Radical Torah

“This shall be to you a law for all time: to make expiation for the Israelites for all their sins once a year.” — Leviticus 16:34

The concept of collective guilt is central to this week’s Torah portion, Acharei Mot-Kedoshim. The parasha powerfully teaches that communities, just like individuals, are able to bear guilt. And just as with individuals, this guilt cannot be allowed to remain in the collective soul - it must be faced honestly by the nation if it is to be successfully expiated.

The issue of collective guilt was on the front pages this past Tuesday as the world observed Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day. Those who attended the official observance here in the US might have noticed that there was a careful avoidance of the use of the word “genocide.” As a recent Chicago Tribune article explained:

US officials have avoided the word because Turkey, a key ally, strongly opposes the characterization to describe the early 20th Century deaths of an estimated 1.5 million Armenians at the hands of Ottoman Turks.

In the past, members of the House and Senate have proposed resolutions calling on the president to utter the phrase “Armenian genocide,” but the efforts have run aground in the face of political concerns voiced by both Democratic and Republican administrations.

A JTA article noted that the Jewish community has become increasingly “caught in the middle” of this high profile controversy:

Rep. Adam Schiff (D-Calif.), a Jewish congressman with a substantial Armenian constituency, has tried multiple times to pass such a resolution. This time he has garnered nearly 200 co-sponsors for his non-binding resolution, and believes he has the backing of Rep. Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.), speaker of the House of Representatives. Pelosi has met with U.S. Armenian leaders.

The lobbying has had some effect. Four groups – B’nai B’rith International, the Anti-Defamation League, the American Jewish Committee and the Jewish Institute for National Security Affairs – are set to convey a letter from Turkish Jews who oppose the resolution to U.S. congressional leaders.

The ADL and JINSA have added their own statements opposing the bill.

“I don’t think congressional action will help reconcile the issue,” said ADL National Director Abraham Foxman. “The resolution takes a position; it comes to a judgment.

“The Turks and Armenians need to revisit their past. The Jewish community shouldn’t be the arbiter of that history, nor should the U.S. Congress.”

It is surprising and, quite frankly, shocking that a prominent American Jewish leader (and Holocaust survivor) such as Foxman would counsel that Jews and Americans should not mix in on this issue. Jews should not hold countries accountable for committing genocide? If not us, who?

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“Love your neighbor as yourself” is our favorite quote from this, very weird, parsha. It is also the mantra of our congregation. But getting to the weird part, YHWH is forever screeching that she is our one and only god. This week, however, She commands us to send offerings to another deity! Azazel is a mysterious, wilderness-dwelling, goat god. The Comic Torah likes to imagine that YHWH developed an affection for goats and their god while She lived in the mountains. Maybe goats protected and accompanied her when she was a mountain god.

YHWH commands that both She and Azazel get offering: She loves Him as She loves Herself!

There’s also great midrash about this parsha that we covered in last year’s Acharei-Kedoshim comic.

SHABBAT SHALOM! - a & s

Editor’s note: We are pleased to welcome Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann of congregation Kol Tzedek in West Philadelphia.

Our tradition instructs us: “From the day you bring the sheaf of wave-offering, you shall keep count until seven full weeks have take place.” This is the time of counting. From the second night of Passover until Shavuot – the time of receiving the torah, we count, day after day for 49 days. Sefirat HaOmer, the counting of the Omer.

The Omer is not one of the most widely observed Jewish practices, yet I think it is one of the most profound and meaningful. There is something about taking some time in the darkness of the evening to mark the passing of time that resonates powerfully. It is an opportunity to bring a consciousness to our transition from our being avdei Pharoah –servants of Pharoah– to avdei Hashem –servants of a Higher Power.

But there is one element of the Omer that I have always found a bit perplexing, a bit uninspiring. The Omer, or at least the first 2/3 of the counting, is customarily a time for communal mourning. Marriages are not performed. Many observant Jews do not shave or do not cut their hair. The origins of this association are obscure but mostly attributed to the death of thousands of disciples of Rabbi Akiba (a second century rabbi) who died in a plague during the Omer in Talmudic times. Observance of mourning during the Omer was cemented after other tragedies befell the Jewish people during this time in more recent Jewish history, i.e. the Crusades, pogroms.

In my mind, I never fully understood how this time of introspection and fruitful, personal reflection could be considered a sad or dark time. Kal v’homer—all the more so—Jews already have a widely observed period of communal mourning, the 3 weeks which lead up to Tisha Ba’av (the remembrance of the destruction of the temple).

Don’t we as a people have enough set time to commemorate suffering?

During the Omer, why focus on suffering when we are supposed to be moving to higher spiritual places as we move closer to the receiving of the torah?

Now, as a Reconstructionist, I seek to look at Jewish customs that may feel a little out of date or less relevant and try to infuse them with new meaning instead of simply throwing them aside. In that spirit, I have been wondering if there is a way to reconstruct this period of mourning during the Omer. I asked myself: What does custom really mean? What was its original purpose? Can it be relevant to our lives today?

Looking further into the story of Rabbi Akiba, I discovered that according to tradition, the reason the students suffered from the plague was because they could not find peaceful ways of solving their disputes. In that vein, the mourning rituals we observe during the Omer are not simply intended to evoke commiseration with suffering; rather we mourn to heighten the awareness of our responsibility to seek just and peaceful solutions to conflict.

I cannot think of a more perfect message for our time.

While we are counting the Omer, we have other numbers to count. 4. 4 years plus 1 month since the invasion of Iraq. 3296. Number of American lives lost since the start of the war. 67,243. Sixty seven thousand, two hundred and forty three. Estimated number of Iraqi civilian deaths since the start of the war. 416 billion and counting. Taxpayer dollars funding the war.

Last month, at the 4th anniversary of the war, I got back in touch with my anger and frustration. I attended a rally and a vigil in Clark Park. I sent emails to my elected representatives. And then, a few days later, I went back to doing my everyday routine. I listen to stories of bombings and to NPR’s analysis while getting ready in the morning, while cooking dinner. That righteous indignation quieted. I am not blaming myself — it is really hard. Because of the nature of this conflict and because most of us do not know people serving in Iraq, it is easy to disconnect. Even those who disagree with my position on the war recognize that many of us sit comfortably while a war is being fought in our name. What have we as individuals, ourselves sacrificed for this war? What has this community sacrificed? Acknowledging that I am not directly sacrificing, not directly affected, I am left wondering: How can we keep this reality of war before us? How can we maintain the fire that keeps us deeply engaged or in action?

In light of these questions and in light of the story of Rabbi Akiba’s students who died because they could not reach peace, I propose that we reconstruct this period of mourning during the Omer to be a period of mourning for the lives the lost, the dreams lost, the hope lost as a result of this war. I want us to use this period of intentionality and reflection consciously and well. And just as some don’t shave or cut their hair to externalize their mourning, we too should have rituals that remind us of the harsh reality in Iraq and God willing, stir us to action. Earlier this evening, I lit an additional candle alongside our Shabbat candles. I am going to request that we take on this custom when we are together on Shabbat at Kol Tzedek, as a zecher, a remembrance of the lives that have been lost as a result of this war. And I suggest we each find our own way of engaging in the coming weeks. Maybe instead of simply reading or listening to a news story, we take the time to really process what is going on and to educate ourselves about the conflict. Maybe we take a moment of silence at some point each day. Maybe we commit to calling our elected representatives each day or each week of the Omer to continue to remind them to find a way to bring our troops safely and speedily home.

Let’s make this time of counting the days a time of intention and a time of action.

After all, the ikar – the essence– of the Omer period is to teach that there is a seamless line between Passover and Shavuot. We are not free for freedom’s sake. We are free to be responsible. We are free so we can be called to a Higher order– to the moral and ethical obligations of torah. We are called to the pursuit of justice and peace.

May this time of the Omer be a thoughtful, provocative, transformative time for all of us and for our country. Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat Tazria-Metzorah is upon us again, and with it, descriptions of rashes, discolorations, and affections of the skin which render a person tamei.

One of my teachers talks about taharah and tumah in terms of the ability, or lack of ability, to be close to God. In the days of the Temple, the various experiences which rendered one tamei (including birth, menstruation, sickness, and contact with death) prevented one from approaching the place where the Presence was understood to dwell. A priest was required to judge whether or not the tumah was contagious, or was under control, or had abated enough that the person could re-enter holy space.

I used to read this all prescriptively. As in, these words aimed to tell us what to do and what not to do. In that sense, it’s pretty foreign to me, for a variety of reasons. But lately, I’ve been reading it more descriptively — as a text which describes something about our limitations and our possibilities. And when I read it that way, it resonates in some interesting ways for me.

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Once again the parsha intersects the news.

As talker Don Imus heads into exile, this week’s parsha shows how he could, were he living four thousand years ago, get out of it. A person was most often declared unclean and banished from the camp for the sin of lashon hara (speaking ill of others). Parsha Metzora shows how such a person, once banished, can earn his way back into the life of his fellows.

Al Sharpton is this scandal’s high priest. Jesse Jackson eat your heart out!

Jews Against the War, the Jewish anti-war initiative organized by Aryeh Cohen, Adam Rubin, Joshua Levine Grater, Sarah Newman and Shaul Magid, now has a website where you can add your name to a petition calling for an end to the Iraq War. The petition will be published in Jewish newspapers across America and sent to every US Congressperson and Senator the week of Shavuot.

The Rabbis, following the Hebrew prophets, were strongly aware that war was the most destructive of all activities. Even a war that is permitted or necessary is evil, as it unleashes uncontrolled violence and death and brings out the worst in humanity.

[…] Believing in the wisdom and relevance of the Jewish tradition, we, the undersigned, maintain that the invasion of Iraq was not just and that the continued occupation extends this injustice.

Read the rest of the statement and sign the petition here.

“And Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aaron, each took his fire pan and put fire and incense upon them, and offered strange fire before God, which God had not commanded them. And a fire issued forth from before God and devoured them, and they died before God.” –Leviticus 10:1-2

Why did Nadav and Avihu meet such an ignoble end? Though some commentators assume their fiery demise represented Divine punishment, a close reading of these verses indicates otherwise.

Note that the text does not read in the active, “God sent forth a fire…” but rather in the passive: “a fire issued forth from before God…” This seems to indicate that the consuming fire was a kind of involuntary cosmic reflex - an inevitable consequence triggered by Nadav and Avihu’s failure to properly follow their “Priestly Instruction Manual.” In this regard, perhaps the most basic lesson of Parashat Shemini might be simply: “When you play with fire, you get burned.”

On a deeper level, however, this troubling episode has something important to teach us about the high stakes of spiritual leadership. As priests, Nadav and Avihu ministered in the Tabernacle - a place that was seen to be the central locus of Divine power. Thus they are cautioned repeatedly in the Torah to handle this system with appropriate care: to wear the proper clothes, to handle the sacrifices in a certain way, and especially, to use the “commanded” fire - the fire from the eternally lit altar in the Tabernacle.

It is also important to note that the altar was not simply the place upon which animal sacrifices were offered - it also served as a place of sanctuary for those fleeing from unjust punishment or harm (see Exodus 21:14). By introducing strange or alien fire into the altar, it might be said that Nadav and Avihu were abusing the safety and protection of this sacred space. In so doing, they demonstrated a notable disrespect for the latent power that is necessarily part of their job as priests.

Though the institution of the Israelite priesthood no longer exists, the model of spiritual leadership represented by Aaron and his sons is still powerfully relevant to us today. Like the ancient priests, our spiritual leaders are vouchsafed a great deal of power over those they serve - and like Nadav and Avihu, they abuse this power at their peril. Fundamentalist Imams who exhort their followers to commit suicide bombings or charismatic cult leaders such Jim Jones are perhaps the most extreme examples of this phenomenon. Closer to home, our increasing awareness of clerical sexual abuse testifies to the profoundly tragic consequences when spiritual leaders misuse the power that invariably comes with their roles.

Naomi Tucker, Co-founder and Executive Director of “Shalom Bayit” (Bay Area Jewish Women Working to End Domestic Violence) has written:

A good leader knows how to use power for a positive purpose. Power is a tool for creating change. But power over another person, group, or nation, is another story - it can become the root of oppression and harm to others…

As a community, it is time we demand accountability of our leaders. Courageous victims are breaking their long-held silence on sexual abuse from rabbis and other public figures. We can no longer pretend that our “beloved leaders” are immune from misusing their power to harm others. (Sh’ma Magazine, December 2006)

Postscript: valuable information and resources for survivors of clergy abuse can be found at Faith Trust Institute, an international, multifaith organization working to end sexual and domestic violence, and JSafe: a Jewish Institute Supporting an Abuse-Free Environment.

I have a sister-in-law who teaches biology at a prep school. She has played host to a bizarre variety of creatures. Once, I’m pretty sure, she had a tarantula in a terrarium. For a while she kept snakes. And these days, her lab is home to some kind of spiny lizard, who puffs himself up every time anyone who might demand attention enters the room.

I thought about all of these erstwhile pets while reading this week’s Torah portion, parashat Shmini, which details a list of animals the Israelites are permitted to eat (and forbidden from eating), and then an even longer list of animals whose very presence (especially when dead) transmits tum’ah (ritual impurity) even by touch.

Next week we’ll look again at how Torah regards childbirth as an automatic conferrer of tum’ah. Even liberal Jews who may not structure their lives or worldviews in terms of taharah and tum’ah can parse the notion that birth and death charge our spiritual lives with a kind of dangerous energy that can take a while to dissipate. But what’s the big deal about touching your neighborhood gecko, millipede, or furry spider? What is this stuff doing in our Torah?

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Yesterday at our Shabbat morning minyan, I noticed a particularly large number of parents and children. Over here was an adult woman helping her elderly mother by pointing along to the transliteration in the siddur. Over there was a man with his four year old in his lap, his tallit falling down across her shoulders. There was also one family with three generations present: a member celebrating his sixtieth birthday, his parents who attended for the occasion, and his son who chanted Torah in his honor.

As it was Shabbat Hagadol (”The Great Shabbat,” the Shabbat which falls before Pesach) I thought of the special Haftarah we read for this occasion, Malachi 3, which ends with the classic passage:

“Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome fearful day of the Lord. He shall reconcile parents with children and children with parents…”

The image of reconciliation in these verses are meant to evoke a sense of the messianic era ushered in by the prophet Elijah. I couldn’t help but think yesterday, as I looked around our sanctuary, that we were all getting a little taste of messianic days right there in our modest little minyan.

Children, of course, are central to the Pesach story. The Torah commands us to teach this story to our children, and the seder includes numerous pedagogical exercises that help us instill its sacred meaning and relevance: the youngest child asks the Four Questions; we read about the four different kinds of children who respond differently to the seder experience; we add songs at the end of the seder in order to keep our children (hopefully!) interested and engaged. On a somewhat darker level, it is impossible to ignore the fact that the seder story also includes notable examples of children in peril. In particular, Pharoah’s decree to kill all newborn male children drives home the tragically familiar truth that it is inevitably children - the most vulnerable members of society - who are the first to bear the brunt of communal persecution.

This is for me one central but too often ignored lesson of the Pesach story: the sacred imperative to protect the rights of all our children. It is an imperative that goes to the very survival of society - for the very future of communities and nations are directly related to the extent to which they safeguard the well-being of their youngest members. (In this regard, I am intrigued by the full text of Malachi 3: “He shall reconcile parents with children and children with parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction.”)

Alas, in the 21st century, our global community is failing their children miserably. According to Human Rights Watch:

The global scandal of violence against children is a horror story too often untold. With malice and clear intent, violence is used against the members of society least able to protect themselves - children in school, in orphanages on the street, in refugee camps and war zones, in detention, and in fields and factories. In its investigations of human rights abuses against children, Human Rights Watch has found that in every region of the world, in almost every aspect of their lives, children are subject to unconscionable violence, most often perpetrated by the very individuals charged with their safety and well-being.

Here at home, the National Center for Children in Poverty estimates that

Twelve million children live in families with incomes below the federal poverty level—which is about $16,000 for a family of three and $19,000 for a family of four. Perhaps more stunning is that 5 million children live in families with incomes of less than half the poverty level—and the numbers are rising.

The Children’s Defense Fund offers the following sobering data:

- A baby is born without health care every 52 seconds;

- A child is abused or neglected every 35 seconds - 906,000 a year.

- Over 3/4 of youths in detention have untreated mental health disorders.

- A child drops out of school every nine seconds of the school day.

- One out of every three Black baby boys born in 2001 will spend time in prison during their lifetimes.

If we do believe that Pesach compels us not only to teach our children but to keep them safe, then facts such as these should awaken us to resolve and inspire us to action. Please click the links above and find how how you can help make a difference this Passover.

May we find the means to reconcile ourselves to all our children; may we ourselves bring the Messiah, speedily in our own day.