[This d’var Torah is from Rabbi Jethro Berkman, a program officer in Jewish education for the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Foundation, in Newton MA]Cultivating a Culture of GivingA D’var Torah for Ki Tavo – Deut. 26:1-29:8. One of my most vivid memories of attending Hebrew school as a child is the passing of the tzedakah box at the beginning of class. When I arrived at the synagogue and took my seat in class, the teacher would pass a wooden tzedakah box around. On the days I had remembered to grab some coins from my parents, I would proudly slide them through the slot and hear the satisfying clink of the coins in the box. On the days I forgot, I would murmur an excuse and pass the box on to a classmate, feeling a bit embarrassed. Although the money wasn’t my own, and I didn’t know exactly where the tzedakah was donated, this ritual conveyed powerful messages that have stayed with me: giving to those in need is important and is deeply intertwined with being Jewish; I am part of a community that gives; giving is a holy obligation; giving is something that happens regularly; Jewish spaces are spaces where giving happens. This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, conveys some of these same messages. It is part of a web of laws and stories that have shaped the Jewish imperative to give to those in need and that surely lies behind the tzedakah box ritual in my Hebrew school classroom. Ki Tavo begins by linking material abundance with Jewish peoplehood and gratitude to God. When the harvest ripens each year, each Israelite is commanded to bring an offering of his “first fruits” to the Temple and then to recite a declaration of thanksgiving to God, offering gratitude for being redeemed from slavery and brought to the land of milk and honey. The declaration is followed by a commandment for Israelites to set aside a tenth of their yield every third year and to distribute it to “to the Levite, the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow, that they may eat their fill in your settlements.” (Deuteronomy 26:12) By linking giving to the stranger, fatherless, and widow with the bringing of the first fruits to the Temple, the Torah frames giving to the needy as a sacred act. By requiring giving in triennial cycles, the Torah [makes real the abstract of giving tzedakah] as a regular obligation, not an act of benevolence dependent on the stirring of one’s heart. And by linking the giving to the needy with the altar “where the ETERNAL your God will choose to establish [God’s] name” (Deuteronomy 26:2), the Torah locates giving in sacred space. One can see in these verses the framework for giving that was echoed millennia later in my Hebrew school classroom. With its image of a basket of first fruits and its command to tithe the yield of the harvest for the poor, this portion also evokes the specter of hunger, as real today as it was in biblical times. We are living through a time of significantly increased food insecurity for millions of Americans, due primarily to the COVID-19 epidemic. Experts estimate that more than 50 million Americans have experienced food insecurity during the pandemic, an increase of 15 million people since 2019. A friend who works for a local food bank told me he has never experienced demand for food support like he has in the past year. And with the disruptive effects of climate change on crop yields and the prospect of increased inflation on the horizon, food insecurity may continue to grow. Ki Tavo’s verses linking regular giving, God, and sacred space to crops and food have a powerful resonance during this time of food insecurity. It is concerning, then, that in this time of food insecurity both religiosity and individual charitable giving in America are in decline. While in 2000, some 66% of American households donated to charity, in 2018 (the last year for which we have comprehensive data) the number had dropped below 50% for the first time in decades. While it is difficult to prove a causal connection between these figures and America’s well-documented decline in religiosity, the correlation is notable. It seems quite possible that the decreased participation in religious community and spaces in our increasingly secular age has led to a decrease in charitable giving, and one worries about the effects on both local soup kitchens and food banks and national hunger-fighting charities in this time of need. For the sake of the food insecure in these difficult days, and for the future health of our country, I hope that Ki Tavo’s powerful linking of sacred space and religiosity to the obligation to give to those in need can be strengthened. As Americans increasingly seek spirituality and community outside of organized religion, community builders, religious and non-religious alike, must work to cultivate cultures of giving. Looking back on my childhood, I can’t think of another space or club or activity that celebrated and normalized giving to those in need the way my Hebrew school did. The sacred space of the synagogue was where I (and hundreds of my Hebrew school classmates) learned that it is right and normal and holy and expected to give tzedakah, where we absorbed our sense of obligation to give to those in need. May the places we gather, the communities we build and the spiritual messages we share continue to inspire giving to those in need.
This week’s Torah portion is Ki Teitzei – Deut. 21:10-25:19, and contains one of the largest concentrations of mitzvot in the Torah, including the commandment to send away the mother bird before taking its young. In her commentary on this week’s portion, teacher and writer, Ilana Kurshan shares: The Torah does not give any reason for this commandment, and while we might assume it is a way of showing compassion to animals, the Talmud cautions against this way of thinking. As the rabbis argue (Mishnah Berachot 5:3), we cannot presume to know the reasons for God’s commandments; we must fulfill them because God commands us to do so, and not speculate further. In rabbinic literature, the commandment to send away the mother bird—described in just two verses in our parashah—becomes an occasion for exploring the inscrutability of God’s justice and the seeming arbitrariness of divine retribution. The Talmudic rabbis discuss the details of how this commandment must be performed at great length. The Torah teaches, “If, along the way, you chance upon a bird’s nest in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young” (22:6). The rabbis explain that “chance upon” indicates that this commandment does not apply to domesticated birds kept within the house, but only to birds one happens to come across while outside (Hullin 139a). They specify that even if there is only one egg or one fledgling in the nest, it is still necessary to send away the mother bird. Even if the mother is not sitting on the nest but merely hovering over it, it is necessary to send her away as long as her feathers are touching the eggs or fledglings. The rabbis note that in the next biblical verse, when the Torah says “Send the mother away and take the young for yourself,” the term for “send” is written in a doubled form (shaleach te’shalach), which they interpret as signifying that if the mother bird keeps returning to the nest, it is necessary to send her away repeatedly. Although the Torah does not give a reason for the commandment to send away the mother bird, it does stipulate the reward for doing so: “Send the mother away and take the young for yourself, in order that you may fare well and have a long life” (22:7). It is rare for the Torah to list a reward for performing a commandment; one of the only other instances is with the commandment to honor one’s father and mother “in order that you may have long life and fare well” (Deuteronomy 5:16). The Talmudic rabbis are troubled by all the cases in which people fulfill these commandments and do not receive the promised reward. On the final page of tractate Hullin (141b), they tell of one such incident: “There was once someone whose father said to him: Climb up to the top of the building and bring me fledglings, and he climbed to the top of the building and sent away the mother bird and took the offspring. But as he returned, he fell and died. Where is the length of days for this one?” How to account for the boy’s death while he was simultaneously fulfilling the two commandments for which the Torah promises long life?
The rabbis explain that although the Torah promises length of days for fulfilling these commandments, that reward refers not to this world, but to the world to come… They explain that “in order that you may have long life” refers to life in the world that is entirely long, and “that you may fare well” refers to the world that is entirely good. In this world divine justice seems completely arbitrary; bad things are forever happening to good people. But that is only because the world we live in is only part of a larger totality. What we see is not all there is, because there is another realm, the world to come, where justice will be served. This notion may not be very comforting to our secular, this-world-oriented sensibilities, and yet to the rabbis it was very clear that our human perspective is only a fraction of what God perceives… The Talmud’s discussion of the mitzvah to send away the mother bird concludes with a reference to the most famous (or infamous) ancient Jewish heretic, Elisha ben Abuya, known in the Talmud as Acher, meaning Other. According to one view, Elisha witnessed this incident of a boy plummeting to his death after sending away the mother bird as per his father’s instructions, and in response he became a heretic. The rabbis explain that he did not know that the Torah’s reward refers to the world to come, and thus he lost faith. [For an interesting historical novel, read As A Driven Leaf by Milton Steinberg.] Kurshan invites us to consider: “In the face of so much injustice in our world, it is sometimes hard to remember that what we see is not all there is. We can never fully understand the workings of divine justice, and perhaps it would be presumptuous to try to do so. May an awareness of our own limited perspective instill in us a deep sense of humility in the face of a world so much larger and more complex than any of us can fully make sense of, or even sense.” D’var Acher – Another Word/Perspective… from Rabbi Harold Kushner: “The painful things that happen to us are not punishments for our misbehavior, nor are they in any way part of some grand design on God’s part. Because the tragedy is not God’s will, we need not feel hurt or betrayed by God when tragedy strikes. We can turn to Him for help in overcoming it, precisely because we can tell ourselves that God is as outraged by it as we are…” Read more about When Bad Things Happen to Good People here.
Our Torah portion this week is Re’eh – Deut. 11:26-16:17. Moses continues to set the parameters for creating a supportive social structure, as the Israelites prepare to enter the Promised Land. Chapter 15 paints the idealistic picture that “[T]here will be no needy among you… if only you heed the Eternal your God and take care to keep all this Instruction that I enjoin upon you this day…” (Deut. 15:4-5) Then, verses 7-8 come to a more realistic vision and action to take: “If, however, there is a needy person among you… in any of your settlements… do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather you must open your hand and lend him sufficient for whatever he needs.” (15:7-8) In order to give people a sufficient amount for what they need, one must have an idea, some level of understanding of what they are going through. Understanding implies active listening, taking seriously what people are sharing and experiencing. In verse 8, the Hebrew that is translated as “…You must open your hand to him…” is a doubling of the word for open: Ki fato-ach tiftach et yadcha lo. When there is a doubling of a Hebrew word in the text, this implies emphasis. Rashi (1040-1105) teaches that the doubling of the instruction to do this implies doing this many times. By doing this many times, the person develops the midot (character traits) of lev patuach (open heartedness) and n’divut (generosity). In other words, the opening of one’s hand can lead to the opening of one’s heart — and/or perhaps vis versa. The Jewish ideals of giving to those in need – tzedakah – were summarized and taught by Rabbi Moses Maimonides (RaMBaM) – 1138-1204.
Maimonides believed that there are different ways one can give to those in need; it is like a ladder with eight rungs, from bottom to top. Each step you climb brings you to a higher level of giving:
The person who gives reluctantly and with regret.
The person who gives graciously, but less than one should.
The person who gives what one should, but only after being asked.
The person who gives before being asked.
The person who gives without knowing to whom they give, although the recipient knows the identity of the donor.
The person who gives without making their identity known.
The person who gives without knowing to whom they give. The recipient does not know the identity of the donor.
The person who helps another to become self-supporting by a gift or a loan or by finding employment for the recipient.
Note that there is no rung for those who do not give. The giving of tzedakah is a “given;” how you choose to do so is up to you.
This week’s Torah portion is Shoftim – Deut. 16:18-21:9, and includes the instruction for the Jewish value of bal tashchit – do not destroy — do not waste… Rabbi Rachmiel Gurwitz, writing for T’ruah – the rabbinic call for human rights, teaches: “We create tons of waste. Each person generates about five pounds a day. In our fast-paced society where convenience and cost are supremely valued, the result is a “disposable” lifestyle. From to-go containers to plastic packaging, old clothes and millions of other items, we are quite accustomed to tossing things in the landfill. Waste, though, is not just bad for the environment, it is a biblical prohibition. We read in Shoftim :
When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, lo tashchit – you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. For is the tree of the field a person, that it should be besieged by you? (Deuteronomy 20:19-20)
The setting is striking. Even during a war, a moment of life and death, the Torah implores us: Do not destroy. All the more so in our own lives when the choice is far less drastic, we must always search and seek out ways to avoid unnecessary destructive action… Rambam (12th century, Spain & Egypt) basing his interpretation on numerous examples in the Talmud, wrote that the mitzvah of bal tashchit goes beyond just preserving fruit trees: “Do not destroy fruit-trees (wantonly or in warfare), nor may anything else be (wantonly) destroyed.” (Sefer Mitzvot, Lo Ta’aseh 57) He sees this mitzvah as far more expansive. Destruction without purpose is a violation of the Torah. It seems odd, though, to read what seems like a narrow context so expansively. It is understandable that fruit trees that support human survival would be protected from destruction, but Rambam… focuses on the act of destruction, as opposed to the thing that is being destroyed. Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch (19th century Germany)… frames the lo ta’aseh (“thou shalt not”) of bal tashchit in the context of creation. Creation is a divine act, so to destroy is a violation of that initial divine action. When we dispose of things prematurely, we flippantly discard the creative divine energy within them.
Bal tashchit compels us to reflect on our own lives and the waste we generate. Where are places we can reduce our waste, change wasteful habits, or give items new life? It might mean taking on new commitments, like pledging to shop only secondhand or use only reusable plastic containers, composting, switching to digital billing, or using cloth diapers. It is incredibly difficult to break fully free from our disposable culture, but bal tashchit is a call to action urging us to think about the full life cycle of the things we need and use each day… We too should be distressed by wanton waste, and it is all around us. We live in a luxurious time where many of us can afford to toss the old and buy something new. Let’s first ask ourselves, is there some way to mend, repair, repurpose, reuse, pass down, recycle, donate, gift, sell, or give this item a second life in some way? Through this process we will not only fulfill the mitzvah of bal tashchit, but join in the creative and spiritual cycle (and recycle) of all things.” * You might wonder why, if the Hebrew from our Torah portion says – lo tashchit, why is the mitzvah called bal tashchit? The term we use – bal tashchit – comes from the Aramaic; “bal” is the Aramaic equivalent of “don’t [do this]”.
This week we turn to Ekev – Deut. 7:12-11:25. “If only you would listen to these laws …” (Deut. 7:12). These words with which our parsha begins contain a verb that is a fundamental motif of the book of Deuteronomy. The verb is sh-m-a. It occurred in last week’s parsha in the most famous line of the whole of Judaism, Shema Yisrael. It occurs later in this week’s parsha in the second paragraph of the Shema, “It shall be if you surely listen [shamoa tishme’u] … (Deut. 11:13). It appears no less than 92 times in Deuteronomy as a whole. In his commentary on this week’s portion, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks (z”l) wrote: “Time and again in the last month of his life Moses told the people, Shema: listen, heed, pay attention. Hear what I am saying. Hear what God is saying. Listen to what he wants from us. If you would only listen … Judaism is a religion of listening. This is one of its most original contributions to civilization. The twin foundations on which Western culture was built were ancient Greece and ancient Israel. They could not have been more different. Greece was a profoundly visual culture. Its greatest achievements had to do with the eye, with seeing. It produced some of the greatest art, sculpture and architecture the world has ever seen. Its most characteristic group events – theatrical performances and the Olympic games – were spectacles: performances that were watched. Plato thought of knowledge as a kind of depth vision, seeing beneath the surface to the true form of things. This idea – that knowing is seeing – remains the dominant metaphor in the West even today. We speak of insight, foresight and hindsight. We offer an observation. We adopt a perspective. We illustrate. We illuminate. We shed light on an issue. When we understand something, we say, “I see.” Judaism offered a radical alternative. It is faith in a God we cannot see, a God who cannot be represented visually. The very act of making a graven image – a visual symbol – is a form of idolatry. As Moses reminded the people in last week’s Torah portion, when the Israelites had a direct encounter with God at Mount Sinai, “You heard the sound of words, but saw no image; there was only a voice.” (Deut. 4:12). God communicates in sounds, not sights. He speaks. He commands. He calls. That is why the supreme religious act is Shema. When God speaks, we listen. When He commands, we try to obey… This may seem like a small difference, but it is in fact a huge one. For the Greeks, the ideal form of knowledge involved detachment. There is the one who sees, the subject, and there is that which is seen, the object, and they belong to two different realms… Speaking and listening are not forms of detachment. They are forms of engagement. They create a relationship. The Hebrew word for knowledge, da’at, implies involvement, closeness, intimacy. “And Adam knew Eve his wife and she conceived and gave birth” (Gen. 4:1). That is knowing in the Hebrew sense, not the Greek. We can enter into a relationship with God, even though He is infinite and we are finite, because we are linked by words. In revelation, God speaks to us. In prayer, we speak to God. If you want to understand any relationship, between husband and wife, or parent and child, or employer and employee, pay close attention to how they speak and listen to one another. Ignore everything else… Listening lies at the very heart of relationship. It means that we are open to the other, that we respect him or her, that their perceptions and feelings matter to us. We give them permission to be honest, even if this means making ourselves vulnerable in so doing. A good parent listens to their child. A good employer listens to his or her workers. A good company listens to its customers or clients. A good leader listens to those he or she leads. Listening does not mean agreeing but it does mean caring. Listening is the climate in which love and respect grow. In Judaism we believe that our relationship with God is an ongoing tutorial in our relationships with other people. How can we expect God to listen to us if we fail to listen to our spouse, our children, or those affected by our work? And how can we expect to encounter God if we have not learned to listen. On Mount Horeb, God taught Elijah that He was not in the whirlwind, the earthquake or the fire but in the kol demamah dakah, the “still, small voice” It is that voice you can only hear if you are listening. Crowds are moved by great speakers, but lives are changed by great listeners…”
Our Torah portion this week is Va’etchanan – Deut. 3:23-7:11 and calls us to “Listen, Israel, the Eternal is our God, the Eternal is One.” Deut. 6:4) The first word to follow this “watchword of our faith” is love – “You shall love the Eternal your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all that you have.” (Deut. 6:5)Listen and love. Rabbi Yakov Nagen in his book Be, Become, Bless: Jewish Spirituality between East and West (2019) comments that “Listening is the absolute sign of love, and an inability to listen is a sign (and a cause) of a lack of true love. When we love someone, we care about them and are interested to hear what they have to say, so we are able and want to listen to them… Listening is not a passive activity. It is an art and it entails great effort. It is: being present. When we listen and allow the words we hear to penetrate us deeply, we make space for the other (for the Other…) and receive them. This is the meaning of love.” (p. 281) Many people cover their eyes while reciting the “Shema,” enabling them to focus on what it is that they are saying. Yet, another way of understanding this is taught in The Little Prince: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Closing one’s eyes enables one to focus deeply, and when one truly listens, one sees with the heart. Rabbi Nagen teaches us that we are told to listen… and to affirm the Oneness, the singularity, of God. And then we are told to love God… Wherever we are, that place, that time, is where (and when) God is as well. There is a sense of unity in this; a unity of God and a unity with God. The gematria (numerical value) of the word “one” (Echad – אחד – 1+8+4) and the word “love” (ahava – אהבה – 1+5+2+5) is the same = 13. Love means becoming one with another, just like in the archetypal story in the Garden of Eden, “And they shall cleave to their beloved, and they will be one flesh” (Bereshit 2:24). The power of love is in the feeling that the other is not a stranger to me, but becomes “bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh” (Bereshit 2:23), and together we become “one flesh” (Ibid 24). The strength of our connection to God stems from the acknowledgment that we are created in God’s image, that God is not strange or external to us. Attaching ourselves to God does not blur our individual identity, it sharpens it. Attaching ourselves to our beloved does not blur our individual identity, it sharpens it. Close your eyes… and listen… with your heart… and love.
This week we begin the book of Devarim – Deuteronomy – Deut. 1:1-3:22. Moses begins his series of orations to the people of Israel as they are about to enter the Promised Land. He begins with recalling the past forty years, starting with Sinai, and reminds the people that he could not lead them alone and without help, saying: “Pick from each of your tribes people who are wise, insightful, and seasoned…” (Deut. 1:13) And they did. What does it mean to be wise? Is it insight? Good judgement? Common sense? An orderly and balanced sense? The Mishnah (Pirke Avot 5:9) teaches –
A fool and a sage both have seven traits:
The wise never speak before the wiser.
They do not interrupt their companions;
they are not afraid to reply;
they ask to the point and reply as they should;
they speak of first things first and last things last.
If they have not heard they say I have not heard.
They acknowledge the truth.
The reverse is true of fools.
And Rabbi Chaim Stern teaches, in Day By Day – his collection of daily insights on the weekly Torah portion; this one in preparation for Shabbat:
How can I be at rest when I am jumping to conclusions? Keep me from knowing before I know, from arriving before I get there; teach me that I must earn my wisdom by attending to my experience; and although the only experience I can have is my own, show me how to learn from the experience of others, and thus make it my own.
Perhaps true wisdom is balance, humility, learning from one’s own experiences, being open to new experiences, and always seeking to learn more.
It seems like it was only yesterday that we began the book of Numbers, and yet, with this week’s double portion of Matot/Massei Numbers 30:2 – 36:13, we find Moses sharing instructions and land distribution rights with the Israelites, as well as recounting the journeys – massei – of the Israelites, outlining their travels from Egypt through the desert.
“These were the marches of the Israelites who started from the land of Egypt, troop by troop, in the charge of Moses and Aaron. Moses recorded the starting points of their various marches as directed by the Lord….” (Numbers 33:1-2).
Why list every starting – and stopping – point on the Israelites’ journey? Various midrashim and rabbinic commentators offer various explanations: “Cup half full” – 1) the travels are enumerated to emphasize and highlight God’s power, and to ensure that the Israelites recognize God’s strength… “Cup half empty” – 2) the detailed review will act as a rebuke to the Israelites, for according to the Midrash, every place that is listed was a locus of sins committed by the Israelites… “Hey, you held on to the cup!” – 3) Sforno, a medieval commentator, explains that the Torah’s listing acts to praise the Jewish nation – the list of their stopping points highlights the challenges they faced, and by extension praises their faith. Abigail Dauber Sterne, Educator for the Mandel Fellows Institute, suggests that the text might be telling us something about journeys per se. “The Torah is emphasizing the value of travel. By repeating the Israelites’ itinerary, the text draws attention to all the places that the Israelites have been and to all the experiences they have had. In essence, the Torah is saying that there is inherent value to journeys, to life experiences. Whether these experiences are one’s great triumphs and miracles or whether they are one’s trials and failures, they are, in and of themselves, important. For every individual, every family, and every nation, our collected experiences create who we are and what is meaningful to us.” Thus, our Torah teaches us that the recounting of the Israelites’ journeys and their experiences is important for them – and for us – as they (and we) appreciate the development of our people’s (and our own) unique character and identity. As we conclude the fourth book of Torah, we say together:Be strong! Be Strong! And let us strengthen each other!
Last week’s Torah portion (Balak) ended with a cliffhanger, as the Israelites are lured into debauchery and idolatry by the locals, and God becomes incensed. God instructs Moses to kill (impale) the ringleaders. As Moses and the elders are standing there, thinking about what an act of violence this will take… an Israelite tribesman takes a Midianite woman into the tent chamber near the Sanctuary to engage in sexual relations with her, and Pinchas, the priestly grandson of Aaron, follows them in and impales both on a spear. Pinchas’s action has averted a terrible disaster and the plague that has already claimed twenty-four thousand people, is checked. End of portion.
This week’s portion is Pinchas – Numbers 25:10-30, and opens:
The Eternal spoke to Moses, saying, “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, so that I did not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion. Say, therefore, ‘I grant him My pact of friendship [covenant of peace – b’rit shalom]. It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time, because he took impassioned action for his God, thus making expiation for the Israelites.’” (B’midbar 25:10-13)
So it seems that God approves of what Pinchas did and bestows a covenant of peace for him and for his descendants for all time. However the scribing of the text hints that Pinchas’s peace is imperfect. The Hebrew letter vav is comprised of a long vertical stem and a very short horizontal line at the top. (See third letter from the right, above) However, in the Sefer Torah (the Torah scroll), in the specific word shalom in the phrase b’rit shalom – the covenant of peace with which God endows Pinchas in this episode, the vertical stem of the letter vav has a break in it; as if it were an “imperfect peace” [as if it were not whole – or shaleim in Hebrew]. Indeed… In a commentary by Rabbi Marc Wolf, Rabbi Wolf notes that commentators have wondered why the difficult episode of Pinchas is split between the two successive portions read last week and this. He suggests one possible reason: “…in splitting the story, we are afforded some distance from the violence, so that when we read God’s gracious response and blessing of Pinchas and his descendants, it does not sit in as stark a contrast with the bloody outcome of Pinchas’s actions.”
Like many of us, Rabbi Wolf, too, is uncomfortable with the seeming endorsement in the text of Pinchas’s brutal act, and wonders how to understand the reward of the “b’rit shalom – the covenant of peace.” Rabbi Wolf teaches that God has understood that a b’rit shalom is needed because the violence, though mandated, has undermined the unity among the people. Rabbi Wolf suggests that the covenant of peace is not only for Pinchas, but also for the Children of Israel. Peace cannot be perfect, if it is not whole. [Perhaps the Torah scribes underscored this as a message to us, as we read the scroll. Pinchas – and the people – have some healing to do. This then begs the question: what about us? How perfect is our own sense of peace?] Rabbi Wolf concludes, “Rabbinic Judaism could not let the story of Pinchas stand as an example for religious fervor. In a wonderful piece of Talmud from Sanhedrin, when his fanaticism comes face to face with rabbinic courts, the Rabbis acknowledge the immorality, but declare, “The law may permit it, but we do not follow that law” (82a). “This kind of fanaticism and violence are overwhelmingly the dominant voices much of the world hears in the name of religion. However, we are inheritors of a tradition that understands that Judaism is a voice of moderation, and that religion guides us to be better humans, working to fulfill God’s will and to respect life… We walk in the footsteps of the Rabbis who understood the damage done by extremism. We practice a Judaism that seeks sh’leimut – wholeness – in our relationship not only with God, but with each other and within ourselves.”
I spent this past Tuesday in Washington. D.C. on Capitol Hill. Well, I should say I was part of an Ohio/Michigan delegation and zoomed in for meetings with Ohio and Michigan Senators and Representatives to advocate for passing legislation on behalf of the Rohingya and Burmese people, as well as permanently repealing the Global Gag Rule. Five meetings in five and a half hours; thanking our congress men and women for their past support and hoping for their continuing support of these important pieces of legislation.* I am not politically savvy; truthfully, I’m rather an idealist, as many of you know. I see the news, I find out the details; I attend leadership seminars where I learn from people who are working “on the ground” trying to make due with little financial support, minimal health resources, and maximal political persecution… and I wonder how long it will take for people to understand that human rights are for all people, not just people with power. If we remain blind to realities, does it mean they do not exist? When the unknown becomes known, can we have the courage to confront what we’d rather keep invisible? In his d’var Torah this week, Rabbi Jesse Paikin asks: What makes the unseen seen? What makes the unknown known? And what do we do once we know and see?
These are questions that Parshat Balak throws quite literally in our face. In one of the most vivid scenes in the Torah, the magician Bilaam – dispatched by an enemy king on a nefarious mission to curse the Children of Israel – comes face-to-face with a messenger of God. Famously, Bilaam – due to ignorance or wilful blindness – could not see the messenger with his own eyes; only his donkey could. It ultimately takes an act of God to open Bilaam’s eyes:
Then the ETERNAL opened Bilaam’s eyes, and he saw the angel of the ETERNAL standing in the road with his sword drawn. So he bowed low and fell facedown. (Numbers 22:31)
Much rabbinic commentary focuses on Bilaam’s ignorance and the symbolism of the donkey as the one who could sense God’s presence. But for a moment, I want to extend Bilaam some empathy. We can understand that it’s hard to see the things we’d rather not. We can even have compassion for the depths of strength it takes to confront our moral responsibility for those things we’d rather remain buried – it literally takes the power of God to open Bilaam’s eyes. But then there’s a shift. Once Bilaam’s eyes are open, he accepts responsibility. He confronts the truth and moves for reconciliation: “I erred because I did not know that you were standing in my way,” (Numbers 22:34) he confesses to God. He moves from a program of cursing to one of blessing. Rashi’s commentary makes the upshot of this shift to responsibility abundantly clear: In observing that Bilaam – a non-Israelite foreigner – benefits from God’s direct intervention, he asks a frankly astonishing question: “Why does the Shechinah (God’s Presence) rest upon so wicked a person?” (Rashi on Numbers 22:5)
His answer: so that nobody anywhere might ever use the excuse: “If only I had known, I would have changed for the better.” When the unknown becomes known, can we have the courage to confront what we’d rather keep invisible? This moment in Torah provides an unambiguous example of how, once our eyes are open to the truth, it cannot be ignored. All the more so, it must be acted upon.
I went to Washington, DC this week because the importance of human rights is key to my Jewish values. I think this is underscored in one of our important rabbinic teachings: If I am not for myself, who will be for me?If I am only for myself, what am I?And… if not now, when?(Pirke Avot 1:14) Rabbi Hillel, the author of this text, knew how we must take care of ourselves; this goes for each of us personally, and our community, and our country. Certainly, we have to make sure that our needs are met so that we can be the best that we can be. But, what do we become when we think only about ourselves? By using the word “what” – Rabbi Hillel teaches us that we become less than human. When we turn our backs on the human rights of others, we lose part of our own humanity. And if not now? The urgency of now cannot be put off for tomorrow. We simply cannot turn our backs on the persecution of the Rohingya and other peoples of Burma; nor can we turn our backs on the importance of supporting proper health care, empowerment, and human rights around the world. I went to Washington, DC this week because the urgency of now impels me to help make this world the best that it can be. When the unknown becomes known, we must find the courage to confront what we’d rather keep invisible. * We were part of a larger contingent of clergy and staff and leadership of the American Jewish World Service. 37 advocates visited 51 congressional offices representing 20 different states, 29 senators, 22 representatives, 47 Democrats, and 4 Republicans.
Be strong! Be Strong! And let us strengthen each other!
