stuff is what really matters in life, when we go off-track.  I know many people with nothing, who are miserable.  But I also know people surrounded by Stuff, who are no less miserable.

          The Israelites needed to understand that creating a worship space worthy of Hashem, required more deliberateness and expense than their previous creation of their abomination, the Golden Calf.  That’s the point.  We, more than three millennia later, have our own golden calves…our Stuff.  Not an exact analogue, but close enough that the analogy is important.  As a group, we would be advised to do a little soul-searching.  How does the effort and expense, invested in meeting with Hashem, compare with that we expend on our golden calves?  Something to think about.  Shabbat shalom.  

What Do We Do Now? A Reflection for Parashat Pekudei, Friday 11 March 2016

Do you remember the 1972 film, The Candidate?  It was a pretty good flick, starring a young Robert Redford as Bill McKay, an idealistic young lawyer.  The California Democrat Party tapped him for an impossible senate race against a popular Republican incumbent.  Redford’s character had neither political experience nor aspirations, but the Democrats needed someone to enter the race.  So the party’s leaders talked McKay into running, and they assigned handlers to usher him through his losing election.  But McKay, during the campaign, listened to the voters and shifted his positions to tell the public what they wanted to hear.  His popularity rose to where, on Election Day, he effected a miraculous upset and unseated his opponent.

          The most memorable line in the movie was the very last line spoken.  I remember it vividly, even though I was only 15 when I saw the film.  After Redford’s character’s victory, he turns to his handlers and says:  “What do we do now?”

          One of my favourite columnists mentioned the film, and Redford’s final line in the script, this week to make a point of the current US Presidential election circus.  I smiled at the memory of the movie, less so about the invoking of its protagonist actually getting elected and then not having a clue what to do next, regarding current events.

          But What do we do now?  also comes to mind when I think about the cycle of Torah readings.

          This week our portion is Pekudei, the final reading in Shemot, the book of Exodus.  The book contains 42 chapters, the final three of which are contained in this week’s reading.

          As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, the name Exodus is the Greek word for ‘exit.’  The world knows this biblical book as Exodus because it’s most important theme is Yetzi’at Mitzrayim – the departure of the Israelite people from the Land of Egypt.  But the climax – the crossing of the Red Sea – takes place in the 15^th chapter.  There, in parashat Beshallach, we read the Song of the Sea with great joy and ceremony.

          And then, the book continues for 27 more chapters.  Those chapters document the What Do We Do Now.  They are full of instructions for creating a worthy religious shrine and equipping its priests.  Look, not to sound sacrilegious but…after the excitement of the book’s first fifteen chapters most of the text is something of a letdown.  Oh, there are a few high points yet.  Moses’ ascent of the mountain to receive the Tablets of the Law.  (More exciting, I’ll concede, than the typical visit to one’s doctor to receive a new script for tablets.)  And things get exciting when, in Moses’ absence, the people backslide ‘just a bit’ and engage in a little idol-building with a little orgy to mark the occasion.  So yeah, it’s not as if the next 27 chapters are nothing but dry prose.  But let’s be honest:  most of the really good stuff – Moses’ calling, his encounters with Pharaoh, the Plagues, the crossing of the Red Sea – is behind us by then.

          And that, my friends, is a good metaphor for Real Life.

          The excitement over, the rest of life kicks in.  There will be highs and lows.  But few moments in the life of an administration in Washington will be as exciting as the campaign to see who gets to be President.  If the Presidency were as exciting as the campaign, as crisis filled, the historians would be forever thinking of it as a failed presidency.

          There have been exciting moments since Yetzi’at Mitzrayim.  But the reality of life for the people Israel after the exodus, is the drudgery of society-building.  And then, after the wars of conquest, it’s the drudgery of state-building.  

This weekend, we’re going to have a Beit Din for three candidates for conversion to Judaism.  Those of you who are Jews by conversion, surely remember your Beit Din interviews and all the excitement the preceded them.  And then?  The rest of your life as a Jew.  Navigating the sometimes-petty politics of Jewish life.  Giving to Jewish causes.  Making the service where the rabbi drones on as he is now, the centerpiece of your week.  Continuing to study and learn.  Perhaps it is an exaggeration to call this drudgery, but it certainly isn’t the high drama of the process culminating in the Beit Din.

One can apply the metaphor to so many other experiences in life.  After the excitement of the wedding, settling down to housekeeping, struggling with the household finances, and kids.  After the excitement of the overseas move, the long process of trying to figure out which way is up in the new country.  As we journey through life, we find many exciting moments, followed by long periods of routine.  But the exciting moments define the longer period.  In the same way that the exodus – that exciting process by which the enslaved Israelites were freed from Egyptian bondage – defines the book whose theme, by weight of the text, is really about working out how to live with one another, and with their G-d.

The excitement is over.  What do we do now?  What do we do??!  Now we get on with the business of living.  Shabbat shalom.

Power in the Assembly: A Reflection for Parashat Vayak’hel, Saturday 5 March 2016

Moses Mendelsohn

The European Enlightenment, when the Christian Church lost its power of the secular state, presented incredible new opportunities to Jews who wished to participate more fully in civil society.  The efforts of these Jews to integrate, are well documented in many places.  For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, I recommend viewing Simon Schama’s five-hour miniseries on Jewish history, The Story of the Jews, produced by BBC and available on DVD.  Schama, himself a man very much influenced by Enlightenment ideas, gives a clear and passionate overview of what the Enlightenmentt Jews were trying to achieve. 

The German-Jewish Rabbi and philosopher, Moses Mendelsohn, was considered the Father of the Jewish Enlightenment.  Mendelsohn was unapologetically Jewish and German.  But other figures of the Jewish Enlightenment were much more ambivalent concerning their Jewishness.  They tried to minimise the Jewish influence on their lives outside the specific ritual practices of Judaism.  Judah Leib Gordon, a Russian Jew of the 19^th century, summed up the approach of many Enlightenment Jews:  Be a Jew inside your home and a man outside it.  Perhaps obviously, his use of ‘man’ wasn’t meant to disqualify those with two X chromosomes.  His point was to be a ‘normal’ citizen outside the home.  Jewishness, and all that made Jews distinctive, was something to express only privately.  As if that were possible, because it isn’t.

  Any Jew who tries to be a Jew in the home and a non-specific citizen in the street, will ultimately feel the sting of incongruence and disconnect.  And will either push Jewishness further out of his make-up, or immerse himself in it.  Because a Jewishness that does not infuse one’s character and influence all that a person is, is an irrelevant Judaism.  Take Mendelsohn's family for example.  By the generation of his grandson, the famous composer Felix Mendelsohn, none of the great Rabbi's progeny were Jews.

Those who know me well, understand that I’m not suggesting we wear Jewishness on our sleeves and wave it in the face, uninvited, of everybody we encounter.  You know that’s not what I’m about.  Other Jews are about that, and I’m not here to criticise it.  But for me, as for most of those hearing or reading my words today, it isn’t them.  And it doesn’t have to be.  My point is not that you should either hide or make obvious your Jewish identity.  Rather, that you should use Jewish identity as a starting point to learn and actualise what the Jewish Tradition teaches.  The idea that you can compartmentalize your life – a Jew at home and a man on the street – is neither possible nor desirable.

Some will think what I’m saying today is in distinct contrast to what I said last week about the soul of Judaism resting in the home, not in a public place.  But it isn’t.  My point last week, was that the nexus between Jew and G-d is nurtured and expressed most intimately in everyday life.  We do not call, or think, the table that sits in the middle of the Jewish prayer space – or up on the bimah, when there is one – as an ‘altar.’  The table is a reading table, no more.  We do not perform any ritual here that serves as a literal conduit to G-d.  Rather, we uplift one another with liturgy and scripted acts that allude to the ancient Temple.  But the real connection to the Temple, the direct interaction with Hashem, comes in the home where we sit together at table, sharing sustenance and fellowship in G-d’s Name.

That said, for many Jews today the reality is that Judaism and Jewishness is not shared by all in their household.  There are those Jews who are partnered with non-Jews.  And Jews-by-choice who did not come to Judaism as a ‘package deal’ with their entire household.  For for many Jews today, the synagogue has become, de facto, the seat of not only Jewish identity but also of Jewish sacred practice.  There’s really no way around it.

But really, the Jewish community is not expendable.  Even when the strength of Jewish identity rests in the home, that doesn’t mean that a larger community is not necessary.  It’s true that Jews with a strong identity and family connections frequently survive times of exile from a larger community – resulting, for example, from taking a great job offer in a place with little or no Jewish community.  But when a community exists, it helps to nurture and support our individual Jewish lives in important ways.

This is why, at key moments when Moses assembled the entire community to instruct them.  Our Torah portion this week, Vayak’hel – ‘and he assembled’ – begins with the very word and the concept.  It takes place immediately after the communal sin of the Golden Calf and the reconciliation between Hashem and the community after that debacle.  And what is the important instruction for which Moses assembles the people?  To instruct them to fastidiously observe and practice the Shabbat, the weekly cessation from creative work, and to be careful not to light any fires in any of the Israelite habitations on the Sabbath day.

Why does the observance of Shabbat come up again and again in the instructions to the people whenever they have been led astray?  Because it is Shabbat that makes, and keeps Jews distinctive.  We don’t look different than anybody else.  But our weekly observance puts us so out-of-synch with the world around us that if we’re keeping it, we’ll be distinctive and have that weekly infusion of Jewish thinking that will keep it a part of who were are all week.  Yes, it’s true that there are a number of Christian sects that also keep Shabbat.  Some Jews find that threatening, but I do not.  Even in a world where there are Subbotniki, and Seventh-day Adventists, and Messianic ‘Jews’ the Sabbath, as taught and ideally practiced amongst Jews, keeps us distinctive and gives us common ground with other Jews and with the Jewish Tradition.  Shabbat shalom.