Parashat Yom Kippur

Leviticus 16:1–16:34 and Numbers 29:7–29:11

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Marc Wolf, vice chancellor and chief development officer, JTS.

I have a favorite parable that finds its way into much of my writing and speaking. In fact, it has made its way into parashah commentaries and sermons throughout the year. But I think its greatest relevance is during this season, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—the ten days of return. The story is one that David Foster Wallace included in a commencement speech at Kenyon College:

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way. The older fish nods at the two young fish and says, "Morning, boys. How's the water?" The two young fish swim on for a bit, and, eventually, one of them looks at the other and says, "What the heck is water?"

The lives of these two young fish were such that their external reality was, at best, taken for granted and, at worst, ignored. They lived a life oblivious of their external surroundings. This, I believe, highlights the disparity between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. On Rosh Hashanah our view is panoramic; on Yom Kippur it is myopic. This difference between the two holidays is intentional; the holidays are designed to live in stark contrast. Remarkably, just eight days ago, our focus was totally different than it is now.

On Rosh Hashanah, for example, we gaze globally; on Yom Kippur, we exist locally. Allow me to illustrate with some of the liturgy from the Mahzor.

Painting the picture of God on Rosh Hashanah, we turn to the Malchuyot section of the Musaf 'Amidah. One of the three central pillars to the Musaf service, Malchuyot sets the tone for speaking of God's kingship and sovereignty. The language is universal, "Our God and God of our ancestors: in Your glory, rule over the entire universe; in Your splendor, be exalted over all the earth" (Mahzor Lev Shalem, 157).

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Shabbat Shuva; Ha-azinu

Deuteronomy 32:1-52

By Rabbinic Student Susan Elkodsi

Shabbat Shuva carries with it an air of redemption, for ourselves as individuals, and for the Jewish people as a whole. Parashat Ha’azinu, which we read on Shabbat Shuva this year, carries that message from God, through Moses, to the Israelites perched on the banks of the Jordan ready to cross into the Promised Land. Ha’azinu is Moses’ final discourse, his instructions to the people, but it isn’t a “rah rah go get ‘em” commencement type of speech. Yes, it’s a message of hope for the future, but before we get there, we have to listen to a lot of scolding and admonition regarding the sins of the previous generations.

This could explain why the parashah begins, Ha’azinu hashamayim v’adabeira, v’tishma ha-aretz imrei-fi. “Give ear, heavens, and I will speak, the earth will hear my speech.” (Deut. 32:1) If this is a message for the people, why is Moses calling on the heavens and the earth to listen? We know from reciting and studying the Shema that shin-mem-ayin doesn’t just
mean “to hear.” It suggests action: listen… pay attention… hear what I have to say, as opposed to “sit back and relax.” Do we take this verse literally, suggesting that the coming words are directed at the stars and the moon, the trees and the rocks, as well as the people? Or is it metaphorical?

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Shabbat Slichot, Nitzavim-Vayelech

Deuteronomy 29:9-63:9


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.

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Ki Tavo

Deuteronomy 26:1–29:8

Love Is Not The Opposite Of Hate; Law Is

Law is essential to Judaism, establishing an external set of moral guidelines.

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

Human beings never seem able to express all their hatred for each other.

Men and women war against each other; blacks and whites, gay and straight, liberals and conservatives, city-folk and suburbanites--there is no end to stereotypes, hostility and mistrust. In response to this propensity to hate, Nobel laureate Elie Weisel organized an international conference on hate in Oslo, Norway. The glittering list of invited participants included four presidents, and 70 writers, scientists and academics.

The two questions which shaped their deliberations were, "Why do people hate?" and "Why do people band together to express hatred?" Although the speeches were beautiful and the resolutions were firm, the entire event was fairly predictable, except for their primary conclusion, which seems so at odds with common sense. Ask anyone what the opposite of hate is, and they will tell you it's love. But the consensus of these most accomplished, powerful and thoughtful people was that, "Only the belief in and execution of the law can defeat hatred."

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Ki Teitzei

Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19

Let's Get Physical!

The commandment to remove a corpse from the stake on which it is impaled teaches us the importance of respecting the holiness of the body.

By Rabbi Bradley Artson on MyJewishLearning.com
The definition of what is "religious" shifts throughout the ages.

In antiquity, being religious meant offering sacrifices (of children, women, prisoners taken in war) and making regular gifts to the gods. In biblical Israel, it meant being aware of God's presence, by bringing animal sacrifices to the Temple in Jerusalem at the designated times.

By the Second Temple period, a new emphasis, one of ritual purity, ethical rigor, and obedience to a growing oral tradition became the defining feature of pharisaic religiosity, which the Rabbis of the Talmud extended into an emphasis on the performance of mitzvot (commandments) and study as religious acts.

In the medieval period, study and ritual purity remained important, but they were refocused through the lenses of kabbalah, Jewish mysticism. Finally, in the early modern age, social justice (for some) and celebration through song and dance (for others) often competed with the earlier identifying features of religiosity.

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