Sidrahs

Beha'alotecha

Thu, 23 May 2013 16:49:51 +0100

“And the people became complainers of evil in the ears of the Lord” Numbers 11:1

V Once again we find the people complaining about the hardships of their journey from Egypt towards the Promised Land. In this week’s parashah, the complaints are ostensibly about the bland regularity of the manna. The people demanded meat instead.

But can this really be the problem? Were the people so petty, so immature, as to launch a minor rebellion over the lack of gastronomic variety in their diet? After all, the manna was the miraculous bread provided by God.

Rabbi Matis Weinberg points out that people were actually complaining about Moses’s leadership. The Talmud teaches that the manna was given because of the merit of Moses and was therefore a useful proxy for him and his leadership. A rejection of the manna was in reality a rejection of Moses and his management style and God appears to agree that the people may have a point.

Indeed, shortly after this complaint, Moses is instructed to gather the seventy elders at the Tent of Meeting, where God will inspire them with the divine spirit. God seems to be responding to the people’s complaint by giving Moses’s management team more power and independence.

Although the people angered God by the ungrateful and aggressive manner of their complaint, they instinctively understood that a highly centralised form of personal leadership would be ineffective as they encountered new challenges when entering the Promised Land.

As Ronald Heifetz, founder of Harvard University’s Centre for Public Leadership, states, the most effective leadership in times of crisis is adaptive leadership. This style is flexible enough to listen to, and learn from, a range of opinions rather than relying on the limited vision of one person, even if they are as great as Moses himself.

Naso

Fri, 17 May 2013 10:15:02 +0100

This important blessing, so well known and used with gratitude by Judeo-Christian traditions, is ubiquitous in many services. But it’s curious. God is usually responsible for blessing. Yet here it is Aaron and his sons, the priests, who are asked to do the blessing.

In many traditional synagogues, Cohanim duchen and offer this blessing. So powerful a childhood memory was this for Leonard Nimoy, the actor who played Spock in Star Trek ,that he took the image of the Cohen with separated fingers as his standard and, what became iconic, greeting.

It’s powerful stuff. But controversial, too. Unusually, these blessings are introduced through a command to the priests, “Thus you shall bless them”. This has dismayed classical commentators. Were the priests invoking divine blessing as a parent might or were they themselves engaged in blessing Israel?

The majority understanding is that the priests invoked the divine blessing, a supplication to God. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch insists the Torah did not suggest a priestly caste with free power to bless. Rather, the priest had clear and distinct instructions to invoke this specific blessing.

Although priesthood is no longer, its legacy survives in many parts of the Jewish world and Cohen and Levite still have roles in liturgical life.

Progressive synagogues have chosen a democratic attitude to the community, where all are Israel and all those who act as shaliach tzibbur have the right and responsibility to invoke this blessing (just as Aaron and his sons). Rabbi John Rayner called this blessing, when used liturgically, “the threefold benediction of the Torah” as an alternative to its priestly title, drawing out the threefold blessing of protection, graciousness and peace. And it’s that which is invoked by mother, father, rabbi or those leading prayers, just as the Torah may have intended.

Bemidbar

Thu, 09 May 2013 11:31:40 +0100

According to Nachmanides there were two primary reasons for the census taken by Moses in the second year in the wilderness: to ascertain the total numbers of the nation; and to become acquainted with each individual.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik suggests that, prior to the sin of the golden calf, Moses functioned as an agent on behalf of the entire nation. Hence when he prays for them, he relates to them as an entire body.

After the debacle of the golden calf, Moses was required (using Rabbi Soloveitchik’s phrase) to act as a teacher/rebbe who sought to understand the life of each individual. From now on he was to pray not only for the general public, but also for each person in his or her moments of joy.

One of the greatest challenges of communal and political leadership is to be able to identify the needs and concerns of individuals. There are occasions when major decisions need to be taken that may be of benefit to the group as a whole, but will also involve suffering and pain to others. It is crucial that these individuals and communities not be overlooked. Each person has unique value.

Thus when Moses is told to count the whole nation according to their heads, he was being reminded that leadership includes being cognisant of the details in the big picture.
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Behar-Bechukkotai

Thu, 02 May 2013 10:31:45 +0100

The decision to use an Employment Tribunal to defend an individual’s right to support the state of Israel was described by one legal epic as an “epic folly”. Epic or not, surely the greatest folly was the assumed expertise of Judge Anthony Snelson to rule that an attachment to Israel was “not intrinsically a part of Jewishness”.

Exposure to this week’s Torah reading might have enlightened the judge with its multiple references to Israel and the special mitzvot like the sabbatical year, which can only be performed in our Land. The message could not be clearer in declaring the centrality of Israel not only in Jewish history but also as a central pillar in our relationship with God.

The Ramban — in his glosses on Maimonides’s Sefer Hamitzvot — quotes a midrash from Behar stating that anyone leaving Israel for the diaspora is similar to an idolator. This is one of many texts adduced in his famous note which states that the mitzvah of living in Israel applies as fully today as at any other in Jewish history.

Meanwhile, the furore over the possible enlistment of yeshivah students into the Israeli army became more frenetic. Last week the Satmar Rebbe, Aaron Teitelbaum, declared the current crisis in Israel as “worse” than the Holocaust and invited Israeli yeshivah bachurim to avoid the draft and decamp to New York where they would be the guests of the Satmar community. Perhaps they could invite Judge Snelson along too.

Emor

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 11:34:09 +0100

Ask any schoolchild “When is Shabbat?” and she will tell you what we all know: Shabbat is the seventh day. But this is not always the case, as Parashat Emor teaches us.

The two verses quoted above each use the word Shabbat, but the word refers not to the seventh day of the week, but to the seventh month of the year. In the first example, the words Shabbat refers to the holiday of Pesach (which is the seventh month if you count from Tishre); in the second example, Shabbat Shabbaton means Yom Kippur (which is the seventh month if you count from Nisan).

But why does the Torah use the word Shabbat to mean both the seventh day and the seventh month? My teacher, Rabbi Saul Berman, answered this by teaching that the fundamental purpose of Shabbat is to allow us to withdraw from vital activities in order to reflect and evaluate the role they play in our lives. On the seventh day, we withdraw from production (melachah) in order to evaluate our relationship to it, thereby ensuring that we don’t define ourselves or our relationships solely by what we produce.

Yom Kippur and Pesach take this same concept one step further, restricting not only what we produce but also what we consume, in order to reflect on our attitudes towards consumption. While the Shabbat of days helps us not to define ourselves (or others) by “what we do”, the Shabbat of months (Pesach and Yom Kippur) keep us from defining ourselves by “what we have”. When we observe these holidays well, we enter into the true meaning of Shabbat, being reminded of the One who is the true Source of everything we have and everything we do.

Acharei-Mot Kedoshim

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 12:52:30 +0100

“When you shall come to the Land, and you will plant any food-bearing tree, you shall withhold its fruits” Leviticus 19:23

The mitzvah of orlah is one of the lesser known agricultural laws that apply both within the land of Israel and the rest of the world. This command prohibits a person from consuming any produce from the first three crops of a fruit-bearing tree. While the fruit from the fourth year is sanctified and, when the Temple existed, was eaten in Jerusalem as a special type of gift to God, all subsequent fruit could be eaten as desired.

Nachmanides, the great medieval commentator, explains that this mitzvah reminds us to dedicate to God the very best first fruits of the tree before we are able to eat from them. But since the fruits of the first three years are often stunted and bitter, it is only proper to wait until the fourth year to offer these “first” fruits to God.

Judaism, based on a verse in Deuteronomy (20:19), often compares people to fruit trees. Our “fruits” are, on a basic level, our children and grandchildren, but on a more conceptual plane are the words, ideas and thoughts we give to others.

We live in an increasingly fast-paced world where we have learnt to deliver instant soundbite responses to every situation. But all too often we see that this immediate reaction causes a less than desirable outcome.
We all know too well the regrets of hitting the send button to that email before giving thought to the possible consequences. A pause to take time to consider our response, and to allow our thoughts to mature, ensures that the unique “fruits” that we present to the world are sweet and well-developed.

Tazria-Metzora

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 14:07:35 +0100

A challenging double portion, consumed with skin complaints, house mould, impurity and far removed from our own experience. The affliction of leprosy, tzara’at, appears in both the associated haftarot; while Metzora’s (read this week) tells of the four starving lepers during the siege of Samaria, the haftarah for Tazria is about Na’aman.

Na’aman is introduced as captain of the army of the king of Aram, a mighty man of valour but who was a leper. “The buts of life can be even more grim and heartbreaking than the ifs,” Rabbi J. H. Hertz remarks in his commentary.

Hertz’s compassion illuminates the text and the Torah it echoes. Suffering, psychological or physical, is one of the few things that can transform the sweet savour of success into the taste of ashes. Na’aman’s prowess and zest is not diminished by leprosy but he is defined by it. He’s equally defined by a desperation for a cure, expecting the prophet Elisha to “wave his hand over the spot and cure me of my leprosy”. Instead Elisha advises washing in the Jordan river seven times. Na’aman did not receive a cure but he did heal as a result of Elisha’s advice, which he took only reluctantly.

Managing illness, advice and hopes is familiar to those who are ill. Being defined by illness is inevitable but the Second Book of Kings offers an insight into how that can play out. In a beautiful piece in the Talmud, Rabbi Hiyya ben Abba falls ill, Rabbi Yochanan visits and asks “Are your sufferings dear to you?” Rabbi Hiyya replies “Neither they nor their reward” and reaches out his hand (Berachot 5b).

The Talmud suggests kindness, unexpected, can be hugely restorative. Sometimes it’s the unlikeliest advice or expression of comfort that can help recovery. Challenging definitions can challenge prognosis.

Shemini

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 11:10:25 +0100

The balance between personal expression and structured ritual has been one of the key tensions in the religious experience. Those favouring the former will stress the importance of authenticity and intention in what one does, questioning the value of simply following a set pattern of observance.

Those favouring structure repeatedly voice concerns about the slippery slope to religious self-indulgence. In the modern period this argument re-emerged between Chasidim and the Mitnagdim of eastern Europe. Today it is echoed in the arguments between traditional religion and some of the forms of New Ageism.

Just how precarious treading the path between these two poles can be is seen in the tragic events surrounding the death of Aaron’s two sons, Nadab and Abihu, after offering an incense fire not commanded by God. The 18th-century Chasidic master, Rabbi Elimelech of Lizenshk, claims that these two young men were saturated with an ecstatic desire to elevate their physical world to the Divine presence. Rather than being a rebellion against God, it was intended to be the ultimate gift for Him. But it was an exercise that went terribly wrong.

The dangers in this highly individualistic approach are clear. Firstly, even the most noble goals of drawing close to God need to be performed within a certain rubric. Otherwise it may be nothing more than an expression of religious narcissism. Secondly, a great deal of self honesty is required to be sure that these elevated intentions are indeed true, and not a form of spiritual posing.

The Jewish religious experience seeks to fuse commitment to detail and structure with the fire of personal passion.

Shabbat Chol Hamo'ed Pesach

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 13:05:34 +0000

In general, it is fair to characterise the Torah commentators of the Middle Ages such as Rashi, Avraham ibn Ezra or Ramban as looking to provide the real meaning of the text.

This contrasts with the Chasidic writers of the last 300 years, who often afford themselves considerable latitude and allow the words of the Torah to soar and lead us to a truth and meaning well beyond the original context. Such interpretations may not obviously explain the literal meaning of the words but can be powerful insights into our spiritual lives.

A dazzling example is the comment made by the Rebbe of Izbica, Rav Mordechai Yosef Leiner (1801-1854) on the verse quoted above. The context is a section of the Torah prohibiting idolatry. The Rebbe of Izbic focuses on the Hebrew word masechah, “molten”, noting that it also means a mask, a superficiality. The verse now means “Do not make gods of the shallow and superficial.”

Continuing, he explains himself. Where is that shallowness to be found? In an astonishing leap, he identifies that superficiality in the general universal laws of the halachah. These general principles which apply equally to all people at all times are surely inadequate. Can we not aspire to a spiritual life wherein we discern our own personal truths and our own personal laws?

Thus he lays down the immense challenge of finding personal resonance in the rules of the Torah. This is rarely achieved by varying those rules but by becoming familiar with our real natures and understanding of our true spiritual needs. Then the Torah will become personally relevant and not merely a set of universal rules applicable to all.

Tzav

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 17:48:47 +0000

Elijah, the prophet invoked by the final verses of the haftarah for Shabbat Hagadol, is closely associated with the Pesach Seder. Towards the end of this well-known ritual, we open the front door wide to him into our home.

Yet as we stand in the open doorway, we simultaneously recite perhaps the most difficult phrase of the entire Seder, imploring God to take revenge on those who have hurt us: Sh’foch hamatcha al hagoyim, “Pour out Your wrath upon the nations”. At the very moment that we open our door as a sign of welcome, we also acknowledge the very real pain that the non-Jewish world has caused us.

This scene captures the dilemma of how we as Jews ought to engage with the non-Jewish world: should we be fearful and angry over the pain that Pharaoh inflicted on us? Or should we be open to the unexpected and selfless kindness of Pharaoh’s daughter who saved us? Or, as the Pesach Seder scene suggests, is the answer that we must do both and live with the tension of that ambiguity?

Strikingly, at this symbolic moment of ambiguity in the Seder, who should enter but the prophet who has become most associated with unanswered questions, Elijah. Whether at a Seder, havdalah, or a brit milah, Elijah is the character who appears at liminal moments in our lives to remind us that complex issues — peoplehood, holiness, family — do not have simple answers. His presence encourages us to live with complexity and ambiguity, in order to fulfil the verse of the Shabbat Hagadol haftarah, to “turn our hearts” to those complex relationships without simple answers.