This commentary marks the beginning of our fifth year studying the weekly portion together via the internet. As you know I have faithfully written a commentary each and every week for the past four years. I hope some of my words and interpretations have found their way into your hearts and minds. The effort remains the same as it has been for thousands of years. We continue to ask how the Torah can provide meaning and guidance for our world. As always I welcome your thoughts and responses, and even disagreements. Torah is given renewed life through our discussions and debates. May our conversations continue to be lively and thoughtful. And so today we begin again, and we begin anew.
This week we open the book of Vayikra, Leviticus. Its relevance for our present world appears distant and remote. The book is filled with details about sacrifices. Do you want to thank God? Offer a sacrifice. Such is the counsel of Vayikra. “The bull shall be slaughtered before the Lord; and Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall offer the blood, dashing the blood against all sides of the altar which is at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting…. Its entrails and legs shall be washed with water, and the priest shall turn the whole into smoke on the altar as a burnt offering, an offering by fire of pleasing odor to the Lord.” (Leviticus 1)
Could anything seem more irrelevant? Sprinkling blood? Cleaning entrails? Slaughtering an animal to please God?
Why then would the tradition insist that a child’s Jewish studies begin with this book of Leviticus? True, nearly half of Judaism’s 613 mitzvot are found in Leviticus. And so one could discover a life wedded to the commandments by studying these words. In the myriad of commandments listed in this biblical book a child can begin to learn the meaning of mitzvah. Yet many of these mitzvot are no longer binding. We do not offer sacrifices. We do not examine the sick for signs of leprosy. We do not get tattoos. (Perhaps another example might be more apt.)
So why begin our studies with a book filled with laws we are no longer required to observe? It is because then our study can truly be for its own sake. Then it is Torah l’shma. Some teachers even place honey on the text so that a child’s first taste of Torah is sweet. As we pour over the words of this book our motivations are purified. We discover there our desire to draw closer to God and God’s Torah. That can be our only hope for all this effort. When we open Leviticus first our intentions become true and we draw nearer to God. And then our lives become sweetened.
The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban. It comes from the word to draw near. Its origin suggests that for the ancients sacrifice was first and foremost an effort to draw closer to God. Despite the book of Leviticus’ unappealing details of blood and entrails, the effort remains the same.
We open the pages of a book. We draw near to God. We begin again with the words “Vayikra—And the Lord called…”
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Pekudei and Finishing the Work
The Torah portion describes the conclusion of the Tabernacle construction project with the following words: “When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle…. When the cloud lifted from the Tabernacle, the Israelites would set out, on their various journeys; but if the cloud did not lift, they would not set out until such time as it did lift. For over the Tabernacle a cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys.” (Exodus 40:33-38)
The tabernacle was the vehicle by which God led the people on their journeys. In fact the Hebrew word for tabernacle, mishkan, is related to the Hebrew “to dwell” which is connected to the name for God, Shechinah. This name is the name that we use when we want to suggest God’s presence is most felt. And all of this is tied to the building of the mishkan, tabernacle.
The Torah also suggests additional meaning by its choice of words for Moses finishing the work. The Hebrew, vay’khal, means to complete or even to perfect. By this word choice it draws our attention to the creation account when God finished that first construction project: “The heaven and the earth were finished, and all their array.” (Genesis 2:1) There is of course meaning to be found in this comparison. When we build and create, as Moses and the people did with the mishkan, we imitate God and God’s creation.
The rabbis took this connection even further, arguing an even more radical idea. They taught that God’s creation is in fact incomplete. They went on to teach that God purposely made creation imperfect and incomplete. God intended that part of our creative efforts must be to complete and perfect creation.
We perfect by creating. Making or dreaming up something new is the greatest of human achievements. Albert Einstein said, “If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.” He also quipped, “We can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created these problems.”
And so the synagogue is the place through which God becomes manifest in the world. The purpose of the synagogue is that it is a means to an end. Its purpose is to bring holiness to our lives and goodness to the world. Long ago the rabbis created the idea of the synagogue. They fashioned the synagogue’s architecture in response to the destruction of the Temple. They gave us this very place in order to help us complete and perfect creation.
It is a place to gather, learn and pray. It is a place to heal, comfort and uplift our lives. Today we must recreate this very same place. For years synagogues have operated on the assumption that everyone feels obligated to the synagogue, that people still feel commanded to affirm their Jewish identities, that people still feel a kinship with all Jews and the State of Israel.
These assumptions no longer hold sway. This is why the synagogue, although hearkening back to ancient days, must be recreated for a new age. We must mold something new out of the old. We must infuse synagogue life with new meaning and new energy, with new songs and new learning. Take heart from this week’s portion. There we are reminded that in truth there are no new creations. Everything hearkens back to the first creation account. All else is recreating.
Whenever we finish a book of the Torah as we do on this Shabbat we say, chazak, chazakh v’nitchazeik—strength, and more strength, let us be strengthened. In Jewish life we are never finished, creation is forever incomplete. And so we begin again, each and every year, each and every week, each and every day, and each and every moment.
That is why spring, although seemingly distant, offers us so much hope. The flowers bloom. The trees are reborn. Creation is renewed.
The tabernacle was the vehicle by which God led the people on their journeys. In fact the Hebrew word for tabernacle, mishkan, is related to the Hebrew “to dwell” which is connected to the name for God, Shechinah. This name is the name that we use when we want to suggest God’s presence is most felt. And all of this is tied to the building of the mishkan, tabernacle.
The Torah also suggests additional meaning by its choice of words for Moses finishing the work. The Hebrew, vay’khal, means to complete or even to perfect. By this word choice it draws our attention to the creation account when God finished that first construction project: “The heaven and the earth were finished, and all their array.” (Genesis 2:1) There is of course meaning to be found in this comparison. When we build and create, as Moses and the people did with the mishkan, we imitate God and God’s creation.
The rabbis took this connection even further, arguing an even more radical idea. They taught that God’s creation is in fact incomplete. They went on to teach that God purposely made creation imperfect and incomplete. God intended that part of our creative efforts must be to complete and perfect creation.
We perfect by creating. Making or dreaming up something new is the greatest of human achievements. Albert Einstein said, “If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.” He also quipped, “We can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created these problems.”
And so the synagogue is the place through which God becomes manifest in the world. The purpose of the synagogue is that it is a means to an end. Its purpose is to bring holiness to our lives and goodness to the world. Long ago the rabbis created the idea of the synagogue. They fashioned the synagogue’s architecture in response to the destruction of the Temple. They gave us this very place in order to help us complete and perfect creation.
It is a place to gather, learn and pray. It is a place to heal, comfort and uplift our lives. Today we must recreate this very same place. For years synagogues have operated on the assumption that everyone feels obligated to the synagogue, that people still feel commanded to affirm their Jewish identities, that people still feel a kinship with all Jews and the State of Israel.
These assumptions no longer hold sway. This is why the synagogue, although hearkening back to ancient days, must be recreated for a new age. We must mold something new out of the old. We must infuse synagogue life with new meaning and new energy, with new songs and new learning. Take heart from this week’s portion. There we are reminded that in truth there are no new creations. Everything hearkens back to the first creation account. All else is recreating.
Whenever we finish a book of the Torah as we do on this Shabbat we say, chazak, chazakh v’nitchazeik—strength, and more strength, let us be strengthened. In Jewish life we are never finished, creation is forever incomplete. And so we begin again, each and every year, each and every week, each and every day, and each and every moment.
That is why spring, although seemingly distant, offers us so much hope. The flowers bloom. The trees are reborn. Creation is renewed.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Vayakhel and Gathering Goodness
Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira was a popular teacher in pre-war Poland, leading a community in Piaseczno, a suburb of Warsaw. After the German invasion, and following the death of his family, he was shipped to the Warsaw ghetto. There he managed to run a secret synagogue. His teachings and sermons were popular among those trapped in the ghetto.
In the months prior to the ghetto’s final days, as the Warsaw ghetto uprising neared its bitter end, Rabbi Shapira prepared for the worst. He hid his sermons and teachings in a milk canister. After the war they were found by a construction worker. His writings continue to be studied to this day. I have spent some mornings in the warmth of Jerusalem’s summer pouring over his words. I return again and again to his work Bnai Machshavah Tovah, a treatise on creating and sustaining a conscious community.
He writes there of the power of community. He opens with the goals of the synagogue community he wishes to create.
And so in this week’s portion we read: “Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community… This is what the Lord has commanded: Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them…” (Exodus 35:1-5) The people join together and build the mishkan, the tabernacle, so that they might focus their worship of God while wandering throughout the wilderness.
Still I wonder. Should this faith in the edifying power of the group remain unqualified? We also confront the opposite example. In last week’s reading we are reminded of the golden calf: “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered (vayikahel) against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32:1) The group gathered for ill. Together they built an idol.
In one instance the people gathered for good, the other for bad. The Hebrew root of “gathered” indicates how close the positive and negative stand near each other. The two portions stand side by side. The line between whether we gather for good or for bad remains but a hairsbreadth apart.
That line continues to haunt thinkers. Following the Holocaust the field of social psychology began to emerge. It struggled with the question of how so many people could join together for evil ends. Studies were conducted. Research analyzed. In one such experiment the conforming impulse was unveiled. Members of a group were asked true or false questions that could be objectively measured. Is A taller than B, for example. Nine out ten people were told to offer the wrong answer when asked in public. These nine said true when in fact the answer was false. The tenth person was then asked for his answer. In the vast majority of situations this person also answered true. The desire to conform colored people’s vision. Truth and falsehood were obscured.
Do we conform for good or bad? Do we gather together to build the golden calf or the tabernacle? The group can either serve as medicine or toxin. Rabbi Shapira notes: “The techniques available to a group are qualitatively different than what an individual can hope to attain.” Much rests in the hands of the leader. In one instance Moses was present. In the other our leader was absent. The group’s vision became blurred.
After the uprising the Nazis sent Rabbi Shapira to the Trawniki work camp. There he was offered the opportunity to join fellow prisoners in an escape attempt. He elected instead to stay with his students. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira was shot to death on November 3, 1943.
And yet the people continue to gather and read his words.
In the months prior to the ghetto’s final days, as the Warsaw ghetto uprising neared its bitter end, Rabbi Shapira prepared for the worst. He hid his sermons and teachings in a milk canister. After the war they were found by a construction worker. His writings continue to be studied to this day. I have spent some mornings in the warmth of Jerusalem’s summer pouring over his words. I return again and again to his work Bnai Machshavah Tovah, a treatise on creating and sustaining a conscious community.
He writes there of the power of community. He opens with the goals of the synagogue community he wishes to create.
Our association is not organized for the purpose of attaining power or intervening in the affairs of community or state, whether directly or indirectly. Quite the opposite: our goal is to gradually rise above the noise and tumult of the world, by steady incremental steps. It is not consistent with our goals to hand out awards as to who is advanced and who lags behind. The whole premise of our group is the vast human potential for both baseness and elevation. Our bodies and souls are currently quite unevolved, but our potential for holiness is very great. Holiness is our key and primary value; honors and comparisons serve no useful purpose. (Translation by Andrea Cohen-Kiener)For Judaism gathering is of prime importance. Our tradition maintains an unmitigated faith in the group. It believes that we are at our best when standing with others, that with the aid of the group we can better achieve holiness and realize our full human potential. The community is the corrective to individual wants and needs. The congregation lifts us. The synagogue nurtures us. The community guides us.
And so in this week’s portion we read: “Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community… This is what the Lord has commanded: Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them…” (Exodus 35:1-5) The people join together and build the mishkan, the tabernacle, so that they might focus their worship of God while wandering throughout the wilderness.
Still I wonder. Should this faith in the edifying power of the group remain unqualified? We also confront the opposite example. In last week’s reading we are reminded of the golden calf: “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered (vayikahel) against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32:1) The group gathered for ill. Together they built an idol.
In one instance the people gathered for good, the other for bad. The Hebrew root of “gathered” indicates how close the positive and negative stand near each other. The two portions stand side by side. The line between whether we gather for good or for bad remains but a hairsbreadth apart.
That line continues to haunt thinkers. Following the Holocaust the field of social psychology began to emerge. It struggled with the question of how so many people could join together for evil ends. Studies were conducted. Research analyzed. In one such experiment the conforming impulse was unveiled. Members of a group were asked true or false questions that could be objectively measured. Is A taller than B, for example. Nine out ten people were told to offer the wrong answer when asked in public. These nine said true when in fact the answer was false. The tenth person was then asked for his answer. In the vast majority of situations this person also answered true. The desire to conform colored people’s vision. Truth and falsehood were obscured.
Do we conform for good or bad? Do we gather together to build the golden calf or the tabernacle? The group can either serve as medicine or toxin. Rabbi Shapira notes: “The techniques available to a group are qualitatively different than what an individual can hope to attain.” Much rests in the hands of the leader. In one instance Moses was present. In the other our leader was absent. The group’s vision became blurred.
After the uprising the Nazis sent Rabbi Shapira to the Trawniki work camp. There he was offered the opportunity to join fellow prisoners in an escape attempt. He elected instead to stay with his students. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira was shot to death on November 3, 1943.
And yet the people continue to gather and read his words.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Ki Tisa and Shabbat Signs
Shabbat is described in a number of ways. It is called a reminder of creation and in particular the work of creation. God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. When we pause and observe Shabbat we recall that God ordered the heavens and the earth. According to the great medieval Jewish philosopher, Moses Maimonides, we affirm our belief in God by celebrating Shabbat.
Shabbat is also called a reminder of the exodus from Egypt. Again when we mark the seventh day we recall that God freed us from Egypt. More importantly our observance is a testament to our freedom. Only a free people can set a day apart. Only a free person can set out on a vacation (unless of course a winter storm enslaves us!). To choose to sing our Shabbat songs and prayers together is a reminder that we are free. We can choose to go to services or not. When we do, however, our hearts are lifted together and our souls can be refreshed.
In this week’s portion Shabbat is also called a sign of the covenant. We read the words of the V’shamru prayer that we sing at Shabbat services: “The people of Israel shall keep Shabbat observing Shabbat throughout the ages as a covenant for all time. It is a sign for all time between Me and the people of Israel. For in six days God made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day God ceased from work and was refreshed.” (Exodus 31:16-17)
Circumcision is also called a sign of the covenant. The tefillin that are bound on the head and arm are also signs. They are, however, physical. By the way the rainbow is also deemed a sign of the promise that God made to Noah following the flood. How I long for such a sign on this day! Yet the rainbow is not a sign of the Jewish covenant. Tefillin, circumcision and Shabbat are signs of the pact made between God and the Jewish people.
Are these signs for us or for God? Does the Torah intend these signs to serve as reminders to God of God’s commitments to the Jewish people? This could be one reading of these texts. Or do these instead remind us of our obligations to God, the Jewish people and Jewish history? How can a day serve as a sign? It is self-evident how physical signs can serve as constant reminders. How can Shabbat remind us? How can a day set apart, a day of rest and refreshment prod us?
Every week we sing the words of V’shamru. Have we taken the time to ponder its words and meaning? The Zionist thinker Ahad Haam wrote: “More than the Jewish people has kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jewish people.”
Shabbat is not a sign for God. It is not a sign for us. It is instead a sign for the future. Shabbat lights tomorrow.
And I offer the following to those who are observing Valentine’s Day. These words are from the greatest love poem ever written, a few verses from Song of Songs, a biblical poem filled with passion, eroticism and love.
You have captured my heart,
My own, my bride,
You have captured my heart
With one glance of your eyes,
With one coil of your necklace.
How sweet is your love,
My own, my bride!
How much more delightful your love than wine,
Your ointments more fragrant
Than any spice! (Song of Songs 4:9-10)
Shabbat is also called a reminder of the exodus from Egypt. Again when we mark the seventh day we recall that God freed us from Egypt. More importantly our observance is a testament to our freedom. Only a free people can set a day apart. Only a free person can set out on a vacation (unless of course a winter storm enslaves us!). To choose to sing our Shabbat songs and prayers together is a reminder that we are free. We can choose to go to services or not. When we do, however, our hearts are lifted together and our souls can be refreshed.
In this week’s portion Shabbat is also called a sign of the covenant. We read the words of the V’shamru prayer that we sing at Shabbat services: “The people of Israel shall keep Shabbat observing Shabbat throughout the ages as a covenant for all time. It is a sign for all time between Me and the people of Israel. For in six days God made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day God ceased from work and was refreshed.” (Exodus 31:16-17)
Circumcision is also called a sign of the covenant. The tefillin that are bound on the head and arm are also signs. They are, however, physical. By the way the rainbow is also deemed a sign of the promise that God made to Noah following the flood. How I long for such a sign on this day! Yet the rainbow is not a sign of the Jewish covenant. Tefillin, circumcision and Shabbat are signs of the pact made between God and the Jewish people.
Are these signs for us or for God? Does the Torah intend these signs to serve as reminders to God of God’s commitments to the Jewish people? This could be one reading of these texts. Or do these instead remind us of our obligations to God, the Jewish people and Jewish history? How can a day serve as a sign? It is self-evident how physical signs can serve as constant reminders. How can Shabbat remind us? How can a day set apart, a day of rest and refreshment prod us?
Every week we sing the words of V’shamru. Have we taken the time to ponder its words and meaning? The Zionist thinker Ahad Haam wrote: “More than the Jewish people has kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jewish people.”
Shabbat is not a sign for God. It is not a sign for us. It is instead a sign for the future. Shabbat lights tomorrow.
And I offer the following to those who are observing Valentine’s Day. These words are from the greatest love poem ever written, a few verses from Song of Songs, a biblical poem filled with passion, eroticism and love.
You have captured my heart,
My own, my bride,
You have captured my heart
With one glance of your eyes,
With one coil of your necklace.
How sweet is your love,
My own, my bride!
How much more delightful your love than wine,
Your ointments more fragrant
Than any spice! (Song of Songs 4:9-10)
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Tetzaveh, Rolling the Dice and Making War
In ancient times the High Priest, and the priests, never dressed down. He was always dressed in finery and adorned with jewels, especially on his breastpiece. In fact, the hoshen mishpat, the breastpiece of decision contained twelve different stones, one for each of the twelve tribes: carnelian, chrysolite, emerald, turquoise, sapphire, amethyst, jacinth, agate, crystal, beryl, lapis lazuli and jasper. I will leave it to the jewelers (as well as the bejeweled) members of our congregation to help further define these precious and semi-precious jewels.
Within this breastpiece was a unique fortune telling device: the Urim and Thummim. “Inside the breastpiece of decision you shall place the Urim and Thummim, so that they are over Aaron’s heart when he comes before the Lord. Thus Aaron shall carry the instrument of decision over his heart before the Lord at all times.” (Exodus 28:30) We know very little about the Urim and Thummim. The evidence within the Bible is inconsistent and unclear. They are introduced here in such a manner that they appear well known to the ancient ear. Yet there is not a single instance when their use is described in the Torah. We have only scant references in other biblical books.
How they were used, when they were used and why they were used remains shrouded in mystery. We can however surmise several things about their use. They were only used to help make decisions of national importance. In fact they were most particularly used to decide whether or not to wage war. Judaism codified two types of war: milchemet mitzvah, an obligatory war of for example, self-defense and milchemet reshut, a permitted war to expand a nation’s territory. The Urim and Thummim were employed to justify a leader’s decision to wage a permitted war. This rolling of the dice or casting of lots would help to support what might appear to be an arbitrary decision to the nation’s citizens or more accurately, its subjects.
When waging war, whether the leader is elected as in the case of modern times, or royalty as in ancient times, the support of the masses and even more importantly, the soldiers is of critical importance. When it is a war of self-defense their support is natural and expected. This is why our wars are always framed with this language. Even the Vietnam War was portrayed as critical to stop, or as some argued slow, the advance of the Communist menace. It was natural to wrap the war in Afghanistan in this robe of self-defense. Not only were we justified in pursuing our attackers but we had an obligation to prevent future attacks. And so we marched to war in Afghanistan.
With regard to the war in Iraq it was more difficult to make this case, although this is why the WMD argument became so important. Our leaders argued that it was likewise a case of self-defense. Our country, however, never became unified around this argument. I wonder if the nation would have remained more united if we had shared a faith in oracular devices such as the Urim and Thummim. Imagine how our country might be different if the High Priest stood before the nation and reached within the breastpiece of decision and threw the Urim and Thummim to the ground. It came up Thummim and so we discerned that God too had weighed in and supported our leader’s decision to wage war.
Imagine. And the people oohed and aahed. Together they nodded in agreement. They turned to their sons, hugged them goodbye and silently watched as they readied themselves for war. Our nation stood together. It remain unified.
Still there remain other oracles we wish to discern. Who among these young men might return from the battlefield? Who among them will instead return with lifelong injuries and wounds? And who among them will return with scars in their hearts?
We do not know. We cannot know. Let us ask the Urim and Thummim.
Would that decisions were as simple, and unifying, as the casting of lots.
Within this breastpiece was a unique fortune telling device: the Urim and Thummim. “Inside the breastpiece of decision you shall place the Urim and Thummim, so that they are over Aaron’s heart when he comes before the Lord. Thus Aaron shall carry the instrument of decision over his heart before the Lord at all times.” (Exodus 28:30) We know very little about the Urim and Thummim. The evidence within the Bible is inconsistent and unclear. They are introduced here in such a manner that they appear well known to the ancient ear. Yet there is not a single instance when their use is described in the Torah. We have only scant references in other biblical books.
How they were used, when they were used and why they were used remains shrouded in mystery. We can however surmise several things about their use. They were only used to help make decisions of national importance. In fact they were most particularly used to decide whether or not to wage war. Judaism codified two types of war: milchemet mitzvah, an obligatory war of for example, self-defense and milchemet reshut, a permitted war to expand a nation’s territory. The Urim and Thummim were employed to justify a leader’s decision to wage a permitted war. This rolling of the dice or casting of lots would help to support what might appear to be an arbitrary decision to the nation’s citizens or more accurately, its subjects.
When waging war, whether the leader is elected as in the case of modern times, or royalty as in ancient times, the support of the masses and even more importantly, the soldiers is of critical importance. When it is a war of self-defense their support is natural and expected. This is why our wars are always framed with this language. Even the Vietnam War was portrayed as critical to stop, or as some argued slow, the advance of the Communist menace. It was natural to wrap the war in Afghanistan in this robe of self-defense. Not only were we justified in pursuing our attackers but we had an obligation to prevent future attacks. And so we marched to war in Afghanistan.
With regard to the war in Iraq it was more difficult to make this case, although this is why the WMD argument became so important. Our leaders argued that it was likewise a case of self-defense. Our country, however, never became unified around this argument. I wonder if the nation would have remained more united if we had shared a faith in oracular devices such as the Urim and Thummim. Imagine how our country might be different if the High Priest stood before the nation and reached within the breastpiece of decision and threw the Urim and Thummim to the ground. It came up Thummim and so we discerned that God too had weighed in and supported our leader’s decision to wage war.
Imagine. And the people oohed and aahed. Together they nodded in agreement. They turned to their sons, hugged them goodbye and silently watched as they readied themselves for war. Our nation stood together. It remain unified.
Still there remain other oracles we wish to discern. Who among these young men might return from the battlefield? Who among them will instead return with lifelong injuries and wounds? And who among them will return with scars in their hearts?
We do not know. We cannot know. Let us ask the Urim and Thummim.
Would that decisions were as simple, and unifying, as the casting of lots.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Terumah, Dolphins and the Super Bowl
In preparing the tabernacle the Israelites slaughtered many animals, among them dolphins. These were the requirements detailed in this week’s portion.
“And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece…. Exactly as I show you—the pattern of the Tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings—so shall you make it.” (Exodus 25)
Dolphin skins?, one might ask. Yes, even dolphins.
This past week we read about Japan’s slaughter of dolphins. Ambassador Caroline Kennedy has brought this practice to light when she tweeted, “Deeply concerned by inhumaneness of drive hunt dolphin killing. USG opposes drive hunt fisheries.” (The notion that virtues and morals can be reduced to 140 characters would be the subject of another post.) The Japanese have argued that the practice is deeply rooted in tradition saying, “Dolphin fishing is a form of traditional fishing in our country.”
What is it about this practice that strikes Western societies as cruel and inhumane? Is it that dolphins hold some special place in our hearts? Is it the gruesome images of the slaughter of hundreds of dolphins in a tranquil cove? Why is this practice more abhorrent than the (unseen) overfishing of the world’s oceans? Is this as the Japanese wish to frame the question a clash of civilizations, of Eastern mores offending Western values or is it instead as the United States argues the protection of what should be a universal ethic?
And I wonder what would happen if I were required to construct a tabernacle according to my tradition’s dictates? Would this portable sanctuary look as the Torah describes; would it be adorned with lapis lazuli and acacia wood, tanned ram skins and dolphin skins? Would I be required to herd the dolphins slaughtered by the crashing of the waves of the Sea of Reeds, as the rabbis suggest? To what ends would I travel in order to give my tradition life?
Would I say yes to the tradition or no to the slaughter of dolphins? Although I would of course never go to such lengths, I am left with the larger question: what happens when tradition conflicts with contemporary mores? How do we decide? When do we lean into the tradition? When do we side with contemporary society?
The early Reform rabbis argued in the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform: “We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.” In essence they taught that when it comes to a tallis and kippah, permitted and prohibited foods, sacrifices and priestly adornments we side with contemporary society. We side with the tradition only when it agrees with universal ethical dictates.
I continue to wonder.
Come Sunday most, if not all, Americans will gather around their televisions to watch the Super Bowl. Most as well have come to recognize the terrible costs this game has upon players’ bodies, most especially because of concussions. No matter how many rules and precautions the NFL develops, players will continue to suffer harm, during their years of playing and for many, throughout their lives. There is little doubt that at some point in Sunday’s game a player will lie injured on the field with doctors and trainers kneeling around him. The announcers will offer platitudes about the NFL’s new protocols and hopes that the player’s injury does not end his career. The TV will cut to a commercial. We will take the opportunity to replenish our food or drinks. The game will soon continue. The tradition of Sunday football moves on.
And I will continue to watch. I love the game. I even love the commercials. I love the spectacle and tradition of Super Bowl Sunday.
And I continue to wonder. Who am I to criticize the inhumaneness of the killing of dolphins?
We choose tradition more often than we think.
“And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece…. Exactly as I show you—the pattern of the Tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings—so shall you make it.” (Exodus 25)
Dolphin skins?, one might ask. Yes, even dolphins.
This past week we read about Japan’s slaughter of dolphins. Ambassador Caroline Kennedy has brought this practice to light when she tweeted, “Deeply concerned by inhumaneness of drive hunt dolphin killing. USG opposes drive hunt fisheries.” (The notion that virtues and morals can be reduced to 140 characters would be the subject of another post.) The Japanese have argued that the practice is deeply rooted in tradition saying, “Dolphin fishing is a form of traditional fishing in our country.”
What is it about this practice that strikes Western societies as cruel and inhumane? Is it that dolphins hold some special place in our hearts? Is it the gruesome images of the slaughter of hundreds of dolphins in a tranquil cove? Why is this practice more abhorrent than the (unseen) overfishing of the world’s oceans? Is this as the Japanese wish to frame the question a clash of civilizations, of Eastern mores offending Western values or is it instead as the United States argues the protection of what should be a universal ethic?
And I wonder what would happen if I were required to construct a tabernacle according to my tradition’s dictates? Would this portable sanctuary look as the Torah describes; would it be adorned with lapis lazuli and acacia wood, tanned ram skins and dolphin skins? Would I be required to herd the dolphins slaughtered by the crashing of the waves of the Sea of Reeds, as the rabbis suggest? To what ends would I travel in order to give my tradition life?
Would I say yes to the tradition or no to the slaughter of dolphins? Although I would of course never go to such lengths, I am left with the larger question: what happens when tradition conflicts with contemporary mores? How do we decide? When do we lean into the tradition? When do we side with contemporary society?
The early Reform rabbis argued in the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform: “We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.” In essence they taught that when it comes to a tallis and kippah, permitted and prohibited foods, sacrifices and priestly adornments we side with contemporary society. We side with the tradition only when it agrees with universal ethical dictates.
I continue to wonder.
Come Sunday most, if not all, Americans will gather around their televisions to watch the Super Bowl. Most as well have come to recognize the terrible costs this game has upon players’ bodies, most especially because of concussions. No matter how many rules and precautions the NFL develops, players will continue to suffer harm, during their years of playing and for many, throughout their lives. There is little doubt that at some point in Sunday’s game a player will lie injured on the field with doctors and trainers kneeling around him. The announcers will offer platitudes about the NFL’s new protocols and hopes that the player’s injury does not end his career. The TV will cut to a commercial. We will take the opportunity to replenish our food or drinks. The game will soon continue. The tradition of Sunday football moves on.
And I will continue to watch. I love the game. I even love the commercials. I love the spectacle and tradition of Super Bowl Sunday.
And I continue to wonder. Who am I to criticize the inhumaneness of the killing of dolphins?
We choose tradition more often than we think.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
SodaStream, Scarlett Johansson and BDS
Scarlett Johansson, the new official spokesperson of SodaStream, the Israeli company who has purchased a Super Bowl advertisement spot, is facing controversy from the BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) movement. SodaStream is located in the West Bank. It is specifically located in the Maale Adumim industrial park. Maale Adumim sits right outside of Jerusalem and has a population of some 40,000 residents. To most Israelis it is a Jerusalem suburb. To the vast majority of peace negotiators it is one of the three large settlement blocs that will be incorporated within the borders of the State of Israel. Such facts are of course immaterial to the BDS movement. Scarlett Johansson released an official statement yesterday:
To my ear the BDS movement is not interested in dialogue and cooperation between Israelis and Palestinians but instead in demonizing and marginalizing the State of Israel. It draws broad strokes and refuses to examine particulars. "All settlements are wrong," it shouts. There are differences throughout the territories. Look within each community instead. I disagree with the movement's refrain that Israel is wrong and the Palestinians are right, that Israel is the oppressor and the Palestinians are victims. There are victims on both sides. Israel has certainly made mistakes and I believe continues to do so (the continued expansion of remote settlements in the West Bank is on my list) but it does not get us any closer to a negotiated peace to portray one side as guilty, and entirely responsible for our present circumstances, and the other as innocent. When Jews and Arabs come face to face with each other and as in the case of SodaStream work together and celebrate together, and in some cases become friends, then we are one step closer to a two state solution and living side by side as friendly neighbors.
I for one am looking forward to the much talked about commercial during the upcoming Super Bowl. I am almost inclined to purchase a soda maker, even though I never drink soda.
Addendum: below is the commercial that will appear, at least in part, during the Super Bowl.
While I never intended on being the face of any social or political movement, distinction, separation or stance as part of my affiliation with SodaStream, given the amount of noise surrounding that decision, I'd like to clear the air.
I remain a supporter of economic cooperation and social interaction between a democratic Israel and Palestine. SodaStream is a company that is not only committed to the environment but to building a bridge to peace between Israel and Palestine, supporting neighbors working alongside each other, receiving equal pay, equal benefits and equal rights. That is what is happening in their Ma’ale Adumim factory every working day. As part of my efforts as an Ambassador for Oxfam, I have witnessed first-hand that progress is made when communities join together and work alongside one another and feel proud of the outcome of that work in the quality of their product and work environment, in the pay they bring home to their families and in the benefits they equally receive.
I believe in conscious consumerism and transparency and I trust that the consumer will make their own educated choice that is right for them. I stand behind the SodaStream product and am proud of the work that I have accomplished at Oxfam as an Ambassador for over 8 years. Even though it is a side effect of representing SodaStream, I am happy that light is being shed on this issue in hopes that a greater number of voices will contribute to the conversation of a peaceful two state solution in the near future.To my mind SodaStream helps to further a two state solution. Below is a video produced by SodaStream. It is a testament to the power of what can happen, and what might happen, when Jews and Arabs work side by side.
I for one am looking forward to the much talked about commercial during the upcoming Super Bowl. I am almost inclined to purchase a soda maker, even though I never drink soda.
Addendum: below is the commercial that will appear, at least in part, during the Super Bowl.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Mishpatim, Keeping Kosher and Weaving Meaning
“You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” (Exodus 23:19)
With this seemingly obscure verse, repeated three times, a mountain of laws is built. From this one verse the kosher laws requiring the separation of milk and meat are spun. Jewish law derives three prohibitions: cooking milk and meat together, eating any combination of these and as well deriving benefit from this mixture.
Why? The traditional explanation is that a mother’s milk sustains life. It must therefore never be combined with an animal’s flesh. Eating meat is seen as a compromise to human wants, and perhaps needs. It must then be framed by certain constraints. We cannot eat any meat we want. Hence the lists of permitted and prohibited animals. We cannot eat hunted animals. Our tradition argues that they might have suffered too much. We cannot eat meat with the milk that would have sustained its life.
Such are our tradition’s reasons. It is of course possible that all the Torah meant was that we are forbidden from cooking a young goat in a pot of boiling milk. Recent archaeological evidence suggests that this was a practice of Israel’s neighbors. Perhaps the Torah’s law was one more version of its singular refrain: Don’t do what they do. Don’t follow the practices of those idolaters.
Sometimes I wonder if the Torah’s lack of details and explanations surrounding this verse suggests that its meaning was clear to the ancient ear. The Torah states: “You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” And the people looked to the North (I once saw such a recipe in a Syrian cookbook) and then to the East and together nodded in agreement. No more needs to be said. The Torah’s message, repeated over and over again and in many different forms, is heard: we will never be like them. We will never do what they do.
And yet thousands of years later this is not what Judaism says the verse means. We are not literalists. We are dependent on years and years of interpretation. At first the rabbis argued whether or not chicken should be considered meat since it does not nurse its young. The ancient chicken farmers must have lost that argument. It looks too much like meat the rabbis argued. And so chicken is now meat.
And the mountain of interpretation keeps growing.
After eating meat we wait before eating milk. Some wait one hour. Others wait six hours. We have separate dishes for milk and others for meat. We have separate cooking utensils. No cheeseburgers. No ice cream for dessert after a steak dinner. The lists grow and grow.
The original intent was long ago obscured. And yet years ago Susie and I decided to build our kitchen according to these lists. No one coerced us. No one demanded this of us. Somewhere along our journey we discovered these lists and decided to make them our own. Now we have two sets of everything. Sometimes we sit down for a meat meal. Other times we take out the milk dishes. No one said, “You must keep kosher.” One day we decided to makes these seemingly arbitrary, but uniquely Jewish, lists our own.
More than anything else this set of rules define our day to day lives as Jewish. Every time we prepare a meal, we have to ask, “Milk or meat?” Every time the question is asked our Jewish consciousness is raised. Every time I reach for a cup or a plate I am reminded of my Jewishness. Buying kosher meat does little to raise this awareness. The refrigerator and freezer hold only kosher choices. “Milk or meat?” becomes the all-important daily Jewish question.
Are the rules illogical? Perhaps. But their meaning transcends their logic. They are meaningful precisely because they are not our own. It is not the logic of the rules that we have adopted but instead a discipline above and beyond ourselves. It is this discipline that binds us to the Jewish community near and far, past and future. It is these rules that daily renew our commitments to our God. The great Jewish teaching is that while eating should be enjoyable it must also be about more than just pleasure. It is as well about discipline.
Sure you can eat anything you want. You can also pause and say a blessing and then allow gratitude to soothe your heart. You can as well, in that instant when you begin the preparations for a meal marvel that even this mundane, every day moment, can be infused with Jewish meaning by the simplest of questions, “Milk or meat?”
Standing on mountains of interpretation “You shall not a boil a kid in its mother’s milk” continues to weave its way into my heart.
With this seemingly obscure verse, repeated three times, a mountain of laws is built. From this one verse the kosher laws requiring the separation of milk and meat are spun. Jewish law derives three prohibitions: cooking milk and meat together, eating any combination of these and as well deriving benefit from this mixture.
Why? The traditional explanation is that a mother’s milk sustains life. It must therefore never be combined with an animal’s flesh. Eating meat is seen as a compromise to human wants, and perhaps needs. It must then be framed by certain constraints. We cannot eat any meat we want. Hence the lists of permitted and prohibited animals. We cannot eat hunted animals. Our tradition argues that they might have suffered too much. We cannot eat meat with the milk that would have sustained its life.
Such are our tradition’s reasons. It is of course possible that all the Torah meant was that we are forbidden from cooking a young goat in a pot of boiling milk. Recent archaeological evidence suggests that this was a practice of Israel’s neighbors. Perhaps the Torah’s law was one more version of its singular refrain: Don’t do what they do. Don’t follow the practices of those idolaters.
Sometimes I wonder if the Torah’s lack of details and explanations surrounding this verse suggests that its meaning was clear to the ancient ear. The Torah states: “You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” And the people looked to the North (I once saw such a recipe in a Syrian cookbook) and then to the East and together nodded in agreement. No more needs to be said. The Torah’s message, repeated over and over again and in many different forms, is heard: we will never be like them. We will never do what they do.
And yet thousands of years later this is not what Judaism says the verse means. We are not literalists. We are dependent on years and years of interpretation. At first the rabbis argued whether or not chicken should be considered meat since it does not nurse its young. The ancient chicken farmers must have lost that argument. It looks too much like meat the rabbis argued. And so chicken is now meat.
And the mountain of interpretation keeps growing.
After eating meat we wait before eating milk. Some wait one hour. Others wait six hours. We have separate dishes for milk and others for meat. We have separate cooking utensils. No cheeseburgers. No ice cream for dessert after a steak dinner. The lists grow and grow.
The original intent was long ago obscured. And yet years ago Susie and I decided to build our kitchen according to these lists. No one coerced us. No one demanded this of us. Somewhere along our journey we discovered these lists and decided to make them our own. Now we have two sets of everything. Sometimes we sit down for a meat meal. Other times we take out the milk dishes. No one said, “You must keep kosher.” One day we decided to makes these seemingly arbitrary, but uniquely Jewish, lists our own.
More than anything else this set of rules define our day to day lives as Jewish. Every time we prepare a meal, we have to ask, “Milk or meat?” Every time the question is asked our Jewish consciousness is raised. Every time I reach for a cup or a plate I am reminded of my Jewishness. Buying kosher meat does little to raise this awareness. The refrigerator and freezer hold only kosher choices. “Milk or meat?” becomes the all-important daily Jewish question.
Are the rules illogical? Perhaps. But their meaning transcends their logic. They are meaningful precisely because they are not our own. It is not the logic of the rules that we have adopted but instead a discipline above and beyond ourselves. It is this discipline that binds us to the Jewish community near and far, past and future. It is these rules that daily renew our commitments to our God. The great Jewish teaching is that while eating should be enjoyable it must also be about more than just pleasure. It is as well about discipline.
Sure you can eat anything you want. You can also pause and say a blessing and then allow gratitude to soothe your heart. You can as well, in that instant when you begin the preparations for a meal marvel that even this mundane, every day moment, can be infused with Jewish meaning by the simplest of questions, “Milk or meat?”
Standing on mountains of interpretation “You shall not a boil a kid in its mother’s milk” continues to weave its way into my heart.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Yitro and the Ten Commandments
This week’s Torah portion contains the Ten
Commandments. According to Jewish tradition, these ten are delineated as
follows and are called instead Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Sayings. Part of the reason for this name is that the
first commandment is not in fact a commandment but instead a foundational principle.
1. I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of
Egypt.
2. You shall have no other gods beside Me.
3. You shall not swear falsely by the name of the Lord your
God.
4. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.
5. Honor your father and you mother that you may long endure
on the land.
6. You shall not murder.
7. You shall not steal.
8. You shall not commit adultery.
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10. You shall not covet your neighbor’s house. (Exodus 20)
It is interesting to note as well that this week’s portion
is named for someone who is not an Israelite.
It is called Yitro. He is the
father in law to Moses and not only a Midianite, but a priest. In other words he is a religious leader of
another nation. While the rabbis argued
that Yitro must have converted, the Bible suggests only that he and his tribe
are aligned with the Israelites—at this time.
Later the Midianites become Israel’s enemy. The medieval commentator Ibn
Ezra reminds us: Although there are always Amaleks there are also Yitros. Not every outsider is our perpetual
enemy.
The implied message for the portion’s name is clear. These commandments contain universal
truths. They were given in the
wilderness, a place belonging to no one.
They are found in a portion named for someone outside of the Jewish people. They do not belong to a select few. Instead they belong to all. They belong everywhere.
If they are to having lasting meaning then they must have
such meaning for all. If they are to
have universal import then they must belong to all. This is why it is Yitro and not Moses who
opens this week’s reading: “Yitro priest of Midian, Moses’ father in-law, heard
all that God had done for Moses and for Israel His people, how the Lord had
brought Israel out from Egypt.” (Exodus 18:1)
Sometimes the greatest truths are found in the mouths of others and not even in our greatest heroes.
Sometimes the greatest truths are found in the mouths of others and not even in our greatest heroes.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Riding in Circles
The following is the sermon delivered at Friday evening Shabbat services.
When we were younger all of us took our required math
classes. Some of us enjoyed these. Many did not.
In those classes we learned about the basics of adding and subtracting,
multiplying and in my most advanced class, division. Later we learned geometry and there I first
found out about this magical number called Pi.
Pi is a curious number. It is a
mathematical constant of 3.14159 and so on.
In recent years it has been calculated out to 10 trillion digits. In theory it goes on into infinity without
ever repeating. It is the ratio of a
circle’s circumference to its diameter.
It is in a word the constant around which a circle revolves.
Like a circle the Torah is perfect and so I am given to
wondering, what is its Pi. What is the
verse around which the Torah spins? Is
it its opening verse: Bereshit bara Elohim—In the beginning God created heaven
and earth? Without a beginning that
immediately establishes God’s relationship with the world there could be no
Torah. But you can’t spin around a
beginning or ending for that matter. Is
it instead the command to observe Shabbat: Zakhor et yom hashabbat—Remember the
Sabbath day? Can there be a more central
command to Jewish life than Shabbat?
Perhaps instead the verse: Vahavata l’r’echa kamocha—love your neighbor
as yourself? Some have pointed out that
when the Torah is unrolled to that verse of Leviticus 19:18 the scroll is perfectly
balanced. This verse stands at the exact
center of the Torah. It certainly could
be argued that if we observed this command day in and day out we would do more
to elevate our lives and the lives of those around us.
Still I remain unsatisfied that these verses could be the
Torah’s constant, that these could represent the circle of the Torah’s Pi. This week in Parashat Beshalach, we read not only the Song of the
Sea, containing the words of Mi Chamocha, but the following as well: So God led
the people roundabout by way of the wilderness.
And I have come to believe that these words are in fact the linchpin for
the remainder of the Torah’s story. God
intentionally led the people on what would become a forty year journey. I know that we have read the commentaries
suggesting that it was not God’s intention at the outset. It was instead the Israelites’ sins that
caused a few month journey to turn into one of forty years. We recall as well the teaching that only
those who were born as free people in the wilderness could become a free nation
in their own land. Slaves cannot really
know freedom. And so the slaves must die
so that a new, free people can be formed.
In fact this forty year long journey was always God’s
intention all along. That is clear from
this week’s parsha. The famous Jewish
philosopher, Franz Rosenzweig, suggests this as well. He writes that God purposely misdirects us. We only discover our freedom when pointed in
the wrong direction. I think that God
just kept leading us in circles until we learned enough to realize the dream of
entering the Promised Land. Have you
ever considered the fact that our central book, the Torah, concludes without
this dream being realized? It ends at
the edge of the land, at the border of a dream.
And then what do we do? We circle
back to the beginning: Bereshit bara Elohim.
One of the geniuses of our tradition is having faith in the
messianic redemption, but also always believing that the messiah’s arrival
stands at a great distance. This notion
is codified by the rabbis when they wrote (and I share this in honor of the
upcoming Tu B’Shevat): If the messiah comes and you are planting a tree, first
finish planting, and then go to greet the messiah. (Avot deRabbi Natan) When the messiah gets too close we tend to
forget about the here and now. There are
plenty examples from our history (Shabtai Zevi is the most notorious) but the
lessons are the same. If you believe
that this guy is the messiah then you stop trying to fix things yourself and
say instead, “He will take care of it.”
You forget to plant the tree. So
we sing and pray for the messiah’s arrival but continue to take care of things
ourselves. The dream is held at a
distance. The Promised Land is across
the way, off in the distance. We circle
back and begin the journey again.
As many of you know, I am an avid cyclist. Others might suggest, obsessed but to the
aficionado, avid is the preferred name.
Every ride is a new journey. While
I always circle back home, I almost never ride the same route. Sometimes I look for a new road to explore.
Other times I just don’t want to climb Mill Hill. Then there are days when I realize that
climbing Mill Hill will be worth the tail wind I will gain riding out of
Bayville. How many times have I raced on
Berry Hill on my way back towards Huntington and never even noticed Temple
Lane? How many miles are required to
discover a new, potential home? How many
years of journeying and wandering are necessary?
Part of the problem is our goal-oriented society. A life without goals appears meandering and
aimless. The sentiment is that without a
predetermined destination we are lost.
But it is possible to explore without ever being lost. When I ride I don’t carry maps. I know that if I am riding west the Sound is always
on my right. And how do you know that
the Sound is on your right when it is not within sight? By the
temperature. As you approach the water
the air cools and even though the Sound is outside of view, you can feel it’s
near and so you can ride, and explore and wander without ever really being
lost. The direction can only be a
feeling.
You can’t learn and grow if everything is about a goal. The destination, the goal, is not the purpose
of a journey. School is supposed to be
about discovery and not about test scores and grades. If the message of our tradition were all
about goals, then Torah would conclude with the Book of Joshua and not
Deuteronomy. The lesson of the Torah is
revealed in this week’s verse. In
journeys we discover our Torah. In
wandering we find our lessons. When you
wander you discover things that are unintended.
It is there that we write stories.
Think of the stories from vacations and travels. Rarely do we retell them as follows:
Everything went according to plan. We
followed our itinerary to the letter.
Our plane took off on time. Our
driver picked us up at the appointed hour.
More often, it is recounted like this: we were walking and exploring and
we happened into this restaurant because we were tired and hungry and we
discovered this gem. We were the only
foreigners there. The food was
delicious. We talked to the chef. Now we go back there every time we visit.
Life-long friends can be made when there is a mistake in
your seat assignment. Would we remain in
the seat or berate the flight attendant about the error? Leon Wieseltier once observed, Serendipity is
how the spirit is renewed. Wandering is
how truths are discovered and lessons learned.
It could be as simple as a new route for a bike ride or as profound as a
new friend. Lessons are gained on
journeys.
This week we discover the guiding verse of our most sacred book. It is not as others would suggest. It is instead about the journey and wandering. The key Hebrew word is Vayesev. It is translated in most Bibles as leading roundabout. God turns the people around and around and around. We could almost say that God spins us around in circles. The verb shares the same root as one word for circle.
This week we discover the guiding verse of our most sacred book. It is not as others would suggest. It is instead about the journey and wandering. The key Hebrew word is Vayesev. It is translated in most Bibles as leading roundabout. God turns the people around and around and around. We could almost say that God spins us around in circles. The verb shares the same root as one word for circle.
People always think that a journey is a straight line. It is not.
It is instead a circle. But even
a circle has a constant. That is a
lesson learned long ago in math class. There
is a certain principle within each and every circle. The Torah is the same. And God led the people roundabout. We continue on the journey. Who knows what lessons might be learned. The Torah never concludes. We take a mere breath in between reading its
last word and its first. The Torah is
drawn in circles.
Have faith in the journey. Even though we might wander in circles there remains a constant with infinite meaning. Relish the wandering. At times we might only be able to sense the destination. Other times the goal appears mysterious. Understand this: we always circle back home.
Have faith in the journey. Even though we might wander in circles there remains a constant with infinite meaning. Relish the wandering. At times we might only be able to sense the destination. Other times the goal appears mysterious. Understand this: we always circle back home.
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