Rabbi's Study
Rabbi Ronald Roth was born in Far Rockaway, Queens and spent his childhood in Brooklyn, New York. He graduated from Cornell University with a BA in theatre arts. While he grew up in a non-observant home, he was greatly influenced by the Cornell Hillel Rabbi, Morris Goldfarb, as well as the Rabbi of the Town and Village Synagogue in Manhattan, Stephen
Rabbi Roth with Rep. Steve
Rothman at Rep. Rothman's
Washington office. More...
Rabbi's T'u B"shvat Questions (pdf)Rabbi's 2007 Rosh Hashana Sermon (pdf)Transliteration for Friday Night Services (pdf)
In the Torah portion Shoftim, Judges, it is not surprising to find the following words, “…you shall not take bribes, for bribes bind the eye of the discerning and upset the plea of the just.” (Deuteronomy 16:19). We have just a few weeks before Rosh Hashanah when we will be judging our own actions. Rabbi Zelig Plishkin (Growth Through Torah, p. 425) reminds us that judging ourselves is even more difficult than judging others even without bribes. He notes that, “We do not want to see any faults in ourselves, and want to think that we are full of virtues. This bias will prevent us from taking an honest look at ourselves and objectively finding our faults and limitations.” That bias serves as a bribe, and turns us from seeing the truth of our life. Imagine, Rabbi Plishkin asks, if instead of reviewing your own life, a complete stranger was looking at you with an objective eye. What would he see? What would he praise? Where would be find fault? During the month of Elul, the Shofar is sounded at the end of the morning service. It is a wakeup call for us to prepare for the coming Holidays. It is a loud reminder for us to consider all our deeds of the past years. Can we spend the next few weeks starting to see our flaws and correcting them and not be bribed by our tendency to think positively of ourselves? I hope we can commit ourselves to that task.
A Talmudic Rabbi creatively interprets a verse in the Torah reading to teach us a lesson about wealth. We usually translate the Hebrew to mean, “You shall set aside every year a tenth part of your sowing that is brought in from the field, ” (Deuteronomy 14:22), Rabbi Yohanan says the first words of the verse can also imply “Tithe [asser] so that you will become rich [titasher]” (Talmud Ta’anit 9a) He gives a different meaning to first words of the verse. The Hebrew is asser t’asser – a doubling of the verb that in the Bible indicates a special emphasis.
That interpretation may seem a bit farfetched. Let us try to understand the seemingly illogical statement of Rabbi Yohanan. He tells us that if you give away one tenth of what you have to tzedakkah, you will become rich. Don’t deductions decrease your net worth and make you poorer not richer? Rabbi Zalman Sorotzkin notes that most people never feel they have enough money no matter how large their net worth or income. They do not follow the Talmudic dictum, “Who is rich? He who rejoices in his portion.” (Pirkei Avot 4:1) By giving tzedakkah you are saying that you have enough for your own requirements. If you never part with your resources, no matter how great or small they are, you are never going to feel well-off. Wealth is not based on your net worth. Rabbi Yohanan reminds us that being rich is based on a mind-set, a generous attitude, satisfaction with your resources and a willingness to give to others.
We read in the Talmud, “It was taught: Rabbi Meir used to say, A man is bound to say one hundred blessings daily, as it is written, ‘What does the Lord your God demand of you?’ (Deuteronomy 10:12) (Talmud Tractate Menchot 43b)” This is based on a play on words. The Hebrew word mah, translated as “what” was read by Rabbi Meir as may’ah, “one hundred.” Therefore the verse is read as “One hundred does the Lord your God require of you.” It was noted in a code of Jewish law (the Mishnah Berurah) that a Jew who prays three times a day and eats three meals with the appropriate blessings will say even more than one hundred blessings each day. Therefore we might conclude that reciting so many blessing is not excessive. Why say so many blessings each day? What does each add to our experiences? Clearly they bring a consciousness of God to our daily activities. Blessings that surround eating are like kashrut, reminders that there is a spiritual dimension even to the physical aspects of life. They also require us to be more aware of what we are doing. Blessings are like shining a spotlight on experience. They force us to be conscious that our actions occur within the larger context of God and Jewish tradition. Today many people want to become more spiritual. At a time when we sometimes find ourselves multitasking or repeating actions without thought, blessings help us to take notice of the larger dimensions of life and nourish our spirits.
We usually translate a verse in the first paragraph of the Shema, (in our Torah portion this week, Deuteronomy 6:6-7), as “…these words that I command you this day shall be upon your heart and you shall teach them diligently to your children.” The Hebrew phrase that appears in that verse, v’shenantem l’vanecha, has meanings beyond “teach them diligently to your children.” It speaks of how we educate our children to follow the lessons of the Torah. Robert Alter, a modern scholar of the Bible, translates those words as “…you shall rehearse them…” (The Five Books of Moses p. 912). He suggests that the Hebrew words could also be rendered as, “to rehearse with incisive effect.” In other words how does a parent teach a child Torah? There must be rehearsal. The lessons must be done repeatedly to the point that we follow the acts of Torah as if they were chiseled in our souls as a pattern or behavior. They become a part of our being, as natural as our breathing and as graceful and easy as Michael Phelps’ swimming. A child seeing that behavior would be more likely to make it part of his or her life. Teaching about Judaism is not a matter that a parent just hands over to a Day School or a Religious School. Teaching flows naturally from being a role model. For example, do we give tzedakkah regularly, are we kind to strangers and do we pray with intention? Seeing those examples repeatedly will impress them upon our children.
Our calendar includes four fast days that recall catastrophes in our history. The most important one is Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av. This year it begins on Saturday night and ends on Sunday night. It is the saddest day on our calendar, the day when both the First and Second Temples were destroyed in ancient Jerusalem. Other tragedies happened on that day in more recent times: the expulsion from Spain in 1492, and the outbreak of World War One that began a period of suffering for our people. Some have argued that we should abolish all the fast days since the creation of the State of Israel in 1948 and especially since the unification of Jerusalem in 1967. A scholar of our Movement, Rabbi David Golinkin argues that recent events should inform our practice. He quotes a Talmudic source, “If we live in times of peace we must feast on the four original fast days; if we live in times of crisis and danger we must fast on all four days; and finally if it is a time of neither peace nor danger, then one is obligated to fast on Tisha B’av but on the other three fast days – one may fast if one so wishes.” (Rosh Hashanah 18b) He concludes that the other three minor fast days associated with the destruction of Jerusalem do not have to be continued, but that Tisha B’Av must be observed. I hope you will fast not only to help recall the calamities of our past but also as an ongoing reminder that we still do not live in a time of peace. Maybe the fast can motivate us to work for that time of tranquility.
This week we read that “These are the journeys of the Israelites who went forth from the land of Egypt…” (Numbers 33:10) The founder of Hassidism, the Baal Shem Tov, said that “What happened to the people as a whole will happen to each individual. All the forty two journeys of the Israelites will occur to each individual, between the time he is born and the time he dies.” I read those words and I am not certain that each of us will repeat every part of the journey of our ancestors. However, I do feel that we will recapitulate some of the elements of their travels. When we wrestle with God we are like Jacob about to cross the River Yabok, who struggled with an angel. We sometimes feel as sure in our faith as did Abraham when he ascended Mount Moriah, following God’s direct command. Does our path in life seem like wandering, without a goal, as did the meandering journey recounted in this week’s Torah portion? Today we can literally and figuratively know fulfillment as we enter the Promised Land, the Land of Israel, just as Joshua did leading our people. There are many ways that we can identify with the travels and the travails of our ancestors. The past and the present live simultaneously, without the need for a time machine. We just need to be conversant with our own history. That gives each of us a larger context for our lives and places us in a more significant position in God’s cosmos.
At the end of the Shabbat morning service we invite our students to the bimah to lead some of the ending prayers and to say hamotzi with me over the challah. Following Jewish tradition I salt the challah before eating it. I have often been asked, “Rabbi what’s with the salt on the challah?” by people who say they have never seen such a custom. I explain that all of the sacrifices at the Temple in Jerusalem were offered with salt. Since our table is said to be like the altar of that ancient building, the salt is a reminder of our history. In this week’s Torah portion there is a reference to that practice, “It shall be an everlasting covenant of salt before the Lord and your offspring as well.” (Numbers 18:19) Salt is a preservative and the use of salt also reminds us of the eternal nature of our convent with God. One commentator (Rabbi Mordecai HaCohen in Min HaTorah) points out that sacrifices could only be offered with salt and never with either honey or leavening. He learns from these rules teachings about personal characteristics. Honey overwhelms other flavors and therefore its benefits come from a loss. We should not help some people by causing a loss to others. Leavening makes dough rise and symbolizes those who are puffed up with pride and haughtiness. Salt represents modesty. It adds flavor as it dissolves leaving no indication of its presence. Salt on the challah is a reminder of our past practices, a token of our everlasting covenant with God and a symbol of a worthwhile character trait. There is so much meaning in such small crystalline granules!
In the Torah portion Moses instructs the Israelites to “attach a cord of blue (tekhelet) to the fringe (tzitzit) at each corner (of their garments)…” (Numbers 15:37). In ancient times the tzitzit contained four white threads and one of blue. They were attached to the corners of the clothing that people wore every day. Today we put the tzitzit on our tallit. While there are those who have rediscovered the secret of making the blue dye for tekhelet, we usually wear tzitzit with only white threads. Many scholars have sought to understand why those two colors, white and blue, were selected to be on the corners of one’s garments. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchek points out that white denotes clarity and rationality while blue is called the color of the heavens, the place where God may be said to reside. Therefore blue can remind us of the grand mysteries of human experience that are only knowable to God. Sometimes our lives seem to be like the white threads, rational and predictable while at other times they are like the blue one where “mystery and puzzlement intervene, dislocating the pattern of our lives and frustrating all our planning.” (Man of Faith in the Modern World p. 30). Putting both colors on the tzitzit is a constant reminder of those contradictions in life. I would add that we should pray for our lives to be like the tzitzit. Three of the four threads were white and only one was blue. We can hope that at least three quarters of our days will be full of clear meaning, but also understand that there will be disturbing times. The original colors of the tzitzit remind us of that reality.
When the Israelites complain to Moses as they travel to the land of Israel through the wilderness they say, “We remember the fish which we did eat in Egypt freely, [and] the cucumbers and the melons and the leeks and the onions and the garlic. But now our soul is dried up. There is nothing to eat besides this manna.” (Numbers 11:4-6) Those words reflect a desire to return to an idealized past and turn from the challenges of the future. The Rabbis point out that the word “freely” in that verse is ironic since the Israelites were slaves in Egypt. It also expresses the desire of the former slaves to live without the duties and responsibilities of the Torah as they create a new society in Israel. Today one can argue it is easier to be free of obligations and not volunteer for the synagogue or donate to it or attend classes, services and meetings. There are Jews who flee from those commitments of Jewish life. They are “free” (and most likely have more free evenings!) but they also miss all the rewards of being a Jew, connecting to other Jews, finding one’s place in history, knowing the joys of community and being on a proven holy quest that perfects both the world and the self. The generation of complainers had to die out in the wilderness for they were not ready for the obligations of freedom. A path without duties is a path without rewards.
In our Torah portion we read that, “… Moses finished setting up the Tabernacle; he anointed and consecrated it and all its furnishings… (Numbers 7:1). The classic commentator Rashi points out the word for finished (kalot) can also be read as referring to kallah, Hebrew for bride. He goes on to say that the day that the portable sanctuary (the Tabernacle) was set up in the wilderness was a time like a bride entering the wedding canopy. Picking up on this metaphor we read that on Shavuot our people are wedded to God under a wedding canopy, a chuppah. The Torah is the marriage contract, the ketubah. That image leads to one reason for following the mitzvot. Sometimes we see ritual observance as arbitrary or mechanical, the opposite of behaviors formed because of love. However, love is not just an abstract emotion. When people are devoted to, they have behavioral expectations. When we marry we not only create formal legal obligations but we pledge to be faithful to our spouse. We wear a wedding ring, stop going to singles bars and no longer spend as much time with “the guys,” or “the girls.” Those are some of the “commandments” of love. We accept those standards of behavior because of the love we have for our spouse. Since God loves us (and that is Jewish belief!) and we love God, our commitment is marked by specific behaviors, the mitzvot. Our relationship with God is more than an idea; it is a real relationship, played out in our observance of God’s commandments.
It is a simple command, “…take a census of the whole Israelite community by the clans of its ancestral houses, listing the names, every male, head by head.” Many questions are raised about this counting. There was an earlier census taken in the Book of Exodus. So why is this one necessary? We also find concern about counting our people because a census is often understood as a prelude to disaster. Furthermore we don’t want to be just “numbers” but real human beings. In contrast to that is a comment from the Beit Aharon who sees a value in this enumeration (and yes, I realize the non-egalitarian nature of the census in the Torah). He reminds us that, “Each Jew has to understand and think that he is unique in his nature and no one like him existed before; for if there had been exactly like him then there would be no purpose in him and in truth each person is something new in the world.” This asks a simple but penetrating question to each of us. What precisely do we bring to our world? Can we discern the role or task that is uniquely ours and then also ask: To what degree am I fulfilling it? The play The Adding Machine by Elmer Rice is about how modern life dehumanizes the workplace. The characters have numbers instead of names, Mr. Zero, Mrs. Zero, Mr. One, Mrs. One, etc. Mr. Zero is replaced by an adding machine. His role was taken by a mass produced modern invention. We all have particular names and we posses specific talents to make the world a better place. Let us pray we can recognize our role and fulfill it.
This week’s Torah portion, Bechukotai begins with straightforward words from God declared by Moses to our ancestors, “If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments…” [you will be blessed]. The corollary is that that curses will come to those who do not obey God’s laws. There is one peculiar ruling however. Those observant of the mitzvot will “eat with satisfaction,” while those who spurn God’s laws are not told they will starve, rather they will, “...eat and not be satisfied.” (Leviticus 26:26) There is a lesson here that Rabbi Ralph Simon points out in a commentary. It is not the presence or absence of food, or material goods that ultimately make us feel truly satisfied and happy. Rather our sense of well being depends on other factors. For example two researchers recently wanted to know if having money makes you happy or if what you do with money makes you content. They studied employees at a small Boston area medical supply company who received bonuses of about $5000. They measured levels of happiness before and after the bonus and concluded, that “The size of the bonus you get has no relation to how happy you are. But the amount you spend on other people does predict how happy you are.” People rose a full point on their five point scale of happiness if they spent approximately a third of their bonus on others. Another researcher said the belief that high income is associated with good mood is widespread but illusory. When people get past the level of poverty money does not play a significant role in day to day happiness. We can eat and have all the material goods we want or need and still not be satisfied. If we follow our tradition and give to others, become part of a community, celebrate and study together, then joy can follow and our eating can bring us satisfaction.
One rule in this week’s Torah portion says that, “Your money shall not [be allowed to have] interest [added when you loan money to a person in need].” (Leviticus 25:37) In ancient times loans were usually given to the poor who needed funds to sustain themselves and their families. The Torah did not imagine a modern commercial society. When loans became necessary to transact business, documents were invented to allow for such dealings. Rabbi Chayim Shmuelevitz explains the Torah’s prohibition against taking interest by seeing in it something beyond a monetary transaction. He says that not taking interest reminds us to do acts of kindness for others without any expectation of gain. He points out that not only is it forbidden to receive interest for lending money but the person who borrowed the money is not allowed to do any special favors for the one who loaned him the money. The sage Ben Azzai expressed in the Ethics of the Fathers the same idea by saying, “The reward of a mitzvah is a mitzvah.” (4:2) The reward of doing the right thing is inherent in the act itself. In our example from the Torah, the kindness of helping another is reward enough. That is not an easy way of thinking, but I hope it could inform our thought process when we help those in need.
In honor of Israel’s 60th birthday this week, I want to share with you one of my experiences there. I was with a group from the Jewish Federation of Nashville on a mission to Israel some years ago. On Friday night we gathered to pray in the old city of Jerusalem, where the Southern and Western Walls of the Temple Mount meet. As you look up you see immense walls, but during the era of the Second Temple they were even higher. The top rows of stones were hurled down to the paved street at the foot of those walls when the Romans destroyed the Temple almost 2000 years ago. You gaze at huge limestone blocks sitting on top of the broken paving stones. Our ancestors walked on those stones when they made their pilgrimages to the Temple. During our Friday night service we sang L’cha Dodi. That hymn is not just about Shabbat. It also describes the revival of our people and our land. One verse says, “Holy city, majestic, banish your fears. Arise, emerge from your desolate years. The city renewed from its ruin is raised.” When we sang the words,”Then your destroyers will themselves be destroyed.” I looked at those immense limestone building blocks and the flat paving stones now shattered. Tears came to my eyes. The Roman army, the grandest military force of the ancient world, has long ago disappeared. I am able to stand and sing just where they stood and thought that our people were broken, like those stones. Our holy City is once again our vibrant capital. My voice joined with others, welcoming Shabbat, with words written hundreds of years ago. Those words once described a dream and now they illustrate the reality of the State of Israel.
The crossing of the Red Sea took place on the seventh day after our ancestors left Egypt. Therefore, this Shabbat, the Seventh Day of Passover, we will read that story from the Book of Exodus. It includes both a prose version of those events and a song that Moses and the Israelites sang when they were saved. According to the Midrash, “From the day when God created the world until the Israelites stood near the sea, no one save Israel sang unto God.” Many of the characters in the Bible offered sacrifices to God, or built altars to Him, but the Rabbis are saying that no one used song to praise God until that time. Rabbi Abraham Joshusa Heschel once wrote, that, “The way to faith leads through acts of wonder and radical amazement… [We] sing to Him before we are able to understand Him.” (God in Search of Man pp. 46-47, 281). What do you recall most fondly about your Seders? For many people it is the songs. Even when we sing to God and don’t understand all the words, our spirits are lifted. I hope we can cherish those moments when we raise our voices and find ourselves in a new spiritual place. Like our ancestors, we often express our highest praise and greatest closeness to God through song.
We read that you should not “…hate a person in your heart. You should rebuke the person, and not bear guilt because of him.” (Leviticus 19:17) How do we give and how do we take criticism? The Rabbis of ancient times realized how difficult it is. In the Talmud we read, “Rabbi Tarfon said, “I would not be surprised if there were anyone in this generation who knows how to take criticism…Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah said, “I would be surprised if there were anyone in this generation who knows how to criticize [Rashi comments, “Who knows how to criticize” – respectfully, without the other’s face changing color from humiliation.] (Arachin 16b)… As a Rabbi I have heard criticism aimed at people in the congregations I have served and I have been the target of criticism from members of my congregations. Shortly after I had accepted the offer to be your Rabbi, but before I moved here, I heard a critique of our congregation from a Fair Lawn businessman who was not even a member of the Center! Good constructive criticism is necessary for an individual or an organization to improve. Giving and receiving criticism is not simple. There is an art to do it effectively; to critique with sensitivity and to hear feedback without becoming defensive. Can we do so by the respecting each other’s dignity and honor? This week’s Torah portion is called Kedoshim, holiness. Let’s try to add holiness to how we criticize and how we react to feedback.
Last Sunday for the Family education program, I prepared a handout with several illustrations of a part of the Seder usually called, “The Four Sons,” but in some more recent haggadot, renamed, “The Four Children.” I omitted the four categories from the illustrations. We had to ask, which picture fits into the appropriate category of the text: the wise child, the wicked or rebellious one, the simple or innocent one and the one who does not know to ask. It was easy to figure out that the child reading a book, with his head covered and wearing glasses, was the wise son. After all, don’t all wise Jews cover their heads, study and wear glasses! However, here is a question for your Seder from a modern illustration. Imagine a drawing of a young woman. She is holding in one hand a sign that says, “No Animal Tests,” and in her other hand a placard with the words, “Abortion Rights.” She has long hair and a bandana on her head. On her tee shirt are buttons that read, “No” and “Peace.” Another button has a smiley face and there is one with a peace sign. Is she wise, wicked or rebellious? Is she so sure of herself that she does not even ask questions? Is she simple; that is totally certain of her positions? At the class last Sunday some of the parents and students thought she could be any of the four children. That illustration asks us to ponder - what is wisdom, and what is rebellion? Can they be identical? Are we so certain of our own beliefs that we never question them? Are we simply sure that we are always right? I hope you can take some of these queries to your Seder and enrich your celebration. A Seder should not be just a family get together but a true night of inquiry. Hag Kasher v’samecah. May we all enjoy a happy and kosher holiday.
This week the Torah portion is about a skin disease that is called in Hebrew metzora. The Rabbis of ancient times associated that illness with motzi shem ra, the sin of using words improperly, more specifically the sin of gossip. There are volumes and volumes of works that discuss all the many ramifications of using words wisely. Martin Buber said, “Speak as if God were listening to everything you say.” He also quoted from a Hasidic master, “We learn a lesson from every modern invention. From the telegraph we learn that every word is counted and charged, and from the telephone we learn that every word said here is heard up there.” When the Rabbis read the Bible, they assume that every word of that sacred text is there for a specific reason. The Talmud is full of laconic debates. We should take care with the words we say to each other, not to mention the words we put into e-mails (including this one!). Especially, as we labor for our congregation, we would do well to converse with the constant reminder that God is listening.
This week’s Torah portion begins by speaking about rituals surrounding childbirth. The Rabbis of ancient times speculate about what life is like for a fetus before it is born. One Midrash says that while we are in the womb, we learn the entire Torah. As we are about to be born, an angel approaches, slaps us on the mouth and causes us to forget all of the Torah. What purpose is there for us to study the entire Torah and then forget it? To explain that one Rabbi tells a parable about a king who once heard a beautiful, evocative melody in a forest but soon forgot the tune. He went running from one end of the forest to the other trying to find it, but could not. When he returned home he gathered all of his musicians and asked them to play all the melodies they knew, but to no avail. He never heard that lost haunting piece of music again, but he learned so many new melodies that his life was enriched. That may be why we forget the Torah we learned in the womb. We desire to live a life full of the serenity we knew before we were born. Learning Torah was part of that idyllic condition. We therefore seek what is nurturing, what will give us a sense of care, protection and ultimate meaning. That is the Torah we no longer can recall. By seeking and learning, or shall we say relearning, Torah we can achieve some measure of our prenatal wholeness and security.
There are many reasons given for following the dietary laws. This week’s Torah portion describes the characteristics of kosher animals. There is no mention of health as a rationale for these laws. After listing kosher animals, the Torah says, “For I the Lord am your God; you shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy...you shall be holy for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:44-45). The only underlying principle in the Torah for restricting our eating is holiness. What does that mean? To be holy means to be set apart and to live for inspiring values. The Torah is saying that ideally we should be sustained by the produce of the earth. Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden are commanded to be vegetarians. In the future Messianic age, when the lamb will lie down with the lion, even animals will not eat each other. To be holy means to honor God’s creations, even animals. We restrict the animals we eat. We do not consume animals that eat other animals or attack people. We are certain that the animals we eat are killed in a humane manner. We separate life from death; that is milk, the sustainer of life, from meat, dead flesh. It is true that the laws of kashrut also teach discipline and help us to maintain our uniqueness. However we can learn to be holy through the common and mundane activity of feeding our bodies by recognizing distinctions, honoring life and living on a more ideal level.
This week we are continuing to read about how our ancestors worshiped God with the sacrifices they offered in ancient times. In the past few months I attended two programs about how we worship today with prayer. When those programs began all the attendees were asked to introduce themselves by speaking about their earliest or most intensive prayer experience. I listened as the others, Rabbis and Cantors, spoke. One mentioned reciting the Sh’ma at bedtime with his parents beside him. Another told of listening to her beloved Cantor when she was a child. In the opposite mode, one person recalled being timed by a religious school teacher to be sure that his recitation of the first paragraph of the Shema took less than sixty seconds. When it was my turn, I mentioned that I did not have any of those early experiences. I spoke of the Shabbat morning service I attended while I was studying at the Jewish Theological Seminary. I davened at the West Side Minyan. It was an informal group organized by young adults many of whom had attended Camp Ramah. It met on the fifth floor of the community building of Congregation Anshe Chesed in a space the size of a large living room. There were many different types of Jews at the services, some sitting on chairs, some on old couches and some on the floor. They conducted their own service. When we prayed El Adon, something sacred happened. To this day, I recall the intensity and spirituality of those moments. We sang, no I should say we prayed for there is a difference between singing and praying, with great passion. There was a mystical quality to our prayer. The words of El Adon praise the grandness of God. I recall feeling that reality in a way that transcended the words. Was it the singing, the people, the intimate space, or some other intangible that made such an impression on me? Whatever it was I have worked to replicate that feeling at the synagogues I have served, so that we will sense the intensity of prayer and God’s presence in our community. Our ancestors offered sacrifices and I imagine they had those feelings when they came to the Temple in Jerusalem. Ask yourself, when did you first have an intensive moment of Jewish prayer, and how can we work to see that it happens here many times again?
“When a leader sins by doing any one of (the things) regarding the commandments of the Lord his God that should not be done, in error, and so incurs-guilt, or it is made known to him his sin that he has sinned…” (Leviticus 4:22-23, translation by Everett Fox). The Torah portion this week speaks of the sin of a leader and the sacrifice that he must bring to atone for it. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai says in the Talmud, “Fortunate is the generation whose leader recognizes having sinned and brings an offering of purification.” He affirms that we should not assume our leaders are infallible. We can learn from the leader who is able to admit sins. His or her example helps us to be more willing to confess our own shortcomings. This week we read of a leader who committed a great sin, Eliot Spitzer, the Governor of New York State. That was a serious transgression. We can also think of the Talmudic dictum that “one’s inside should be like one’s outside.” This week it was not only a question of a leader’s sin but of a serious breach of the law and the basic values of our tradition. The Torah reminds us of the need to admit our human weaknesses. However, there is a point where a weakness may be deep enough to invalidate our credibility. We should strive to be compassionate towards the flaws of our leaders and at the same time demand integrity of them.
After the building of the Tabernacle was completed, Moses inspected all the work done
on that portable sanctuary. We read, “…behold, they had done it, as the Lord had
commanded, even so had they done it,” (Exodus 39:43). When the Rabbis read the
Torah they assume that no word is superfluous, so they ask what the phrase, “…even
so had they done it,” adds. We already have been told, “…behold they had done it.”
They say we learn that the workers followed the instructions exactly as God gave them
to Moses, articulated in the words “…behold, they had done it.” The addition of “…even
so had they done it,” teaches us that despite following the precise orders of God, they
had managed to put into the work, a personal touch, adding their feelings and dreams.
That comment reminds us of a larger concern of Jewish life. Our prayers follow fixed
texts. Yet, as we pray the same words so frequently, are we able to add our own
feelings, dreams and concerns to them? In the terminology of Jewish life, can we bring
our own kavvannah (translated as intention) when we pray? One of my teachers
remarked that at some time in Jewish life we confused reading with praying. When we
pray, unlike when we read, we should be focusing not just on the literal meaning of the
words, but on the emotions we bring to the words, the larger concepts behind the
works and on the specific concerns of our soul on that day. By doing so, we could say
after services are over, “...even so had [we] done it.”
Let me ask a simple question; Are you by your nature a deeply generous, giving person? I think most of us would like to think that we are. How do we know? A comment to this week’s Torah portion deals with that question. We read that, “The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks that the Lord has charged to do.” (Exodus 36:5) In other words, the campaign to raise the needed resources for the building of the Tabernacle was oversubscribed. The fund raising had to stop because more than enough was collected. I don’t think that too many modern organizations have suffered from such a problem, and proclaimed, “Stop giving us money, we have enough. R. Mordechai Yosef, the Ishbitzer Rebbe wonders why the Torah repeats several times the fact that our ancestors generously gave for the sake of this mitzvah. He says that no one can be certain whether he or she is in his or her heart a truly generous person. For example, he continues, when someone gives the first time to a holy cause the gift is given with great enthusiasm. [I can imagine what it was like when the first donations were solicited for our building, the first synagogue in Fair Lawn.] However, continues the Ishbitzer, when a person gives repeatedly to that same cause he will not do so with passion. That could be a sign that he is not ultimately a generous soul. Therefore we read in our verse that people gave as “the Lord has charged.” They were giving to a most holy cause, responding to fulfill God’s will and for that they donated from their hearts and donated many times. It is easy to give donations with little feeling (not that such donations are not appreciated!) but a donation in response to a holy call to concretize the needs of Jewish life, building the Tabernacle in the desert or to use a different example, a Synagogue in New Jersey, such a donation is one that comes from one’s heart. How we respond to a fund appeal from a Holy source, is a way to determine whether or not we are truly generous. Then we are giving from the depth of ourselves to realize the goals of the ultimate Rule of the Universe.
Concerning the census that is taken at the beginning of this week’s portion, we read,
“This is what everyone who is entered in the records shall give: a half shekel…” Exodus 30:13) After the coins were collected, the sum was divided by two to determine the number of people. That is a cumbersome way to conduct a census. Many commentators try to understand why each person gave half and not a whole shekel which would make the process easier. You could also ask why half a shekel; why not a third or a quarter of a shekel, since we are dealing with fractions. One teaching says that half a shekel reminds us that we are a communal people. We need others to complete our selves and to be fulfilled as Jews. For example, we are comforted when we are in the presence of others, in a minyan, to say the Kaddish. The reading of the Book of Esther on Purim, or a Friday night Shabbat dinner is not intended to be a solitary activity. Only in community do we feel the joy of those events. So why not a tenth of a shekel to remind us of a minyan and the needs of the larger community? The half shekel emphasizes how each of us has a responsibility to others. It is easy to say let someone else complete the minyan; I am only one of ten. It is much harder to refuse to be the one to help another be whole. Each of us, whether a scholar, or one with little learning, a generous donor, or the recipient of tzedakah has the potential to fulfill our needs and the needs of others when we join together.
In this week's Torah portion we read about the consecration of Aaron, the first High Priest, and his sons. "...put [a drop of the blood of the ram that was sacrificed] on the lobe of Aaron's right ear and on the lobes of his sons’ right ears and on the thumbs of their right hands and on the big toes of their right feet..." (Exodus 29:19-20). How is leadership related to the body? A commentary by Rabbi Menachem Becker says that a High Priest must lead with these three parts of his body. He must have a listening ear to pay close attention to groaning of suffering people and to hear those who call to him for help as well as to do everything to make things easier for the downcast. He must have open hands to give what is needed to the downtrodden of the people, and he must be fleet of foot to run to offer help generously to all in need. We no longer have a Temple in Jerusalem, nor a High Priest. Imagine, however, if these characteristics were requirements for political office. I ask you, if that were so, who do you think would be most suited to lead our nation?
In the Torah we read about the Ark that contained two tablets of the covenant with the Ten Commandments engraved on them. “…and you shall overlay it with pure gold inside and outside…” (Exodus 25:11) The Ark was the holiest part of the tabernacle. Its covering on the outside was gold but why did it need to have gold on the inside where no one could see it? The Talmud tries to answer this question by applying it; “Rava said any scholar whose inside is not like his outside is not truly a scholar. “ A scholar ought to be consistent and sincere. His actions must be congruent with his words, golden so to speak on both sides. We hope that all our leaders, both religious and secular live out their proclaimed values. The difficulty of doing so was illustrated by a Talmudic sage Rabban Gamliel who demanded that only those whose “inside was like his outside” could study at his Beit Midrash, his House of Study. It was a very small school. When that criterion was removed, hundreds more students were allowed to enter. Some say he had too high a standard and others say that study of Torah was just what was needed to promote integrity. Can we think this Shabbat about how we can be golden within and without, true to our higher values in thought and in deed?
After Moses gives the Israelites the Ten Commandments and many other laws, the people respond by saying, “We’ll do everything that the Lord has spoken and we’ll listen.” (Exodus 24:7) Many commentators point out that the wording in this verse is reversed. Shouldn’t the Israelites first listen (and the word that means “listen” can also mean “understand”) and then agree to obey the rules? The Rabbis of ancient times say that our ancestors were willing to agree to do something even before they understood what it meant. For modern Jews it is difficult to comprehend the reasons for many of the mitzvot. However, sometimes an understanding of the meaning of a mitzvah comes only after doing it. Do we need a full understanding of all the reasons for giving tzedakkah before we make a donation? Does a greater perception come after we are generous? Might the same be true of kashrut and Shabbat? If we want to add more holiness to our lives, doing can come before understanding, as it did for our ancestors.
Here is a quick question about the Ten Commandments. Are they worded in the singular or the plural? In English, for example, “Honor your mother and father,” could be either. But in Hebrew the Ten Commandments are clearly written in the singular. Since they are addressed to the entire people, we might expect the opposite. One traditional answer is that every person should think that he or she is responsible for studying and observing all of them. “Every Jew should say, ‘It was for me that the Ten Commandments were given, and I am obligated to fulfill them,’ rather than saying, ‘The Torah can just as well be fulfilled by other people.’ (Midrash Lekach Tov 11th Century). Imagine if each of us felt that responsibility. Imagine that even in the 11th century there was a concern that some Jews might assume that the Ten Commandments are only for Rabbis, residents of Brooklyn, or others. Imagine if what the world would be like if each of us simply took the Ten Commandments seriously.
What image comes to mind when you hear the word "miracle." According to one explanation in the Torah when our ancestors crossed the Reed Sea (yes, it is the Reed Sea in the Bible not the Red Sea) the following happened, "…the Lord drove back the sea with a strong east wind all that night and turned the sea into dry ground. The waters were split." (Exodus 14:21) Did the strong winds and a powerful tide turn the waters into dry land allowing our ancestors to cross safely in front of the pursuing Egyptians? Did it really look like what Cecil B. DeMille pictured it in the movie The Ten Commandments? What is a miracle? Instead of thinking that it must be an action contrary to the laws of nature, it could also be, as a modern Israeli scholar, Umberto Cassuto, said, an action that, "at the very moment when it was necessary, in just the manner conducive to the achievement of the desired goal," the forces of nature act, "in accordance with the Lord’s will." The timing of the event may be the critical factor for something to be a called a miracle. If that is true, perhaps we can see miracles in our own time and in our own lives. Such miracles require us to look at the world with our vision attuned to the wonders that occur around us. Do you believe that definition of miracle and have you ever experienced one?
When Moses asks Pharaoh to let the Israelites go, there is one time when he briefly relents. He tells Moses to go and worship God, but that Moses must leave the flocks and herds behind. Moses refuses and says, "Our livestock must go with us. We must select from it for the worship of the Lord our God as we shall not know how we are to worship the Lord until we get there." (Exodus 10:26). The modern commentator, Rabbi Pinchas Peli, sees within those words a guide for our own prayers. Moses is not sure what sort of worship he will be asked to perform. It might include, as was common in ancient times, animal sacrifices, Moses wants to be ready for all possibilities and bring with him all the livestock. What does that have to do with us? Rabbi Peli points out that "When it comes to the worship of God, one should not expect to find readymade comfortable formulas…the worship of God requires ever-new wonder and discovery through painful trial and error, ever-new decisions of faith." (Quoted in The Jerusalem Post International Edition) Many words are written in our Siddur. Moses and Rabbi Peli are reminding us to truly add our own words, and feelings when we pray. They are not written in the siddur. They are on our hearts and minds. We will only know and express them at a time prayer when we really "get there."
One of the basic concepts of Judaism is free will. We all can decide to do good or evil. The first story about humanity in the Book of Genesis describes the choice of Adam and Eve to disobey God. However in the Torah we also read that God hardens Pharaoh’s heart as each of the ten plagues strikes Egypt. How is that possible? Did God absolve him of responsibility? According to many Biblical commentators, at first Pharaoh was able to choose whether or not to heed the words of Moses and face the consequences of each of the plagues. However, at some point Pharaoh was so accustomed to ignoring Moses that he could not react differently. He had become trapped in a routine that brought disaster to him and his people. Such a person in a habitual pattern of destructive behavior is stuck in a rut. It is also true that we can find ourselves in good behavioral paths and be, as we say, in a groove. Both grooves and ruts require time and repetition. Are we always able to recognize the patterns in our lives and summon the will to change when necessary? As we start the secular year, I pray we can look at our habits, stick with the grooves and find ways to get out of the ruts.
Last week I mentioned how we bless our sons on Shabbat praying that they will be like the children of Joseph, Ephraim and Manasseh. We do not ask that they emulate our most distinguished our ancestors. (To read my full words go to last week’s Insider on our web site.) However, when we bless our daughters we say that God should make them like “Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah,” the four matriarchs. Why do we mention them, and not ask our sons to be like "Abraham, Isaac and Jacob?" One modern answer says that we are too often more ambitious in our dreams for our sons than for our daughters. This may not be true today, but it was certainly so in the past and only until recently in South Korea, according to this week’s New York Times. Sons were considered more valuable than daughters. More resources were spent on them. When we bless our daughters we say to them and to ourselves that they should strive to achieve. We encourage them just as we do our sons. What does this have to do with the Torah portion this week? Who are the heroes of the first chapters of the Book of Exodus that we read this Shabbat? They are Moses’ mother who hides him in a basket, his sister who follows him down the Nile, the daughter of Pharaoh who rescues him and rears him and the two midwives who defy Pharaoh to save the Hebrew babies. All of them are women. Surely their families had the same expectations for them as for their sons. We should do so as well.
After Jacob is reunited with his son, Joseph, in Egypt, he blesses Joseph’s
children, Ephraim and Manasseh, saying, "God make you like Ephraim and
Manasseh." (Genesis 48:20) These are the exact words that are utilized in the
blessings that a parent says to his or her son(s) every week at the Shabbat
evening dinner. One could argue that we should bless our children to emulate
more illustrious ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, or even Moses, King
David and the prophet Isaiah. We know almost nothing about Ephraim and
Manasseh. Why do we want our children to be like them? The classic answer is
that they were reared in a foreign land, as a small minority and maintained
their Jewish identity. They did not assimilate into the majority Egyptian culture
and remained loyal to their parents and their faith. Shouldn’t that be enough
for us? We can also read in this blessing another contemporary concern. Were
we to bless our children to be like Moses or King David, we might be saying
that only if our children are exceptionally talented or successful will we be
satisfied. Rather we should want our children to be who they are and to
develop their own talents. Our children are blessings to us whether or not they
attain greatness or fame. We are blessed if they follow the faith of their
ancestors, like Ephraim and Manasseh.
When Joseph, is reunited with his brothers in Egypt, he says to them, "Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me down here, it was to save life God sent me ahead of you." (Genesis 45:5) Early in his life, Joseph's brothers were jealous of him. They sold him as a slave. Joseph was unjustly thrown into jail in Egypt. He was able to interpret several dreams and rose to a position second to only Pharaoh in the court of Egypt. His brothers came to him seeking food and Joseph created a situation where they were able repent of their sins. At this point, Joseph could have said to them, "Guys you won’t believe what has happened to me since you threw me in a pit and then sold me. It’s the craziest series of coincidences that you could imagine." Instead of that Joseph sees a Divine plan. Can we see a Divine plan in our lives in any sense? Yes, sometimes there are events that are contrary to any notions of God’s love, goodness and justice. But sometimes, we see a pattern and a plan. The invisible lines that connect us to God appear. I hope you can see them and find Divinity in your life.
December 7, 2007
The light of the Hanukah menorah is meant to be seen by others. It is supposed to be placed in a window. The Rabbis of ancient times rule that you can light the menorah as soon as the sun sets. When asked how late at night can you kindle the lights, they answer, only until there are no wayfarers or travelers on the streets. If there is no one else to see the light, you have waited too long. It will not fulfill its purpose. The light of menorah is not meant for reading a book or helping you see what is on the kitchen counter. It cannot be used for a profane purpose. We declare it to be holy in our prayers. It should illuminate the lives of those who see it.
As we are celebrating Hanukah let us think of our inner light. Are we able to roll away the darkness that can surround others with our own inner light? Let us pray for our ability to say words of comfort, to take actions that bring joy, and to join the fight against oppression and injustice. We can illuminate the countless dim places we encounter each day. Our inner light is to be seen and used not only for eight days, but on each day of the year.
November 30, 2007
In my sermon on Yom Kippur morning, I mentioned an event from this week’s Torah portion. When Joseph is a servant in Egypt to Potiphor, a noble in Pharaoh’s court, his master’s wife tried to seduce him. The Torah says, "She caught him by his garment, saying, 'Lie with me'." (Genesis 39:7) According to a Midrash, "At that moment [Joseph’s father, Jacob’s] image came and appeared to him through the window." As I said in my sermon, if this was happening in Wisteria Lane on a show called Desperate Egyptians Wives, we know that the handsome servant would have succumbed to the advances of the older woman. However, seeing his father’s face, at the critical moral juncture of his life, Joseph is made aware of the moral values of his family; values handed down from Abraham, to Isaac and then to his father Jacob. Joseph refuses her invitation. From that moment on, we see Joseph changing from a spoiled young man to a person of strong character. That is a reminder for us to consider the values we have received from our tradition. When we face moral temptation, can we think of our ancestors and how they would guide us to the right decision? Can we imagine them looking at us and approving of what we do?
November 21, 2007
This week I want to share with you a point I made in my sermon at the Interfaith Thanksgiving service we hosted last Sunday. The Talmud (Berachot 7b) notes that from the day the world was created until the time of Leah, the wife of Jacob, no one expressed thanks to the Lord as she did. The exact Hebrew word for thanks was not used by Adam, Eve or Noah, as it used by her. She is quoted as saying at the birth of her fourth son, “This time I will thank the Lord, therefore she called his name Judah. (Genesis 29:35) The Hebrew for "I will thank" in that verse is odeh. The name Judah in Hebrew is pronounced Yehudah, and is derived from the Hebrew word root to thank. That Hebrew word Yehudah was extended to be a term for all of us, the descendents of Jacob. We are called Yehudim, Jews, or those who give thanks. Giving thanks is not just for our American holiday in November. It defines who we are. We enrich our lives and the lives of others by our essential nature, our ability to express appreciation. I pray we are able to thank God for the gifts we have received in our lives as we gather with friends and family this Thanksgiving. It is not just what we do, it is how we live.
November 16, 2007
From Rabbi Ronald Roth
In our portion we read about Jacob leaving his home in Israel and living with his mother’s family in Haran. He works for his uncle, Laban, so that he can marry his two daughters, Leah and Rachel. At one point we read, “Jacob saw Laban’s face and behold, it was not as it had been in the past.” (Genesis 31:1-2). What did he see? He did not hear any words that Laban said, nor did he note any unusual behavior by his uncle. Rather he was sensitive just to his facial expression. A modern Rabbi, Zelig Pliskin comments “From this verse we see the importance of being able to notice the emotional state of another person from the expressions on his face. (Growth Through Torah p. 86). How cognizant are we of the feelings of those around us, our family members, our co-workers, and our friends? It is true that some people have a natural ability to be in tune with others. Their empathy is always present. Perhaps this week we can pay closer attention to all who are near us, be sympathetic to their moods and to react to their needs.