http://jstandard.com/content/item/ en _JStandard@js.com Copyright 2013 2013-05-16T16:07:19+00:00 /content/item/27322 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/naso_dedication_confirmation_and_blessing/#When:16:07:19Z Parshat Naso is one which has particular significance to me. In 1961 it was my bar mitzvah portion. In 1988, it was the first parasha for the first d’var Torah that I was invited to write for the Jewish Standard as I was about to assume my position as the rabbi of Temple Sholom of River Edge. Chapter 6, verses 1-21 are a discussion of the Nazirite vow, which is followed in verses 22-27 by the Birkat Kohanim, the priestly benediction. The Nazir described in chapter 6 takes upon himself a set of specific ritual observances beyond those required of other Israelites. The text demands (verse 13ff) that when the Nazirite vow is completed the Nazir must bring a sin offering, leaving us to speculate: What was the sin of the Nazir? For the last 52 years, I have remained focused, or as some of my friends and congregants might say, obsessed with the question of the sin of Nazir and how it applies to us in our contemporary world. With my impending retirement next month, I find myself on this bar mitzvah anniversary reflecting back upon my career as a rabbi and look in the mirror at the challenges and the responsibilities that I continue to face as a responsible Jew, which is the definition of bar mitzvah that I have taught thousands of young people over the past 40 years. I have come to realize that the sin of the Biblical Nazir was the belief that his responsibility to give of his time and talent to the service of God by serving his community was something from which he could retire. Like the Nazir of old, ritual observances have always served me as a reminder of who we are and the values, ideals, and dreams for which we stand. Rituals were not and are not magical acts by which we appease God and curry God’s favor. Rather, they are the skeleton of Jewish life which holds up the flesh of Judaism — the ethical, moral, and spiritual truths of Torah. Parashat Naso is read on either the Sabbath preceding or following Shavuot, the festival upon which we are each to re-experience the revelation of Torah at Mount Sinai. For Reform Judaism, Shavuot, the time of our receiving of Torah, became the moment of confirmation. At this season when our teenagers are called upon to confirm their commitment to Judaism and the Jewish People through the confirmation ceremony, each and every Jew should take the opportunity to reconfirm our commitments as well. Like the Nazir of ancient days, each of us at this season can choose to take an oath. However, rather than an oath of abstinence, our oath must be a positive affirmation to dedicate ourselves to Torah, avodah, and g’milut chasadim — the study of Torah, the worship of God and to deeds of righteousness; an oath, to be a positive rather than a passive Jew. I recognize that the Bergen County Jewish community is different demographically than the one I moved to 25 years ago. However, one thing that has remained the same is the real division in Jewish life — not merely between Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, and Reconstructionist Judaism but, rather, between Positive Jews and Passive Jews. I suggest to you that we can equate the vow to be a Positive Jew with the vow of the Nazir of old. Similar to the Nazir described here in Numbers 6, to be a positive Jew at the beginning of the 21st century requires both faith and action. Faith in God and in ourselves. Faith in the vitality of the Jewish people. This faith must be coupled with a willingness to be pro-active in our pursuit of ways to integrate our Jewish values and our Jewish identity into our daily lives. To be a Nazir today requires us to separate ourselves from the apathy of American society that leads us to shut our eyes to the horrors surrounding us as did the neighbors and police in my native Cleveland earlier this month. To be a Nazir today means we cannot stand idly by while guns and weapons of destruction are openly sold in our local stores and it is easier to get a gun than to get a driver’s license in the United States. For American Jews, being a Nazir requires us to take a vow to stand in solidarity in deed as well as word with our Israeli sisters and brothers. Our Nazirite vow in 2013 must be to support the State of Israel even when we disagree with one or more of her policies or actions. In our Torah portion, the laws of the Nazirite vow is followed by the three-fold blessing which we call Birkat Cohanim. I suggest to you at this season of revelation and confirmation that if we are willing to take a modern Nazirite vow to commit ourselves to the continual support and transformation of our Temple, to the defense of the State of Israel, and to the pursuit of social and economic justice for all, then and only then will we merit the right to both invoke and to receive the three-fold blessing of the Torah: May Adonai bless you and protect you; May Adonai deal kindly with you and be gracious to you; May Adonai smile upon you and grant you peace. In the process we will, to paraphrase verse 6:27, link ourselves to the name of God, to the people of Israel, and be blessed by both our people and our God. 2013-05-16T16:07:19+00:00 /content/item/27249 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/bmidbar_what_to_learn_from_our_shavuot_experience/#When:08:00:50Z For many people, one of the most unsettling times of their lives occurs during their college years. For the first 18 years of life, most of us go through a school system in which we are corralled through the same subjects and the same doors of life. But then one gets to college, and there are electives. There is the flexibility of choice. A set of choices that doesn’t stop with one’s classes, but extends to choosing one’s major, one’s profession, and eventually one’s spouse. During these relatively early years of life a number of decisions are placed on us that have a major impact on the trajectory of our lives. For some people, making the transition from being a face in the crowd to being a unique individual can be a frightening process.For many people, one of the most unsettling times of their lives occurs during their college years. For the first 18 years of life, most of us go through a school system in which we are corralled through the same subjects and the same doors of life. But then one gets to college, and there are electives. There is the flexibility of choice. A set of choices that doesn’t stop with one’s classes, but extends to choosing one’s major, one’s profession, and eventually one’s spouse. During these relatively early years of life a number of decisions are placed on us that have a major impact on the trajectory of our lives. For some people, making the transition from being a face in the crowd to being a unique individual can be a frightening process. Parashat B’midbar begins with the Torah telling us that in the second month of the second year after having left Egypt, God gave each of the 12 tribes their own flag with an insignia representative of each tribe’s distinctive characteristic. These flags were symbolically represented in the way the Jews camped in the desert, “Ish al macha’neihu, ve’ish al diglo,” (1:52) according to their tribal encampment and according to their flags. Rav Yaakov Kamanetzky asks: Why did God wait to introduce the flags until the Jews were more than a year into their journey, instead of giving them the flags immediately upon leaving Egypt? In order to understand the timing of the institution of the flags, it is important to highlight what took place just a month before the flags were introduced. As described throughout Vayikra, the majority of the Jewish people’s time and efforts since having left Egypt was spent in the construction of the Mishkan, the tabernacle in which God’s shechinah would rest. The Mishkan was in fact only completed and inaugurated during the first month of the second year after having left Egypt. Presenting a unique flag to each of the 12 tribes speaks to the individuality within the nation, but the gesture also carries with it a concern that the flags could create division among the people. In response to that potential risk, God waits to hand out the flags until after the opening of the Mishkan at the center of camp, which will serves as a national reminder of what is at the core of their shared existence — God and God’s relationship with the entire people. In doing so, God impresses upon us the notion that in order to be trusted with one’s individuality, as represented by the flags, one first has to have an overarching sense of purpose to serve as an anchor. The demand to re-establish what is at the center of our existence, is what the entire upcoming holiday of Shavuot is all about. We spend a holiday dedicating ourselves to identifying our foci, which are God and God’s Torah. Only once that central focus has been established does God remind us that there is also room for degalim, for finding our individuality within the community and within the Torah as well. The same is true about one’s college years. From my experience, most people don’t wake up one day with an epiphany and make life’s major decisions. Instead, those major decisions form over a lifetime of experiences in which one determines what is fixated at the center of their existence, and then creates oneself around that core. It typically isn’t one class or one experience that shapes a future, but rather, a collection of experiences that help a person home in on what is really important, leading them down the path to figuring out who they are as individuals as well. An experience that some want to call “scary,” whereas others understand it to simply be the journey of life! 2013-05-10T08:00:50+00:00 /content/item/27233 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/behar-bechukotai_an_everlasting_holding/#When:07:48:57Z In one eye-opening verse in this week’s parasha, God establishes the idea that the purpose of our exodus from Egypt was in order for the Children of Israel to possess the land of Canaan (Israel). It is in the land of Canaan, according to Leviticus 25:38, where God will formally establish God’s relationship with Israel as Israel’s God. This statement actually is a repeat of the same promise that God made to Abraham in Genesis 17:8, where God says, “I will assign the land to you and your offspring to come, all the land of Canaan, as an everlasting holding (achuzat olam); I will be their God.”In one eye-opening verse in this week’s parasha, God establishes the idea that the purpose of our exodus from Egypt was in order for the Children of Israel to possess the land of Canaan (Israel). It is in the land of Canaan, according to Leviticus 25:38, where God will formally establish God’s relationship with Israel as Israel’s God. This statement actually is a repeat of the same promise that God made to Abraham in Genesis 17:8, where God says, “I will assign the land to you and your offspring to come, all the land of Canaan, as an everlasting holding (achuzat olam); I will be their God.” The language of our parasha seems purposeful. By declaring that the purpose of leaving Egypt was for us to possess the land that God had promised to us, God’s message is clear; Israel is to be OUR home, both as a physical possession and as a spiritual possession. The classic interpretations of Moses not being able to enter into the land of Canaan makes sense; God is our spiritual guide and encountering God in Israel is our spiritual destination. Just two weeks ago, I experienced this idea firsthand with my students. A journey that began a long time ago in New Jersey — complete with Jewish text study and an inquiry-based mode of accessing secular studies, learning about values, and investigating the development of the State of Israel from Biblical times through today — became a living narrative the moment the El Al plane touched down and spontaneously the students uttered the words of the Shehecheyanu. Classic Jewish texts from the Chumash, Navi, and Gemara and modern Jewish texts such as the Declaration of the State of Israel or Theodore Herzl’s Altneuland, which the students studied for the last 10 years, were not just words on a page anymore; they were achuzat olam, everlasting possessions. As we look to how education is changing in the 21st century and discover the greater need for our communities to educate one another to be advocates for Israel, it is incumbent that we heed the advice of the Melton Center for Jewish Education in Jerusalem. It proposed that we develop models for connecting Israel education with the education we provide in the other spheres of education, particularly the arts and sciences. Points of connection in history and geography classes should be emphasized. Jewish texts should be studied alongside a map of Israel and of course spoken Hebrew language education is imperative. Lastly, an educational exploration and encounter of that living narrative is paramount. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu noted in April that “six million Jews perished in the Holocaust. For the first time since the establishment of the State, more than six million Jews live in the State of Israel. [They] ... are the testament to our victory ... from a deep pit, we rose to a pinnacle.” May the important journey that led us to our everlasting possession of Israel promised by God to Abraham and then once again to the Jewish people serve as an inspiration for our own encounters with the Divine in the Holy Land. 2013-05-03T07:48:57+00:00 /content/item/27234 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/dear_rabbi_your_talmudic_advice_column/#When:07:47:37Z Dear Rabbi: My brother, sister, and I just lost our dad. We want to know why we should say Kaddish for him. I say his soul will be immortal no matter what? My siblings insist that we all have to say Kaddish in shul every day for 11 months. Worried about the next world TenaflyDear Rabbi: My brother, sister, and I just lost our dad. We want to know why we should say Kaddish for him. I say his soul will be immortal no matter what? My siblings insist that we all have to say Kaddish in shul every day for 11 months. Worried about the next world Tenafly Dear Worried, Yes indeed, our tradition teaches us that if the proper procedures are followed, the Jewish soul is immortal. And it teaches that immortality is redundant. That means the soul of a departed loved one lives on in a vertical immortality in heaven and in a horizontal immortality as part of the collective of the eternal Jewish people. To guarantee that duplex immortality, as a mourner, we believe that you children —sons and daughters alike — must say the Kaddish prayer for 11 months in the synagogue, as an agent on behalf of your father’s soul. Daughters are equally authorized in our tradition to take on this role as an advocate for a parent’s neshamah — his or her soul. Here is the connection between the vertical immortality of the soul and the recitation of the mourner’s Kaddish. Puzzlingly, this lilting and poetic Kaddish passage does have a certain unique cadence, yet it seems in its words to be no more than a standard glorification of God, nothing about death or dying or the deceased. Yet this prayer is especially apropos for a mourner because we believe that it is the Aramaic praise that the angels recite in God’s presence in the heavens. You the mourner recite the prayer on behalf of your departed loved one. You do this not to address God with the outpourings of your personal anxiety and vexation. You do this to imagine that you are standing aloft in heaven, like an angel, representing the soul of your beloved departed, knocking on heaven’s door to seek entry for that spirit into a secure, eternal place close to the divine light and near the warmth of God. That is the vertical dimension to the soul’s immortality. The horizontal dimension of the immortality of the Jewish soul is another story entirely, You ask why you must recite the Kaddish in the synagogue for 11 months, and why the mourner has the obligation to lead the services in public in the community. It is because every Jewish soul achieves a horizontal immortality, going forward eternally through time into the future, by its membership in the people of Israel. Now you might think that the membership of the soul of the departed Jew after his death in the community of Israel is a certainty, a given, automatic, and nothing further need be done to solidify that. But that is not how it works. To secure a place for a departed soul in the community of Israel, many Jews believe that you must recite the daily Kaddish in the synagogue for 11 months. By doing that, you firmly embed the soul of the departed in our community. And as long as that community, that people, endures, that soul will have a horizontal immortality as part of the collective body of Israel. It’s an onerous obligation and a privilege for you to have that obligation to recite Kaddish in public on behalf of your dad for 11 months. And at the end of that period, when you will rest from that daily recitation of Kaddish, you will be certain about the continuous duplex immortal life of your father’s dear soul, in the eternity of heaven and in the everlasting perpetuation of the Jewish people on earth. 2013-05-03T07:47:37+00:00 /content/item/27081 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/emor_isolation_among_the_many/#When:04:53:23Z I sympathized with the residents of Boston last week as they were told to remain in their homes with their doors locked. Living in Los Angeles in 1992, I too was subject to a curfew that spring. Not that the two situations were identical. While Boston residents had to stay indoors all day last Friday, the curfew imposed upon my neighborhood in West L.A. was only at night. What united the two situations were fear and isolation. Our tradition has many examples of isolation. Our ancestor Jacob found himself alone on two occasions, both of which transformed his relationship with God in a profound way. In the first he had his famous dream with the ladder and the angels. In the second, he wrestled an angel and received the new name Israel. In both of these cases, I imagine that Jacob began in fear and then through the encounter transitioned to awe and gratitude. David, in the days before he was established on the throne of Israel, was targeted by his father-in-law King Saul for death. He had to escape into the desert to avoid execution. The Psalms reflect how David confronted his fear with words of faith and assurance. Each of these examples is one of physical isolation, when a person is removed from most or all of the people he knows. This week’s Torah portion, Emor, hints at something slightly different: a social isolation in which a person is within the community but still feels detached. Often social isolation leads to resentment. In Leviticus Chapter 24, a man who is half Israelite and half Egyptian gets into a fight with an Israelite man. In the course of the fight, he blasphemes God’s name. God decrees that he should be stoned. The Torah leaves out two important pieces of information — what the fight is about and why it is relevant that the blasphemer is half Israelite. The great commentator Rashi fills in these blanks. We need to know that the blasphemer is half Israelite on his mother’s side, because the locations for encampment are assigned according to father’s house. Without an Israelite father, this man has nowhere to pitch his tent. He has appealed to Moses for redress and been denied. When he finally just picks a place, an argument ensues and he curses God’s name in frustration. The blasphemer is already socially isolated. Finally a blatant injustice leads him to resentment and rash words for which he deserves the ultimate punishment. As a Jewish community, there is a lot to learn from this turn of events in Parashat Emor. Sometimes in standing up for principle, we cause our own members to feel disconnected. This isn’t always bad. As a covenantal community we must at times draw boundaries to uphold our core values. But there are probably also times when we stand up for principle in a way that unnecessarily imposes social isolation. In a diverse, multi-faceted society it is no simple task for our institutions and our leaders to draw the lines that reinforce our values. Social isolation is a powerful force whose consequences cannot be predicted. As the Torah portion shows, people who feel socially isolated sometimes act in a way that undermines the very values that we have striven to uphold. I believe that had Moses known the result of his decision, he would have found a way for the half Israelite man to find a place to pitch his tent. Neither the man nor the community benefited from the outcome. Physical isolation leads to fear. Social isolation leads to resentment. Our challenge as Jews is to minimize both so as to maximize our connection to God. 2013-04-26T04:53:23+00:00 /content/item/27022 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/acharei_mot-kedoshim_turning_mundane_holiness_to_sacred_holiness/#When:20:53:29Z I often wonder how an esoteric term like “holy” entered our lexicon. People use terms about holiness like “Holier than Thou,” “Holy Smokes,” or “Holy Cow,” that probably have no real meaning to them other than being a figure of speech. For me, holiness has a spiritual and divine quality, and I ask myself: “Do I recognize the difference between what is holy and what is not? How am I supposed to feel when I encounter a holy moment or a sacred experience right here and now?” This week’s “Holiness Code” of Leviticus 19:2 and 20:26 invites us to learn about holiness and how to achieve it in our lives; “The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to the entire congregation of the children of Israel, and say to them, you shall be holy, for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.” Three principles are suggested: Each one of us is capable of achieving holiness through right actions; feeling close to God makes us feel holy; and we need to interact ethically with people to feel holy. “Speak to the entire congregation of the children of Israel” tells us that everyone is capable to achieve holiness. From first read it seems that the message is addressed to the entire community as a whole, but Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin from Volozhin makes an important point — that Moses was actually meant to address each individual separately because he/she has the unique individualized potential for holiness. Regardless of one’s age or gender, talent or ability, everyone should be able to uncover his/ her potential for holiness to the best of his/her own ability. “You shall be holy” is presented in the plural future tense. It is the prescribed state of holiness of the People of Israel that holiness is not an inherited quality. Rabbi Hayim Ben-Atar, author of “Or Hahayim,” asserts that the future tense alerts us not to think that we are already holy but rather, holiness is a goal for us to achieve. Furthermore, he describes holiness as a metaphor for unlimited gates. As we pass one gate of holiness, there is another gate waiting, and another. Similarly, there are many levels of holiness which are available for us to achieve. “For I, the Lord, your God, am holy” is presented in the singular present tense and is the ascribed state of holiness of God. God is holy so we too, have the potential to be holy. The Halachic Midrash, Sifrah Kadoshim 1:1, suggests that we become holy by the process of imitating God. The connecting core for these three principles of holiness is set in the commandments for actions. For example, if we are kind, just, and loving, we can enter into a relationship with God, which in turn will bring holiness to our life. When we greet another person with a smile, when we show sensitivity to the environment, when we help the poor and care for global justice we walk before God, connect with God, and become holy. Thus, we are given all the opportunities to build holiness in our daily lives. It takes mindfulness to recognize the distinct feeling of holiness. My suggestion would be to create an intention for holiness before doing something — like before putting a dollar in the hat of a homeless person. Ask: How does it feel after performing a good did? If you feel a rush in your veins, a pumping heart and a sense of satisfaction and wholeness, than you know that you achieved holiness. This extraordinary feeling of holiness will also assure you that you are connected to God in the way this week’s portion teaches us. May we continue to walk on this personal journey of holiness and spiritual purity with the intention to sanctify the mundane, as we pass thru one gate of holiness after another. 2013-04-18T20:53:29+00:00 /content/item/26939 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/tazria-metzora_life-giving_groove/#When:02:49:50Z “If a person has on the skin of his body… lesions of Tzara’as [a supernatural skin affliction]… He should be brought to Aaron the priest, or to one of his sons, the priests [for examination].” Leviticus 13:2. “Rendering a person unclean or clean can only be through the pronouncement of a Kohen, a priest.” (Rashi). I recently spent a phenomenal Shabbos with an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor. She told me of her father, shot dead by the Nazis just two days before liberation because he shared some of his meager rations with a fellow victim in Mauthaussen. She told of her mother from that vanished world, pious and righteous, who sacrificed so much for her daughter. “I miss her every day, still,” she said. The gas in Auschwitz choked her mother to death. I asked her if anyone ever prayed in the barracks. “Of course,” she said. “I never missed “Modeh Ani. There was a girl who slept close to me who knew the entire Tehillim, all 150 chapters of Psalms, by heart. She used to say the words as we were lying on those wood shelves they called beds. We would repeat those words after her.” Can anyone imagine thanking God for returning their soul to hell? We can’t even imagine the hell of Auschwitz, let alone praying and thanking God for it. But that is what this woman did. Every day, never missing one. At one point she said: “I saw “Nissim” [miracles] in Auschwitz all the time! God was there always. I saw it!” Not everyone there felt this way. This woman’s sister, whom she nursed throughout their experience, did not want to hear of Judaism after liberation. And I have no doubt that when she arrived before the heavenly throne two years ago, carrying that tattoo as a blazing torch, she and God Almighty patched things up. Some live their lives seeing it; others do not. Some cannot. And it is not for us to judge. It reminded me of a beautiful story the midrash relates for this week’s parshah, Tazria. There was once a Kohen who was an expert at examining Tzara’as, the extinct skin ailment discussed in this week’s Torah portion. This disease was neither painful nor contagious but a result of not behaving properly. Some wrongly translate this disease as leprosy. The Tzara’as disease was diagnosed when the kohen observed the hair in the afflicted area. The Kohen of our story was extremely poor, and decided to leave the Holy Land to seek a livelihood elsewhere. Before leaving, he said to his wife, “Let me teach you the principles of examining Tzara’as so that you can advise people who will come to our house in my absence. You can tell whether someone is diseased or healthy by examining the grooves under the hair. Each hair is nurtured in its own groove. If you find that the groove under the hair has dried up, it is a symptom of disease.” The wife wondered at these words. “If God created a source of nourishment for each individual hair, He must, all the more so, have provided for you, a human being and head of a family who has to support his children,” she said. “Don’t leave the Holy Land! Stay here and the Creator will certainly provide for you here, too!” The Kohen listened to his wife (always a good idea...) and stayed in the Holy Land. Soon he found a good source of livelihood. It is a matter of perspective. A Kohen must be the one to proclaim the status of the metzora (the person with the Tzara’as malady). The sages describe the Kohen as genetically kind and loving. Through the loving eyes of a Kohen, a fellow person is seen in a different light. Sometimes, though, the same Kohen who is so adept at looking at someone else that way does not look at himself with those eyes! All Holocaust survivors are very special people. We look at them as heroes. We can learn something positive from all of them. And from those who managed to see God through the wall of utter evil, we also can learn how to see our way through things like diseases, ailments, problems, terror and difficulties, Heaven forbid. For every hair has its life-giving groove. And every person has one as well. 2013-04-12T02:49:50+00:00 /content/item/26807 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/shmini_holiness_of_food/#When:03:23:32Z Sometimes the way the weekly parashiyot fall out align pefectly with the festival cycle. This week, but a few days after concluding Passover, we read parashat Sh’mini with its outline of kashrut, the Jewish dietary code. Leviticus requires that we infuse our eating habits with holiness. We don’t take indiscriminately from the foodstuffs around us. Only certain animals can be eaten. Only certain fish. Only certain birds. While it seems to add a burden to the normal routines of life, when put in the context of keeping kosher for Passover, the regular dietary restrictions suddenly become much less intrusive! It is almost as if the liturgical calendar is telling us: Now that you ate no bread for eight days, just restrict yourselves as follows. Diet is often experienced in phases of more to less intensity in the Bible. The first diet given to Adam and Eve was pure vegan fare — only fruits and vegetables that grew in the Garden of Eden. After the expulsion from the Garden, Adam is tasked with tilling the soil to turn grain into bread. Only with Noah is meat introduced as an “authorized” element of the diet. The pattern toward a restricted diet is clear when we look at Passover, when no leavened bread may be eaten, and Yom Kippur, when nothing may be eaten. In all of these cases, the more intense the restriction on food, the closer the connection with God. Adam and Eve eat in the Garden, a restricted vegan diet that was, literally, paradise. Only when the expulsion from the Garden creates distance between Adam and God does humanity start to bake bread. Then, only at the time of the Flood, when God regrets the creation of humanity and allows only Noah and his family to survive, is there a begrudging permission to consume meat. Only after the covenant at Sinai are the Israelites given the dietary code we call kashrut. In a sense, that code establishes the special connection with God of this covenanted people. Then, the restrictions are increased at times of special holiness, like Passover and Yom Kippur. The restrictions at Passover and Yom Kippur offer us a hint at the true meaning of keeping kosher. Inherent in the restricted diets is a striving for purity, and ultimately, holiness. On Yom Kippur we empty our bodies of all food and drink, taking a true “cleanse” in the spiritual as well as physical sense. By purifying our bodies of foodstuffs, we purify the soul and can present ourselves to God as true penitents at the season of forgiveness. Similarly, at Passover we cleanse not only our bodies but also our homes of all hametz, leavened grain products. We must remember that at the altar of the ancient Tabernacle and Temple, only unleavened bread was used. We see this continued to this day in Christian tradition with the use of only unleavened wafers for communion. Could you imagine bringing out a moldy loaf for the sacrament? Matzah does not get moldy. It does not acquire “impurity.” If only we could have that quality! So on Passover at least we eat a diet symbolizing imperviousness to impurity that we can only strive for in our real lives. And so with kashrut throughout the year. We are only to eat “pure” animals. Only “pure” fish; no amphibians or shellfish. The details of the code underlie a symbolism of purity and holiness. Rather than understand kashrut as an ancient diet for better health, we should read it as an ancient diet for higher spirituality. While looking to our physicians for instruction on how to care for the body, we can look to Torah for how to feed the soul. 2013-04-05T03:23:32+00:00 /content/item/26701 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/pesach_from_dry_bones_to_new_life/#When:21:23:07Z For the haftarah of Shabbat of Passover, we read a perplexing passage from Ezekiel. Ezekiel prophesied during the exile in Babylonia, a long way from Jerusalem. In this passage, Ezekiel seeks to give his fellow refugees hope of a return to their homeland. It is a haunting picture — Ezekiel describes a valley of dry bones that are resurrected, infused with life once again. One could ask many questions about a passage as mysterious as this one, questions about death and the after-life and the nature of God. But the question that echoes for me this year: why do we read these prophetic words on the Shabbat during Passover? One reason we read about the dry bones on Passover is reflected in a story from the Talmud. In this story, the bones in Ezekiel’s vision were the bones of the tribe of Ephraim who escaped Egypt before the Exodus. In the wilderness, the tribe was brutally murdered and God breathed new life into their bones. Once revived, the tribe settled in the land of Israel and had children and lived a vital Jewish life. God saved the tribe of Ephraim just as God had saved the rest of the house of Israel during the Exodus. By reading about the valley of dry bones on Passover, we celebrate the rebirth of a dead people. By using this image, our tradition suggests something extraordinary about our world, that death is not death, and that what is good in this world can be reborn. Our God has created a world in which renewal is possible. Once we see it, the theme of renewal keeps popping up during this holiday like the first crocus in spring. During these days, we read the Song of Songs, in which two young people sing to each other in a flourish of springtime love. As we grow older, we might become suspicious of love in any form, embittered by past hurt. By reading the Song of Songs each year, we feel the stirring of life within us; we feel the world fertile with possibility. We become those lovers again, eager to start life anew in this world. During this holiday, we also traditionally say a special prayer for dew. Here’s another flowering of Passover’s emphasis on renewal. Without dew, our earth cannot replenish itself. Through this prayer we remind ourselves that during the wintertime, the world lies dormant, not dead. In gratitude, we see that the winter landscape has not been lifeless, but pulsing with life waiting to burst forth. This prayer is a testimony to the power of renewal in the world around us. Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones is also a challenge to us to look at the dry bones in our own lives. What has died for us that we have the power to revive? Maybe there is a relationship that needs repairing. Passover entreats us to see that no relationship is beyond some form of repair. Maybe there is an emotion that we never thought we would experience again — joy, wonder, passion. Passover reminds us that our own souls are brimming with untapped vitality and feelings. Maybe there is a dream that we thought was dead. Passover asks us to remember that if the earth’s abundance can be revived from dormancy so too can our dreams. We read Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones because we are not just celebrating our ancestors’ liberation from slavery. We are also celebrating our belief in our own renewal. After a long gray winter, we step outside during Passover and see the bright green of new leaves, and blossoms beginning to open, and we realize, yes, the world has not been dead, just dormant, just waiting to renew itself. As our ancestors left the dark bondage of Egypt, we realize that we can leave the dry bones of our own lives behind. During Passover, we gain the courage to arise and awaken and see everything, including ourselves, anew. 2013-03-28T21:23:07+00:00 /content/item/26594 http://jstandard.com/index.php/site/vayikra_a_higher_calling/#When:21:11:01Z With this week’s Torah portion, we begin the third book of the Torah known in English as Leviticus, due to its dealing primarily with the Levites and their service in the Temple. The colloquial Hebrew name for the book, however, comes from the name of the Torah portion of the week, the first word of the book, Vayikra. With this first word, as innocent as it may seem, the Torah conveys a profound message. The Hebrew word “vayikra,” describing how God called out to Moses, is written in the Torah with a small letter alef, almost as if the letter never existed. The standard-size letters spell out the word “vayiker,” which connotes a chance encounter, an accidental meeting. In contrast, vayikra refers to an active call, a summons. Rashi offers one of many explanations for this anomaly, suggesting that the small alef is precisely meant to contrast the word vayikra with vayiker. All of God’s communications with Moses, Rashi says, were preceded by God actively calling out to Moses — vayikra, which is a term of endearment. In contrast, God appears to the prophets of the nations of the world in chance encounters (as Rashi explains, this was personified by Balaam). On a basic level, we are being taught that God’s communication with Moses was one of endearment and intimacy, where God called out to Moses by name before speaking with him. Rather than a chance, casual conversation, this was one which was initiated by God Himself. Moses was invited to the discussion (vayikra) rather than merely stumbling upon it (vayiker). Upon further reflection, however, there appears to be a deeper point here. Moses stood before God with a job to do. He was the spiritual leader of the Israelites. In this capacity, it was his task to transmit to the people God’s wishes and commands. He was, in a sense, a glorified messenger. One would think that such a position wouldn’t lend itself to an intimate, personal relationship. Vayikra tells us this was not the case. The calling out to Moses is an expression of intimacy. It gives the relationship a personal touch, beyond one of an employer and their messenger. While the task itself Moses was called on to fulfill was one which was “professional” in nature, the conversation was one which was profoundly personal — God calls out to Moses now not just in his capacity as the transmitter of the tradition, but simply because he is Moses. In all of our relationships, with God, our friends, family, or fellow Jews, passion and principles often run deep. All of us are firmly entrenched in how we think and feel and what we believe. From the dialogue between Moses and God we learn that the substance of those principles possesses great meaning, but that just as meaningful are the relationships themselves. Each relationship, particularly with the Divine, brings with it tasks and responsibilities that we must faithfully discharge in order to continue to cultivate that relationship, but those tasks should never be performed as rote, monotonous, mundane chores, or even as merely tasks an employer would give to their worker. They should be approached as opportunities to foster a deeper, more profound, more meaningful relationship, in the spirit of “vayikra.” In just over one week we will usher in Passover. No holiday on the Jewish calendar brings with it the detail and nuance that Passover does. While the potential exists to view these tasks, whether it’s the pre-Pesach prep or the long Seder nights, as chores, Vayikra teaches us to remember that on the other side of those tasks is a relationship — with the Divine, with generations past, and with the many generations to come. 2013-03-14T21:11:01+00:00