Matot-Masei: On Vows and Vowing

Oh, how we try to wriggle out of vows.

I do it as a parent: "If you don't stop, I'm going to take away x." And then I feel guilty, or like it was a harsh punishment, and I find myself backing off. Another parent recently reminded me, "the trick is never to promise or threaten anything you don't intend to follow through on."

I do it as a partner: "I promise I will be better about a." And then I try to narrow the circumstances where a actually applies.

I do it to myself: "I promise to give my body the chance at a full night's sleep." And here I am staying up past my bedtime to write a blog post.

This week's Parashah, the combined Matot-Masei, opens with "If a man makes a vow to God...he shall not break his pledge." (Never mind that it then diminishes a woman's vow, saying her father or husband can negate it, or allow it to stand. I'm going to assume we all agree that men and women are equal, and thus nobody owns the vow of another.)

Torah has plenty to say about vows. Indeed, it is pretty serious about them, especially those in which we obligate ourselves to actions directed at God or in God's name, but also those in which we obligate ourselves to our neighbors, our planet, even ourselves.

Later Jewish custom wriggles, just like we (I) do in everyday life.

Kol nidre (All Vows) - the title prayer of the service that kicks off Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) - asks that our vows be annulled, that every serious oath we have taken be wiped out, that we not be held accountable.

No, Judaism doesn't say we can get out of our obligations so simply. Indeed, there were early concerns about the notion of annulling vows. The Jewish Encyclopedia discusses a medieval change in the prayer:

"An important alteration in the wording of the "Kol Nidre" was made by Rashi's son-in-law, Meïr ben Samuel, who changed the original phrase "from the last Day of Atonement until this one" to "from this Day of Atonement until the next." 

The implication in this change is that we shouldn't be making vows to God in the first place, because we are sure to falter. But while this might be a relief (since we might make vows in the heat of a situation), it does effectively wriggle us out ahead of any actual vow-making. And we might therefore think that we can go ahead and make those heat-of-the-moment vows, and other vows, and not really worry about the consequences.

What I fear (and I am not alone in this fear) is that we lose the meaning of vows, and even smaller promises - to God and to people - when we assume we are free because of a prayer recited months ago.

I see this diminishing vow-lue -- in the person who goes into a marriage saying, "well, if it doesn't work out, we can always get a divorce," and in my own practices of self-care, be it what I feed myself or my lack of exercise. 

The Kol Nidre prayer does not, in fact, ensure us freedom from our vows. Even with the prayer, we must still be careful with our promises, and we must nonetheless atone for our failures before we can expect forgiveness.

A vow is a weighty thing - and it should be. Whether we are promising something to a friend or to God, we should feel the obligation of the relationship. We should not enter in expecting that we can simply wriggle out from under that weight easily, lightly. Still, it's nice to know that, if we make a promise and cannot fulfill it, we can be forgiven, even if it takes some emotional, spiritual, even physical work on our part to get there.

For Our Teachers and Our Students: A Journey in NonLinear Faith

A long time ago this morning (likely yesterday by the time I finish writing and post), I sat at the table of local Torah maestro Beth Huppin. She is marvelous at demystifying Jewish text and weaving difficult teachings into meaning for any interested learner.

This morning's text, in honor of Yom HaShoah this week - was from Kalonymus Kalman Shapira (1889-1943), Piaseczno Rebbe, who taught light in the Warsaw Ghetto (and before).

In his posthumous Sacred Fire, Shapira takes the Talmudic teaching that "when anyone repeats the Torah (teaching) of a dead scholar, the lips of the dead, though lying in the grave, mutter along with the speaker." (Read positively as "whisper," or "murmer" rather than "mutter" with its negative connotation.) Shapira argues that this is literally "in the grave," and literally "moving," not some dreamy picture of our teachers in an ethereal Olam Haba (world to come).

This teaching Shapira places near the end of a rather elaborate explication of the importance of students to teachers, which basically states that a teacher may learn something in the act of teaching that is far beyond the ken of the students, but which the teacher could not have understood without the configuration of particular learners around him.

Am I blown away by this teaching? Yes. While we were careful in the room this morning to read this as having broad meaning, I want for a moment to reflect on its context, a teaching during the Shoah, before I move on to weave in a few texts that came to my mind.

Consider: Shapira is teaching this in January 1942. By now he is aware of the death of teachers and students, and may, whatever hope he tries to keep alive, reasonably anticipate his own mortality. (Significant change came with partitioning of the ghetto in December 1941, two parts joined by a wooden foot bridge.) Did he intend this teaching as comfort to those he spoke them to that January? A reminder to himself that so long as people came to learn from him, he had purpose, and he could learn? To console himself at the loss of his own teachers?

Consider now the far-reaching meaning of this text. One of the questions Beth asked her students (me) to reflect on this morning was whether we had "ever experienced hearing the lips of the dead speaking" when we speak or teach words we learned from them.

This gives me chills, just thinking about it. And I say, "well, not literally, no . . . and, yes!"

Sometimes simply studying a text that is thousands (!) of years old, if in a moment I sense the person or people behind that text (author, editor, redactor), I may feel profound awe at the opportunity to find meaning for myself in their words.

There are people who converse with a text. I mean out loud, even. What do you mean by X? they might ask, or delving deeper, Does your idea hold up when you consider A? This, I think, was the savvy of the Talmudic rabbis - not to try to preserve the text as is (though with sacred texts they did their best), but to be in conversation with those texts, or to imagine themselves in conversation with the originators of the text.

Many scholars have done this simply in the margins of a text (See Rashi's Torah commentary, for example). Joseph Caro was overheard by his disciples having conversations with the personified Mishnah.

How do I do it? Usually quietly in my head. Sometimes jotting an epiphany on paper. And recently, I have begun the idea of writing out such conversations.

Am I "imagining" the conversation? What is imagination?
Am I "really" in conversation with a text?
Do the answers that I scribe for the text or its author actually belong to the person I am channeling?

Yes or no, it doesn't really matter.

What matters is:
Somewhere along the way, now and then, I experience the murmer, the דובב (dovev), of teachers past, some of whom I can never have known.

A long time ago this morning - now yesterday morning - I sat at the table of a great teacher. She taught the words of another great teacher. And he cited Talmud from more than a thousand years ago, which in turn cited Shir haShirim, Song of Songs, attributed to King Solomon nearly 3000 years ago.

There is no time in Torah. The teachings reach backward into the generations, and forward to students not yet born, who will elicit from their teachers new and revelatory understandings, just as our students do today for us, and as we have for our teachers. Though I prefer, unlike Shapira, to consider an Olam Haba rather than the earthly grave, I offer the prayer: May we hear the voices of our ancient teachers and their future students murmering through the veil.

In memory of teachers and students lost.

Torah and Tigger - Finding Community

Torah and Tigger: Creative Reading

Perhaps a year ago, I took this picture of the bag of "groceries" my son brought me during some free play time. It contained, among other things, a Tigger book and a stuffed Torah. 

There is meaning in everything - and there is most definitely a connection for me between the imagination that leads to a story like Winnie the Pooh, and the creative reading that makes Torah a personal experience.  

When we come to Leviticus, as we do this week with Parashat Vayikra, and we jump straight into the old, earthy, sacrificial system, the blood and guts - it might be time for a little creative reading.

(Maybe that's why we go back and read the Exodus stories again, now, in preparation for Passover - so we have something else to occupy our minds with through the sacrificial readings.)

But perhaps Tigger can teach us something about how to approach Leviticus. Tigger is a hopeful creature - and a very social one at that. In The Tigger Movie (2000), Tigger searches desperately for other tiggers, looking through the woods for his family tree. He loses sight of the circle of friends around him, his community-family - who try lovingly to help him find (and even understand) family, even as it means he is looking away from them.

The book of Leviticus is a biblical, priestly attempt at understanding and creating a cohesive family unit out of a dozen tribes and reportedly a couple of million people (600,000 able-bodied men, plus women, elders, and children). We may not feel a particular connection to the sacrificial system - it may, indeed, rub against our contemporary sensibilities (against killing animals unnecessarily, in favor of cleanliness and community conversation). But we can nonetheless learn something - both from Leviticus itself, and from the evolution of the system presented there to our present day Jewish practice. Because we Jews don't make burnt offerings anymore, but we do still have community!

The book of Leviticus starts right in with אדם כי יקריב מכם קורבן "When a person brings a sacrifice..." (Lev. 1:2). When, not if - and the general term of אדם, a man, but easily read as "a person." Skip the details of how to bring that sacrifice, for the moment - and come to the list of "unwitting" trespass - of the law designed to sustain community.

The unwitting part is, I think, important here. If we do not intend to neglect or cause harm, are we liable? The reminder here is that our actions, witting or unwitting, impact community. Like the proverbial pillow whose feathers cannot be retrieved, or the ripples flowing out from the impact of the stone in the pond - our actions fly or ripple out into the community, irretrievably. We must do something to change the impact, to heal it or sooth it, regardless of intent in the action itself.

Tigger does not realize the impact on his friends until he sees that they have costumed themselves as (spoiler alert) tiggers, in order to help him feel loved. He is fortunate not to have lost his friends in his moment of neglect of them.

When the Temple was destroyed, the sages wisely transitioned the sacrificial system into a prayer system. Each person remains responsible for prayer, but while some prayers can be recited in solitary, a handful require a minyan of ten adults, thus encouraging community connection. As Rabbi Maurice Harris puts it, in his book, Leviticus: You Have No Idea, "The newly designed religion [of the post-Temple period] valued literacy and excelled at maintaining communication between diaspora communities."

In the contemporary Jewish world it seems that the current community model of synagogues and JCCs as community gathering places is, at minimum, not reaching a great many of our Jewish population. I will not tackle this extensively here, but I will say that I was reminded this week in a conversation that Leviticus indeed points us to an evolving community model, and that we are responsible for maintaining communication even (especially?) with those looking outward, as Tigger was looking away from his Hundred Acre Woods community, and for active contemporary reconstruction. 

New Beginnings, Fresh or Rotten - Your Choice

You know that one moldy strawberry in the box? The one that's touching at least five others? What is your first thought - past the ICK - when you see that mold? Contamination!

Torah speaks of the first days of the world - of the separating of light from darkness and of water from land and air - as a time of completion. Things come into being whole and ready. The herbs and fruits are ready to eat right away, "in the beginning." Adam and Eve are not brought into this world as infants, but as wholly formed adults, walking and speaking and thinking.

Rosh Hashanah celebrates this whole world, the anniversary of that beginning. And that's where we stand now, in the autumn - with a world of abundance, beginning and approaching the harvest season.

Ripe apples and pomegranates for our Rosh Hashanah dinner tables mean that the trees - and the herbs of the field - are about to go dormant, to die their autumnal death. We are entering darkness, brought by the autumnal equinox and the hibernation of plants and animals.

Now, as we leave the light of summer and the growing season behind, we celebrate the abundance of the world Created whole, trees and fields offering up sustenance that we seek to preserve to carry us through the winter.

Now, we want to carry the best of our foods into storage - and we want to carry the best of ourselves into the new year. One moldy strawberry will contaminate the whole container; molds and rot spread. We don't want that - in our food supply, or in our selves.

So we clean out the old - we take inventory of our fruits and herbs, and we take inventory of our souls. We choose what goes into our containers carefully.

We have the opportunity to put an end to behaviors that cause rot, that fester in our relationships. We ask forgiveness, and we search our souls for ways to change our behavior, to be better people in the coming year.

If we choose our fruits well, we can make it through the darkness of winter. We will have healthy food for our bodies -- and we will have clean souls and strong relationships that will carry us through the coming year, whatever it holds for us.

Wishing you good choices, solid forgiveness, and a healthy and sweet new year.

Seek Joy, Seek Peace - A Moratorium on Complaint

Were there not enough graves in Egypt that you had to bring us to die in this wilderness?! (Exodus 14:11)

Gevalt! Vey ist mir! Oy vey! (Yiddish kvetch words)

In seminary I wrote an article for the Onion-esque segment of the student paper entitled The One True Path, in which I parodied what I saw as a culture of complaint, about too much reading, too high expectations on our time, too many required classes, and so much more:

The [One True] Path:

• The best way to get what you want is to complain loudly and heartily.  Even if it won’t get you what you want, complaint is a valuable social skill.
• No matter how easy or difficult the task in front of you, be sure to complain as much as possible.
• No matter how good life is, complaining can only make it better.
• There is no reason too small or large to complain about… all problems are equal in the eyes of God if you only complain.  

Followers of The Path [understand God's apparently favorable response to the Israelites' complaints] to mean that God not only listens to the complaints ... but responds with sweet rewards. [Talmidei Haverim, 2003]

Take all of the biblical quotes on complaining - I won't list them here, but consider that it is not just the people, but also Moses, the highest prophet of Torah, and other leaders who whine to God). Add the Yiddish language penchant for complaint (see for example the book Born to Kvetch, a description of which tells us that Jews "even learned how to smile through their and express satisfaction in the form of complaint."

Is the Jewish culture really a culture of complaint?  Does the Jewish religion really reward complaint? (Is complaint, as the same description of Born to Kvetch implies, the reason for Jewish survival?)

A couple of weeks ago a meme suggesting "24 hours without complaining" reached my Facebook stream, reminding me of that article and the complaining I wanted to see myself as being somehow above. But I have have been catching myself complaining - a lot - recently. So I tried it - and I liked it.

This week I again find myself kvetching - at my two year old's newly discovered temper tantrum skills, about humidity, about sticky things on my chair, about people and things going too slowly, about my own behavior and things I perceive as failures, and.... I am not enjoying myself.

Complaining makes me feel so closed - physically - like I am shuttering myself, focused on myself - even when commiserating with someone else about outside concerns. Every time I complain I feel worse - physically and spiritually.  When I complain, clouds darken my day.

I'm returning to that moratorium. No complaints. It's time to be creative and constructive - or quiet. It is possible to note something I don't like without complaining - hard but possible.

So what combats complaining?  If complaining is about being closed, if it is darkness, then things that bring openness and light are the countermeasures.  Awe, love, mindfulness - being aware of how amazing our world is, and what I can bring to it.

And here's where I think Judaism has some pretty great counterpunches to its own internal culture of complaint:

• a custom of 100 blessings a day - literally counting our blessings and being aware of the amazing world around us;
• a tradition of song and dance - most traditional blessings have at least one tune associated with them; some Psalms have literally hundreds of tunes; even Torah and other traditional texts are traditionally read musically;
• tzedakah and gemilut chasadim and tikkun olam - traditions of giving, money and action, teaching and repairing, seeking to make the world a better place
• a desire for peace.  Yes, Israel is at war right now.  But our traditional greeting, Shalom Aleichem, means "peace to you" (American Jewish kids learning basic Hebrew learn early that shalom means "hello," "goodbye," and "peace" - but it really just means peace).  And many traditional daily and Shabbat request-prayers focus on peace. 

And so I call a moratorium on complaint (not to preclude constructive criticism or pointing out things I don't like in the act of making the world a better place) - and say instead that it's time to sing and dance and pray, to be in awe - even of the things I might kvetch about:

• to wonder at my son's independence, how he is learning new things, how long he can carry on a tantrum, and how he can change the tantrum mid-phrase so it is clear that it's more about getting something, anything, he wants than about the specific thing;
• to take advantage of slower moments to pause myself and take a breath;
• Bakesh shalom verodfehu - to desire peace and pursue it (Psalms 34:15);
• to sing and dance and be physically open;
• to connect with other people, learning and being in awe of their lives;
• to create - with words, with foods, with ideas, with play-time, with prayer;
• to seek joy and wonder in everything - to offer blessings for every day life - waking, eating, reading, connecting.

On War, Peace, Love, and Writing About It All

Israel, war, terrorism, Gaza, Hamas, peace, prayer . . . the "labels" are easy to come up with.

Despite all the words written, shared, and reshared about the current situation in Israel, I - a rabbi, a leader in the Jewish community, a mom, a Jew, and a self-declared writer - find it nearly impossible to write about what is happening in Israel, between Israel and Gaza, Israel and Hamas, right now.

I feel physically blocked - in my heart especially, in my head and in my gut, a stiffness running throughout my body. My blood doesn't seem to flow right, I'm not breathing well, and the fetal position sounds really good about now.

"Again!" says the feeling. "Again?!" and, on a sigh, "again."

War does not beget peace. The horrid cycle of revenge only begets more revenge. Bombs, rockets, missiles - these beget terror, anger, and a mother-bear sense of protection. I know. I felt it on 9/11 in America. And I feel a little PTSD from being in Israel during suicide terrorist attacks, and from my last trip to Israel in the summer of 2006, when I, like many today, sat in or near a shelter (in restaurants and at "home"), counting the explosions and waiting for news: what hit, where, was anyone injured; smelling smoke from resulting forest fires.

Peace will come only when all cultures value life - everyone's lives - more than they value anyone's death. This has been said before. So why? WHY do we human beings find this so difficult? When will we learn to love more than we hate? Why do I feel powerless? Why am I convinced that there's no stopping the current Israeli government and military and the current Hamas government in Gaza? That neither side is in the right, justified in their actions?

And that's it: I find it hard to write because I feel powerless to do anything about the situation, that my words will stop no war.

But I refuse to let the fear, the feelings of powerlessness and physical blockage, get the better of me.  I am writing about them, because maybe you have felt the same things, and need to hear someone say it. And I am writing to tell you about the prayers - traditional words (so many Jewish prayers are about peace) and my own words - that I am filling my mouth with:

• Ufros aleinu sukkat shelomecha - spread over us the shelter of Your peace (traditional)
• Od yavo shalom aleinu ve'al kulam - yet may there be peace for us and the whole world (contemporary)
• Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya'aseh shalom (hi ta'aseh shalom) aleinu - may the One who brings peace in the heavens bring peace to us (traditional)
• Praying for peace, for cooler minds to prevail over the heat-of-the-moment reactivity, for all the lives that are caught in the crossfire.  This prayer is specifically for Israel and her neighbors, and generally for our world.  May we move towards peace, joy, love, and creativity - and ever away from destruction. (My words posted to Facebook, 8 July 2014)
• Please, Holy Creator, PLEASE... (I ask here)
• bring wisdom to those in power
• create a peaceful heart in all of Your people and peoples
• mold our hearts for compassion and love-of-life
• Lo yisa goy el goy cherev, lo yilmedu od milchama - let nation not lift up sword against nation, neither learn war anymore (traditional)

May love and creativity abound - may all war and hatred end.  What else can I say? For a political understanding of the current situation that comes close to what I think, see Gershon Baskin's words here, and JStreet's statement here (this just comes close, and that I do not fully agree with everything JStreet says or does).

"How many times must the cannon balls fly, before they are forever banned?"

May we soon live in a world where we construct our buildings to welcome those who would visit, as Abraham and Sarah did, and not to fortify or fight against our neighbors. (Pics from Caesarea, Israel - 1993, copyright mine.)

The Gifts of Walking and Writing

Our bodies were made for moving - walking, running, stretching. And our minds/souls were made for creativity. For me, remembering these gifts, and the soul-freedom that comes from them, doesn't always come freely. 

I haven't written a blog post in two months. I started one, shortly after my mother's April heart attack, but I let "life" get in the way. I continue to write in my journal everyday, forcing myself to "stay unblocked," but quite obviously pushing myself some days to keep the flow going. 

In this two months, though, I have relearned the power of walking. It helps that warm weather has returned, and that I've been spurred on by teachers. 

Today, half a mile into my two mile walk I remembered beautiful things from this morning. A mile in, I remembered how critical walking is. This is what happens when I walk, especially when I walk alone or in companionable quite: My mind opens, my thoughts loosen up as my arms and legs limber, and I start to write - in my head, and something on whatever paper or device I can grab. 

Torah is both ancient and contemporary wisdom of storytelling and journey taking, and it reminds me not to forget that both are about life. 

This week's Torah reading, about the death of Korach and his followers, is full of the kind of blindness that gets me in trouble. I stop paying attention to the gifts I have - or I stop using them - and I try to force tight ideas into unreceiving spaces.   

There is a redeeming note in the story if Korach. "Once [things] have been used for offering to the Lord, they have become sacred." And ever more shall be so. 

A colleague this week reminded me to listen to my gut feelings - not to try to force myself into a particular situation that just didn't feel right. Wisdom for Korach. Wisdom for all of us. 

And from that reminder, along with another friend's about the gift of my writing and the above words from Torah, I am trying to connect to the sacred, trying not to let "life" get in the way of living - walking and writing and telling stories of the things that move me spiritually. Like teaching my son this morning to communicate with a caged bird by bobbing and nodding and tilting our heads the way the bird does, and being amazed that it actually calmed the bird, and my son. I almost forgot about that, until half a mile into my solo walk this afternoon. Thank G-d for this body and all the life and sacred, creative energy that flows through it. 

Counting the Omer - Leaving Mitzrayim, a Starting Point

בכל דור ודור חייב אדם לראות את עצמו כאילו הוא יצא ממצרים
In every generation, every person is obligated to see him/herself as if s/he came out of mitzrayim.
(Passover Haggadah)

From whence do we come, and whither do we go?

Mitzrayim evokes both the literal narrowness of Egypt's fertile strip on either side of the Nile, and the emotional/spiritual narrowness of slavery.  It is the latter that each of us is obligated to search for in our own lives.  But the "coming out" from narrow places is only the beginning, what we read starting on the first night of Passover.  On the second night of Passover, we begin to count the Omer - for seven weeks we will count days and weeks, until we arrive at our next holiday, Shavuot.

The Omer reminds us that leaving mitzrayim is only the beginning.  It is like Abraham's Lech Lecha moment.  "Get up and go...to a land that I will show you" (Genesis).

In the moment we leave the narrowness - whether it is a way of thinking, or a job that binds us, or a relationship that restricts us - we do not land immediately in a place of certainty and strength.

Wandering in Haifa (c. 2005, RSR)

Rather, we begin a journey into the unknown, into openness.  It takes time to shake off old habits. We might, like the Israelites, sometimes question why we ever left, wonder if we really had to leave the security of what we knew (was it really so bad? "were there not enough graves in Egypt?").  Wherever we think we are going, like Abraham and like Moses and the Israelites, we really have no idea.  And that uncertainty can be disorienting and disturbing.he begin the journey - not expect that just because we have begun the journey we must have arrived somewhere special.

The Omer, the counting of days, helps to ground us on the journey. It grounds us with the simple act of counting, but also with Kabbalistic spiritual teachings, and a custom of self-reflection as we count, as we mark the journey. 

ארמי אבד אבי
"My father was a wandering Aramean" (Deuteronomy 26:5; Passover Haggadah)

I love the closeness in English of the words wander and wonder.  The journey is about openness - about being able to wonder at what we encounter, to find awe.

As we begin this wandering period, this counting of the Omer, I invite awe and wonder.  I also invoke compassion in response to the desire to shelter in the known narrowness, and for the desire to know "are we there, yet?!"  May the journey be the "there." May we not become stuck in the places where we sojourn.

Skin Lesions and Life to the Dead

Unlike my other blog posts, this is a more "traditional" D'var Torah, or sermon, on the reading of the week, Parashat Tazria, Leviticus 12:1-13:59. I offer this in part for those who missed my service this past weekend. To all reading, especially if you actually did hear my words: I typically write out what I want to say as a way of helping to congeal the ideas in my head, but it's still a little like jelly, fluid, so this isn't exactly what I said on Saturday. Thanks for the supportive readership.

This week’s Parasha, Tazria, contains sometimes vivid descriptions of bodily functions and malfunctions, skin lesions, and other physical “impurities.”  While it fits well with the rest of the Levitical blood and guts experience, this can easily be the most difficult, even embarrassing, portion for bar or bat mitzvah kids to work with, and quite disturbing even for an adult audience, trying to read it from a spiritual perspective.  

Even the ancient rabbis had difficulty with it.  What were these physical illnesses and what did they have to do with the spiritual work of the priests?  Surely there were plenty of lesions and illnesses that didn’t have to be proven pure or impure by a priest’s eye or through sacred ritual?

Leaving aside the issue of childbirth, where the parashah opens, the rabbis asserted that the skin diseases weren’t just any physical lesions - these were spiritual afflictions, resulting from actions, things a person did (or didn’t do).  Torah teaches that Miriam contracts one of these skin lesion diseases as a direct result of speaking ill of, or doubting, her brother Moses.  And so the most direct link between lesions and actions is said to be lashon hara, speaking ill of another.  

We could simply leave it at that, as the rabbis do - not try to find any explanation for how action might lead to physical ailment.  And indeed, the rabbis more or less do leave it untouched.

But they do offer some clues, in their discussion of this parashah, and in various other biblical texts and rabbinic interpretations.

The lesions at issue here are white.  Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Epstein, an 18th century Chassidic leader known as the Maor VaShemesh, taught that this is the clue -

“Now, actually, the reason for this is simple. The key locus of life’s vitality is in the blood, ‘for the blood is the life’ (Deut. 12:23); the human soul (nephesh) is in the blood.”

Essentially, we pale when our life goes out of us.  And white skin lesions are evidence of life leaving one or another part of our body, usually, he suggests, because we have embarrassed ourselves or another through our actions or words.  Anger, he suggests, is one of the worst offenders, and Rabbi Jonathan Slater interprets this to mean anger is “a small death.”

First, we need to be careful in a reading like this not to think that because a person has an illness of any kind that they have somehow brought it upon themselves by action.  Even the rabbis suggested that this was something that used to happen.  

Still, the notion of anger as being a portion of death is intriguing.  The Talmud also suggests that “sleep is 1/60th of death,” a little like death.

And this carries us to one of my favorite lines in our prayers - mechayei hameitim.  That God gives life to the dead need not be read as a direct assertion of reincarnation.  It can be easily understood in this way of restoring spiritual life.

In the Reconstructionist and Reform liturgies, mechayei hameitim has been replaced by either mechayei hakol or mechayei kol chai - both essentially meaning that the life we have and know is the life God has given us.

To me, this change in the liturgy is unnecessary.  Indeed, it denies the notion that we can be spiritually, or even physically, revived.  

One of my colleagues, Rabbi Megan Doherty, once argued that mechayei hameitim was the perfect blessing to recite over the first cup of coffee in the morning.  This may be a little tongue in cheek, but I think that the idea isn’t far off base.  Indeed, some hold a tradition of reciting these words as a short blessing when seeing someone they haven’t seen in a full year or more.

And what of the Yiddish “mechaya”?  Something good happens, even something as simple as a warm day after the winter, or a cup of icy cold water on a hot day - that’s a mechaya.  It’s a relief, a little bit of life-reminder.

The Reform siddur has returned mechayei hameitim as an alternative in its new siddur.  The siddur you use here is great about giving the options.  Reading with alternatives in place is an opportunity for us to rethink how we are reading: is it too literal?  Is tzara’at really leprosy, or is it a psychosomatic / or spirituo-somatic symptom, a result of something being not quite right in our inner life force?  Is mechayei hameitim only (or even at all) about reincarnation or resurrection, or is it closer to the Yiddish derivation, a mechaya, a little bit of life returning where we have felt a little weary or lost or some such?

Baruch ata Adonay - mechayei hameitim.  Blessed are You, our God, who provides sustenance and renewal, raising life up where it has drooped, offering solace and support and nourishment - to the individual, and to our whole world.  May we be aware of this renewal as the earth brings forth new greens, as the coming month of Nissan and our season of spring and Passover heralds rebirth and new beginnings, emerging from the deathly constrictions of winter and mitzrayim.

Olfactory Memory and Temple Sacrifices

The inner doors to my son’s school opened to let through the onslaught of parents picking up our children, and we were instantly surrounded by a moist, bready smell.  “Why are they baking bread?” another parent asked, “it’s not Friday!”  And I remembered - they were going to bake hamentashen this morning - at least in my son’s class, and probably others.

In the Torah reading cycle, we are in Leviticus, full of bloody, gut-flaying animal sacrifices - and a few somewhat cleaner bread and grain and incense sacrifices.  But in the holiday cycle, we are at Purim, that joyous holiday on which we eat (depending on Ashkenazi/Sephardi background) yummy pastries designed like a man’s hat, or the slightly more disgusting version of his ears.  

In a post-sacrificial Judaism, the holiday yummies are probably more likely to conjure some level of religious connection than the sacrifices.  But where the Mishnah makes the transition from sacrifice to prayer, I would like to suggest that our own experiences of holidays through food, tasted but especially smelled, may in fact hold a more direct connection for us.

The phrase ריח ניחח - re’ach nicho’ach - a fragrant (pleasing) scent, appears numerous times in Torah, all in direct relation to various sacrifices - four times in this week’s reading.  Whether grain or beast or fowl, a fire offering provides a pleasing scent, often specifically described as “for G-d.”  The fact that these sacrifices were commonly consumed by the priests (and, in the case of the Passover sacrifice, by the masses), we can begin to see the connection between the altar that stood before the Holy of Holies and our grandparents’ (for example) kitchens.  

For me, the smell of latkes frying or chicken soup cooking on the stove can bring me home to my mother’s kitchen.  Fresh baking challah, tzimmes, brisket, roasting chicken, cholent, and yes, hamentashen, may be among foods that bring you to various kitchens of your memory.  

And not just any memories, but memories of Jewish time, exactly the kind of time that the sacrifices helped to mark.  The everyday, the Sabbath, various holidays and seasons.  

The association Jews have with food (there’s some idea that you can’t attract Jews to a program without it) is, therefore, not just about putting something in the belly.  It has the potential to be so very deeply spiritual -- in the sense that our kitchens are our altars, filled at their best with ריח ניחח, re’ach nicho’ach, pleasing odors that permeate our very souls and bring us into relationship with each other. It is an inherently spiritual relationship, in the sense that neshamah, soul, is related to breathing (as is smelling), and ru’ach, wind, another word for soul, is directly related to the word re’ach, odor.

Chag Purim sameach - a very happy and joyous Purim to all.  May your olfactory memories tingle, this week and always, with your own efforts or the efforts of someone you love.  

Rewriting What is Written in Stone

Fire in Stone
original sketch by the blogger ;)

The image of the ten commandments - a few dozen words etched directly by G-d into two tablets of stone - epitomizes the notion of immutability of not just these few words, but the whole of Torah, perhaps the whole bible.  

All of the progressive movements of Judaism have made gender-balancing changes to the siddur (prayer book), at least as an option, thus literally changing the words of our texts.  

But no Jewish community has, to my knowledge, rewritten the text of Torah. Torah is sacred and, for all intents and purposes, written in stone.

One of my two year old’s favorite TV shows, Super Why!, focuses on reading as a superpower. The show opens with song: “Who’s got the power / The power to read / Who answers the call / For friends in need / … / Who looks into books / For the answers we need / It’s SUPER WHY and the Super Readers.”  

Little boy Whyatt and his friends transform into superheroes. As Super Why, he says, “with the power to read, I can change this story and save the day!”

What a radical concept! Not only does reading provide knowledge, but the opportunity to change the very thing we are reading.

The stories the Super Readers enter and make to are often well known, like Jack and the Beanstock or Goldilocks, stories I would have thought nearly as sacred, immutable, as Torah.  

But the Super Readers come in and “save the day” by challenging the very text.  An angry giant takes a nap on his “huge bed” rather than having a “huge tantrum” (Season 1, Episode 1); moonlight suddenly brightens the room of a bear who is afraid of the dark by changing the last word of the sentence, “Charlie’s room is dark,” to “light.”

They transform the story by changing the words.  

But we can’t do that with Torah.  And there are times Torah seems to, I’ll be honest, contain things we would rather not read, let alone teach our children. So what do we do?

Essentially since the moment Torah was written, there have been ways to transform meaning. Consider, for example, the understanding of the word שמע shema (as in the credal, “Hear, O Israel,” (Deuteronomy 6:4)) as שאו מרום עיניכם - “lift high your eyes” - not only emphasizing the notion of “pay attention” but linking it to another text (Isaiah 40:26).  

In this week’s Torah reading, Parashat Vayikra, we find the following (Leviticus 1:2):  אָדָם כִּי-יַקְרִיב מִכֶּם קָרְבָּן

Just to give you a sense of how translation is inherently interpretation, I offer the following:

• 1917 Jewish Publication Society translation, “When any man of you bringeth an offering...”
• 1999 Jewish Publication Society translation, “When any of you presents an offering…”

The main difference between the two translations is a problem, as it were, with the first word, ADAM - אדם. The first translation is as a generic “man,” and the second translation avoids to word entirely.  

Some ask the question, why ADAM (אדם) instead of ISH (איש), which is the more common word for “a person”? Our second translation opens up the possibility that אדם is a more gender neutral term, something more compatible with contemporary egalitarian thinking.  I would imagine they might justify that based on the verse “And G-d created אדם...male and female” (Genesis 1:27), such that Adam is a word not subject to the gender binary, whereas Eesh (איש) is explicitly gendered.

Another nice twist is the acronym given for אדם by Rabbi Yochanan in a discussion on what a person does/is when they are haughty (Talmud Bavli, Sotah 5b) - aleph (א) for אפר aphar, meaning dust; dalet (ד) for דם dam, meaning blood; and mem (מ . ם) for מרה marah, meaning bile. An act of repentance or turning from haughtiness - a base, physical act - could be an offering, an attempt to turn away from the physical ADAM and to “draw near” to one’s spiritual self through an act of קרבן korban, the type of offering here, which is connected in its root to קרב karov, literally to draw near.

Those who read Torah, who are knowledgable in the Hebrew especially, have the power to be, as all Torah commentators throughout the centuries have been, nothing less than Super Readers, with the power to transform the meaning of our text for our own and future generations.