Starting At Home – Naso 5776

This morning’s Torah portion, Naso, introduces the peculiar ordeal of the Sotah, the suspected adulteress.  Before I explain it, I urge all of us to temporarily suspend our standard assumptions about justice, morality, and biochemistry.

In Jewish law, adultery occurs when a married woman has sexual relations with a man who is not her husband.  In a clear-cut case of adultery, both parties are considered guilty, and the punishment is death.

The ritual of Sotah is introduced to deal with a situation in which a husband suspects his wife of cheating, but does not have any witnesses.

The woman is brought to a priest.  The priest takes sacred water in an earthen vessel, and adds some dirt from the floor of the Tabernacle.  The priest writes down a curse on a piece of parchment, and recites the words out loud.  The woman responds by saying “Amen, amen!”

The curse basically says that if she is guilty, her thigh will sag and her belly will distend, which probably means that she will become infertile.  If she is innocent, than nothing will happen.  The priest then places the parchment in the vessel so that the ink, with the words of the curse and God’s name on it, dissolves in the water.  The priest then makes her drink the water.

If she is guilty, her thigh sags and her belly distends, and she becomes a curse amongst the people.  If she is innocent, she is unharmed.

Before getting too upset, keep in mind that this is a three thousand year old ritual.  “Trials by ordeal” like this one have been a part of human justice systems throughout history.  It was practiced in Europe into the Enlightenment.  There are some societies to this day which conduct similar rites.

The medieval Spanish commentator, Nachmanides, notes that this is the only mitzvah in the entire Torah which depends upon a miracle.  For this legal procedure to work, God has to actively intervene.  It is quite remarkable.  We must wonder why, of all cases, does this one rely upon a miracle.  And why are there not others?

Nachmanides refers to the Mishnah in Sotah which reports that “when the adulterers proliferated, the bitter waters ceased…” (M. Sotah 9:9)  In other words, at some point during the Second Temple era, more than two thousand years ago, the priests stopped administering the ritual.  The Rabbis tend to understand this to mean that the Sotah ritual would only work in a case when the husband was himself free of sin.

Nachmanides expands upon this explanation.  It is not just the guilt or innocence of the husband which is responsible for the cancellation of the Sotah ritual.  It is “the deterioration in the moral climate of the people [that] makes the Sotah ordeal meaningless,” as Dr. Aviva Zornberg explains.  Only in a society in which adultery is “an unequivocal taboo” does the ritual have meaning.  But “where the taboo has lost its force, an exquisite attunement to holiness has been lost and the ordeal’s high import likewise becomes underappreciated.”  (Aviva Gottlieb Zornberg, Bewilderments, p. 37)

If society does not take the sin of adultery seriously, then God will have no part in this ritual.  Society’s moral indifference drives God away, leaving us human beings on our own to figure out what is just.

In two thousand years, our situation has not changed much.  We still live in an ethically confused world without clear-cut morals.

Over the past few weeks, there has been widespread controversy over the lenient verdict that was issued in the Stanford Rape Case.  If you have been following the story, you know the basic details.  In January 2015, a twenty year old Stanford student sexually assaulted an unconscious woman on campus.  Fortunately, two graduate students were passing by on bicycles.  They stopped the rapist and apprehended him until police could arrive.

I am not going to enter into the debate over whether the verdict was correct or not, or whether the Judge should resign.

This case has resonated with me as a man, as a husband, and especially as a father of a boy and a girl.  I am worried about my daughter, and I am equally worried about my son.

As Rabbi Rebecca Rosenthal writes in an article that appeared recently on Kveller, “…as a parent, I want my children to grow up to be the two men on bikes.”

What do I need to do to make that happen?

Throughout human history, societies have placed the moral burden of sexuality on women.  This is an undeniable fact.  It is as true of Judaism as it is of any other culture.  From the story of Eve being tempted by the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and feeding it to her husband; to the ritual of the Sotah, in which only the woman is subjected to the ordeal; to the laws of family purity – women are held to be responsible, while men are innocents – victims even, of female sexuality.

This classic misogyny exists blatantly in many cultures today, including in segments of the Jewish world.  Do not expect it to disappear any time soon.

But it is insidiously prevalent around us as well.  Think about the ideals of masculinity and femininity with which we are bombarded daily.  Men, according to the so-called “bro-code,” are supposed to be physically tough, in charge, unemotional, and sexually aggressive.  Women are expected to be sexy, passive, and emotional.  If you have any doubt about this, just look at the magazine covers the next time you are in line at the grocery store.

For the past several decades, we have tried to teach our girls to take ownership of their own sexuality.  We have encouraged them to have the courage and strength to say “no,” to protect themselves, and to speak up.  “Be cautious about whom you go out with,” we warn.  “Never go to a party alone.”  “Take care of your friends.”  “Be careful around alcohol and drugs.”  We have had all of these conversations in my house in just the last two weeks.

We place the burden to protect themselves on our daughters because, after all, “boys will be boys.”

It does not seem to be working that well, does it?

The emphasis is starting to shift.  Health curricula in some schools have begun to chip away at the ideals of masculinity expressed by the “bro-code.”  We have begun to teach our boys to respect boundaries, take responsibility, and only proceed in a relationship when there is affirmative consent.

But we are only at the beginning of a paradigm shift that releases us from the burden of unhealthy gender roles and places the responsibility for sexual violence on the perpetrator rather than the victim.

We have a lot of work to do.  It must start with the way that we teach our children.  It must start when they are young.  And it must start at home.

Today is the day on which we remember the ancient ritual of the Sotah.  We recall how God withdrew from performing the miraculous part of the ritual because of sexual hypocrisy.  Tomorrow is Father’s Day. a day for celebrating fathers’ roles in raising their children.

It is a good time to make a commitment to do better, especially with our boys.  I encourage us to adopt Rabbi Rosenthal’s words:  “I commit to teaching my children to respect boundaries, to understand that their bodies and the bodies of those around them are created in the image of God.”

Our Conveniently Dark Past – Masei 5774

Rabbi Dov Lior, Chief Rabbi of the Jewish settlement at Kiryat Arba, in Chevron in the West Bank, issued a halakhic ruling this past Sunday, July 20, with regard to the killing of civilians during war.  He was asked the following question.

…what is the halakhic position with regard to attacks against a civilian population that does not have a direct connection to the terrorists in the area?

Rabbi Lior begins his one page reponse with this:

The Torah of Israel guides us in all walks of life, private and public, on how to behave during war and also how to keep moral standards.

As a halakhic precedent, he cites the Maharal of Prague, from the 16th century.

The Maharal from Prague (Rabbi Judah Loew – A.K.), in his book Gur Arye, clearly writes that… in all wars the attacked people are allowed to attack fiercely the people from whom the attackers came from and they do not have to check if he personally belongs to the fighters.

He bases this on the story in Genesis in which Shimon and Levi massacre the entire town of Shechem, killing three hundred men, in retaliation for the rape of their sister Dinah by the chieftain’s son, Chamor.  Rabbi Lior concludes:

Therefore, during war the attacked people are allowed to punish the enemy population in any punishment it finds worthy, such as denying supplies or electricity and also to bomb the whole area according to the discretion of the army minister and not to just simply endanger soldier’s lives but to take crushing deterrence steps to exterminate the enemy.

In the case of Gaza, the Minister of Defense will be allowed to instruct even the destruction of Gaza so that the south will no longer suffer and to avoid harm to our people who have been suffering for so long from the surrounding enemies.”

Any kind of talk about humanism and consideration are moot when speaking of saving our brothers in the south and in the rest of the country and bringing back quiet to our country.

For the last several weeks, we in the American Jewish community have been praying for our brothers and sisters in Israel.  But not just in Israel.  We have seen protests in cities around the world, especially Europe, turn scarily to anti-semitism.

It has been so frustrating for us to observe media outlets that do not seem to understand or care about aspects of this war that have been so important to us.  Specifically, the great care that the Israel Defense Forces have given to minimizing civilian casualties in Gaza.

As Jews, we have been proud of the Israeli government, its soldiers, and its citizens for doing their best, amidst the chaos of war, to protect Palestinian civilians.

I have personally given several Divrei Torah and written an article adressing this over the past few weeks.  So that is not what you are going to hear from me today.

The legal ruling by Rabbi Lior points to minority attitude that exists amongst the Jewish people.  I would imagine that his endorsement for not just ignoring civilians, but even targeting them, might offend many, but he brings up somthing that we ought not ignore.

In this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Masei, God provides some details for Moses to tell the Israelites regarding how they are to settle the Promised Land.

First, they are told to disposess all of its current inhabitants.  The Israelites must destroy every last trace of idolatry, including idols, figurines, and sacred shrines.  Then, the Israelites are to divide up the land amongst themeslves, apportioning tribal territories by lot.

God warns the Israelites that they had better clear out all of the current inhabitants, because any Canaanites who are left behind will continue to harrass them.

Next, God describes the borders of the country which the Israelites are about to invade.  The Bible has several different accounts of the boundaries of the Promised Land. Parashat Masei‘s version has the land of Israel extending south into the Negev, travelling up the entire Mediterranean coast (including Gaza, by the way) all the way through Lebanon and over to Damascus.  The Eastern border follows Lake Kineret down the Jordan River and the Dead Sea.

Imagine for a moment that you are an Israelite, hearing your aged leader Moses giving you these instructions after he has successfully led you through the wilderness for the past forty years.  What is he telling you to do?

The word used is l’horish, “to dispossess.”  The commentator Rashi explains that it means that the Israelites have to expel them from the land.

Deuteronomy is even more extreme.  It gives explicit instructions to utterly wipe out idolatrous towns, killing all of the inhabitants and burning their possessions.  The Israelites are not allowed to make peace with them or allow them to surrender.

In modern parlance, we would call this ethnic cleansing or genocide.

Does this sound like Judaism?  It certainly does not align well with the maxim of “love your neighbor as yourself” that we like to repeat so often.  But it is in the Torah, our holy book.  What are we to do with it?

When admitting out loud that our sacred scriptures advocate holy war, Jews today, myself included, typically explain why those texts do not reflect Jewish tradition.  Our Sages, even in ancient times, were uncomfortable with what the Torah seems to be saying.  It not only violates common moral sense, but it also seems to go against the spirit of so many other mitzvot mitzvot telling us to give tzedakah, to treat our employees properly, to care for the strangers living among us, to enforce the law fairly for both citizens and strangers.  When we talk about Jewish ethics, those are the kinds of ancient laws that we highlight.

So the Rabbis feel a strong obligation to do away with holy war.  It may have applied back then, when Joshua led the Israelites to conquer the land of Israel, but it is no longer relevant. Here are several justifications that are typically offered.

One.  They never actually did it.  It is apparent from later books in the Bible that the idolatrous nations of the land stayed right where they were, living side by side with the Israelites.  Of course, we did annihilate the Midianites in last week’s Torah portion.

Two.  The Torah is really concerned with the immoral influence of idolatry.  The only way to remove idolatry is to completely eliminate its practice in the land.

Three.  It is a practical warning that as long as the Canaanites remain in the land, they will continue to be a thorn in the side of the Israelites.

Four.  We have to understand the Torah in light of its historical context.  This is how war was conducted in the ancient world.  If it was written today, it would have been written differently.

For the fifth explanation, we turn to Maimonides.  He qualifies the Torah’s instructions by saying that, in fact, a pagan town must first be offered the choice of renouncing its paganism.  Only if it refuses must it then be destroyed.

Maimonides acknowledges that it is indeed obligatory to annihilate the seven Canaanite nations, and one who has an opportunity to kill a Canaanite but fails to do so has violated a commandment from the Torah.  It is a moot point, however, as Maimonides concludes, “but their memory has already been lost.”  (Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings, 5:4)

He bases this on a passage in the Mishnah that declares that the Assyrian King Sennacherib came along at the turn of the seventh century b.c.e. and scattered all of the nations of the land of Canaan.  (Mishnah Yadayim 4:4)  Conveniently for Maimonides, and for us enlightened twenty-first century Jews, it is now impossible to fulfill the Torah’s command to commit genocide because the people we are supposed to kill on the spot do not exist any more.

The problem with all of these explanations is that none of them address the core moral issue.  We sit back, confident of our own uprightness, absolved of any responsibility for our the actions of an earlier generation.

We, in 2014, have an ancient connection to the land of Israel.  It was promised by God to Abraham four thousand years ago.  As a people, we inhabited the land autonomously for hundreds of years during the First Temple era.  In the Babylonian exile, we wept as we longed to return.  Then we built the Second Temple and inhabited the land for another five hundred years.  After it was destroyed by the Romans, we went into exile for nearly two millennia, always keeping Zion in our hearts.

But if we go back to the beginning, the entire notion of a Promised Land is founded upon a violent conquest that took place more than three thousand years ago.

Do we bear any responsibility?

What about the modern State of Israel?  In his new book My Promised Land, Israeli journalist Ari Shavit, a left wing journalist, writes with full honesty about the home that he loves.

He describes a well-known writer, Israel Zangwill, who travels to Palestine in 1897.  While most of the early Zionists see only a barren land devoid of inhabitants, Zangwill sees what is really there, and he speaks about it.  In 1905, Zangwill delivers a speech in New York City in which he reports that Palestine is populated.  Then he points out that no populated country has ever been won without the use of force.  Therefore, he tells his audience, the sons of Israel must be prepared to take action, “to drive out by sword the tribes in possession, as our forefathers did.”

Zangwill is rejected as a heretic by the Zionist establishment at the time, but his ideas persist.  A couple of decades later, he writes that “there is no particular reason for the Arabs to cling to these few kilometers. ‘To fold their tents and silently steal away’ is their proverbial habit: let them exemplify it now… We must gently persuade them to trek.”

According to Shavit, Ben Gurion and the rest of the leadership knew that for Israel to be viable, the majority of the Arab population would have to be relocated.  While there was no explicit policy of forced population transfer, there were numerous examples of Jewish forces encouraging Arab villagers to flee.

It seems that the legacy of the Torah’s commandment to our ancestors to conquer the land by force and eliminate the inhabitants is not as distant from us as we might like to think.

Let us not get embroiled in arguments about who is at fault or who has a more legitimate claim.  We all know it is complicated – and highly emotional.  I bring this up because I believe that it is important for us to be honest about our past.  We ought to at least acknowledge that the blessings we enjoy in our lives today sometimes come at a cost that was paid by innocent suffering extracted by others.

Today, we all benefit from the free, open, and prosperous society in the United States.  But how did we get here?  Our nation’s founders had to wage a brutal war of independence against Great Britain.  Before that, of course, European colonialists had dispossessed, by force, the former inhabitants of the land, killing 95% of them through war and disease, and shutting the rest up in reservations.  We must not forget that the Native Americans had come from somewhere as well, and fought their own wars againt rival nations.

As Israel Zangwill said in 1905, no populated country has ever been won without the use of force.  In a similar vein, Mao wrote in his Little Red Book that without violence, “it is impossible to accomplish any leap in social development.”  I fear that they may be right.  I challenge us to name a nation that was not formed by expelling or subjugating the local population and/or defeating the former rulers by force.

We have been doing this for hundreds of thousands of years, so it would seem to be inevitable.  If this is simply the way of the world, then what is wrong with Rabbi Dov Lior’s call to protect Jews by ending the restraint and demolishing Gaza?  After all, this is how human societies have protected themselves for hundreds of thousands of years.

The Torah challenges us to become holy by overcoming our DNA, and that is an incredibly difficult thing to do.  Our world is a messy, morally ambiguous place.  Good people are often forced into situations in which they have to make difficult decisions.

As justified as a young soldier may be in fighting to protect his family and his country, war leaves a permanent mark on a person’s soul.  I say this presumptuously, as someone who has thankfully never had to go into battle.

We are challenged in every aspect of our lives to be holy: in how we do business, in how we support members of our community, in how we eat, in how we love, and yes, in how we make war.  We honor those who have fought on our behalf in the past and who do so today when we open our eyes and admit that the things in our lives that we count as blessings sometimes have been accompanied by the suffering of innocents and the sometimes difficult moral struggles of people who tried their best to live good lives.

We must say to Rabbi Lior that what he advocates does not represent Judaism.  God asks more of us.  Although it is often not clear, may we discern the path of holiness in this difficult world, and may our striving to be holy one day soon bring us to peace.

A Covenant of Peace – We Must Not Give in to Rage – Pinchas 5774

These have been difficult days for our brothers and sisters in Israel, who as we speak, are experiencing war against Hamas in the Gaza Strip.  I have found myself this week checking the various news sources every few hours for updates on the situation.  I have also felt what I think many Jews in the Diaspora feel at times like this, a desire to be in Israel, to be with our people as they experience this terror.

Thank God that Israel has developed such effective ways of protecting its people from the indiscrimate launching of rockets at population centers, now reaching as far as Haifa.  The Iron Dome defense system has managed to successfully intercept ninety percent of the rockets it targets.  Israel’s siren warning system gives advance notice to Israelis so that they have time to reach a nearby bomb shelter.  The result has been an extremely low casualty rate thus far.  For this we must be grateful and pray that it continue.

Nevertheless, the terror and psychological trauma of living under constant threat is awful, especially for children.

The Israeli public is almost universally behind the military’s efforts to defend the population against hundreds of rockets that are being launched with the explicit goal of killing and terrorizing civilians.

The IDF has targeted Hamas’ military and command centers, taking great efforts to limit civilian casualties, including calling cell phones in advance to warn residents to evacuate.  Hamas, which deliberately locates its weapons in civilian areas, has issued calls for civilians to congregate at those sites so that they can be human shields.  That the Israeli military has destroyed more than 1,000 underground rocket launchers, smuggling tunnels, command centers, and other strategic locations with only 100 deaths is extraordinary, and suggests a concerted effort to limit harm to the Palestinian population.

Nevertheless, every life is precious.  Every human is created in the image of God, and we must never delight in the death and suffering of the innocent.  While I am glad for the low casualty rate in Israel, I find myself feeling terrible when think about what it must be like for someone trapped in Gaza.

Sadly, it feels like we have been here before.  In 2008, Israel invaded Gaza in reponse to rocket fire in Operation Cast Lead.  In 2010, Israel launched air strikes in reponse to Hamas rockets in Operation Pillar of Defense.  This track record suggests that violence might not bring about the goal that I think all reasonable people share: in the short term, the halting of rocket fire; amd in the long term, peace.

Indeed, violence so often begets more violence.  This current crisis has come about due to violent acts spiralling out of control.  First was the kidnapping and murder of the three Israeli teens: Naftali Frankel, Eyal Yifrach and Gilad Shaar, by three suspected terrorists from Hebron.  Then came the revenge murder of an Arab teenager, Mohammed Abu Khdeir, by three Jewish terrorists.  Since then, the violence has only escalated.

This morning’s Torah portion, Pinchas, shows us that there are threats that must be met with violence, but warns of the slippery slope towards which unchecked passion and vengeance can lead.

The Parashah continues a tale that began at the end of last week’s portion.

The Israelites, specifically the men, consort with Midianite (or in one reference, Moabite) women, who have been luring them to sacrifice to their foreign gods.  Predictably, this provokes God’s anger, and a plague results that indiscriminately strikes the innocent along with the guilty.

What is going on here is nothing less than an existential threat to the entire nation.  The idolatry of the Israelites threatens the moral integrity of the people, while the plague threatens their physical existence.

Something must be done to counter this threat.

Pinchas, the son of Eleazar the High Priest and Moses’ great nephew, takes immediate action.  He grabs a spear, and publicly impales an Israelite named Zimri and a Midianite named Cozbi.  This bold act stops the sinning in its tracks, calms God’s wrath, and ends the plague – but not before 24,000 Israelites have already been killed.

This morning’s Torah portion, named after Pinchas, continues the story with God’s enthusiastic approval and endorsement of the hero.  “Pinchas, son of Eleazar son of Aaron the Priest, has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me…”  (Numbers 25:11)

God continues with a blessing for Pinchas and his future descendants.  “Behold I give to him b’riti shalom, ‘my covenant of peace.'” (Ibid. 25:13)

This glorification of Pinchas’ zealous actions does not sit well with our Sages.  A midrash in the Palestinian Talmud (Sanhedrin 9:7) describes how the elders of Israel disapprove of Pinchas taking matters into his own hands without first going through a judicial process.  They fear that permitting zealous actions is a recipe for disaster.  Without a trial, how can we distinguish between an impassioned believer carrying out God’s will and a fired-up individual acting out on his own whims and desires.  The purpose of a judicial system is to remove the passion and zeal which so often ends in violence and injustice.

The elders of Israel are so terrified of what Pinchas represents that they want to excommunicate him, but a heavenly spirit comes to overrule them, affirming that Pinchas’ zeal has been only for the sake of God.

Pinchas’ reward is a brit shalom, an everlasting covenant of peace.  On its surface, it is a promise that Pinchas need not fear revenge from the families of those he has just killed.  On a deeper level, God’s granting a covenant of peace is a warning.  Yes, passion for God is a good thing.  Stepping in boldly to avert a crisis or to combat evil is sometimes necessary.  But we have seen too many cases throughout history, up to and including the present time, of impassioned people acting out of their own selfish interests, claiming that it is God whom they serve.

This is the rhetoric of Hamas, and it is also the rhetoric of the three Jewish murderers of the innocent Arab teenager.

Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Berlin, the nineteenth century principal of the Volozhin Yeshiva, explains that God’s promise to Pinchas of a brit shalom, a covenant of peace, is a blessing “that he should not be quick-tempered or angry.  Since, it was only natural that such a deed as Pinhas’ should leave in his heart an intense emotional unrest afterward, the Divine blessing was designed to cope with this situation and promised peace and tranquility of soul.”  (Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Berlin, Ha’amek Davar, in Nehama Leibowitz, Studies in Bamidbar, p. 331)

The brit shalom is a protection against the burning passion buried in each of our hearts that pushes us to violence and revenge, that causes us to gloat over the fall of our enemies, and that leads us to dehumanize the other.

At a time such as we now face, we need the blessing of a brit shalom more than ever.  As the Israel Defense Forces uses violence to legitimately combat Hamas and protect the citizens of Israel, the risk of us succumbing to our inner zeal rises.

I am heartened by the outpouring of anger and deeply-felt embarrassment by Jews across the religious and political spectrum at the evil murder of Mohammed Abu Khdeir.  In the last week, thousands of Israelis have paid condolence visits to the Abu Khdeir family.  It reassures me that we have not lost our moral compass.

Let us pray for a brit shalom, a covenenat of peace in our own hearts and the hearts of the Jewish people to always exercise restraint, to always treasure the sanctity of human life, whether a Jewish child hiding in a bomb shelter in Beer Sheva, or a Muslim child living in Gaza.  May we always have the sense to stop those among our own people who would act out on their rage and desire for vengeance.

Let us also pray for the other kind of brit shalom, a covenant of peace with human beings who today are our enemies, but who may one day, God willing may it be soon, become our friends.

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Shelach Lekha 5774 – Making the Minyan

A man living in Jerusalem was saying the mourner’s kaddish for his mother.  That’s the prayer that Jews say for eleven months after the death of a parent.  In order to say it, however, one needs to be praying with a minyan, a quorum of ten Jewish adults over the age of Bar Mitzvah.

Every day, consistently, the man would go to a synagogue so that he could pray with a minyan, and thus be able to say the prayer.  One night, the man returns home really late, at 3 am.  He collapses into bed, exhausted.  As soon as he turns out the light, he bolts upright.  “Oh no!  I did not pray Arvit!” the evening prayer.  “I missed saying kaddish for my mother!”

With tremendous effort, he drags himself out of bed and starts to dress.

Where is he going to find a minyan at this hour?

No problem.  As anyone who lives in Jerusalem can tell you, day or night, you can always find a minyan at the Shteibelach— a building filled with a bunch of small synagogues in the Zichron Moshe neighborhood.  People gather in one of the rooms, and as soon as a minyan shows up, they start praying.  You can show up at pretty much any time of day and find a service about to begin.

But not at 3 am.  When the man gets to the shteibelach, it is empty.

He takes out his cell phone and dials the number for a taxi company.

“Hello! Can you please send six taxis to the Shteibelach in Zichron Moshe?”

Adoni (my dear sir)! It’s three o’clock in the morning! You think I have six taxis? What do you think I am, a magician? …I only have five.”

“Okay. So send five!”

He dials another number. “Hello, please send five taxis to Zichron Moshe…”

Atah meshugah! You’re crazy! I only have four!

“Fine.  I’ll take them.”

Within twenty minutes, there is a line of nine taxicabs parked neatly outside the Shteiblach.

Adoni,” says one of the drivers, “Why do you need nine taxis? There’s no wedding here, no Bar Mitzvah, nothing.”

“I want you all to turn your meters on and come inside with me. We are going to pray together the evening prayer — arvit.  I will pay each of you just as if you’re giving me a lift.”

These taxi drivers are not observant Jews.  Some of them have not been inside a synagogue since their Bar Mitzvah.  Although they are fluent in Hebrew, they have no idea how to pray: what and when to answer; when to speak aloud and when to stay quiet.

It takes them quite a while. But the kaddish man, shows them exactly what do do.  At 3:30 am in Jerusalem that night, he is able to say kaddish for his mother.

Afterwards, they all go outside to the taxis; the meters in the cars are pushing upwards of 90 shekels per car.  The man pulls out his wallet and starts to count out the approximately 800 shekels it is going to cost him.  That is more than two hundred dollars

“How much do I owe you?” he asks the first taxi driver in the line.

Adoni, what do you take me for? Do you honestly believe I would take money from you. who just gave me such an opportunity to help my fellow Jew say kaddish?”

He moves down the line to the second driver, who gives him the same answer.  “Do you know how long it is since I prayed?”

And the third and the fourth, all the way down the line to the ninth…

Not one takes a shekel.

And so they embrace and drive off to a new morning in the holy city of Jerusalem!

 

The name of the prayer the man said, the Kaddish, comes from the word Kadosh, meaning holy.  It is an ancient prayer in which we publicly proclaim the sanctity, or holiness, of God’s name.  A leader recites the words, and the congregation responds in certain places with various interjections: Amen, B’rikh Hu, or Y’hei Sh’mei Rabba m’vorach l’alam ul’almei almayah – May God’s great name be blessed throughout Eternity.  The Rabbis of the Talmud think it is so important that they declare that a person who responds to the Kaddish with enthusiasm is assured of a place in the world to come.

There are other important prayers that are also connected to this word.  The Kedushah is the special set of verses that we recite during the reader’s repetition of the Amidah.  In it, we act as if we are Divine Beings, blessing God like the angels.

In order to be able to recite both the Kaddish and the Kedushah, we are required to have a minyan.  A person praying alone, or in a group of less than ten Jewish adults, must skip over those sections of the service.

Why is that?

Our Rabbis of the Talmud teach that “Any words of holiness may not be recited with less than ten.”  (Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 23b)  In order to sanctify God’s name, that is to say, declare God’s holiness in a particularly special way, we must have a minyan.

In addition to reciting the Kaddish and the Kedushah, the Talmud identifies other religious actions which also require ten.   Chanting the Torah in public, invoking God during the introduction to the Grace After Meals, and forming a line away from a funeral to comfort the mourners are several more examples.

In ancient times, only Jewish males over the age of Bar Mitzvah were included to make up a minyan.  In recent years in the Conservative movement, we have expanded our interpretation of Jewish law to include Jewish females over the age of Bat Mitzvah as well.

Our tradition has always placed great value on communal prayer.  In Judaism, our prayers are said to reach higher into the heavenly chambers when we are together in a minyan as compared to when we pray alone.  The Talmud teaches, “Whenever ten pray together, the Shechinah (God’s Presence) is with them.”  (BT, Berachot 6a)  It seems to be taken almost as a given that minyan equals ten.

But there must be a reason.  Why ten?

Whenever I pose the question, I tend to receive several responses.

The first, and perhaps most obvious: ten fingers.

The second is from the Book of Genesis, when Abraham argues with God over the fate of wicked inhabitants of the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.  He convinces God to save the cities if ten righteous individuals can be found.  Alas, ten cannot be found, and the cities are demolished.

But the reason that is offered by our ancient sources is different.

The Talmud identifies this morning’s Torah portion as the origin of the minyan.  It uses a particular kind of interpretational tool called a gezera shava.  A verbal analogy.  The way a gezera shava works is as follows.  We identify two completely separate biblical passages that have nothing to do with one another.  They do, however, share a word in common.  That word in common allows us to make an analogy between the two verses.  If something is true in one verse, it must also be true in the other verse.

The Tamud asks why is it the case that God’s name cannot be sanctified with less than a minyan of ten Jewish adults.  Now please bear with me for a minute.  This is kind of complicated.

Rabbenai, the brother of Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba, a Babylonian Sage from the third century, brings the answer, using a two step gezera shave.  (BT Berachot 21b)

Here is step one.  In this morning’s Torah portion, after the spies have given their report about the land of Israel and its inhabitants, sowing seeds of panic amongst the people, God becomes enraged.  Ad matai la-edah ha-ra’ah hazot asher hemah malinim alai – “How much longer shall that wicked community keep muttering against Me?”  (Numbers 14:27)  In next week’s portion, Moses and Aaron are facing a challenge from their cousin Korach and his followers.  Again, God becomes angry, and instruct Moses and Aaron to back off from the rebels so that God can cause the ground to swallow them alive.  Hibad’lu mitokh ha-edah ha-zot – “Separate yourselves from among this congregation!”  (Numbers 16:21)

Notice that the word edah, meaning “congregation,” appears in both passages.  In the first one, the story of the spies, we know exactly how many people are present.  There are twelve spies in total.  Joshua and Caleb bring a positive report.  That leaves ten remaining spies.  Therefore, we conclude, the word edah refers to a group of at least ten individuals.

Now for step two.  Back in Leviticus, God declares v’nikdashti b’tokh b’nei Yisrael – “And I will be sanctified among the children of Israel.”  (Leviticus 22:32)  Again we refer to the verse from next week’s Torah portion: hibad’lu mitokh ha-edah ha-zot – “Separate yourselves from among this congregation.”

Now we focus on the common word tokh – “among” – which appears in both passages.  If God is to be sanctified b’tokh – “among” – the children of Israel, exactly how many does that imply?  Well, since tokh and edah – “congregation” – appear together in the other verse, it must mean at least an edah‘s worth.  How many is an edah?  From the story of the spies, we know it is at least ten.

Therefore, to sanctify God’s name requires at least ten Jewish adults to come together.

Admittedly, this explanation seems convoluted, and perhaps a bit of a stretch.  It is quite possibly an after-the-fact justification of a long-accepted and widely-embraced tradition.  But there is a deeper message that goes beyond the linguistic gymnastics.

The whole concept of a minyan is quite positive.  It encourages community.  Jewish worship takes place not in a synagogue, but in any place where ten Jewish adults come together.  It is about the people, not the building.

For thousands of years, the idea of the minyan reinforced Jews’ motivation to live in close proximity to one another.  Jews needed to be able to pray together, support one another in times of loss, and celebrate holidays with community.  Even God is sanctified when Jews form a minyan. It is impossible to lead a complete Jewish existence by oneself.

But the origin of the number ten, we now learn, comes from what is perhaps the greatest sin committed by the Israelites in the entire Torah.  Believing the spies that they have no hope of defeating the Canaanites and conquering the Land of Israel is the sin that earns the Israelites forty years of wandering in the wilderness.  After all they have seen, the miracles in Egypt, the splitting of the Sea of Reeds, the Revelation at Mount Sinai, the Israelites lack the imagination and the faith to believe that God can deliver the land into their hands, as promised.

Rooting the minyan in this story of faithlessness is ironic.

Perhaps joining together in the same symbolic number gives us the opportunity to repent of our ancestors lack of faith.  Once upon a time, it was ten people who failed to sanctify God.  Now we come together as ten to sanctify God.

Perhaps another lesson is that things can go either way.  When we come together in community, things can go the way of the ten spies, in which one person’s fears spread to the entire group.  Or, we can inspire one another.  One person’s kavannah, spiritual focus, can help the other worshippers express what is in their hearts too.

In the story of the nine taxi drivers, one mourner’s kavannah to honor his mother by saying kaddish for a year inspired the rest of the minyan to connect to a ritual that they had not encountered for many years.  Surely, God’s Presence was among that edah, that holy congregation, at 3:30 am that morning in Jerusalem.

When we come together as a community, whether to worship here in the sanctuary on Shabbat, or to support someone during shiva, the week of mourning, our kavannah can be contagious.  We give each other strength: strength to connect with what is in our hearts, strength to express ourselves with honesty, strength to connect with each other, with our tradition, and with God.

In that way, God is truly sanctified amongst the People of Israel.

Blessings and Relationships – Balak 5773

We experience holiness and blessing when we truly see the other with an open heart. This is something that the Prophet Balaam is unable to do in this morning’s Torah portion.

We can understand Balaam through Martin Buber’s notion of relationships. For Buber, most of our relationships are what he calls “I-It.” We treat others as objects from whom we can get something. These are transactional encounters. What can this person do for me?

Think about the numerous interactions we have every day – at home, at school, at work. Most are transactional. This person is going to ring up my purchase, or bring me my food, fold my laundry, turn in a report, and so on.

The other type of relationship, the far more significant one, Buber calls “I-Thou.” This occurs when we encounter the other in its entirety. My whole being comes face to face with another’s whole being – and that encounter demands a response. Our relationships are only meaningful to the extent that we can truly encounter the other.

Ultimately, according to Buber, we enter into a relationship with God when we relate to the other as Thou.

Balaam treats everyone whom he encounters as an It. All of his relationships are transactional. He never really responds to Balak and his emissaries. They want to hire him to curse the Israelites, and he shrewdly leads them on: “I can’t do anything except what God tells me… but stay until tomorrow, maybe I’ll be able to come with you after all.” We get the impression that Balaam is stringing them along just to convince them to raise his pay.

Balaam treats his donkey as an It as well. The poor animal is only a mode of transportation to him. That is why Balaam does not hesitate to beat her when she stops moving. One would think that an animal that had been a faithful steed and companion all these years would deserve a bit of compassion – but Balaam considers her only for what she can do for him. He never truly sees her.

Because Balaam is treating everyone as an It, he cannot perceive the angel, who is a stand-in for God. His inability to authentically relate to the Other renders him incapable of sensing God’s Presence.

After two rounds of God placing words of blessing into Balaam’s mouth, he has at least recognized the pattern. So what does he do? Balaam looks down on the Israelites, and sees them encamped tribe by tribe. He sees something that impresses him, for this leads him to offer his own words of blessing:

Mah tovu ohalekha Ya’akov, mish-k’notekha Yisrael.

“How lovely are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.”

What is so “lovely” about the Israelites? That they truly relate to one another. They encounter their children, their parents, their spouses, their friends and neighbors as Thou, to use Buber’s terminology. It is this quality that makes them beloved of God and deserving of blessing.

Listen closely to how Balaam expresses the people’s loveliness. How lovely are your ohalim, “your tents,” and your mish-k’not, literally “your tabernacles,” or sanctuaries.

For a nomadic people in the wilderness, “your tents and your tabernacles” is the equivalent of saying “your homes and your synagogues.”

Balaam recognizes in our ancestors a quality that he himself lacks – that they treat one another as human beings with a divine spark. Not as an It from whom I can derive some advantage, but rather as a Thou who reflects the image of God. That is why God’s Presence resides with the people.

This quality has characterized Jewish life every since. The Torah’s commandments and our people’s traditions orient us towards living in meaningful relationships with each other – both in the home, and in community. This is how we experience holiness.

Holiness is encountered in relationships – but only when those relationships are unencumbered by greed and selfishness.

In his new book Relational Judaism, Dr. Ron Wolfson identifies the different levels of relationships that Jews encounter:

Between you and yourself; you and your family, your friends; between you and Jewish living and learning; between you and your community; Jewish Peoplehood; the State of Israel; and the whole world; and finally, between you and God.

Each of these levels of relationship can be holy, but only if we make the effort to encounter the other before us. If we want to experience holiness in our fast-paced, high tech world, we have to make an effort to encounter one another with our hearts. Our Jewish traditions in both home and community, if we would embrace them, are key.

Here are just a few examples. On Friday night, as part of the table rituals, it is customary for parents to bless their children. Granted, sometimes it can be a challenge to get them to sit still, but that moment of intimacy between parent and child, mediated through ancient words from the Torah, creates an opportunity for an I-Thou encounter.

Now shift to synagogue. At the end of Shabbat morning services, before we start eating, we recite kiddush together. Not individually, but together. Our custom is that, before reciting the final blessing over the wine, the leader chants savri, and everyone responds: l’chayim. “To life!” It is often a light-hearted moment, but think about what is taking place. We have come together from all over the place at the end of a busy week, spent time praying together, and are about to share a meal. But we don’t rush. We pause to declare the holiness of Shabbat. Not privately, but all together. And we shout out “to life!” It could be an intensely powerful moment, a joyous and holy moment, if we open our hearts.

And finally, when someone is in mourning for a loved one, the announcement goes out about shiva minyanim, services to be held in that person’s home. The community comes to them. And that includes for people we do not personally know. In a time of loss, we do not leave a person to be alone. We make sure that the mourner has a minyan, a community, to give the mourner an opportunity to recite the mourner’s kaddish – a prayer that is all about holiness.

When Balaam looked down on the Israelites, this must have been what he saw. Parents and children, friends, neighbors, and strangers, all treating one another as human beings in the image of God. People celebrating time together with joy and life. People comforting one another during periods of loss. When Balaam saw an entire nation living this way, he recognized something that had been missing in his own life. He recognized that God was with this people, and that they were truly blessed.

The Song of the Well – Chukat 5773

This morning, we read the famous story of Moses hitting the rock. But there is another brief passage in this morning’s Torah portion that also deals with water bubbling up from the rocky desert ground.

Towards the end of the parshah, the Israelites set out again on their journey, marching ever closer to the Promised Land. From Kadesh to Mount Hor, where Aaron the High Priest dies. From Mount Hor, an unsuccessful attempt to enter Canaan form the South. They turn right and head off to the East. Ovot, Iye Abarim, Wadi Zered, the River Arnon. They pass by the borders of Edom, and Moab. They are now East of the Dead Sea, in what is the modern day country of Jordan. Then, to a place called Be’er, where God suddenly instructs Moses to gather the people together.

“Assemble the people that I may give them water,”*1* God declares. Something is a little strange. Twice already in this parshah alone, the Israelites have complained about not having water to drink. The first time led to the disaster with the staff and the rock, and Moses and Aaron getting banned from the land of Israel. The second time resulted in a plague of fiery serpents.

Now, all of a sudden, God is calling the people together for a water break without any whining. Why the sudden change?

According to the Spanish commentator Abarbanel, God said “I don’t want to hear their complaints.” God is tired of the whining, and has just given in.

Perhaps.  In any event, the assembled Israelites suddenly burst into song. Az yashir yisrael et-hashirah hazot. “Then Israel sang this song.” I’m sorry, I don’t know the melody.

Spring up, O well – sing to it –

The well which the chieftains dug

which the nobles of the people started

with maces, with their own staffs.*2*

Then the Torah continues on with its story, describing the next stops in the Israelites’ journey.

This short episode is rather perplexing. According to the song, it does not seem to take a lot of effort to find these wells. The chieftains are digging them with a staff. One gets the impression that all they have to do is scratch the surface of the gravel a little bit, and water will come gushing forth.

But we know that water in the desert is no trifling thing. It is life and death. The book of Genesis contains stories of fighting over the rights to wells. Discovering a new well is momentous enough that the Torah goes out of its way to mention it. The discovery of a well is often considered to be miraculous. We know wells are important to the the Israelites, because they start complaining whenever they run out of water.

An Aramaic translation and commentary of the Torah expands on the obscure references in the song and fills in the gaps:

Then Israel sang this song of praise, when they settled and the well stayed, and when the when they moved on [so did the well] by the merit of Miriam: “Rise up, O well, rise up, O well!” They would sing and it would rise. This is the well of the forefathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; the Great of the ancient past dug it; the leaders of the nation, Moses and Aaron, scribes of Israel, drew it out with their staffs.*3*

The song is not just a one time performance. For forty years, whenever Israel travels, the well travels with them. Some people are mentioned. It is on account of the merit of the Prophetess Miriam that the miraculous well stayed with them throughout their journeys. That is why, as soon as she dies in this morning’s parshah, the people are immediately without water.

But it is not only Miriam’s well. The well’s history extends back to the Patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  Then Moses and Aaron are brought in to the story. They, with their staves, are able to draw water out of the ground.

But this is not just about water. Two terms in this song are metaphors that further expand the meaning.

First is the well itself. Water is understood to be a metaphor for Torah.

The second term is m’chokek. The original meaning is staff, or scepter. But already in the Bible, m’chokek takes on an sense . M’chokek also means ruler, or lawgiver. In ancient artistic depictions, rulers often hold a staff in their hands. Think of the symbolism of Moses’ staff.

And so, applying these metaphors to the song of the well, we have the following message: the chieftain who uses his staff to bring water out of the ground to quench the people’s thirst is likened to the teacher who brings out the Torah to quench the people’s spiritual thirst.

It is not only Moses, Aaron, and Miriam who draw out the water of the Patriarchs for the people. It is true of every teacher of Torah. Whoever interprets the ancient teachings of our tradition and shares that knowledge with the world is like that chieftain who can use the staff to find water in the desert.

While we, thankfully, can get water simply by turning on the tap, we do find ourselves in a different kind of wilderness. We live in a world in which it is very easy to lose our direction. We live far apart from each other. Traditional communities have broken down. We spend less time in face to face conversations and more time in front of screens. And we consume, consume, consume. Despite all of that consumption, I fear that many of us today are thirsty, whether we know it or not.

As Jews, it is the living waters of Torah that sustains us, that enables us to draw on the ancient wisdom of our tradition – a tradition that extends all the way back to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, that nourished Miriam, Moses, Aaron, and the Israelites in the wilderness, and that continues to nourish us to this day. Maybe, like the Israelites, we should sing about it more.

 

*1*Numbers 21:16

*2*Numbers 21:17-18

*3*Targum Pseudo-Yonatan

Holy Fighting, Not Holy War – Korach 5772

If we look at the long span of human history and think of all of the wars that have been waged in God’s name, with all of the suffering and destruction that has been caused, I think we can probably all agree that waging holy war is probably not a recipe for a life of holiness.
But there is a difference between holy war and holy fighting.  Holy war is when one person, or one side, claims to speak on God’s behalf, and tries to impose its interpretation of God’s will on an opponent by force.
Holy fighting is something entirely different.  As thinking and reasoning human beings, we disagree by our very nature.  It is inevitable that we will argue with each other, and even fight.  But there is a way to fight that is holy.  A way that preserves human dignity and promotes constructive solutions to the problems that arise between us.
This morning’s Parshah, Korach, includes the biggest internal threat to Moses’ leadership in the entire Torah.  Korach, Datan, Aviram, and 250 other Israelites band together to challenge Moses and Aaron’s leadership.
While pulling back the layers of their argument can be somewhat tricky, it is clear from the outcome of the story that Korach’s claims are not just.  Moses and Aaron have not abused their positions, and Korach is after personal power and prestige, despite his populist rhetoric.
The rabbinic tradition holds up this episode as the model for an argument that is based on the wrong things.  Mishnah Avot, composed nearly two thousand years ago, teaches the following:  “Every disagreement that is for the sake of Heaven, its end will endure.  But one that is not for the sake of Heaven, its end will not endure.”  Then it asks for examples.  “What is an argument for the sake of Heaven?  The arguments of the school of Hillel and the school of Shammai.  And one that is not for the sake of Heaven?  The arguments of Korach and his company.”  (Mishnah Avot 5,17)
From this morning’s parshah.  We know that Heaven frowned upon Korach’s claim, because he and his followers are consumed by fire, and swallowed up by the earth.  But what of the argument for the sake of heaven?  What is it about the disagreements between the schools of Hillel and Shammai that is so holy.
The Talmud records an argument that once took place between the two schools that went on for three years.  Each school claimed that the law followed its position.  At the end of three years, a bat kol, a heavenly voice came down and pronounced elu v’elu divrei elohim chayim.  These and these are both the words of the living God, v’halachah k’veit Hillel, but the law is according to the school of Hillel.
This is a theologically rich story, with which we are not going to get too involved this morning.  But when the follow-up question is asked “Why did the school of Hillel merit that the law should follow its position?” the answer tells us something about the nature of holy fighting.
The students of the school of Hillel, we are told, were kind and modest.  They would study both their own teachings as well as the teachings of their opponents, the school of Shammai.  And not only that,  they would mention the teachings of the school of Shammai before their own.
It is this style of arguing that our tradition finds so praiseworthy.  Breaking this down, we can identify three elements modeled by the school of Hillel.
First, a kind and gentle attitude.  Second, an eagerness to learn and understand the position of the other.  And finally, not just giving respect to the opinions of one’s opponents, but verbally acknowledging and validating them.
This teaching comes in the context of a discussion of Jewish law, but it is really modeling how to approach situations any time there is a difference of opinion.
It asks us to respect those who disagree with us, to recognize them as human beings, and to acknowledge that they are motivated with just as much passion as we are.  This is not to say that every claim is a just one, or that we should be any less fervent in our beliefs.  Just that we recognize that as human beings, we are limited in our knowledge, and we can never really know the Truth (with a capital T) or understand the mind of God.
The world is filled with disagreements.  There are the big ones, between countries, and ethnic groups.  And then there are the small ones, the ones that take place between individuals.  We all get in disagreements.  We fight with those who are closest to us, our partners, our children, parents, siblings, friends.  The question we must ask ourselves is: When we fight, how can we do it with holiness?
Whenever we argue, whether we are the ones who started it or whether it is the other person, our natural inclination is to be defensive.  To interrupt, or to yell.  To not really listen to what the other person is saying.  Or to trade insult for insult.  It is simple Newtonian physics.  Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  You push me by starting an argument, I’m going to push back.  But all that does is raise the pressure in the middle.  Even if someone “wins,” there is never any forward progress in the relationship
But the school of Hillel offers us a Jewish approach to holy fighting.  Consider taking a different approach the next time you find yourself in an argument.
Let the other person speak first, and let them say everything they have to say.  Then before jumping to your counter-argument, let your opponent know that you have heard them.  Validate the fact that they have an opinion and feelings, and that you have heard them, and have tried to understand them.  Reflect back what you just heard.
Then, say what you are feeling.  But do it without accusing, and without judging.  You might be familiar with the concept of I/You statements.  I felt X when you did Y.  It is a technique often used with kids to try to help them settle their differences, but it is a great tool for reconciliation among adults as well.
Here is how it works.  We tend to fight with You statements.  Using blame and judgment.  A You statement might go like this, and by the way this is a completely hypothetical example:  “You hurt my feelings when you went to watch TV instead of helping me do the dishes.”  That is going to be put me on the defensive.  It is blaming me for hurting the other person.
An I statement, however, would say the same thing, but make a few subtle changes.  “I felt hurt and ignored when you went to watch TV while I did the dishes.”
Notice there is no accusation, and no judgment in that statement.  I felt hurt and ignored.  Those are my feelings.  Nobody can deny them, or take them away from me.  The other person is now in a position of responding to his or her partners hurt feelings, rather than a personal attack.
It might surprise us to find that disagreements using this kind of language are somehow transformed from fights into problem-solving.  Both parties end up feeling validated, are more likely to take responsibility for their actions and the results of their actions, and nobody feels attacked.  Instead of us being opponents, facing each other with swords drawn, we end up being partners, joined at the hip, attacking the problem together.  And that allows us, and our relationship to move forward.
The I/You technique is something that we can train ourselves to use, and it can make a huge difference in our lives.  It can get us away from Korach arguments, and into Beit Hillel/Beit Shammai arguments.
Unfortunately, we have a bit less control over the fighting that takes place on the macro scale.  The Korach-like, not for the sake of heaven, types of arguments seem to dominate the airwaves, including, sadly, among the Jewish people.  This week, there was a terribly incendiary letter written by Rabbi Moshe Amar, the Chief Sephardic Rabbi of Israel, a government employee paid with public funds.  He was responding to an Israeli Supreme Court decision from a few weeks ago that ruled that non-Orthodox Rabbis, that is to say Reform and Conservative Rabbis, who are serving communities in kibbutzim and rural areas, should be paid as public servants with state funds.  Israel does not have separation of church and state the way we do in America.  The Rabbinate is a part of the government, and every community has a chief rabbi and a rabbinic council.  Until this decision, only Orthodox Rabbis selected by the ultra-Orthodox dominated Rabbinate could serve in these functions, even though a significant majority of Israeli Jews are not Orthodox.
In response, Rabbi Amar wrote a letter, on official state letterhead, calling on all Jews to come to a rally this coming Tuesday to protest the decision.  Listen to some of the language he used:  He accuses the Reform and Conservative movements of “uproot[ing] and destroy[ing] Judaism” and says that we have “already brought horrendous destruction on the Jewish people in the Diaspora, by causing terrible assimilation and an uprooting of all of the fundamental principles of the Torah.”  He is talking about us, in this room, right now, celebrating Shabbat together in joy.
Worst of all, he calls on Jews “to stop those who would sabotage [modern Hebrew: commit terrorism] and destroy the vineyard of the Lord of Hosts.”
This, at a time when Israel is facing the threat of Iran going nuclear.  In a week in which terrorists crossed the border from the Sinai peninsula and attacked Israeli workers, killing one.  And also in a week in which Hamas launched hundreds of missiles into Israel from Gaza.  You want to talk about threats to the Jewish people, those are real threats.
The idea that the the biggest danger to the survival of Judaism is the Israeli government paying a few shekels to Reform and Conservative Rabbis, out of the Ministry for Sport and Culture no less, is not only ludicrous, but it is divisive, hate-filled, and undemocratic.  And frankly, someone who is an employee of the state has no business calling on followers to overturn a ruling by the Supreme Court, nor of trying to impose a particular religious worldview on every Jew in the country.  I understand that ultra-Orthodox communities have a very strict interpretation of Torah that opposes the approach of more liberal movements.  But when any religious group uses its political power to coercively impose what it considers to be God’s will on the rest of the nation, that is bordering on holy war.
This is so far from the ideal demonstrated by the school of Hillel, whose students would behave gently, learn their opponents’ arguments, and respect them by acknowledging those arguments first.
This problem is pervasive in the world.  In international politics, domestic politics, in the Jewish community, and in our own lives.  I don’t know if there is much we can do to directly effect what is going on in other parts of the world, but we certainly can focus on ourselves.
Judaism guides us in every aspect of our lives.  It is not just about what we do when come to synagogue.  From the moment we wake up until the the time when we go to sleep, we are given the challenge of living lives of holiness.
When Korach challenged Moses, he said as much.  Aren’t all the people holy?  Yes they are, potentially, but Korach himself was not behaving all that holy.  He was trying to gain power.  But the idea of being holy is something that Judaism embraces.  We can make any moment into a holy one.  When we come to synagogue.  When we celebrate Shabbat at home with our families.  When we walk into a room with a mezuzah on the door.  And yes, even when we fight.  We have to learn how to fight holy, not engage in holy war.