"I Will be Sanctified" - a Thought for Parashat Shemini

Nadav and Avihu, Leviticus 10

Dennis Prager likes to say that the Torah is all about boundaries and distinctions.  Israel and the Nations.  Sacred and Ordinary.  Male and Female.  Allowed and Forbidden.  And so on.  At first glance, this might sound like a rather pedestrian focus for one of the most revered holy books on the planet. (I say this, because the Torah is holy not only to the Jews but to Christians as well.  Other sects which are offshoots of Christianity also revere it.  As do Muslims.)  How is a book whose author sometimes seems obsessed with classifying things - and who expresses this obsession amply through the Torah's text - so elevating to so many?  What's so spiritual about boundaries?

This is an easy question for me to answer, having spent 28 years in the military service of the United States.  Some people think that the military man's taking comfort from an easily definable structure and rules, reflects a weakness of character, but the truth is that structure and rules are liberating in that one need not worry about the correctness of one's actions.  If one is following the regulation, and using the command structure the way one should, one can accomplish great things.  It's when the leadership is capricious, neither following nor enforcing the regs, when troops are stymied into inaction, not knowing what will be the consequences of their efforts.  Of course, some endeavors require more structure than others.  But think about the worst job experience you've ever had in your working life, and I'm betting that it was a lack of knowing where you stood in the company or agency that made the experience bad.  I'm for rules and structure which are constant, even when I don't completely agree with them.

In that spirit, this week we read a narrative in the Torah that is, certainly on the surface, disturbing.  The Ohel Mo'ed, the Tabernacle or movable sanctuary has been inaugurated.  Moses' brother Aaron, who has been chosen for the office of offering the divine service, has made the first sacrifices exactly according to instructions.  Hashem has shown His satisfaction with the service.  The people are happy to have pleased their G-d.

And then Aaron's two sons, Nadav and Avihu, take it upon themselves to offer a sacrifice that has not been commanded.  The 'alien fire' that they offer, flares up on the altar and consumes the two.  G-d has shown His displeasure, in spades, for this breach of protocols.

One would have to be heartless to not see this as a very harsh judgement.  At least on the surface.  Nadav and Avihu saw the wonder of their father's service, and wanted to emulate it.  For that, they were instantly killed.  Did these two spirited young men really deserve to die?  Did Aaron deserve the grief that must have accompanied the loss of two of his sons?

But think about it.  The duties of a priest are highly scripted, and what he does is seen to placate Hashem and reconcile Him with His people.  The priest cannot just go off-script, go free lance.

It reminds me of an incident that occurred on Christmas eve 2015, back when hover boards were all the rage.  Remember?  Before people realized that their batteries were subject to exploding spontaneously, and the fad faded.  Video that went viral all over the world showed a Philippine Catholic priest, Father Albert San Jose, rolling and spinning on one of the boards, during Mass.  Some of his parishioners were delighted that their priest was so down-to-earth.  But his bishop was not, and promptly suspended him for not serving the Eucharist with the respect and reverence it required.  Father Albert went free lance, and was whacked down for it.

I've never tried speaking from a hover board while performing my public duties as a rabbi.  Frankly, I'm such a klutz that I would probably have ended up flat on my back in the aisle of the shul!  That aside, I can imagine that it would have gone over like a rock in most places where I've served.  We rabbis don't serve under bishops, but there was always someone who thought that he or she was my boss, (Hint:  usually whoever was signing my paychecks.)

In this context, Nadav and Avihu's punishment might seem harsh but not outlandish.  By offering a sacrifice not commanded - and this by these two who were not empowered to offer it in any case - they, in effect, made a powerful statement. "G-d?  I'm in charge!"

The ancient Israelites knew the misery that comes when there are no rules.  In their servitude to Pharaoh, there was no protection by labor laws or safety regulations.  When in his capriciousness the Pharaoh stopped providing straw while not easing the quota of bricks, there was nothing to stop him.  When Pharaoh ordered all the male offspring of the Israelites killed upon birth, there was no constitution to protect the babies.  There were only two crafty midwives, Shifra and Puah, who found excuses for noncompliance.

This lack of law, this arbitrary action by an all-powerful monarch, certainly terrorized and traumatized the Israelites.  When Hashem led them out of slavery to freedom, that freedom didn't mean 'anything goes.'  Rather, it was the freedom that comes with predictable, enforceable structure, by rules that the people could easily learn and, even if they might not agree with them, live by them without worrying about whether they were actually in compliance.  The law, when you're unfamiliar with how it works, can be frightening.  But when it is comprehensible, it is liberating.  Nadav and Avihu had no use for the law's strictures.  They insisted on going off-script, offering to G-d what He hadn't required or requested, serving in a role for which their father, not them, had been appointed.  The judgement may seem harsh, but in this light it does not seem as much so as at first glance.  Shabbat shalom.

Drash for Passover Seventh Day

As you know, I don't usually post in Hebrew but...the President of our congregation asked me to give a drash on the last day of Pesach as our Rabbi is out-of-town.  So here it is.  Okay,  students of Hebrew:  your assignment is to translate into English and submit for grading!

עליה לארץ, זה כמו להתחתן ולהתחיל חיים כבן זוג.  אתם זוכרים איך היה?

כל פעולה בחיים, כל שגרה, אתה צריך לעשות באופן שונה, כי עכשיו יש לך שותפה בבית.  יש חוקים חדשים בבית.  כל מה שאני עושה, יש השפעה על בין בני זוג.  לשנה הראשונה לפחות, מי שהתחתן חי כמה שהוא הולך, כויכול, על קליפות ביצים.  ונאמר שברגע שאתה מפסיק לחיות ככה, זה הרגע שנגמר ה "ירח דבש." ככה הולך התחלת חיים נשואים.  אבל האספקט הכי חשוב, הוא שכל אחד שואל ושואל:  איך זה משנה עכשיו, כאשר אתה נשוי?  וכאשר שואלים, לפעמים צריך לחשוב רגע ושניים לפני שאתה עונה. 

איך זה דומה לעליה לארץ?

גם אחרי עליה לארץ, אתה צריך לעשות באופן שונה, כל פועלת חיים.  כמוכן, אנשים שואלים:  איך שונה לעשות "זה" בארץ?  ולפעמים, צריך לחשוב רגע או שניים כדי לענות על השאלה.

ברוח הזאת, שאלו אותי לא רק איש אחד או שני אנשים:  "איך פסח שונה בארץ, מאיך שהיה בחו"ל?"

יש תשובות הומוריסטיות.  למשל, בחו"ל, אם רציתי לקנות משהו עם חמץ אפילו יום לפני פסח, זה לא היה בעיה.  עם אני קניתי עוגיות "אוריוס," שאני אוהב, מייד לפני פסח ולא גמרתי לאכול אותם לפני החג, אנחנה פשוט סגרנו את החבילה, ושמנו אותה בארון עם כל החמץ, סגרנו את הארון ומכרנו את כל מה בפנים לשכן לא יהודי לדולר, ואחרי פסח החזרתי את הדולר וגמרתי לאכול את ה-"אוריוס" שלי.  אין בעיה.  אבל פה בארץ, הסופרמרקט עצמו צריך להיות כשר לפסח, וזה תהליך יותר מסובך מלהכשיר בית.  אז, שבועיים לפני פסח אני נכנסתי לסופר לקנות "אוריוס"...ומצאתי שהכל כבר כשר לפסח.  ומה חשבתי?  מה זה??!  אני יכול לגמור חבילת "אוריוס" לפני פסח!  ועכשיו אני צריך לחיות בלי "אוריוס" לא רק שבוע, אלא שלושה שבועות!  זה כבר מקוצה!

הומור בצד, יש כמה הבדלים.  בסוף הסדר, בחו"ל, אומרים: "לשנה הבאה בירושלים."  פה בארץ אומרים: "לשנה הבאה בירושלים הבנויה." זה לא הבדל כל כך גדול.  יותר משמעותי, פה עשינו את כל הסדר בעברית.  בחו"ל, היינו עושים בעיקר באנגלית, ובעברית רק החלקים ששרים.

אבל ההבדל הכי משמעותי, הוא שבארץ עושים רק סדר אחד.  לכן, כשגמרנו את הסדר, התאכזבתי יותר מקצת שלא נעשה למחרת.

למה עושים שני סדרים בחו"ל?  ההלכה מבוססת על שבעולם העתיק, לא היו שני דברים שיש לנו היום.  אחד, לא יכלו לחזות באופן מדויק, את הופעת החודש.  היה אפשר לחזות רק כבין שני ימים.  ודבר שני, לא היתה תקשורת מיידית כמו שיש לנו היום.  לכן, מהרגע שחל הופעת החודש בירושלים, לא היה אפשר להודיע לקהילות בחו"ל בזמן.  לכן, לפי ההלכה מכפילים כל חג, לא רק פסח, בחו"ל.  למה לא מתירים לעשות יום טוב אחד היום?  היום בכל זאת יכולים לחזות מדיוק.  ויש לנו תקשורת מיידית.  אז למה לא מקלים ההלכה?  יש רבנים שאומרים:  בחו"ל צריכים להכפל חגים, כדי להגיע לאותה רמת רוחניות, שאפשר להסיג ביום אחד בארץ.  לפעמים מתריד קצת להכפל חגים; אני לא מתבייש להודות. 

אבל בקשר לסדר פסח, להכפל מרגיש נכון.  האמת היא, שהיום גם בארץ קשה להרגיש מספיק רוחני בסדר אחד.  מיד אחרי הסדר הרגשתי, שעם עוד סדר למחר אני אספיק יותר טוב להרגיש שאני עצמי עברתי מעבדות לחרות.  ובסופו של דבר, זאת מטרת הסדר.

מענין, שאני לא לבד לדעוג על זה.  כמה פעמים אני שמעתי פה בבית הכנסת, על האתגר לעשות חוויה טראנספורמטיבית ממה שעושים לחג. זה לא רק על מחשבותיי.

אולי אציע שעפילו בארץ כל אחד יעשה שני סדרים?  רעיון לא נורה, אבל לא בקלפים.  זה לא יקרא.

יותר טוב מצידי להציע, שינוי בחשיבה.  אילה שעושים סדר כל שנה ושנה, מגיעים למקום שיכולים לעשותו כמעת באופן אוטומטי.  וחושבים על סדר כמקרא משפחתי וחברתי.  וסדר פסח, הוא זה גמכן.  אבל החי חשוב, הוא להרגיש שאתה הייתה שם עם עם ישראל.  במילים של המשנה:  בכל דור ודור חיב אדם לראות את אצמו כאילו הוא יצא ממצריים.  או שסדר פסח צריך להיות, במילים של יושבת ראש שלנו, "חוויה מעצבת."  זה החי חשוב.  איך להגיע למקום ההוא, איך לעשות פסח עם כוונה?  לכל אחד עם הגישה שלו.  זה השורש.  בכל מקרא, מסופו של היום הזה יש לנו 358 יום עד פסח הבא, לחשוב על זה!  חג שמח!

Reflection on Passover in Israel

Seder at my mother-in-law
Mazal Jerbi's home, 2017

All my life I've been celebrating the Passover Seder every year - often twice per year - and ending it with the words:  Next year in Jerusalem!  This aspirational statement, of course, reflects the mindset that the Jewish people, if they're not in their Promised Land, are in exile.  Although 'Jerusalem' is said, it is generally understood to mean the entirety of the Land of Israel - not just the capital built by King David some three millennia ago.  If one celebrates Passover anywhere in the State of Israel, one has fulfilled one's previous years wish.

Until this year, I only celebrated Passover once in Israel, 25 years ago when I was studying in Jerusalem.  I traveled down to Clara's moshav - we were engaged then - to celebrate it with her family.  This year, I once again celebrated with Clara's family in Beit Shikma, although the cast of characters was somewhat different given how many years have passed.  Still, it was a raucous good time!

But the real advantage of celebrating Pesach in Israel is not Seder night, which is a wonderful event no matter where in the world you celebrate it.  Rather, it's the rest of the days of Pesach, when you're still on the hook to eat everything unleavened...

Eyal is home from the army for the initial days of Pesach, so we went out for lunch today, to Sun, a local Asian bistro which opened only a few weeks ago. When they opened, we found a flyer from them in our mailbox, proclaiming that they had sushi and noodle dishes and were certified kosher for Pesach by the local rabbinate.  I said, No way!  But Ashkelon is  definitely a Sephardi town, and many of the Sephardim eat rice...and the noodles being served during Pesach are all rice noodles.  And until I came to Israel and saw it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed soy sauce kosher for Pesach!  As you can see from the picture, Eyal is very much appreciative of the Pesach culinary possibilities here in Eretz Yisrael!

Okay, enough gloating; I know I should say something about the Torah reading for this coming Shabbat.  It's from the 33rd and 34th chapters of Exodus, and in it we find the statement of the attributes of G-d which we sing at the morning services for all festivals that do not occur on Shabbat:  Hashem! Hashem!  A Compassionate and Gracious G-d!  Slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, extending kindness to a thousand generations, forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin.  In front of the open ark, with the Torah scrolls held by officials of the congregation, we chant these verses three times.

I'll never forget when, many years ago, a secular Jewish man explained to me why he believed that G-d is merciful and not judgemental.  "Because I'm merciful," he explained. "I try never to judge anybody, rather to give them the benefit of the doubt.  And if I'm this merciful in my imperfection, then G-d must be a thousand times more merciful."

Interesting way to put it, but the man's logic was sound.  If we take any positive quality that we might possess in some measure, imagine that quality presented in a perfect way and you've got G-d nailed.  And this is what Passover is all about, as expressed in the Dayeinu poem in the Haggadah.  G-d brought us out of Egypt, executed judgements against the Egyptians, executed judgements against their gods, slew their firstborn, gave us their wealth, split the sea for us, led us through it on dry land, drowned our oppressors in it, provided for our needs in the desert for 40 years, fed us manna, gave us the Sabbath, brought us close to Mt. Sinai, gave us the Torah, brought us to the Land of Israel, and built us the Temple to atone for our sins.  As the poem says, had G-d blessed us with any one of this multitude of blessings, dayeinu - it would have been enough.  But as we read in the account of the Exodus, He blessed us with all the above, and that should forever be a source of wonderment and awe.

Wishing everybody a kosher and joyous Pesach!

Pesach - Let the Journey Begin: a Thought for Shabbat Hagadol/Pesach

Please forgive me for not posting last week; I had a very busy week!

This week my thoughts, like those of most Jews on the planet, turn to Pesach - the Passover festival, which begins at sunset on Monday next week.  Traditionally, Shabbat Hagadol - the Sabbath immediately preceding Pesach - was one of two annual occasions when a pulpit rabbi would stand and give a public sermon.  The other one was Shabbat Shuvah, the Sabbath immediately preceding Yom Kippur.  It was said that the laws concerning one's observance of these two all-important days are so complex as to require the congregation's rabbi to do something out-of-character.  Obviously, it is no longer out-of-character for a rabbi to give a sermon!  Today, the rabbi who only stands in the pulpit to give a sermon twice a year would probably not last long in his or her job.  But there was a time when it was a regular practice to give drashot only very occasionally.

During my rabbinate, it was never my habit to offer sermons on how to conduct special observances.  It's not that there's anything wrong with the practice, rather that ritual instruction was simply not my focus.  Every Jew knows that you're supposed to expunge hametz, leaven, from one's diet for the duration of the Passover festival.  And that you're supposed to refrain from all food and drink on Yom Kippur.  I figured that, if someone in my congregation did not understand exactly what either meant, they would ask me privately.

I felt 'called out' about this in one of my last years as an active rabbi.  I had a large class of conversion candidates that year, and the mandatory course I taught for them ran up to Pesach and a bit beyond.  In a session close to the festival, having promised to talk about it, I focused on the why of Passover - the ancient events that have resulted in the two major rituals of the Seder and the refraining from hametz.  At the end of the session, several students came up to me, anxiety on their faces.  I hadn't told them how to do Pesach.  As candidates for conversion, seeking to graft themselves into the Jewish people, they were of course concerned that they knew what to do, and how to do it.

Sufficiently chastened, I spent the next session - the last one before Pesach - going through the nuts-and-bolts of exactly what it meant to expunge hametz from one's life for eight days.  (I didn't have to explain how to do the Seder, because all of them would be attending my 'Teaching Seder' on the first night.)  During the lesson, I could see a number of anxious faces turning much more serene.  If belatedly, I was giving them what they thought they needed.

But my bottom line that night - which I'm going to repeat to you who are reading this - is that Pesach is a Journey.  It's a Journey towards developing a mindset that accepts the challenges of observing the festival as the means to so identifying with it that one makes the ancient narrative one's own, placing oneself squarely in the midst of the people Israel, internalizing that one was there and experienced liberation.  And this is not just my notion; it comes straight from the Mishnah, Tractate Pesachim:  בכל דוד ודוד חיב אדם לראות את אצמו כאילו יצאנו ממצריים - In every generation, one must see oneself as he one had [personally] been liberated from Egypt.

Understanding this, we can see the various rituals of Pesach - the cleaning, the matzah, the Seder - as being calculated to bring one to this very mindset.  And the worst sin a Jew can commit regarding this observance - as specified in the Seder rubric of the rasha, the evil son - is to divorce oneself from the whole business.  We're told in the Haggadah, how to respond to this sort of selfishness:  one explains to this son that, had he been there, he would not have experienced redemption because he would have been too caught up in himself.

The rituals of Pesach, in particular the expunging of the hametz, are complex; the Jew who has not had a lifetime of experience in their ins and outs, is likely to make some mistakes.  If this describes you, take heart!  Pesach is indeed a Journey from one mindset to another.  You do your best with the ritual, and if you succeed, you might experience the change in mindset that it is calculated to bring.  And if you do slip up and find yourself eating something that's hametz - or even possessing it, which is also forbidden - then you can forgive yourself, learn the lesson, and keep soldiering on.

A joyous and kosher Passover to all my readers!  Let the journey begin! 

He Who Can...Teaches; a Thought for Parashat Vayak-hel/Pekudei

Betzal'el and Oholiav working on the altar

Everybody knows the old saw, he who can, does; he who can't, teaches.  It's meant as an expression of contempt for the teaching profession.  To many, teachers are seen as losers.  Why else would they labor under so much bureaucracy, and endure so much stress over the behavior of unwilling students, and try to educate the children of uninterested parents, all for a salary considered substandard for the amount of education they have?  In this view, teachers are (as they say here in Israel) 'friers,' chumps, and if they remain in their profession rather than opt for something easier and with better compensation, it must be because they are mediocre people incapable of something better.

We don't value our teachers as we should.  I don't think there is any class of professionals in our society who are as poorly thought of.  (Well, okay...maybe used car salesmen...and politicians!)  Because of this low estimation of teachers, people try to second-guess them and control them to unreasonable degrees.  Thinking teachers to be extraneous, they look for alternative ways to acquire knowledge and skills that don't require attending class and listening to a teacher 'drone on.'  And yet, if a child fails to do well in school, the child's parents and many others, are ready to blame the teachers.  Remember 'No Child Left Behind,' signed into law by George W Bush?  Teachers derisively referred to it as 'No Teacher Left Standing,' because it was premised upon the notion that it is incompetence among teachers, that causes children to fail to learn. 

But this is not G-d's way.  In this week's Torah reading, in the 35th chapter of the book of Exodus,  verses 30 through 34, we find the following pronouncement:

G-d has selected Betzal'el son of Uri son of Chur, of the tribe of Judah, and has filled him with a divine spirit wisdom, understanding, knowledge and a [talent for] all kinds of craftsmanship. [He will thus be able] to devise plans, work in gold silver and copper, cut stones to be set, and do carpentry and other skilled work.  [G-d] also gave to him and Oholiav, son of Achisamakh, of the tribe of Dan, the ability to teach [others].

Betzal'el and Oholiav have been selected to be the chief and deputy architects, respectively, and craftsmen of the Tabernacle and all its furnishings.  But an inseparable part of their commission is to take the skills which they have so mastered, and teach them to others.  They are to supervise the sacred construction, and do the most critical parts themselves, but they are also to raise up the next generation of craftsmen and designers, and parcel out to them parts of the work so that these students can, in turn, practice and hone their own skills.  This is equally important to the actual work the two were to do themselves; as the Torah puts it, both the ability to design and craft, and to teach, are equally G-d-given.

The underlying statement is that teaching is an enterprise, whose importance cannot be minimized.  Just as important as creating sacred objects and sacred space, is the effort to ensure that others will be able to do so in the future.  Of course this text is talking about craftsmanship but the principle carried over to any kind of useful knowledge or skills.  It is important to do, but the talented doer raises himself to an even higher level when he takes the time and energy to teach.

In Jewish thought, to teach someone is such a sacred task that one who teaches a student is considered the equal to that student's parents in importance.  To teach someone is tantamount to giving them life.

Teacher and students in an Orthodox beis midrash(yeshiva study hall) 

I'm not saying that teachers are universally devalued.  There are certainly spheres where they are revered.  An example is the yeshiva world, the world of the Orthodox Jew - especially the Hareidi, or 'ultra-' Orthodox.  There, teachers are highly respected - perhaps too much as the community shows a reluctance to investigate the occasional miscreant who finds his way into a teaching position there.  This has resulted in a number of terrible scandals in that world.  Perhaps in the secular world, the closest thing to reverence toward teachers is in academe.  University professors are afforded a certain respect, above all others in the teaching profession.  But for most of those who labor in the trenches, teaching your children and mine day after day, year after year, there is little respect afforded.  I have seen this to be the case in the USA, the UK, Australia...and now, here in Israel.

And this is not to say that teachers should be put on a pedestal and automatically considered above reproach.  Apart from an occasional misanthrope who finds his way into the teaching profession, there are also teachers who get burned out, and cynical, and yet remain in the classroom.  Or who pepper their teaching with politics, as has been seen repeatedly in the USA especially during election seasons.  And yes, there are a few teachers whose lack of competence calls into question their fitness to function in their profession.  Teachers are important and should be respected and cherished, but that doesn't mean that they should escape reasonable scrutiny as to their fitness.

Disrespecting teachers is not the way to ensure our future, to take young minds and excite them about all kinds of knowledge.  Teachers are not friers, but rather purveyors of a sacred trust.  Let us learn to respect them for the centrality of that trust to the betterment of society.  Let us encourage those possessing a particular wisdom, understanding, knowledge and talent to do, but also to take time to teach.  Shabbat shalom.   

Shabbat - Yeah, it's a Big Deal! A Thought for Parashat Ki Tissa

To someone without a clear understanding of the basis of Jewish faith, it would be easy to read all the Torah's pronouncements of the importance of observing Shabbat and wonder:  Why is it such a Big Deal?  The repeated proclamations that the one who fails to observe Shabbat, deserves to die, are surely hints of the wrath of a G-d most concerned with judgement at the expense of mercy.  Or are they?

Sometimes, the Torah's elliptical language masks other possibilities.  Such as in this week's Torah portion.  In the 31st chapter of Exodus:  we read:  (verse 14)  You shall keep the Sabbath for it is holy to you.  One who desecrates it mot yumat - מות יומת.  As all who do creative work on it, venich'reta - ונכרתה his soul from the bosom of his people.  

The traditionalist's translation of the phrase 'mot yumat' is 'will be put to death,' as in saying that such a Divine punishment will be forthcoming if one disobeys this dictum.  And likewise, the traditionalist translates 'karet,' the noun form of the verbal 'venich'reta' as 'being cut off' as in from life in the physical sense.  But there is a different way to translate the Hebrew, and using this alternative translation results in a far different picture of G-d's intent.

In the Torah, when a verb is doubled in the form that 'mot yumat' displays, the connotation is 'he will surely...' whatever the action of the verb is.  Therefore, 'mot yumat' can - and I believe, should - be read as 'he will surely die.'

If this is correct, then what is Hashem trying to tell us?  Only that it is the Sabbath that keeps us alive.  And everybody who has observed the Sabbath in its fullness, even only once, knows this truth.

Most of us live busy lives - far too busy!  In the weekly grind to make a living, not to mention raise children and maintain relationships with family and friends, we can easily wear ourselves out.  This is why, after a particularly busy and difficult week, one may find oneself wanting only to sleep in, laze around the house, and perhaps do something passive like watch a movie or a sports contest from one's couch.  If this describes you at times, then you instinctively know that you cannot survive on go-go-go all the time.  Even our recreational pursuits at times seem stressful - anybody ever obsessed over improving their golf or tennis swing? - and we sometimes feel the need to cast aside those things that we've chosen as our recreational activities.

The Sabbath served that purpose, but of course, its focus is more spiritual than spending the weekend watching football.  The best recreation involves connecting with that which is larger than us.  That's why the Sabbath-observant, and anybody who has tried such observance, knows of the restorative effect of spending part of the day in active prayer and study, and the rest of the day in just avoiding the things one does the rest of the week.  Doing so, refreshes us to face the next week.

As to the second caution, that one's engaging in work - as defined in the Torah - on the Sabbath, resulting in one's being 'cut off' from the bosom of one's people; that can also be read two ways.  In the more common reading, where the words are assumed to be coming from the Supremely Judgmental G-d, one hears this, too, as punishment.  That is to say, one who deliberately spends the Sabbath doing ordinary work, doesn't deserve to be a part of the People Israel.  Now one might believe this, but the words of the Torah can also be read in a much softer tone.  Imagine that the preponderance of Jews are assiduously observing Shabbat in all its fullness. (I know, what a concept!)  Well if so, the few who are not, are necessarily cut off from the bosom of their people.  As a physical reality.  If the people Israel is 'busy' making the Sabbath special and you are engaged in everyday activities and you are not, then when are you going to be able to mix with your fellow Jews?  When you engage in your weekday ritual of eating in the local deli?  Or when you go to buy bagels on Sunday morning, before settling down at the kitchen table with the New York Times like 'all other authentic Jews?'

(Obviously, these are images taken from life in the Jewish diaspora; to those who have caught on and ask me, but aren't you now living in Israel, I can only say that yes, there is a different and far more comples reality here, which I promise to address in a future installment of my blog.)

My reading of the second caution in this verse, then, reads this 'being cut off' from the people as an inevitable and logical result, not as a Divine punishment.  So, why do so many - Jews and non-Jews alike - read these two pronouncements as warnings of punishment, rather than simple circumstance?

I think the answer is that, in an essentially lawless world, the idea of an uncompromising lawgiver and -enforcer has a definite attraction.  That, and centuries of anti-Judaism propaganda which sought to differentiate the very demanding and judgmental G-d of Judaism with the more forgiving and merciful G-d of Christianity and, at times, other faiths.  Although this contrast is absurd if the various faiths worship and serve the same G-d as most affirm, it has somehow stuck over the ages.

Perhaps it is time to lay it to rest.  Each religious tradition has its own unique spiritual path to G-d.  To differentiate the character of the G-d of Judaism with that of, for example, the G-d of Christianity, is unnecessary and inauthentic.  G-d is G-d, and the Jew - yes, even the Jew! - can and should read the Torah's words as emanating from the mind of a G-d of Mercy whose desire is to help us to attain a meaningful life, not to punish us for our failings.  Shabbat shalom!

   

On to Hebron!

Last week I was in Jerusalem.  I have a guest from the USA, who wanted to see Ma'arat Hamach'pelah, the Cave of the Patriarchs, in Hebron.  Although I've traveled extensively from one end of the land to the other over the years, I'd never been to Hebron for several reasons.  For one thing, back when I was a student and toured with my classmates as part of our Israel year at Hebrew Union College, we were never taken over the Green Line for ideological as well as for safety reasons.  Over the years, I have crossed the Green Line - the line separating Israel proper from the territories conquered in the 1967 war - on a number of occasions but always thought the trip to Hebron was particularly dangerous, not to mention supportive of an ideology I don't hold, so I never went.  But since my guest wanted to see it I looked into the matter and found that, right now, it isn't especially problematic and that there are weekly tours conducted through two different organizations.  One, Abraham Tours, advertises a day trip where both the Jewish and Palestinian perspectives are presented.  Although this one sounded most interesting to me, there was a caveat that those with Israeli passports are not permitted.  I don't yet carry an Israeli passport, but I ruled that one out on principle.  If it is important to present both sides of the Hebron dispute, why would one explude Israelis from the presentation?  For that reason alone, I booked with the other one, the Hebron Fund, which only gives the Jewish perspective.

The day started with a morning stop of 20 minutes at Rachel's Tomb, just outside of Bethlehem, to pray.  I'd never stopped at Rachel's Tomb, although I've ridden past before in tour busses.  When I did, it looked as it does in the picture to the left.  That was before Intifada II, the Palestinian Reign of Terror that began in the year 2000.  In fact, the spring of 2000, the last time I led an interfaith tour to Israel, was the last time I passed the tomb on the Jerusalem-Bethlehem road.

Today, this is what Rachel's Tomb looks like from the outside.  The wall on the left protects pilgrims approaching the tomb, while the wall on the right protects the building enclosing the tomb itself.  Much criticism comes to Israel because of the security walls she has erected to protect her citizens from terror since the start of Intifada II.  I'd seen sections of the wall before, while driving down the Trans-Israel Highway (Highway 6) which for a number of KM runs along the Green Line.  But this was the first time that I'd been up close to part of the wall.  It makes the Jewish visitor feel as if he's in a prison, while one would think the local Arab inhabitants are looking in.

Speaking of walls, here is part of the security wall that protects those travelling on the Jerusalem to Hebron highway from snipers, missiles, and anything else launched in anger.  I believe this section is just past the tunnel that goes under the Arab town of Jeit Jala. (It's a file photo; my own pictures didn't come out so clearly.)  To those intent on calling the Israeli presence in the West Bank, 'apartheid,' I want to mention that the traffic on this highway was a mix of Israeli and Palestinian-tagged vehicles.  Although the barriers protect the highway from violence reigning down from the hills on either side, the resulting safe corridor is for everybody's use when things are quiet.

This is Kiryat Arba, a self-contained Jewish town of some 8,000 mostly religious inhabitants, located outside Hebron.  Although its residents live behind barbed wire fences and protected by the Israeli army, one doesn't have such a feeling of being closed in due to the place's size and its beautiful landscaping.  To me it felt no different than any other Israeli town of its size, like a sleepy suburb with schools, children's parks, and shopping areas interspersed with tracts of apartment buildings.

Map of Hebron, the light blue being 'The 20%' which
juts deep into the Palestinian city

It is inside Hebron where most of the tension is found.  There, one finds several small Jewish enclaves in the Arab city.  And there, one finds the biggest arguments both for and against the Jewish presence in the West Bank.  The argument for is that the Cave of the Patriarchs belongs to the Jewish heartland perhaps more than any other site, and the settlement of Jews in proximity to the Cave was continuous in history until the Arab riots of 1929.  The argument against is that the city of Hebron with a population of over 200,000 is the second largest Palestinian city after Gaza City, and the largest in the Palestinian homeland known as the West Bank.  How can the Palestinians form a viable state without complete sovereignty in this important city?  As with so many things in the 'Twice-promised Land,' both arguments are on their face logical and reasonable, and of course therein lies the problem!  

A street in 'The 20%.' All the houses on both

sides of the street are Arab houses and the

two women walking are, of course, Arabs who

appear to be living quite peacefully under

Israeli security administration.  Behind me, at

the top of the street is the Jewish enclave

around the ancient Jewish cemetery.

You may remember the Oslo Accords in 1993, which granted the Palestinians a nucleus of a hoped-for future state.  Under Oslo, Israel ceded everyday control to the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip, and in Jericho to give them at least a foothold in the West Bank.  In the follow-on Oslo II (1995) and Wye River Memorandum (1998), the Israelis ceded control to the Palestinians in wider swaths of territory.  The latter sought to solve the problem of Hebron thusly:  it split off 20 percent of Hebron to a special area where Jews were allowed to live, and where the Israeli army and police controlled the security.  That didn't mean that Arabs were not also allowed to inhabit it as well, and they did in numbers considerably larger than the number of Jews in 'The 20%.'  The problem is that, after the start of Intifada II in 2000, the Jews could not live safely in the face of anti-Jewish violence which was hearkened back to 1929.  Faced with the choice of once again evacuating the Jews of Hebron or upping the ante, Israel chose the latter and built extensive security features to protect the less than 1,000 Jews of 'The 20%' and as a result, put barriers in the way of the everyday lives of the city's Arabs.

This has unfortunately resulted in large numbers of the Arab residents of 'The 20%' quitting the area, as witnessed by the profusion of empty houses and closed-down shops in the area.  But given that the city seems to be fairly quiet recently, there has been an effort by the Palestinian Authority to convince as many as possible of these residents and shopkeepers to return.  Without them, the area looks something like a war zone.  One would have to be heartless to not see the tragedy in this, and hope that the Arabs can be enticed back AND that they would live in peace with their Jewish neighbors.

In the meantime, Hebron's Jews have worked hard to make their dwelling places feel more like neighborhoods, and lessen the feel of living under siege.  In particular, the Avraham Avinu (Abraham, our Father) neighborhood has been the recipient of much of these efforts.  Because Avraham Avinu was the site of the main Jewish enclave before 1929, repopulating it with Jews and turning it into a Jewish city-within-a-city has been an ideologically important endeavor.  I was somewhat surprised, and amused to find that Avraham Avinu today is also an enclave of Chabad-Lubavich.  Ubiquitous in the Jewish world, Chabad cannot seem to be escaped!

Inside the Avraham Avinu neighborhood is the Avraham Avinu synagogue, which was active until 1929 and was resurrected by those reclaiming the neighborhood.  Prayers are held in the shul every day.  Although we stopped in to see it long after the time for the morning prayer and before the Minchah prayer, we did take a few minutes to dance and sing to Hashem in joy as long as we there there.  I mean, why waste a perfectly good opportunity??!

This Torah scroll was rescued from the fire of the 1929 riots and returned to the synagogue when it was re-opened.  It is used every week.  For such an old scroll, its parchment is in remarkably good condition and its writing is clear and easy to read.  As an important sacred object, it is obviously lovingly cared for.

The building at the site of the Cave of the Patriarchs was erected by Herod 'the Great' and its vintage is about the same as the walls of Jerusalem that he also built.  Given that, it is in remarkably good condition!  Herod is not thought of as a particularly heroic figure in Jewish history, but one thing is for sure:  he built for keeps!  The building, and the cave it surrounds, is a site considered holy to Jews, Christians, and Muslims - all the 'Abrahamic' faiths.  Unfortunately, the building has a troubled history both from the 1929 riots and from the more recent massacre of Muslim worshippers in 1994 by Bernard Goldstein, a physician who was a part of the 'Kach' (Kahane Chai) party.

Here I am standing in front of the Cave.  I offer this photo as evidence that I stood in a place where the UN Security Council think I do not belong.  Although as I said above, I realize that there are two sides to the Hebron question - and I would have preferred to hear the other side as well except for their exclusion - I feel much more sympathetic towards the Jewish position now, than I did in the past.  Of course, that's exactly the reaction the tour is calculated to produce!  Although besides my guest and me all the members of our small group were Hareidi Orthodox Jews, the tour is clearly aimed at secular (which really means 'non-Orthodox') Israelis who are really paying for the Jewish 'occupation' of Hebron with the service of their sons and daughters in the IDF to keep the Jewish residents safe.  As the father of an Israeli soldier who is slated to serve his next security deployment in Gush Etzion, not inside Hebron but nearby on the way from Jerusalem, I'm exactly who they want to reach.  I wish that my son and his comrades did not have to serve in such places, and I will pray for their safety every day, but now I have a better understanding of why the Jews are there.