Bo

Exodus 10:1−13:16

Ready For Renewal

Like the Israelites who left Egypt and faced the terrifying choices of freedom, modern Jews face the challenge of responsibly establishing new guidelines and directions for the Jewish community.

By Rabbi Bradley Artson; provided by the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, which ordains Conservative rabbis at the American Jewish University.

Ours is an age of unparalleled uncertainty.

While we ransack the past and its accumulated wisdom for guidance today, we also know that the degree of change in every aspect of our lives is without precedent. Groping in the dark, treading uncertainly down a path not previously taken, modern humanity doesn't know its destination and isn't even sure it is enjoying the trip. And we have good cause for our doubts.

Consider the degree of changes that this century alone has witnessed. At the turn of the century, a mere ninety years ago--a single lifetime really--wars were fought using foot soldiers, ships and bullets. Tanks, planes, missiles, nuclear bombs, space satellites, submarines, all of these techniques of killing are new to our time.

Advances in Science

We think nothing of picking up a phone and calling anywhere in the world, we schedule a flight halfway around the globe and get there within hours. We are preceded by the forms we had our office fax, which arrive there with the speed of the spoken word! If we like something we read, we copy it--no big deal. Few type anymore, at least not into typewriters. When I was a freshman in college, only the wealthy students had electric typewriters. Now everybody has their own personal computer.

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Parashat Va-era

Exodus 6:2–9:35


This week’s commentary was written by Chancellor Arnold Eisen, JTS.

This week’s parashah abounds in venerable theological problems, beginning with its name and opening verses. How could it be that God “appeared” to the ancestors but that some aspect of God—or some truth articulated in God’s name—was not “made known” to them and will be revealed only now, to Moses? The answer that seems most persuasive to me bears a lesson that, like so many others in the Torah, is not so much theological as ethical; it teaches far less about the nature of God than it does about human responsibility. This God, we learn in this parashah, cares greatly about justice in the world and will—at least on this occasion—enter into history to bring it about. God will do battle on the world’s greatest stage with the world’s most powerful ruler—all this to let the whole world know that God is concerned with human beings and human history. The Torah commands us to be no less concerned. We cannot count on divine intervention to improve things. The world will be redeemed only if we act to help make it so.

This question facing us, then, is what we shall do to further God’s pursuit of justice? How are we to know what action to take in response to the Torah’s demand? Prophecy is a scary business. In our day, too many men and women urge murder and much else in God’s name. We dare not follow them. The rabbis declared two thousand years ago that the age of prophecy has passed. It is up to us to interpret and apply the divine commands revealed in scripture as best we can, using all the faculties at our command—reason and experience first of all. “We pay no heed to any heavenly voices.” What voices then shall we heed? How shall we know what to do? Where shall we find the wisdom to do it well? Heschel put the problem this way: “Infinite responsibility without infinite wisdom and infinite power; is our ultimate embarrassment” (God in Search of Man, 285).

One thing is clear, from this parashah and those that follow: we must take action in pursuit of righteousness and cannot use human frailty as a paralyzing excuse for doing nothing. The text works hard to make sure that we identify with its protagonists, never more so than in the story of Moses who, after trying hard to escape the task, leads the Israelites’ struggle to be free of the Pharaoh’s genocidal tyranny. We cheer him on when he slays that Egyptian slave-driver—but then pause to worry, if we are like the sages, that people less attuned than Moses to God’s wishes will take matters into their own hands in a way that promotes injustice rather than fighting it. The Torah shows us case after case of less than perfect Israelites who care more for their own well-being than for the world’s well-being. Even Moses acts rashly on occasion and issues commands that may be at variance with God’s wishes. How then are we latter-day children of Israel meant to puzzle out the rights and wrongs, avoid self-deception and self-righteousness, and still act resolutely to apply prophetic principles in unprecedented situations?

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Sh'mot

Exodus 1:1−6:1

 

Symbolic Names

The name Gershom, and the word for Hebrew, Ivri, carry a message about what it means to be Jewish.

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch, Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

Moses names his first born son Gershom, still a common Hebrew name.

The child is born to him and his wife Zipporah in the land of Midian, towhich he fled after he murdered an Egyptian taskmaster. We do not hear of Gershom again in the epic, yet his name bears on the destiny of his father and his people. The name consists of two Hebrew words, "ger sham,"meaning "a stranger there." By bestowing it on his son, Moses stresses the complexity of his own fate: "I have been a stranger in a foreign land" (Exodus 2:22).
Not Living With Your Own

On the surface, the name conveys the discomforting fact that Moses the Egyptian found himself living among a people not his own. From a prince in Pharaoh's court, Moses plummeted to the lowly rank of a shepherd in the household of a Midian priest, reason enough to be disoriented. Yet his explanation of the name is not in the present tense but in reference to his past. Even in Egypt, in the royal palace, he felt not wholly at home. His Hebrew wet nurse, his mother, must have imbued him with an inchoate and subliminal sense of Hebrew identity. What else could have prompted him to investigate for himself the lot of Egypt's downtrodden Israelites or to side with them instantaneously? His compassion erupted from a shared wellspring of memories. So his son's name pointed to the deeper unease of being a Hebrew in Egypt.

It also adumbrated the fate of Jews in exile. Gershom Soncino was the most productive and famous member of an illustrious family of early Italian Jewish printers. In 1483-84, his uncle, Joshua Solomon Soncino had printed for the first time ever in Soncino in the Duchy of Milan, two tractates of the Babylonian Talmud. In the last decade of the 15th century and the first few of the 16th century, Gershom published a torrent of Hebrew books, including at least another 25 tractates of the Talmud, in eight different Italian cities as well as in Solonika and Constantinople. An era drenched in turmoil kept him on the move. Often in the colophon to his books, he would underscore the meaning of his name, ger sham, a mere sojourner in whatever principality gave him entry. His permanent residence was in the world of Torah, which he strove to make more accessible through the invention of printing.

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Va-y'chi

Genesis 47:28–50:26

Why Bondage?

An exploration of why the Children of Israel were destined to be slaves to Pharaoh

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch; Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

The book of Genesis ends as it starts, with its lead characters in a state of exile.

The existential human condition is to be out of place, far from home. Jacob's clan no longer resides in the land promised to his father and grandfather. Yet the narrator makes it unmistakably clear that their final destination was not Egypt, but Canaan, the land that would eventually bear Jacob's other name, Israel, the one who "strove with beings divine and human and prevailed" (Genesis 32:29).

Prior to relocating to Egypt, to be reunited with his long-lost son Joseph, Jacob is reassured by God that "I Myself will go down with you to Egypt and I Myself will also bring you back" (Genesis 46:4). As the end of his life approaches, Jacob beseeches Joseph to inter him in the family burial place in Hebron (47:29-30), and in a subsequent conversation makes pointed reference to Canaan as his nation's "everlasting possession" (48:4). Joseph, indeed, accorded his father a protracted state funeral on the way to burying him in "the field of Makhpelah" (50:13). As for Joseph, he did not ask the same of his brothers, only that when God restores them to Canaan, they should take his embalmed bones with them for burial.
Reaffirming Canaan
In short, the Torah goes out of its way at this juncture to reaffirm Canaan as the sacred destiny of Jacob's progeny. Despite the detour into Egypt, the storyline never loses sight of its end. As Joseph avers to his brothers, they are in Egypt by design, not accident. What appears to happen at random up close, from a distance gains purpose and meaning. God employed Joseph to rescue his family, if not Egypt itself, from a terrible famine. Henceforth, the fate of both will be intertwined, though Israel's sojourn is never destined to become permanent.

The question I wish to ask is what was the need for the sojourn in the first place? If the narrative leaves nothing to chance, what did it intend to accomplish by subjecting the nation to emerge from Abraham's loins to centuries of suffering? God guides Abraham to Canaan only to tell him when he gets there that the land is not yet his, that his descendants will have to endure affliction and bondage in a land not their own for some 400 years (Genesis 15:13). The wrinkle suggests a change of heart. The story is so familiar to us that we have stopped feeling the inelegance of the plot. Or perhaps, God's will is not to be questioned.

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Vayigash

Genesis 44:18−47:27

By Rabbi Charles Savenor, Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

Joseph's Moment of Truth

Revealing his true identity, the viceroy cannot control his emotions.

The moment of truth has arrived.

With Benjamin framed for stealing and sentenced to enslavement, Joseph waits to see how Jacob's other sons will respond. Joseph believes that his well-orchestrated ruse will finally expose his brothers' true colors.
Judah's Appeal

This week's parsahah opens with Judah appealing to his brother Joseph, the Egyptian viceroy, to free Benjamin and to enslave Judah in his place. Judah's eloquent petition recounts his brothers' interaction with this Egyptian official as well as the familial circumstances of Jacob's household. Benjamin, the youngest son in the family, occupies a valued place in their father's eyes, Judah says, because he is the last living remnant of Jacob's deceased wife, Rachel. In conclusion, Judah asserts that if he were to return home to Canaan without Benjamin, he could not bear to see his father's immediate and long-term pain and suffering.

Judah's words arouse Joseph's soul, as the Torah tells us that "V'lo yachol Yosef lehitapek. . ."--"and Joseph could no longer control himself before all his attendants, and he cried out, 'Have everyone withdraw from me!' So there was no one else about when Joseph made himself known to his brothers" (Etz Hayim, Genesis 45:1).

Witnessing Joseph's intense reaction to Judah's appeal, we wonder what exactly pushes Joseph to his emotional limit? What does Judah say or do that compels Joseph to reveal himself at this moment?

Our most trusted biblical commentator, Rashi, surmises that since Joseph's emotional outburst is juxtaposed with evacuating his Egyptian servants, Judah's self-incrimination embarrasses Joseph. The viceroy of Egypt fears that when these alleged spies are introduced as his brothers, the family's reputation, and his by association, will already be tarnished in Egypt and in Pharaoh's court.

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Mikeitz

Genesis 41:1−44:17

Real Men Cry

Joseph's tears, public and private

By Shuly R Schwartz; Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

In the 1970s, football star Roosevelt "Rosey" Grier sang "It's All Right to Cry" on the landmark record album "Free to Be You and Me," produced by Marlo Thomas.

The former New York Giants defensive tackle told us, in the Carol Hall song, that "crying gets the sad out of you. It's all right to cry; it might make you feel better." Feminism had arrived in America, and men--including football stars with feminine nicknames--were permitted, even encouraged, to show their emotions and cry.

The Assassination of JFK

A decade earlier, on the cusp of the feminist era and of an era of turmoil in America, I saw my dad cry for the first time. He stood in front of the TV, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he watched the events of that afternoon in November, 1963, when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Stunned by the horrific tragedy, I was also jolted by my father's open display of emotion. My dad was a caring and loving man, but as a child, I suppose I too was influenced by the norms of the day: Grown men didn't cry! It would take the Kennedy assassination, Marlo Thomas's recording and a whole series of events and social changes in American life to make a man's crying, even in the private confines of his home, socially acceptable.

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Vayeishev

Genesis 37:1−40:23

God Was In That Text

It is important to seek God in times of fortune, and to hear the divine voice in our texts.

By Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz

Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies. Reprinted with permission of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

God's presence in our world is truly in the eye of the beholder. While there are times we feel an acute absence of God in our lives, there are also times that we are keenly aware of God's Presence. More often than not, it is in times of distress and tragedy that we turn to be discovered by God rather than in times of blessing.

Our patriarch Jacob is the quintessential model of such relationship. When Jacob leaves home and again when he is about to confront his brother Esau after 20 years, Jacob prays to God--for protection and blessing. Yet when we arrive at this week's parashah, Parashat Vayeshev, and read the opening lines of the Torah reading--namely that "Jacob was now settled in the land where his father had sojourned, the land of Canaan"--one would expect Jacob to utter some prayer of thanksgiving. After pulling through tragedy after tragedy (stealing the blessing from his brother Esau, fleeing home, suffering from the deceit of his uncle Laban, wrestling with a mysterious assailant, and living through the rape of his daughter Dinah), one would expect at a minimum an acknowledgment of God's work in his life, especially when he is settled.
Where is God?

Sadly, the entire opening chapter of Parashat Vayeshev contains not one mention of God. We know God is acting in the background, but at same time, there is no explicit reference to God. So where and how do we find God?

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Vayishlach

Genesis 32:4−36:43

Silent Deliberations

We should learn to react with humanity.

By Rabbi Marc Wolf

Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies. Reprinted with permission of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

"Too often the strong, silent man is silent only because he does not know what to say, and is reputed strong only because he remains silent." This indictment, spoken by Winston Churchill, initially reminds me of our patriarch Jacob. We read this week one of the most disturbing stories contained in the Genesis narrative--the abduction of Dinah. As our parashah tells us, Dinah was the daughter of Leah and Jacob, sister to Shimon and Levi.When she went out one day to meet the other young women of the land, the local prince, Shekhem, abducted her. Upon hearing the news of this violation, Jacob reacted as we never would have supposed a father would--with silence.

Jacob and Shekhem Make A Deal

Juxtaposed with Jacob's reaction, is the angry response from Dinah's brothers. After abducting her, Shekhem fell in love with Dinah and wished to marry her. When Shekhem came to Jacob to plead his case, the parashah tells us that the brothers answered him, "cunningly, with deceit" (Genesis 34:13). Speaking for their father, they struck a bargain with Shekhem:If he convinced every single male in his land to circumcise themselves, then he could have their captive sister's hand in marriage.

Rabbeinu Bahya, a 13th to 14th century commentator from Spain, stated in his commentary on Vayishlah, that the brothers had no intention of letting Dinah marry this man. They planned, instead, to wait until the third and harshest day of pain after circumcision, when the men of the city would be weakest, and take their sister back from her captivity. This plan, however, morphed into a deadly act of vengeance.

The Revenge of Shimon and Levi

When Shimon and Levi went to release Dinah, something went drastically wrong. The brothers entered the home of Shekhem, and then crumbled into an emotional fury. They displayed a lapse of faith in God, who bestows righteousness and compassion, and in a moment of filial loyalty, stepped over aline that snowballed into wrath, rage and vehemence. They killed each and every male in the city and then turned their swords against Shekhem and finally his father.

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Vayeitzei

Genesis 28:10−32:3

Complicated Relationships

The emotional struggles of our ancestors can help guide us today.

By Rabbi Melissa Crespy; Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

I cannot read Parashat Vayetze dispassionately.

The struggle between two sisters for the love of the same man, the back and forth attempt to win his affections by bearing more and more children, and the visible jealousy and pain that each one of them experiences leaves me feeling angry every time I read the story.

Particularly galling is Jacob's reaction to Rachel—the wife whom he loves deeply—when she cannot become pregnant. She has seen her sister Leah bear Jacob three sons (presumably within three years), and can no longer take the pain of being the barren wife. "Give me children, or I shall die" she says to Jacob (Genesis 30:1). And the Torah records his response:"Jacob was incensed at Rachel, and said, "Can I take the place of God ("hatahat elohim anokhi"), who has denied you fruit of the womb?"

The Midrash Rebukes Jacob

Midrash Rabbah (71:7), avoiding any of the apologies later commentators will make, cuts to the chase when it comments: "Said the Holy One, Blessed be God, to him [Jacob]: "Is that a way to answer a woman in distress? By your life, your children will one day stand in supplication before her son [Joseph], who will answer them, 'Am I a substitute for God (hatahatelohim ani)'" (Genesis 50:19)?

The midrash is acutely sensitive to Rachel's feelings here,and to Jacob's cruelty in answering her as he did. Yes, she overstated, but her comment reflected how terribly pained and unworthy she felt by not being able to bear children. Jacob just dug the knife in deeper by saying that God had denied her the ability to produce children. The midrash responds that an insensitive comment like this one will not go unpunished, and it doesn't. In the not too distant future, Jacob's other sons are at the mercy of Rachel's son Joseph,where they hear language very close to the cruel words Jacob had spoken. As a rabbinic dictum teaches: "Midah k'neged midah" (one unkind deed will be paid back by another).

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Toldot

Genesis 25:19−28:9

Jacob inspires us to overcome our Esau-like desires for instant gratification and physical power.

By Rabbi Bradley Artson; Provided by the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, which ordains Conservative rabbis at the American Jewish University.

Esau is surely one of the most tragic figures of the Bible.

He is a simple man, whose robust nature leads him to exult in his own health, strength and energy. Esau loves to hunt. He revels in the outdoors and in bursting limits. Esau is a man of impulse. Like Rambo or John Wayne, Esau thrives on his tremendous power, his physical courage and his own inner drives.

Modern America admires that. We distrust the intellectual. Someone who thinks too much, or who is too sensitive to the feelings of others (or to his own feelings) is held in disdain. We prefer a man who can impose his own will through a show of determination and strength, someone who doesn't plan in advance, someone who can relish the moment and trust his own passions.

America accepts the romantic notion that the truest and best expression of who we are lies in the unbridled release of our feelings. Therefore, our feelings are not--and should not be--subject to control.

The Torah asserts, to the contrary, that every aspect of being human--heart, mind and soul--needs constant training, direction and restraint.
Conflcting Approaches

The story of Esau and Jacob is the story of these two conflicting approaches to being human. Esau comes home after a day of hunting and he wants to eat. Meanwhile, Jacob has prepared a pot of lentil stew. Here, the man of action meets the man of forethought. Acting on impulse, Esau demands to be fed.

Responding with calculation, Jacob agrees to sell his stew in exchange for Esau's birthright. Living in the present, Esau sees no benefit in his birthright. After all, it doesn't satisfy his hunger, so his parting with his birthright represents no real loss.

Jacob, on the other hand, lives with one foot in the future. Less powerful than his burly brother, Jacob compensates by using his mind and by weighing the consequences. He prefers to skip a meal if that means he will acquire the birthright of the covenant.

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Chayei Sarah

Genesis 23:1−25:18

By Rabbi Lewis Warshauer, Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

Memories of Mother

After Sarah's death, Isaac sees his mother live on in the values and person of his wife, Rebekkah.

A newspaper reader knows from the headline what the topic of the article will be. Not so with the Torah. The title of each parashah is its first significant word; whether that word tells what will follow is somewhat up to chance. In Parashat Noah, the title does tells us who will be the central focus of the narrative. In this week's parashah, the title Haye Sarah seems to be irrelevant, misleading and yet, perhaps, fraught with meaning.

Haye Sarah means "the life of Sarah." It is thus a strange introduction for a series of events that begins with her death. The opening verse of the parashah reads, literally, "Sarah's life was one hundred twenty-seven years" (Genesis 23:1). It then goes on to tell of her death and burial. The rest of the parashah describes the recruitment of Rebekah (Rivkah) to be Isaac's wife, her return to Canaan with Abraham's servant and her marriage to Isaac. If parshiyot [Torah portions] were given a title corresponding to their central character, this one would be Haye Rivkah ("the life of Rebekah"), not Haye Sarah.

Toward the end of the parashah, Sarah does reappear--not in person, but as a memory. We are told that after Isaac meets Rebekah, he:

"... brought her into his mother Sarah's tent and took Rebekah and she became his wife and he loved her. And Isaac was comforted after his mother's death" (Genesis 24:67).

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Vayera

Genesis 18:1-22:24

Balancing the Needs of Home and Community

Why did Abraham beg for mercy for the city of Sodom but not for his son Isaac?By Rabbi Joshua Heller:   

Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

Ever since I was a child, I've struggled with a fundamental question about Abraham's personality, a question which is posed by this week's parashah, Vayera. When God comes to Abraham to inform him that the city of Sodom is to be destroyed for its wickedness, Abraham responds aggressively by shaming God into agreeing to spare the city if 50 righteous can be found within it, saying,"Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?" (Genesis 18:25). Then, with a bargaining style that would be the envy of any used-car buyer, teenager, or trial lawyer, he lowers the number to 45, to 30, to 20, to 10.
Abraham Takes Orders

In contrast, when God comes to Abraham and commands him,"Take your son, your only son, whom you love, Isaac, and offer him as a burnt offering" (Genesis 22:2), Abraham does not respond and heads off to do God's will. How could Abraham care so deeply for strangers, and not fight for the life of his own son?

I stand further in awe of the zeal and single-mindedness that Abraham brings to his assignment. Rather than prolonging good-byes, he does not delay--arising and setting out first thing in the morning, and attending to many details himself. When God summons Abraham to offer up his son, (Genesis 22:1) God calls his name once, and Abraham responds "hinneni"--here I am. In contrast, when God's messenger calls upon Abraham to stop, at the last moment, (22:11), it is with a two fold repetition, "Abraham, Abraham"--Abraham must be asked only once to raise the knife, but twice before he will stay it.

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Lech L'cha

Lech L'cha, Genesis 12:1−17:27

Abram and God's Mutual Faith

As Abram and God demonstrate, Judaism understands faith as deep trust despite doubt, confusion, and suffering.

By Rabbi Bradley Artson:  Provided by the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, which ordains Conservative rabbis at the American Jewish University.

At a ripe old age, Abram receives a message from God, telling him that he will yet produce an heir, and that the child will inherit not only Abram's property, but also his father's covenant with God.

Surely God's promise would strain the credulity of even the most devoted follower. Sarah had been barren throughout her life. Now, her body no longer surged with the monthly cycle of women--childbearing wasn't even a possibility. And she herself testified that her husband was far too old to father children. Yet, despite biological reality, God tells Abram that he will have a child, and that his descendants will outnumber the stars in the sky!

In response to God's astounding promise, the Torah states simply that "because he put his trust in the Lord, he reckoned it to his credit." In that one ambiguous sentence, the Torah contrasts the rich complexity of biblical faith and the flimsy superficiality of the contemporary notion of faith.

American Definition

For most religious Americans, "faith" means belief in certain claims about the metaphysics of reality. Faith is perceived as a mental acceptance, a lack of doubt. Accordingly, true faith requires a willingness to refrain from too much thought, to ignore the difficult questions which life inevitably raises. And, as a result, when those questions do arise--as indeed they must--this faulty "faith" is often destroyed in its wake

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Rosh Chodesh/Parshat Noach

Bereshit 6:9-11:32

God Of Jews, God Of Humanity

The seven Noahide commandments mediate God's love for all of humanity and God's unique relationship with the Jewish people.

By Rabbi Bradley Artson

Provided by the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, which ordains Conservative rabbis at the University of Judaism.The following article is reprinted with permission from the American Jewish University.

Is Judaism a particularistic religion, concerned only with the well-being and sanctity of the Jewish People, or is it also one of the universalistic faiths, expressing a concern for all humanity in every region of the globe? To the enemies of our people, Judaism is portrayed as a narrow, legalistic and particularistic religion. By focusing on the Chosen People--defined as the Jews--and their needs to the exclusion of everyone else's, Judaism seems to show an indifference to the rest of the world.

By its own admission, Judaism doesn't actively try to seek out converts--those who are attracted to our ways are welcome, but there is no burning drive to "Get the word out."

The God of the Bible is one who liberates the Jews from slavery, who gives them a path of life, who provides them with a Promised Land. Doesn't that focus make everyone else peripheral, indeed negligible?

On the other hand, the God of the Bible is also the Creator of the Universe, the planet Earth, and all that it contains. The Bible explicitly speaks of God's covenants with other people too--the Assyrians and the Egyptians to name just two.
Does God Have The Same Relationship With Everybody?

If God is the God of the whole world, then wouldn't God have the same relationship with everybody? The Torah presents that paradox to us--God is the God of the Jewish People, and also the God of all humanity. That dual set of concerns are mediated through the Laws of the B'nai Noah, the Children of Noah, a way that Judaism and halakhah (Jewish law) incorporate God's sovereignty and love for all people with God's unique mission for the Jews.

Noah is the direct ancestor of all people. Through one son, Shem, he is the father of the Jewish People, and through his two other sons, Ham and Japhet, he is the ancestor of Asians, Africans and Europeans, as well as their modern descendants.

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Bereishit

Genesis 1:1-6:8

The Two Creation Stories

An attempt to reconcile two opposing views of nature.

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch, Reprinted with permission from the website of the Jewish Theological Seminary.

The opening chapter of a book is often the last to be written.


At the outset, the author may still lack a clear vision of the whole. Writing is the final stage of thinking, and many a change in order, emphasis, and interpretation is the product of wrestling with an unruly body of material. Only after all is in place does it become apparent what kind of introduction the work calls for.

I often think that is how the Torah came to open with its austere and majestic portrait of the creation of the cosmos. An act of hindsight appended a second account of creation. One, in the form of chapter two--which begins more narrowly with the history of the earth and its first human inhabitants--would surely have been sufficient, especially since it argues graphically that evil springs from human weakness. All else is really quite secondary.

I should like to suggest that the inclusion of a second creation story from a cosmic perspective, with all its inelegant redundancy and contradictions, was prompted by a need to address a deep rift that had appeared within the expanding legacy of sacred texts that would eventually crystallize as the Hebrew Bible. The unfolding canon spoke with many voices. Chapter one of Genesis was intended to reconcile conflicting views toward the natural world. Does reverence for nature lead to idolatry or monotheism?

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Parashat Hol Hamo'ed Sukkot

Exodus 33:12–34:26 and Numbers 29:17–22

This week's commentary was written by Dr. Alan Cooper, Elaine Ravich Professor of Jewish Studies and provost, JTS, 5771

Last month, an op-ed appeared in the New York Times under the title "Aw, Wilderness!"—an obvious play on Eugene O'Neill's "Ah, Wilderness!" While O'Neill's "wilderness" was a town in Connecticut, the op-ed was about the real thing, recalling the sad incident of a skier who got lost on a trail in northern Minnesota and died of exposure. In response, the Forest Service installed markers along the trail, but when the time came to replace them the agency refused to do so, claiming that the signs violated the 1964 Wilderness Act.

The article went on to discuss the problematic balance between preserving wilderness areas and providing safe access to them. An interpretation of the Wilderness Act tilted in favor of preservation led to the banning not only of signs, but also of vehicles and tools that might facilitate access and improve safety. "As a result," the author observed, "the agencies have made . . . supposedly open recreational areas inaccessible and even dangerous, putting themselves in opposition to healthy and environmentally sound human-powered activities, the very thing Congress intended the Wilderness Act to promote."

In response to the article, one correspondent wrote that the author had "a very different concept of wilderness than many of us. We want places where safety and survival are not guaranteed . . . and I'm willing to accept the risk inherent in visiting them." As another put it, "There must remain parts of our world that are true wilderness . . . without the safeguards and conveniences of the modern world. Lives are lost in such places, as lives are lost in the larger world, but it is nonetheless good to rely solely on ourselves when we go there."

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A Special Story for Yom Kippur

What happens when a rabbi refuses to continue Yom Kippur services? Find out in this archival recording of The Eternal Light radio program from 1953.


 

Ha'azinu

Deuteronomy 32:1-32:52

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi David Hoffman, scholar-in-residence, Development Department, JTS.

I have always thought it interesting that Maimonides places so much emphasis on words in the process called teshuvah, even for transgressions not against other human beings. After quoting the verse from the Torah that speaks about the importance of confession (vidui) as part of the process for repairing a wrong enacted in the world (Num. 5:5–6), Maimonides emphasizes that this must be done with words. Teshuvah cannot be limited to an internal process of reflection. Maimonides stresses that any internal commitments must ultimately get expressed with words and counsels that the more one engages in verbal confession and elaborates on this subject, the more praiseworthy one is (Laws of Teshuvah 1:1).

Freud also placed much emphasis on the role of language in the psychotherapeutic process. Talking, as in the "talking cure" (Freud would later adopt this description for psychotherapy), was not simply seen as a means for diagnosing the conflicts troubling the patient. Rather, talk itself was the treatment. Giving words to one's inner life allows a person to better understand the motivations for his or her behavior. The process of "talking things out" creates an opportunity to explore undefined feelings and conflicts. Verbally expressing this inner life allows an individual to begin to see the coherent narrative that links up his or her past with the present and a yet-to-be future. It is not so much what we say, but rather it is the process of exploring the inner life that creates healing. Talking—putting thoughts into language—is itself a transformative and redemptive process.

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Selichot; Nitzavim-VaYelech

Deuteronomy 29:9–31:30

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Abigail Treu, rabbinic fellow and director of Donor Relations and Planned Giving, JTS.

My kids have a hard time taking turns speaking. While their mother tries to instill some manners, they have taken to shouting, "Pause!" in order to silence one another, a phrase they've adapted from their use of the TV remote control to temporarily stop the scene unfolding on screen.

An inviting metaphor: hitting pause on the forward motion of our lives, attending to what needs to be said or done, and then pressing the play button to continue the action. Of course, life doesn't work that way. The High Holiday season invites us to try it, though: before the new year unfolds we pause, take time off from work to be with our fellow Jews, and stand still for a few days.

Stand still, nitzavim, before we move forward, vayeilekh: the double parashah we read just before Rosh Hashanah invites us to recognize what we need to do. Stuck in the narrative while Moses talks—reviewing the history of forty years gone by and preparing for the future about to unfold—we hardly notice what the names of the parashah, Nitzavim-Vayeilekh, suggest.

The metaphors of "pause" and "play" or of "stopping" and "starting," however, do not do full justice to the rabbinic model. Yes, we are to stand still, to spend time reviewing and preparing before moving into a new year. But more than that, we must become a little disoriented, a little shaken up, in order to really be able to move forward in a meaningful way. If we simply hit pause, we haven't done what our tradition is asking us to do this month. We need to go deeper, and for that we need to be taken out of the regular, ordered rhythm of life and into someplace at once familiar and disquieting.

After reading straight through nearly four-fifths of the humash, we are almost at the end. The obvious way of concluding would be to hit pause, and then press play and read straight to the end. But that's not what we do. For the next month, we are going to skip around. Here at Nitzavim-Vayeilekh, we are nearing the end of Moses's last speech; but in a few days we will jump to the middle of Genesis for Rosh Hashanah. Not the beginning of Genesis, mind you, as the idea of a "new year" might suggest (in fact, for the birthday of the world it might make the most sense to read the Creation story). No: we read from the middle of that first book of our national story. We don't get too ensconced, however: for Yom Kippur, we land in Leviticus. A few days later, for Sukkot, we read from Numbers, until Shabbat, at which point we are plunged into a mini-revelation scene from Exodus. Finally, on Simhat Torah, we pick up where we left off, back towards the end, finishing out Deuteronomy and then in one fell swoop beginning again "in the beginning." Even the haftarot are jarring: after nine weeks straight of Isaiah, we will now be confronted with eleven different prophets in one month, eleven different voices and visions and understandings of what God wants from us. Until we finally land back with Joshua, with a narrative picking up where it left off, just as life will take its next steps as we settle again, "post-haggim," into the rhythm of the normal.

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KI TAVO

DEUTERONOMY 26:1–29:8

The Order of Disorder

A word and its opposite may be one and the same.

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

The Bible's most famous riddle was the brainchild of Samson.

"Out of the eater came something to eat; out of the strong came something sweet" (Judges 14:14). Samson posed it on the occasion of his seven-day wedding feast to 30 young Philistine men who came to celebrate his marriage to one of their own. On the last day, the young men responded gleefully: "What is sweeter than honey, and what is stronger than a lion?" Dismayed, Samson accused them of coercing his bride: "Had you not plowed with my heifer, you would not have guessed my riddle." And indeed, threatened by them with savage revenge, she had wheedled the answer out of Samson, only to betray him, exactly as Delilah would do later in his life.

Behind the riddle lay a real life experience. On his first trip to the land of the Philistines to arrange the marriage, Samson had killed bare-handed, a full grown lion on the attack. Upon his return for the wedding feast, he turned aside to inspect the carcass. A swarm of bees had taken up residence in its skeleton. Samson scooped up a handful of honey which he savored and shared with his parents without revealing its source. The riddle conveys the impact of the experience: Samson was intrigued by the phenomenon of an object becoming its opposite. Reality seemed more fluid than fixed.

Language of the Bible

That sense of impermanence is imbedded in the very language of the Bible. Biblical Hebrew contains a small number of words that bear antithetical meanings. These words are more than homonyms with dissimilar meanings like bear (to carry) and bear (the animal.) Their meanings are diametrically opposed to each other. Moreover, in English, homonyms usually derive fortuitously from different origins, whereas in biblical Hebrew the polarity of meanings seems to inhere by design in one and the same word. Like Samson's lion, the word morphs into its opposite.

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Ki Teizei

Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19

Our God, Our Matchmaker: Nurturing marriage

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch

Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

It takes courage to get married.

Divorce statistics attest to the high risk of failure. Yet ours is not the first generation to appreciate the demanding complexity of matrimony. A charming rabbinic tale suggests that the rabbis already deemed every successful marriage a miracle, the blessed product of divine intervention.

The following dialogue, one of many, is reported in the name of R. Yosi ben Halafta, one of the Mishnah's most prominent sages, and an unnamed Roman woman of rank. She asked R. Yosi, "In how many days did God create the world?" "In six," he answered. "And since then," she asked, "what has God been doing?" "Matching couples for marriage," responded R. Yosi. "That's it!" she said dismissively. "Even I can do that. I have many slaves, both male and female. In no time at all, I can match them for marriage." To which R. Yosi countered, "Though this may be an easy thing for you to do, for God it is as difficult as splitting the Sea of Reeds."

Whereupon, she took her leave. The next day the aristocrat lined up a thousand male and a thousand female slaves and paired them off before nightfall. The morning after, her estate resembled a battlefield. One slave had his head bashed in, another had lost an eye, while a third hobbled because of a broken leg. No one seemed to want his or her assigned mate. Quickly, she summoned R. Yosi and acknowledged. "Your God is unique and your Torah is true, pleasing and praiseworthy. You spoke wisely"(Bereshit Rabba, 68:4).

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Shof'tim

Deuteronomy 16:18−21:9

Never Return to Egypt

Resisting the temptation to return, geographically or psychologically, to the site of our bondage

By Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz

Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

Several weeks ago, a book review in the New York Times caught my attention.


Janet Maslin, reviewing The Known World by Edward Jones wrote: "Mr. Jones explores the unsettling, contradiction-prone world of a Virginia slaveholder who happens to be black." (NYT, August 14, 2003).

Maslin observed that such situations actually existed in the antebellum south. A black slaveholder-- quite a jarring concept for our rational minds! Nevertheless, such situational opposites are sadly not uncommon throughout history. Indeed, what actually caught my eye in this review was a vignette that the reviewer cited. Augustus, a former slave himself, confronts his son, Henry, who is a black slave-owner: "Augustus, who became free at the age of twenty-two, is aghast to find his son . . . owning slaves. 'Don't go back to Egypt after God done took you outa there,' Augustus warns."

One could hardly imagine a more powerful philosophical and historical statement; and it is this notion of not returning to Egypt that is rooted in this week's parashah, parashat Shoftim.

In Deuteronomy 17:14-20, we, the readers of the Torah, are advised of the stipulations placed on future kings of Israel. The king must be chosen by God, must be an Israelite, may not accumulate many horses, may not have many wives, cannot amass excess gold and silver, and must have a copy of this "Teaching" (i.e. the Torah) beside him.

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Re'eh

Deuteronomy 11:26-16:17

Traditions and Counter-Traditions

Dealing with disagreements in interpretation of the law

By Rabbi Joshua Heller

This week's Parashah, Re'eh, contains a wonderful juxtaposition of mitzvot, which, when taken together, provide an insight into how Jews deal with novel situations and the disagreements that arise from them, and also allows me to share a peculiarity of my own family history.

One of the commandments which the Jewish people have found most difficult to follow in practice is found in Deuteronomy 14:1: "lo titgodedu." The plain sense of the verse is "You should not gash yourselves... because of the dead." One must avoid pagan mourning customs that include self-mutilation. The rabbinic interpretation of the verse, however, is that Jews should not form themselves into multiple subgroups "agudot agudot" (B. Yevamot 13b) each following a different understanding of the law. Therefore, there should not be two Jewish courts in one city, one permitting a particular practice, the other forbidding it.

All of this brings us to the humble turkey. For most families, disagreements over turkey fall into simple categories like who gets the drumstick, the lumpiness of the gravy, or whose parents to go to for Thanksgiving. For my family, (and the Jewish family as a whole, really) the issues are weightier than one might expect.

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Ekev

Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25

The Covenant of Fertility

Fertility of the womb and fertility of the land are divine gifts.

By Rabbi Lauren Eichler Berkun

Reprinted with permission of the Jewish Theological Seminary. The themes of fertility and barrenness are central to the biblical narrative.

It is striking how often we encounter barren women in the Bible. Sarah, the women of Abimelekh's household, Rebekah, Rachel, Manoah's wife, Hannah, and the Shunamite woman are all examples of barren women whose wombs are opened by God. Clearly, the process of reproduction holds a key to biblical theology. The very covenant of Israel is presented as a brit [covenant] of fertility. God promises Abram, "This is my covenant with you. You shall be the father of a multitude of nations...I will make you exceedingly fertile." (Genesis 17:4, 6). This week's parashah further emphasizes the connection between covenant and childbearing. Moses teaches:

And if you do obey these rules and observe them carefully, the Lord your God will maintain faithfully for you the covenant that He made on oath with your fathers: He will favor you and bless you and multiply you; He will bless the issue of your womb...You shall be blessed above all other peoples: there shall be no sterile male or female among you or among your livestock... (Deuteronomy 7:12-14).

As we explore the theme of fertility in the context of parashat Ekev, we uncover one of the theological underpinnings of the barrenness motif in the Bible.

Our Torah portion contributes to two important elements of Jewish liturgy: the birkat ha-mazon (prayer of thanksgiving after a meal) and the Shema. In both cases, the Torah text responds to the threat of abundance. Following the directive to bless God after eating, the Torah explains the necessity for such a prayer discipline:

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Shabbat Nachamu: Va-Et'chanan

Deuteronomy 3:23–7:11

The Dutiful Student

Moses as a model of one who seeks greater understanding

By Rabbi Marc Wolf
Reprinted with permission of the Jewish Theological Seminary.
Reenacting an historical moment through liturgy and deed is a forte of Judaism.

Our calendar year overflows with holidays and observances that transport us to our former days and inspire us to reenter the narrative and relive salient moments of history. This week in particular, observing the 9th of Av, we read of the destruction of the Temple and continue the mourning of our ancestors for the calamities that befell them.

While it is possible to read this narrative as a preventive measure to ensure that we, too, do not fall victims to George Santayana's dictum condemning us to either learn from our history or repeat it, I believe that Judaism's message is a blessing, not a curse. It is a blessing for us to be able to relive life's difficult moments--and the reason why can be gleaned from Moses' behavior and our parasha this week.

Isaiah Horowitz, commenting on this week's parashah, Va'et'hanan, asserts that throughout the parshiyot of D'varim, we are constantly encouraged to learn and relearn the mitzvot of the Torah. The common name of Deuteronomy itself, the Mishneh Torah, means a second retelling of what came before in the previous four books. Each subject of the Torah is rehashed within the pages of Deuteronomy, according to Horowitz, and each is a call to action to study the passages to our fullest comprehension. For inspiration, Horowitz patterns Moses as the quintessential student, constantly questioning the pedagogical message of God.

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D'varim

Deuteronomy 1:1−3:22

Attributes of a Leader

Moses shares his views on leadership. 

By Rabbi Lewis Warshauer

Much of the Book of Deuteronomy is taken up with Moses' farewell address to the Israelite nation.

He has served his people as their leader in every sphere: military, administrative, judicial and spiritual. Now, he reviews the events of the 40 wilderness years, and presents, from his own perspective, a report of how he has led the nation.

Moses does not offer a dispassionate review of the past; to the contrary, he rebukes the nation for its failings.

It falls to midrash to examine Moses' words and not only offer interpretations of his meanings, but to construct leadership principles based on what he has said and done. A number of midrashim, taken together, use Moses as an example of what constitutes ideal leadership. Three components stand out: his views on what a leader must avoid; on the necessity of many people sharing leadership tasks; and on the core attributes of a leader.

In response to the question of what right Moses had to rebuke his people, one of Moses' earlier statements is cited. When Moses defended himself against charges of self-interest leveled at him by the rebellious Korah, he replied: "I have not taken a single donkey, nor done evil to anyone." (Numbers 16:15) This midrash, in other words, emphasizes what a leader must not do; one must not use a position of power to steal from the populace or otherwise harm them. (Deuteronomy Rabbah 1:5) This is to politicians what the Hippocratic oath is to physicians: first, do no harm.

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Matot-Masei

Numbers 30:2-36:13 

 The Importance Of Intention 

The Torah's establishment of Cities of Refuge introduces the idea that intention determines the meaning of an action.

By Rabbi Bradley Artson

In this week's Torah portion, the Torah addresses the issue of unintentional manslaughter.
What is the appropriate penalty for someone who kills someone else unintentionally? Should there be any penalty at all?

Our parashah discusses the establishment of six Cities of Refuge (Ir Miklat). These six cities were set aside as a permanent asylum. Anyone who unintentionally killed another person was permitted to flee to these cities. Once within their walls, the manslayer was protected by law against any revenge or additional punishment.

In this way, the Torah balanced the need to insist that killing another person is objectively reprehensible, while also asserting a distinction between murder (which is deliberate) and manslaughter (which is not). Contemporary American law makes a similar distinction, mandating a different degree of severity to correspond to the different levels of responsibility due to intention and circumstance.

Three thousand years earlier, the Torah instituted those same legal distinctions based on different intentions. One way to understand the profundity of the Torah's insight is to contrast the Biblical law with other ancient standards. Ancient Greece, Sumer, Phoenecia, and other cultures all articulated a notion of asylum. In those civilizations, a murderer could flee to a local shrine and gain protection at the altar of the local deity. Whether or not the death had been intended was irrelevant to the power of the shrine to protect the murderer. After all, the pagan idol was no less holy, no less powerful, just because the murderer intended to kill his victim.

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Pinchas

Numbers 25:10−30:1

Pinhas in America?

The Torah portion deals with intermarriage, a problem we know all too well today.

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch

In 1962 I graduated rabbinical school and entered the army for a two-year stint as a chaplain.

Such national service was then still required of all JTS graduates before they could take a pulpit. After completing chaplaincy school in New York, I drove to my first assignment at Fort Dix, New Jersey. I arrived in the late afternoon and decided to visit the Jewish chapel where I would preside without delay. That was my first mistake.

Outside the door paced an agitated, well-dressed gentleman in civilian clothes looking for a Jewish chaplain. I revealed my identity all too quickly and smugly, my second mistake. In the office I would occupy for less than a year (the army would reward my stellar work at Fort Dix by sending me to Korea), he unloaded on me an impassioned account about his daughter who was going to marry a young Greek in basic training at Fort Dix. I couldn't tell exactly whether the father, a wealthy man from Connecticut, was furious because the kid was Christian or poor and uneducated. In fact, the father suspected him of seeking to marry his daughter for her money. He insisted that I call in the kid to disabuse him of his folly, and I, by now floundering in my inexperience, reluctantly agreed. To my surprise, the young man came when I summoned him and turned out to be good-looking and charming. Despite great discomfort, I carried out my futile task and never heard from him or his nemesis again.

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Balak

Numbers 22:2-25:9

Spirit Strength

Balak intuited an important truth about the Israelites: Their strength was spiritual, not military.

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch

After two impressive victories against the Canaanites of the Negeb and the Amorites in Transjordan, the looming military might of Israel throws the leaders of Moab into a panic.

Only the land of the Moabites separates Israel from the Jordan River and the conquest of Canaan. Balak ben Zippor, King of Moab, knows that he is next.

In desperation, he takes recourse in an unconventional pre-emptive measure. He summons Balaam son of Beor, a sorcerer from Mesopotamia to curse Israel, making it susceptible to defeat on the battlefield. Though Balaam comes, God frustrates the plan. Within the monotheistic framework of the Torah, Balaam can utter only what God imparts to him. Hence he ends up in rapturous praise of Israel, to the consternation of Balak.

In an imaginative midrash, the Rabbis expatiate on what brought Balak to seize on this particular tactic. Awestruck by Moses, he inquired of the Midianites, among whom Moses had once found refuge when fleeing Pharoah's wrath, as to the man's strength. They responded that Moses' strength resided in his mouth, that is, his prayers were able to move God to act in his behalf. To neutralize that weapon, Balak turns to sorcery. Balaam's strength also resides in his mouth. His curse will trump Moses' prayers. Without divine assistance, Israel is eminently beatable (Rashi on 22:4).

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Hukkat

Numbers 19:1–22:1

This week's commentary was written by Dr. Barry W. Holtz, dean of the William Davidson Graduate School of Jewish Education and the Theodore and Florence Baumritter Professor of Jewish Education, JTS
This week's Torah reading opens with one of the most mysterious and incomprehensible rituals in the entire Bible. Numbers 19:1–22 describes the ritual of the red heifer—the complex practice that allows a person who has come in contact with a dead body to become "purified" of the contamination (tu'mah) that accompanies connection to those who have died. A red heifer is slaughtered, its body and blood are burned in a fire with certain woods and plants, and the ashes that remain after that burning are used in a mixture with water to create a kind of paste that is sprinkled on those who have come in contact with a corpse. The sprinkling of this "water of lustration" (in the New Jewish Publication Society translation) allows the contaminated person to return to the community freed from the tu'mah related to contact with the dead. Adding to the mystery is the fact that those who are impure become purified, but those who are already pure and then come in contact with the ashes of the heifer become impure (Num. 19:10).

This passage in the Torah has troubled interpreters throughout the ages, going back to the earliest figures of rabbinic Judaism. There is, for example, a famous story (Numbers Rabbah 19:8) about Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai (the great Sage who lived around the time of the destruction of the Second Temple), who was asked by a pagan about the ritual of the red heifer. Isn't this a form of witchcraft, the pagan remarked? Yohanan replied that in fact it is something very much familiar to the pagan himself: it is a kind of Jewish version of an exorcism ritual. Yohanan's explanation satisfied the pagan, but once the pagan left, Yohanan's students pressed him further: "Master, you brushed him off with a piece of straw! But what are you going to say to us?!" Yohanan answered them: "It is not the dead that defiles nor the water that purifies! The Holy One, blessed be He, says: 'I have laid down a statute (hukkah), I have issued a decree. You are not allowed to transgress my decree'; as it is written: 'This is the ritual law (hukkat ha Torah) that the Lord has commanded'" (Num. 19:2).

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Korach

Numbers 16:1−18:32

The Ultimate Self-Help Guide 

Amidst seemingly mundane laws, valuable lessons emerge.

By Rabbi Marc Wolf 

A colleague and friend who shares my fascination with golf as well as my plague of performing poorly, recently gifted me with a book entitled, Golf is Not a Game of Perfect.

It is another one of the ever-expanding genre of self-help books in sheep's clothing in which the subject, in this case, golf, is viewed as a microcosm of life.

Accordingly, the sport is given a philosophical reach that outdistances any drive from the tee. It is filled with pithy moral teachings such as "Golfers must learn to love the challenge when they hit a ball into the rough ... the alternatives--anger, fear, whining, and cheating--do no good." Through tangible advice on the game, it subtly links such challenges as hitting a 40-foot putt to reaching for personal and professional goals. Books like this one and others of this ilk by sports personalities like George Forman and Michael Jordan tend to see an ecumenical relevance in seemingly mundane activities.

Our culture is filled with such moral tomes. And while I am sure I can learn a lot from George Forman's lesson of picking yourself up off the canvas when you're down, the aisles of Barnes and Noble are not necessarily the first place we should go in search of ethical teachings. There is much our own tradition teaches us about living life morally, beyond our expected ritual obligations.

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Sh'lach L'cha

Numbers 13:1−15:41

Fringe Story 

A reminder to participate in, and not just observe, the world around us

By Rabbi Lisa Gelber 

When I close my eyes to picture my grandfather, he is standing beside a long olive green bookcase, swaying and shokeling [swaying in prayer], his slight frame enfolded within his tallit, tefillin protruding from his forehead and wrapped about his arm, deeply engaged in conversation with God.

At those moments, it always seemed that he had been transported to a different place and time. Perhaps it was that magic cape, I thought, the one with the strings attached.

As a little girl, I yearned to wear a tallit, and so it is no surprise that some of my fondest childhood memories are of sitting with my grandfather in shul on Shabbat and sharing his tallit. Throughout the service, I would play with the tzitzit, enjoying the feel of the fringes as they slipped between my fingers, methodically adding new knots and removing them again before the conclusion of the service, each knot a blessing for myself or my family. My grandfather was a humble man, dedicated to his store, his family, and his God. He embodied a love for education and humanity. I knew that those cornerstones of his existence were somehow bound up within those carefully constructed knots.

It was not until some years after my grandfather's death that I learned the third paragraph of the Shema, recited twice each day, morning and evening, and found in this week's parashah, Shlah, commanding us to wear the tzitzit.

"Adonai said to Moses as follows: Speak to the people of Israel and tell them to make for themselves fringes, tzitzit, on the corners of their garments throughout their generations; let them attach a cord of blue to the fringe at each corner. That shall be your fringe; look at it and recall all of Adonai's commandments and observe them so that you do not follow your heart and eyes and be seduced or led astray. Thus you shall be reminded to observe all My commandments and to be holy to your God. I, Adonai, am your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt to be your God: I, Adonai your God" (Numbers 15:37-41).

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B'haalot'cha

Numbers 8:1−12:16

 Sometimes, There Are Second Chances 

Of "Second Passover," Rabbi Akiva, and adult bat mitzvahs 

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch 

One of the most compelling new rituals in the Conservative synagogue is the adult bat-mitzvah.

The impulse is egalitarian, the result religious empowerment. The women who participate enjoyed no bat-mitzvah ceremony in their youth. Years later they seek to fill the void. Usually in small groups of up to a dozen, they study with their rabbi and cantor for a period of at least two years.

The practice is so widespread today that the Women's League for Conservative Judaism has produced a carefully articulated curriculum to enhance the meaningfulness of the experience. Learning to read Hebrew is required. Biblically based yet religiously encompassing, the study period culminates in the preparation of a specific parashah and haftarah [prophetic reading] to be chanted in the synagogue on a Shabbat morning. There is definitely comfort in numbers. Doing the bat-mitzvah as a group lessens the tension of performing in public. Each participant must master only a part of the whole.

A few years ago, a large Solomon Schechter elementary day school appointed its first rabbi-in-residence, a post vital to intensifying the religious atmosphere and programming of the school. A number of the women on the faculty approached her about preparing them for an adult bat-mitzvah. She readily agreed provided that the ceremony be held in the school. After two years of serious study, the teachers celebrated their bat-mitzvah in a service attended by all the students in the school. The event was role modeling at its best. To see their teacher and colleague reach for holiness transformed students and teachers alike.

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Naso

Numbers 4:21−7:89

Surrogate Judaism 

Some try to "outsource" their Judaism, but this approach has severe limits. 

By Rabbi Joshua Heller
 

This week's parashah, Naso, includes one of Judaism's most time-honored liturgical texts, the priestly blessing:

"May Adonai bless you and keep you

May Adonai cause His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you

May Adonai turn His face towards you, and grant you peace"
(Numbers 6:24-26).

These three short, beautiful verses, which God commanded Aaron and his sons to use to bless the Jewish people with the gift of God's presence, indeed God's face, are deeply ingrained in Jewish cultural memory.

They also pose some important questions about the balance between the value of personal participation and the role intermediaries play in religious life.

An Old Blessing The verses of the priestly blessing are certainly among the oldest in continuous liturgical use. Archaeological evidence confirms their use even in the biblical period--their words were etched on silver scrolls found in tombs from the seventh century BCE. By the time of the Second Temple, their place in the ritual was confirmed as part of a series of blessings recited after the morning sacrifice (Mishnah Tamid 5:1), and, it is believed by many scholars to be one of the nuclei around which the current liturgical framework of the Amidah [the "standing" prayer] coalesced.

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B'midbar

Numbers 1:1-4:20

This week’s commentary was written by Rabbi Charles Savenor 

B’midbar, the fourth book of the Torah, opens with a demographic and geographic description of the Children of Israel. After taking a census of the people, God teaches that the camp will be arranged with the Mishkhan, the Tabernacle, situated in the center. This mobile, holy site is flanked on four sides by first the Levite families in an inner layer and then the twelve tribes in an outer one.

Reading these seemingly mundane administrative details, we wonder what can be learned from the census and the physical layout of the camp. Is there a relevant spiritual lesson for our contemporary Jewish community?

From an urban planning perspective, one appreciates the rationale of conducting a census before organizing the camp. With exact and intimate knowledge of the population, the camp can be set up in a way that distributes the people evenly, allowing every Jew not only living space, but also access to the Tabernacle. Dwelling in the wilderness for what will turn out to be two score years, this layout provides a secondary benefit, namely defense. The Levites living closest to the Tabernacle and the twelve tribes immediately behind them constitute two lines of protection for the Tabernacle and its holy vessels.

Another way of understanding this arrangement of the Israelite camp relates to crowd control. Unfortunately, as our ancestors trek from slavery to freedom they backslide on many occasions, most notably at the foot of Mount Sinai when they construct the Golden Calf. Some commentators assert that the Tabernacle is necessary as a physical manifestation of God in the world, assuaging the Israelites’ fear and anxiety. That the Tabernacle is situated in the center of the encampment and visible from every corner of the camp may signify its dual purpose as a deterrent for rebellion.

Since transforming the Israelites from slaves to free people and a “nation of priests” represents the central mission of the Exodus, it is hard to believe that God took the Children of Israel out of Egypt merely to suppress and repress them. By contrast, I believe that the Exodus and its miracles, the giving of the Torah, and the encampment’s layout down to the last detail are all intended to inspire our ancestors to new spiritual heights.

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B'har-B'chukotai

Leviticus 25:1-27:34

by Rabbi Lisa Gelber

For to me B'nai Yisrael are slaves, they are MY slaves, whom I brought out of the land of Egypt; I am Adonai Your God. (Lev. 25:55)

As I chanted this verse from the end of Parashat B'har, over and over again, in preparation for reading Torah, it suddenly occurred to me how clear the Torah is about our relationship to God as slaves. Not so many weeks ago, we focused on our enslavement in Egypt. Think back to the Passover seder, where we sang Avadim Hayinu (We Were Slaves). Not to God; rather, l'Pharaoh b'meetzrayeem (to Pharaoh in Egypt). We know the story, and can name the oppressor. So if we were slaves to Pharaoh, and then God took us out of bondage—out of the narrow places, the straits of Egypt—what are we to do with this idea of our enslavement and servitude to God?

It's not surprising that a relationship of this kind—one of slave and master—with anyone, let alone God, seems uncomfortable to our modern sensibilities. Parashat B'hukkotai, among other readings, reminds us of God's power in our narrative: "I am Adonai your God, who brought you out from the land of Egypt, from being their slaves" (Lev. 26:13). Was God merely proving God's might, rescuing us from the bonds of one enslavement to introduce us to another? It's difficult for me to imagine that God merely wants us to do what we're told, shut down our imaginations, and cease questioning; so, to be eved Adonai (a slave or servant of God) must mean something else entirely.

Parashat B'hukkotai begins quite clearly: "Eem b'hukotai teylaychu v'et meetzvotai teeshmoru [If you walk in my laws and guard my commandments]" (Lev. 26:3). Then the Torah goes on to tell us how wonderful everything will be—our fields will flourish, we'll experience peace in the land, we'll multiply as a people, and God will be among us. Great. How do we make this happen? What does it mean to walk in God's laws and watch out for God's commandments? Rashi, the eleventh-century commentator, suggests that although we might presume "eem behukotai teylaychu [if you walk in my laws]" means "if you observe all of my mitzvot," what God really requires is she t'h'yu amaleem baTorah, that you—or we—should immerse ourselves and labor in Torah study. This, in turn, will lead us to learn and understand the mitzvot, v'la'asot, and do them.

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Emor

Leviticus 21:1−24:23

Gleanings 

Obligations to the Poor at Harvest Time. 

By Rabbi Ismar Schorsch

Words often conceal the origins of the idea they denote.

Etymology and meaning diverge and thus confound. A good example relates to a halakhic fragment in this week's parashah. I refer to the verb "to glean." The word denotes minimal gain through hard work. Basically an agricultural term, it conjures up an image of beggars at harvest time gathering whatever remains in the field after reaping. From there the meaning expands to any activity, physical or mental, that involves collecting painstakingly individual items of the same order from disparate quarters.

The etymology of the word "glean" may be medieval English or even Celtic, but the idea itself hails directly from the Torah, but one of many scattered throughout the fabric of western civilization. Without the biblical context, the social value that inheres in the word remains unilluminated. The practice of leaving gleanings in the field for the poor is adramatic example of the extent to which faith is a seedbed for charity in Judaism and later in Christianity.

In our parashah, we read an abbreviated version of a law first enunciated in last week's parashah. "And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Lord am your God" (Leviticus 23:22). Omitted is the parallel injunction pertaining to the harvesting of your vineyard: "You shall not pick your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard"(19:10).

Bearing the Plight The spirit of both verses is identical: at the very moment when we are overcome with a sense of entitlement, we should bear the plight of others less fortunate in mind. No matter how hard we labored and worried to bring in this harvest, it does not belong wholly to us. Our personal blessing carries a measure of social responsibility. God forbids us from harvesting our crop down to the last stalk or shoot. There are first some with holding taxes to be paid.

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Parashat Aharei Mot—K'doshim

Leviticus 16:1–20:27

The third verse of Parashat K'doshim says, "Ish imo v'aviv tira'u" (One should revere his mother and father) (Lev. 19:3). The same mandate appears twice as the fifth commandment, "Kabed et avikha v'et imekha" (Honor your father and your mother) (Exod. 20:12; Deut. 5:16). Honoring parents was considered a virtue in the Roman world. Parents took care of their children, and children were expected to return the favor when parents grew old. But Rome did not create a legal obligation to care for parents, and a child who refused to do so could not be compelled by the courts.

Unlike the Romans, the rabbis made this rule legally enforceable. The obligation to honor parents appears in the Mishnah in the first chapter of Kiddushin (1:7), regarding marriage law. This may seem like a strange location. When discussing women's exemption from and obligation to mitzvot, the rabbis single out honoring parents for special mention. They say that sons and also daughters are obligated to perform this mitzvah. Why did they mention it separately, given that they subsume almost all other mitzvot under general rules? The answer is that when a woman marries and moves in with her husband's family, she needs to know that her obligations to the parents she left behind do not cease. In addition, the Mishnah implies that she acquires new obligations to her husband's parents. It is she who will be burdened with the responsibility of caring for them. This becomes clear when the Mishnah says elsewhere that a husband may stipulate that his ex-wife continue to care for his parents for a period of time, even after the divorce (Mishnah Gittin 7:6). Surprisingly, both Talmuds later reduce a woman's obligation to her own parents. They say that for so long as she is married, she is exempt from honoring them. It seems that caring for her husband trumps caring for her parents. We thus see that honoring parents has a direct connection to marital law and to women.

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