This week’s Parsha is a strange one indeed. We have a sorcerer and a talking donkey and what seems to be God changing his instructions. I don’t know how many of you remember the VERY BAD television program, MY MOTHER THE CAR, but today’s narrative is the ancient version of that show.
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In Parshat Chukkat , we read a narrative that perplexes many of our greatest scholars. Let’s remind ourselves of the story: The people complain that they do not have water, and once again they bemoan their having left Egypt.
“Why did you make us leave Egypt to bring us to this wretched place, a place with no grain or figs or vines or pomegranates? There is not even water to drink!” In response, the presence of God appears to Moses and Aaron and he commands them to “assemble the community” and order the rock to yield its water. But Moshe does not do as God commands; instead, he strikes the rock not once but twice, and copious water flows from the rock. But what an enormous price to pay! God tells Moshe that, because he struck the rock, he is not allowed to enter the Promised Land. After leading the Israelites for forty years, through so many trials and tests, how could Moses be denied entry to the land? As Rabbi Kushner, Z”L, notes in the below-the-line commentary in our chumash Etz Hayyim, “Why should Moses, who has served God so loyally for so many years through so many trying times, be so harshly punished for what seems like a minor infraction?” Rabbi Kushner notes that the punishment seems, to use his word, ‘disproportionate’. That’s an understatement: What could possibly have been so sinful to warrant such a terrible punishment? After 40 years in the desert with these people, we can guess that Moshe has little patience left for their whining and their ingratitude. Also, we should not forget that Moshe has just lost his sister Miriam and was still in mourning for her. And Miriam herself had been the person to bring water in the desert to the Israelites. So it makes sense that Moses would associate the absence of water with her death and feel even more powerless and distraught. And that he would “lose his cool” as a result. And does Moses ever lose it! Not only does he throw a tantrum. He says, “Shimu na hamorim”--listen, you rebels! Shall we get water for you out of this rock?” We know that Moshe has a short fuse, and this incident in Chukkat is not the first where we see him display his temper. Early in his career, Moshe saw a taskmaster beating an Israelite slave, and, in a moment of righteous indignation, he strikes the Egyptian, killing him. Remember too how Moshe smashes the tablets that contain the Ten Commandments when he saw the Israelites worshipping the golden calf. But this week’s temper tantrum has disastrous consequences for Moshe, and our sages have struggled to explain the severity of God’s punishment. Rashi argues that striking the rock rather than speaking to it diminished the greatness of the miracle because it made it seem as though it took more power than it did. Ramban looks at verse 10, “Shall we get water for you out of this rock?” and argues that that statement seems to be claiming that Moses and Aaron are taking credit for the miracle and not giving the credit where it is deserved, to God. Other scholars believe that Moshe’s sin started even earlier than when he struck the rock—that it began when he needed to be told that a miracle would occur rather than just having the faith to know that it would occur. Another sage maintains that a prophet who succumbs to anger loses his prophetic ability. And Maimonides argues that Moshe’s sin lies in his name-calling—to Maimonides, his name calling which is really loshan hara—rebels!—means that Moses has lost patience with the people and therefore can no longer be a leader. If we accept that interpretation, then perhaps Moses’s failure to enter the Promised Land is less a punishment and more a recognition that it was time for new leadership, and that Moses and Aaron are physically and emotionally exhausted. That seems to be true of Chukkat in general—that this parsha seems to be about the changing of the guard, about the necessity of a new generation moving into the places once held by Miriam, Aaron, and Moshe. As the introduction to our Eytz Hayyim notes, this parsha seems to be about transitions. The center of gravity is changing here, away from Egypt and toward the Promised Land and away from the old guard to the generation that will enter Eretz Yisrael. We know that there are disputes for the sake of heaven and disputes not for the sake of heaven. Parsha Chukkat might be telling us that there is also anger for the sake of heaven and anger not for the sake of heaven. ‘Righteous indignation’ might be a better term for anger for the sake of heaven. I’ve mentioned examples of Moshe’s righteous indignation; his anger here in Chukkat is a different story. I remember reading that Abraham Lincoln had a terrible temper. I know that’s contrary to the stereotype, but he was a lot more complicated than people tend to think. In any case, Lincoln used to write incredibly angry letters to people who had let him down or failed to follow through on their commitments. But, unlike some of us [and unlike Moshe], what Lincoln did was he sealed the letter in an envelope, and even addressed it. But he NEVER SENT IT. That’s an understanding of the risks of expressing one’s anger. Ben Zoma taught “Who is mighty? One who controls his impulses.” And the Talmud tells us that we should judge a person by three things, three things that sound very similar in Hebrew: kiso by his pocket (his generosity). KOSO, literally his cup but really his APPETITES, and KA’ASO, his anger. That we get angry is only human. How we express that anger is a reflection of our character. Knowing when to get angry and how to turn anger into something constructive may be the best measure of our lives. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, attended his dear wife Chaya Rivka’s funeral in Jerusalem where he was the head of a yeshiva. At the last moment before Chaya was lowered into the ground, the rabbi did not ask for mechilla - forgiveness, from her, as was the custom. He announced that he never did anything in all their years together for which he felt he needed forgiveness. Years later, he was questioned by a student, “Rabbi, how is it that you lived with someone for so long and never argued or disagreed?”
Rav Zalman responded “of course there were arguments, but always we would work together to find understanding. Most importantly we always, however long it took, eventually came to a place of peace.” Parshat Korach includes an argument, a disagreement that does not end peacefully. Korach launches his primary complaint against the High Priesthood of Aaron. By extension, he is also questioning the legitimacy of Moshe’s leadership and prophecy. Throughout the ages, experts, scholars and commentators have attempted to understand what Korach’s true motivations might have been. Surely Korach was aware of Hashem’s choice in Moshe, and how an outright rebellion would end in his own death, which of course, it did. After all, it was not all that long ago that Korach witnessed the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, Aaron's sons (and his own relatives) as the boys made missteps of their own of a similar nature. Perhaps Korach became convinced that his was the correct, and only acceptable view of Moshe’s leadership? Perhaps Korach even believed that Hashem agreed with him in that Moshe promoted priests through nepotism, or that Moshe was becoming too autocratic in his position over his people? Korach and his followers also were present when Aaron and Miriam criticized their brother Moshe. Aaron was punished for this transgression, not at all, and Miriam only a bit more harshly. However the precedent was set; according to Korach’s view of these episodes, criticism of Moshe IS acceptable. Korach may have believed he was taking on a national crusade to break the absolute rule over the Jewish people, his brothers and sisters. His position and rallying cry was interesting. “Why do we need a ruler when all Jews are holy?” While it may be true that each of us holds the potential for holiness, this question is the crux of the argument between order and chaos. It is also the question of independence and faithlessness against a devotion to one’s people and an acceptance of Hashem as our protector. In this case, Korach’s personal beliefs and ambitions drove him to a place of darkness, a place against Hashem, who he believed was on his side in his dispute of Moshe. As always, and in all things, we all must strike a balance to never confuse personal goals and wishes with Hashem’s will. At the very beginning of this week’s parsha, Moses organizes a mission to scout out the land of Canaan. As the Israelites stand on the verge of dispossessing the Canaanite nations, God commands Moses to reconnoiter the territory through the agency of 12 men representing each of the tribes.
They are given specific instructions: “Go up there in to the Negev and into the hill country, and see what kind of country it is. Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many? Is the country in which they dwell good or bad? Are the towns they live in open or fortified? Is the soil rich or poor? Is it wooded or not? And take pains to bring back some of the fruit of the land” (Num. 13:18–20). Unfortunately, we know well that the mission goes awry as the majority of the scouts despair of the chance of conquest. And a grammatical inconsistency seems to give us a clue as to the unfortunate unfolding of events. Numbers 13:22 states, referring to the scouts, that they “went up to the Negev,” using the plural of the verb (vaya’alu); however, it continues by stating, “he came to Hebron,” employing the singular (vayavo). How may we understand this discrepancy, and what does it teach us? Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains... The singular vayavo is striking. According to Sotah 34b, it refers to Caleb, who journeyed there to pray on the grave of the forefathers for strength to stand up against the intentions of his colleagues. Confirmation can be found in Deuteronomy 1:36, where it says, “and to him will I give the land upon which he has walked,” and in fact Caleb did get Hebron . . . But in any case, there is nothing at all in the context of our verse to make Caleb or any other individual, the subject of vayavo . . . We would therefore actually believe that vayavo refers to the whole company. It is put in the singular to indicate that up to Hebron they came “as one man” in complete unison in feelings and unanimity of mind and purpose. They went up from the south and came in unison to Hebron. But there they saw the descendants of giants . . . and this brought about the wavering alteration in their courage and resolutions. Until Hebron the predominating influence of Caleb kept them all in the same mood of courage, determination and faith. In Hebron, Caleb felt the beginning of the difference between himself and the others. (Commentary on Numbers, 201–202) Hirsch here moves beyond the literal analysis and instead he sees the use of the singular as reflecting the emotional state of the scouts. They set out to Hebron to accomplish their mission with a unified sense of purpose. Regrettably, their unity degenerates into chaos as their spirits are dampened by what they uncover. Caleb however proves to be of another mindset—and he succeeds in separating himself from communal despair. Hirsch poetically resolves the textual conflict by arguing that the transition from plural to singular, and back to plural represents an important moment. While they arrive in Hebron of one heart, they leave disheartened, heading in many directions. Only Caleb, along with Joshua, can envision a different, more hopeful scenario. May we, like Caleb, strive to be unified with our community—but when the challenge arises, may each of us find the gumption within us to be the lone dissenting and rational voice. It is often such a heroic voice that redeems an entire nation. It is not always easy to see the connection between one week’s parsha and the last, and we know that the Torah is not necessarily chronological, so it may even be a mistake to look for those connections. But this week’s parsha--B’ha’alotkha—moves almost seamlessly from last week’s Naso.
Remember that last Shabbat we read about the completion of the building of the Mishkan. Well, in this week’s parsha, we turn on the lights. We can only imagine what a powerful experience that must have been. Of course that light appears through the menorah, perhaps the most widely-known symbol of Judaism. God gives Moses exact instructions for how to build the menorah—hammered from gold, “according to the pattern that the Lord had shown Moses.” Though the lamps are meant to be detachable, the menorah is supposed to be fashioned from one solid piece of gold. And high priest Aaron is the one who has the honor of making it, using God’s instructions delivered to him by his brother Moshe. One midrash tells is that the angel Gabriel actually put on a worker’s apron and showed Moshe how to make the menorah—there’s evidence for this in the parsha, where God says, “Now THIS is how. . . .” Some commentators see that word THIS (zeh) as almost like God pointing to something that is visible, like blueprints, there for Moses to see. Perhaps. But, in addition, we are told that the flames should all point to the center of the menorah. Why? One argument is that the reason the flames point inward is so that no one will ever think that God NEEDS the light to shine his way—God has all the light He needs, so the light of the menorah does not point in his direction. But another interpretation—and I like this one better—tells us that pointing toward the center lets us know that we are united as a people, that however individual we are, both as individual people and as members of varied Jewish denominations and affiliations, we are all Jews, and we all point in the same direction. Together, the menorah represents the people of Israel, God’s light unto the nations. Perhaps this is part of what we mean by our “chosenness,” which is not, as we all know, what anti-Semites claim, but rather an increased responsibility and obligation to be a people of the covenant, a people who should serve as role models and, in the words of Rabbi Harold Kushner Z”L, to “teach by both personal and collective example.” A particularly arcane section of this week’s portion of Naso is a tradition known as SOTA. Sota concerns an allegation, and it is sort of a trial. But it is a trial in a very strange sense—there is no evidence offered, there is no witness involved, there is not even a defending attorney. All we have is an angry husband who suspects his wife of infidelity. The Parsha gives us a lengthy description of the process—first, the priest “brings her before the Lord.” She has an opportunity then to confess. But of course it’s possible that she has nothing to confess. If she does not confess at that point, then she must drink “the bitter waters”--MAYYIM HAMAORARIM—that have been collected by adding the dust and ashes from the floor of the Temple to water from the holy laver.
It is noteworthy that the passage in the Torah where this process is described uses the word BITTER—MARIM—several times, making it clear that this is a highly unpleasant experience for the woman, regardless of her guilt or innocence. If she is innocent, according to this practice, nothing will happen. If she is guilty, we are told that “her belly will distend and her thighs to sag.” The commentary in our Etz Hayyim notes that scholars do not agree on exactly what this passage might mean, but many believe that this is a subtle reference to a miscarriage. There are many approaches we might take in thinking about this bizarre practice. It’s even possible that, despite the lengthy description we read, it was never actually put into practice. Think about this country, for example—we have many laws on the books that are never enforced and never actually implemented. On the other hand, if this was a practice—and it’s hard to know why the Torah would spend so much time on this if its wasn’t—then we can be thankful that, according to Yochanan Ben Zachai, the ritual was abandoned in the first century of the common era. According to Ben Zachai, the husband had to be pure if he were bringing charges against his wife; there were no men who met that standard, and so the practice faded away! But what can we take from this ancient TORAT HAKINAOT—the ritual of jealousy? We could focus on so many aspects of this process, but I want to explore this idea of jealousy. In chapter five, the Torah reads: THIS IS THE RITUAL IN CASES OF JEALOUSY, WHEN A WOMAN GOES ASTRAY WHILE MARRIED TO HER HUSBAND AND DEFILES HERSELF, OR WHEN A FIT OF JEALOUSY COMES OVER A MAN AND HE IS WROUGHT UP OVER HIS WIFE: THE WOMAN SHALL BE MADE TO STAND BEFORE THE LORD AND THE PRIEST SHALL CARRY OUT THIS RITUAL WITH HER. Notice that this passage gives us TWO OPTIONS—first, that the woman has gone astray, and SECOND that the man is jealous and is simply “wrought up over his wife.” Here the passage makes clear that it’s possible that the husband is simply imagining her infidelity—a “fit of jealousy” has come over him. We know that humans are not the only beings in the world to experience jealousy. God Himself is a jealous God, and we are told that over and over throughout the Torah. We should note that the word for the husband’s jealousy that is part of the narrative of today’s parsha - Kin’a - is the very same word that is used to describe God’s jealousy. I suppose it might be comforting to think that God has similar feelings to our own. On the other hand, don’t we want God to be better than we are? That reminds me of a story... Mrs. Cohen was almost in tears when she confessed to her best friend: “Oh, Margie, I just learned that my husband is having an affair with his secretary.” Her friend replied, “That can’t be true. You’re just saying that to make me jealous!!” So we know that jealousy is probably a universal emotion. I’m sure that we’ve seen children who want a toy JUST BECAUSE another child is playing with it. Or even the dog who grabs the chew toy out of another dog’s mouth. It always looks better when someone else has it, doesn’t it? So perhaps we’re beginning to understand SOTA, just a bit. What we DON’T know is whether, in a case of SOTA, the husband really suspects his wife is guilty of infidelity, or just wants her out of the picture. We don’t know whether he’s jealous because he loves her or because some other man may have stolen his property. Those questions are left unanswered in the lengthy description we see in Naso. But if God can be jealous at times, can jealousy ever be a good thing? The Talmud tells us that jealousy of a TALMID CHACHAM is acceptable because it motivates us to study Torah in order to be at the same level as the scholar. So perhaps there are times when being jealous drives us to accomplish worthy goals that we would not otherwise have sought. Or, in the words of Steven Wright, “I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.” Jealousy is usually irrational. We can build up a whole world view where no contradictory evidence will make a difference. For example... I know of a case where a very jealous woman assumed her husband was having an affair. So she zealously went through his clothes whenever he came home at night; one night, searching for clues and finding no hairs on his jacket, she said, “Oh, so now you’re having an affair with a BALD woman?!” Many people confuse ENVY and JEALOUSY. And there is a very fine line between the two. Both envy and jealousy make you feel inadequate. But, in the case of envy, you want something that someone else has. This is the tenth commandment—not to covet; here what we are being commanded to avoid is envy. In the case of jealousy, on the other hand, what you feel is that someone is trying to take something that is yours. Jealousy--Kin’A—is the fear of losing what one has, or what one loves, or what one prizes. So Esav is jealous that Jacob has taken his birthright. Leah is jealous that Rachel has taken the husband who, given that she is the elder daughter, should be hers. Cain is jealous of God’s love for Abel and for his sacrifice. But we can also see envy as well as jealousy in these stories. Do Joseph’s brothers envy him for his marvelous coat, his good looks, and his confidence? Or are they jealous of their father’s love for this particular son? Perhaps all apply . . . Milder versions of jealousy are part of what it means to be human. It’s even possible that jealousy lets us know that we love someone, that we don’t want to lose that person to another. But, in most cases, jealousy—as we see here in the case of SOTA—is ugly and irrational. Let us hope and pray that when we feel jealousy—and we know that we will—that we can turn that jealousy into something productive. That we can rise above the childish need for your toy and that we can recognize that God gives us what we need, and to be envious or jealous is to question that faith. So let us rise above those inclinations to love each other AND ourselves. This week's parsha--Bamidbar—begins with instructions to raise up every head, NASO ET ROSH.
We are told that Aaron and Moses went to every tent in order to ensure that every Jew would be counted. Now we know that Jews tend to be pretty wary of censuses. Some of us even count a minyan by saying “not one, not two,” and so forth. If we think back over our long history, we may remember that King Solomon instituted a census in order to assess a tax involving forced labor. The result was a terrible plague that was visited on the people. More recently, we think back to the horrors of the Shoah—where people were literally numbered on their flesh, where the census was a way to round people up in order to slaughter them. But Bamidbar gives us an example of a census that LIFTS US UP. And it tells us that every Jew counts. Every Jew can make a difference. It was Maimonides who said that every person should imagine that the world is evenly balanced between good and evil. With that in mind, then, every one of us can tilt the balance. Whether it be toward good or toward evil. We can ask the following question: “Who is the most important Jew?” You might think Moshe or Avraham or even Albert Einstein. But the answer is much simpler? It is YOU. It is YOU because each of us has the power to tilt the world toward goodness. We embrace the concept of tikkun olam, repairing the world. Many great enterprises that benefit the world have begun with ONE PERSON, one person who had a dream. Israelis use the phrase, “Mishoogah la davar”—crazy for an idea, and maybe it's a requirement to make make a difference in this world. You must see a need and dream of ways to fill that need. Israel itself is the product of such a dream. Theodor Herzl dreamed of a Jewish state. He was without a doubt “meshoogah la davar.” He fought his whole life—and used up all of his financial assets and probably shortened his life in that fight—to defend the idea of an independent Jewish state. Today Herzel’s picture sits above the table at Independence Hall in Tel Aviv, where in 1948 the founders of Israel created that nation. Herzl saw Israel as a way to allow for what he called a “new blossoming of the Jewish spirit.” Even when he was offered land in Uganda, he rejected it; he knew even then that Israel was the Jewish homeland. And I think that any of us who have ever visited that homeland can attest that that small nation has exceed his wildest dreams. May we all be meshoogah la davar. As long as we have dreams, we are alive. As long as we have dreams, we can tilt the balance toward good. As long as we have dreams, we embody what is noblest and most central to our Jewish faith. And, in the unforgettable words of Herzl himself, “If you will it, it is no dream.” Courtesy of Chabad:
The Parsha includes the Tochecha-a litany of curses that can terrify anyone reading them. Curse: “You shall flee though none pursue.” QUESTION: Would it not be much worse if they were fleeing and someone was really pursuing them? ANSWER: A pursuer who intends harm is called a “rodeif.” The one being chased is called a “nirdaf.” King Shlomo in Ecclesiastes (3:15) says: “veha’Elokim yevakeish et nirdaf” —”G‑d always seeks the pursued.” According the Midrash Rabbah (27:5) this is true even when a righteous man is running after a wicked man. Consequently, if the enemies of B’nei Yisrael are really chasing them, G‑d forbid, they retain the hope that even if they are wicked Hashem will come to their defense. The curse is that “Those who hate you shall rule over you” and you will be fleeing. However, inherent in the curse is the fact that Hashem will not defend you against them because you are not in the category of “nirdaf,” since nobody is actually pursuing you. Curse: “I will make your heaven like iron and your land like copper.” QUESTION: Why in the admonition (tochachah) in Devarim does Moshe say the reverse? “Your heavens over you will be copper and the land beneath you will be iron” ANSWER: This admonition refers to the sins that led to the destruction of the first Beit Hamikdash, and the one in Devarim is for the destruction of the second Beit Hamikdash (see Ramban). The first Beit Hamikdash was destroyed because the Jewish people worshipped idols, and the second one was destroyed because of (sinat chinam) unwarranted hatred. Thus, the sins committed in the time of the first Beit Hamikdash were between man and Hashem in Heaven, and the sins in the time of the second Beit Hamikdash were between man and man on earth. Iron is much stronger than copper. Since the crimes perpetrated during the first Beit Hamikdash were primarily against Heaven, Hashem warned, “I will make your heaven like iron.” However, in the second Beit Hamikdash — since the sins were against man on earth, the earth would receive the main blow and “the land beneath you will be iron.” May we pray for the time when none of the curses apply and only the blessings that preceded it in the Parsha of Bechukotai. In this week’s Torah portion, Behar, we read some very well-known passages about the practice of lending money. In fact, three passages in a row discuss this practice.
Here’s the first: "If your brother becomes destitute and his hand falters beside you, you shall support him [whether] a convert or a resident, so that he can live with you." Notice that the word here is “brother”—but we have to know that “brother” here is not our literal, biological brother but rather our NEIGHBOR. The second part in the passage makes that clear, as it refers to either a “convert” or a “resident.” So, we know that we are obliged to support out neighbor so that she or he will never become destitute. Now let’s look at the next passage: "You shall not give him your money with interest, nor shall you give your food with increase." Here we have an additional obligation imposed on us. Not only do we have to support our brother; we also have to do so without taking any interest. It’s also noteworthy that the passage says “INTEREST OR INCREASE.” Rashi tells us that these two words don’t really mean something different but they do mean that if we take interest, we are really committing two sins in the eyes of God. And the final relevant passage: "And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, expecting to be repaid in full. But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High." Three passages right in a row. The messages seem to be similar if not identical. And the fact that there are three makes pretty clear that the obligation to support one’s neighbor and the prohibition on interest—what we know has been called USURY—is very strong. Judaism is not the only religion to condemn usury, known also as RIBBIS. Christianity also condemns the practice. Here’s one passage from LUKE that I want to share with you: I don’t know about you, but that sounds a lot like the passages we read from Behar. And there’s much evidence that Islam and Buddhism also condemn lending of money with interest. Even Dante puts usurers to the seventh circle of hell. But I think we know that the prohibition has been identified with Jews throughout the centuries. Not only identified with Jews, but also used against Jews, used as a reason to seize property, to expel Jews from places like England and Spain, and, in some cases, to execute Jews. So, what’s the problem with charging interest? I think the answer ties to the mitzvah of tzedaka and the hierarchy attached to it. A borrower faced with high interest on a loan may be too desperate to reject the offer. That much seems clear. But the lender also is harmed in this so-called transaction. The problem with lending with interest is that the lender continues to benefit from the lending, even though the money has now passed on to the other party. The lender receives profits in return for his or her one-time action, even without any continuing effort on their part. He or she continues to reap benefits. Along comes the Torah, telling us that we cannot sit back and profit from the misery of others. They used to say that what singles out an Israeli Army commander is that rather than saying "Forward, soldiers!" they say, "After me!" We see so many of the casualties of the present conflict are drawn from the high-ranking officers of the IDF. In other words, I am with you, I am "one of you." Whatever I taught you, I am doing exactly the same thing myself. Whatever sacrifice you make, I am willing to make as well. We are all together in the same boat. No matter how much we achieve, or how many others we may help, we must never rest on our laurels. We must never reap gain from the suffering of others. You probably know that “free loan societies”—gemachs—have always flourished in Jewish communities. That’s CREDIT in the best sense of the word! As we know, the Torah can be both a source of enlightenment and wisdom as well as quite frustrating and controversial.
Contained in this Torah portion of Emor is one of those troubling passages. There, as we will soon read, we are told that all animal sacrifices, all offerings must be without blemish. And the same is true of the priests. The priests--the Kohanim--are prohibited from offering sacrifices if they have defects of any kind. These defects include blindness, being lame, short limbs, a hunchback, boils, growths, and so forth. How do we address these issues? Obviously, these were pre-ADA times. But doesn’t this prohibition seem inconsistent with the inclusiveness that we associate with Judaism?
Think about the broader message of the Torah. That message seems overwhelmingly to be one of widening the circle of inclusiveness and of empowering and protecting those who are at risk. This is clear from our Exodus foundation story; it is also clear from the number of times the Torah explicitly states that we should protect the widow, orphan, poor and so on. In fact, at the end of this week’s parsha, the Torah states, “You shall have one standard for stranger and citizen alike: for I the Lord am your God.” We need to protect the legal rights of strangers and treat them equally. And let’s not forget that there are even Torah-based restrictions on what we can do to slaves. Judaism developed over many centuries and under many internal and external influences. By valuing everyone as equally important, Judaism was revolutionary. Our world continues to struggle with this concept. It is probably unfair to hold the Torah and early rabbis to all of today’s standards. But it is important to apply the underlying principle of elevating the worth of every person. We should teach our children that our Torah is a living document that has the capacity to grow over time. We need to balance the respect for tradition with the need to evolve. This may lead to tough decisions and conversations that won’t always be completely satisfying, but taking an open and honest approach to the Torah is the best way to ensure it remains relevant in our lives and the lives of future generations. |
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