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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