Leadership: politicians and statesmen / Parshat Vayeilech

My best wishes for a good and sweet New Year. Perhaps the most beautiful blessing I've heard comes from my friend Rabbi David Novak: "No matter where you find yourself in the... world this Rosh Hashanah, may you all have days that are rich in blessings, days that are saturated in happiness, days that are deeply fulfilling, and most importantly, days in which you know love." May you and your imbibe deeply of these blessings in the year to come. Shanah tovah u'metukah.

What do Orin Smith, John Morgridge, and Moses have in common? First, let’s note where they differ. You’ve heard of Moses. Have you heard of Smith and Morgridge? Orin Smith was CEO of Starbucks Coffee from 2000 to 2005, John Morgridge was the CEO of Cisco Systems from 1988 to 1995.

Smith and Morgridge are great leaders according to Jim Collins, author of From Good to Great. Collins characterizes a great leader as one who “channels ambition into the organization and its work, not the self, setting up successors for even greater success in the next generation.” Collins has in mind CEOs of major corporations, but could be talking about Moses. Collins further says that great leaders are a “paradoxical mix of personal humility and professional will.” Moses in a nutshell.

Parshat Vayeilech is only 30 verses long. Moses draws to a close his illustrious career and writes down his Torah. From the very beginning of this address, he assures the people that although he cannot accompany them across the Jordan into Eretz Yisrael, Joshua and God will be with them. He is not abandoning them; he is preparing for their future after him,

Moses went and spoke these things to all Israel. He said to them: “I am now one hundred and twenty years old. I can no longer be active. Moreover, Adonai has said to me, ‘You shall not go across yonder Jordan.’ It is indeed your God Adonai who will cross over before you, and who will wipe out those nations from your path; and you shall dispossess them. Joshua is the one who shall cross before you, as Adonai has spoken.” (Deuteronomy 31:1-3)

There is an enormous difference between being a celebrity and being a leader, though the difference is sadly often obscured in our society. Many who enjoy the limelight are often looked upon as people with opinions to hear and wisdom to bestow. True for some, but not for most.

We need to reclaim the model of genuinely great leadership. Moses is our model: patient, loyal, determined, modest, and resilient. Even more, he is the quintessential personification of Jim Collins’ ideal CEO: “[one who] channels ambition into the organization and its work, not the self, setting up successors for even greater success in the next generation.”

The Rabbis elaborate on Moses’s determination to “[set] up successors for even greater success in the next generation.” The midrash reports that:

When Moses saw that his sons were not worthy to succeed him in the dignity of his office, he wrapped himself in his tallit and, standing up in prayer before the Holy One, said: “Master of the universe, let me know who shall come and go [in the position of leadership] before the people. Let the Lord, the God of the spirits of all flesh, set [the right] man over the congregation (Numbers 27:15-16). Master of the universe, the disposition of every one of them is revealed to You. The disposition of one is not at all like the disposition of another. After I depart from them [i.e. die], when You will be setting another leader over them, I beg you, set over them a leader who will put up with each and every person according to his particular disposition…”

The Holy One replied, “Moses, you have made a proper request. So I shall show you all the judges and all the prophets whom I will set up over My children from this time until the dead shall be brought back to life [in the messianic age].” … God showed him that Joshua would rise up in his stead, and Joshua would turn over his authority to Othniel, as will all subsequent leaders to their successors. Then the Holy One said to Moses: “Each of these I showed you has one disposition and one spirit. But as to what you asked for earlier, at the end of time there will be a person within whom, to be sure, there will be but one spirit, yet it will have the capacity to bear the weight of the spirits of all people -- that person is the Messiah.”

The midrash pictures Moses seeking a successor who will be devoted to the people -- each and every one of the myriad who left Egypt. Moses even understands that his own sons are neither politicians nor statesmen. They are celebrities but not leaders.

Give that the 2012 Presidential Election Season is in full swing, I will go one step further. There is a world of difference between a politician and a statesman. James Paul Clark (1854-1916, 18^th governor of Arkansas) said: “A politician thinks of the next election; a statesman of the next generation.” Or, as George Pompidou (1911-1974, French Prime Minister and subsequent President of France) put it a bit more cynically, “A statesman is a politician who places himself at the service of the nation. A politician is a statesman who places the nation at his service.”

Moses is a statesman. We don’t need more politicians. We need statesmen, genuine leaders.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Partial Credit / Nitzavim

Jimmy’s spelling test lay on his desk. He looked at it. “Satelite” had a pronounced red mark through it. Jimmy approached the teacher’s desk. “Mrs. Jones,” he said, “can I have partial credit for satellite? I spelled part of the word correctly.”

Within weeks of the launch of the Hubble Space Telescope into orbit by the Space Shuttle Discovery in April 1990, it became clear that something was very wrong with Hubble’s primary mirror: it was the wrong shape.

(The Hubble Space Telescope as photographed by the Space Shuttle Discovery)

The edges were too flat by 2.2 µm (micrometers); that’s a bit more than 2 millionths of a meter or, if you prefer the British system of measurement .000858 inches (less than nine ten-thousandths of an inch). Those 2.2 micrometers made a world of difference to scientists studying objects in deep space.

(Polishing Hubble’s mirror)

According to the report issued by the investigating commission headed by Lew Allen, director of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Perkin-Elmer, the manufacturer of the mirror, had ignored test results that suggested spherical aberration. The commission found that Perkin-Elmer had made numerous mistakes along the way, from failing to involve optical designers in the mirror’s construction, to ignoring quality control data. This is not to say that Hubble produced no images; it produced blurry images. Should Perkin-Elmer get “partial credit?” Few people thought they should.

When it comes to teshuvah (repentance) and our relationship with God, Torah takes a different stand: partial credit is always given. With Rosh Hashanah coming next week, we all have teshuvah-on-the-mind.

Parshat Nitzavim tells us that, looking ahead, Moses can see the ups and downs, the blessings and curses, in Israel’s future. Since hard times and suffering are presumed to result from Israel’s distancing herself from God and the Covenant, Moses twice speaks of Israel returning to God. The first time Moses says Israel will return “up to” or “until” God, and the second time “to” God:

When all these things befall you -- the blessing and the curse that I have set before you -- and you take them to heart amidst the various nations to which the Lord your God has banished you, v’shavta ad Adonai Elohekha / and you return up to the Lord your God, and you and your children heed his command with all your heart and soul, just as I enjoin you this day, then the Lord your God will restore your fortunes and take you back in love. (Deuteronomy 30:1-3)

And a few verses later:

And the Lord your God will grant you abounding prosperity in all your undertakings, in the issue of your womb, the offspring of your cattle, and the produce of your soil. For the Lord will again delight in your well-being, as he did in that of your ancestors, since you will be heeding the Lord your God and keeping his commandments and laws that are recorded in this book of the Teaching -- v’shavta el Adonai Elohekha / once you return to the Lord your God with all your heart and soul. (Deuteronomy 30:9-10)

Moses uses a different preposition in each occurrence. What difference can two letters make? Even one preposition can suggest different meanings: consider “he came by the office today” and “he came by his fortune honestly.” How much the more so can two different prepositions convey different meaning.

Moses first says Israel will return “ad Adonai Elohekha” (“until” or “up to” God) which suggests approaching and making contact, but going no further. “El” (“to”) conveys a completed connection. If I walk along a road until a store, you might picture me standing outside. But if I walk to the store, you assume I went inside.

Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, noticing the two different prepositions, interpreted them in this way: ad (“until,” “up to”) conveys the Jewish people’s physical return to their homeland, language, and culture. It is the first step in teshuvah: approaching, although not fully attaining. El (“to”), in contrast, connotes a complete return, all the way to God. For Rav Kook, a staunch Zionist, aliyah was a prerequisite of complete return to God. It is only after the Jewish people make aliyah and build the Land, he continues, that they merit the divine assistance mentioned in this same passage: Then the Lord your God will open up your heart and the hearts of your offspring to love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul, in order that you may live (Deuteronomy 30:6). Barriers cast aside, Israel will do complete teshuvah and return all the way to God.

We read Parshat Nitzavim the week before Rosh Hashanah. We find ourselves deep into the season of repentance, a time for spiritual reflection and moral introspection. As much as we commit ourselves to change and promise ourselves we will chart a new course, sometimes we start along the path but falter or get stuck in a rut. We have high hopes for self-improvement, but sometimes we do not entirely fulfill them.

Rav Kook taught that we learn something significant from these two tiny prepositions -- ad and el. Coming all the way “to” full and all-encompassing teshuvah is not the only thing of value. Coming “up to” means we have achieved partial success, and this too is precious in God’s eyes. This means that we should acknowledge and value what we have accomplished even if we have not yet reached our end goal. God gives partial credit.

Partial change leads to greater change. It’s a step in the right direction, and is, by itself, worthwhile and significant. It is success in its own right. Think back for a moment on the changes you had hoped or promised yourself last Rosh Hashanah that you would make this year. Don’t think about the goals you didn’t reach; think about the progress -- even small steps forward -- that you made. God gives partial credit. Please give yourself partial credit. A new year is unfolding before you -- a year of opportunity.

In December 1993, the Space Shuttle Endeavor blasted off its launching pad on a mission to repair Hubble. It was among the most complex missions NASA had ever undertaken. For 10 days, seven astronauts worked tirelessly to install the correct optics, replace the Wide Field and Planetary Camera, replace the solar arrays and four of Hubble’s gyroscopes as well as numerous electrical components, and upgrade her computers.

(Astronauts F. Story Musgrave and Jeffrey A. Hoffman repairing Hubble)

In January 1994, NASA released the first of the now much sharper images produced by Hubble.

(Hubble images before and after the repair of the mirror)

I mention the service mission because it was the first of five service missions to Hubble. Each approached solving all Hubble’s problems. Each accomplished a partial repair, a partial solution. Each took steps forward. Each gets partial credit.

May our efforts toward change and self-improvement -- incremental for most of us -- be fruitful. May we always remember that God gives partial credit, and follow that model.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Where are you from? / Ki Tavo

When my older daughter was in fifth grade, her teachers conceived what they thought was a great idea. Hoping to enlarge the meaning of Thanksgiving, the children were instructed to assemble a bag of artifacts from their family’s “country of origin.” On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, each child was to dress to represent the culture of that country, present their bag of tricks, and place a pushpin on a world map on the country they “came from.” My first thought was: how can the African American kids do this? I was caught off guard by my daughter’s distress and anger. She asked acerbically: Do I do Russia, which Grammy’s family left because of pogroms? Or do I do Germany, which Grandma left after Kristallnacht? Should I dress up as a Cossack or a Nazi? On that Wednesday, one parent confided to me: This was tough for my son. We’re five generations in America. We have no idea where our ancestors came from. Our cultural icon is the golden arches of McDonalds.

We all want to know where we come from. What could be more natural? Parshat Ki Tavo describes a ceremony for the Israelites entering the Land of Israel to perform that acknowledges their roots. Here, succinctly, is the Jewish foundational story of our origins -- so succinct that it found its way into the Passover haggadah.

My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us. They imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. (Deuteronomy 26:5-9)

But what do the scholars say? Here, as briefly as possible, are three academic theories about ancient Israelite origins:

First: The conquest described in the Book of Joshua happened in the 13^th century B.C.E. William F. Albright, John Bright, and G. Ernest Wright are proponents of this view based on excavations of Lachish and Hazor. But Kathleen Kenyon excavated Jericho itself and found no evidence of destruction even near that period in history. The second theory is known as the Infiltration Theory, and is championed by Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth. They explain that 12 semi-nomadic tribes entered Canaan from another area at the time of the “Conquest” and settled in the land. Because they had ethnic affinities, they were able to coalesce into one nation: Israel. A third theory, the Peasant Revolt Theory, was offered by G.E. Mendenhall and is based largely on the Amarna letters. It holds that there was no displacement or movement of the population and no entry from without. Rather, native peasants in Canaan withdrew from the oppressive regimes of city-states ruled by overlords who oppressed them. Having withdrawn, they formed a nation.

So did we come from Egypt? Or were we indigenous to the Land of Israel? As scholars continue to marshal evidence, and debate, this much I can say: the story of the Exodus and our origins in oppression and slavery, the magnificent redemption at the Reed Sea, and the spectacular Revelation at Sinai form the troika of ideas, symbols, and ideals that have fueled us for three millennia: Creation (of not only the universe, but the nation Israel), Revelation of Torah, and Redemption (a past redemption that serves as a paradigm for the future).

These three themes -- Creation, Revelation, Redemption -- permeate Judaism. They surround the Shema in the morning and evening prayers. They are echoed in the three pilgrimage festivals of Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot. They define our religious-history: Creation is our past, Revelation (Torah) is our present, Redemption is the future we long for and work toward.

Coming from the tar pits of Egypt, we are schooled to empathize with those who suffer, who are repressed, whom injustice holds back. Torah reminds us frequently: We were slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt (Deuteronomy 6:21) -- we know the pain of slavery. Receiving Torah at Sinai teaches us the binding power of sacred text, interpreted and reinterpreted in every generation, guiding us in finding answers to the most perplexing moral questions we face, and offering ethical values to improve life for ourselves and others. Experiencing the Redemption at the Reed Sea, we know that miracles (however we define miracles) can happen, and that God (however we conceive God) is an integral part of changing the course of our lives for good. Keeping hope alive is so often crucial. When we seek redemption we can remember that it is possible. And not just for us -- for everyone.

If we can truly absorb the values that Creation, Revelation, and Redemption hold for us, so that they ooze out the pores of our skin (which is to say: shape our worldview and inform our choices and actions) then we will be fulfilling our mission that you shall be, as [God] promised, a holy people to the Lord your God  (Deuteronomy 26:19).

Fifth-graders are not the only ones curious to know whence they come. Alex Haley touched a deep nerve in the human psyche when he published Roots in 1976 and made Kunta Kinte a household name. Torah teaches us that our roots are less in time and location than they are in ethical values and spiritual goals. These are the ethics from which we come, and to which we continually try to return.

Where do you come from? Where are you headed?

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

"Why, Mommy, why?" / Ki Teitzei

Young children famously trill the mantra “Why?” to the exasperation of the adults around them. Many child-rearing books provide clever advice for deflecting the question. But it’s a reasonable question, and answering it directly -- as best one can -- nurtures a child’s inquisitive mind and desire to learn.

Parshat Ki Teitzei imparts a mitzvah (commandment) that leaves us scratching our heads and asking, “Why?” Rabbi Milton Steinberg, in his magnificent book, As a Driven Leaf, made this commandment famous:

If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledgling or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life. (Deuteronomy 22:6-7)

This mitzvah is known as shiluach ha-ken (dismissal of the nest). Torah instructs us to send the mother away before taking eggs or fledglings from a nest, and makes the most unusual promise of long life as the reward. Why?

The Mishnah tells us:

 

If [in prayer] one says: “May Your mercies extend to a bird’s nest,” “May Your Name be mentioned for well-being,” or “We give thanks, we give thanks,” he is silenced.

What’s wrong with saying these prayers? Gemara explains why “May Your Name be mentioned for well-being” and “We give thanks, we give thanks” are problematic, and then takes up “Your mercies extend to a bird’s nest.”

But what is the reason for silencing him if he says, “May Your mercies extend to a bird’s nest”? Two Amoraim [sages in Babylonia] in the West, R. Jose b. Avin and R. Jose b. Zevida, give different answers. One [R. Yose b. Zevida] says it is because [saying this prayer] creates jealousy among God’s creatures. The other [R. Jose b. Avin explains that the reason is] because he presents the actions of the Holy One Blessed be God as arising from compassion, where in fact they are decrees. (Berakhot 3b) 

R. Jose b. Zevida is concerned that jealousy not erupt in God’s creation since Torah specifically states a commandment about birds and their nests, but not about every animal. But he is overruled. Shiluach ha-ken is a decree (gezeirah): it a commandment we cannot understand rationally; we are to simply obey it, and by doing so prove our loyalty to God.

Many find this explanation deeply unsatisfying. They want a reason. They want to know why. I concur.

Other sages in the Talmud offer an alternative interpretation. They understand from these verses that we are obligated in the mitzvah of tza’ar ba’alei chaim, to avoid causing unnecessary pain and suffering to animals (Baba Metzia 32). This is to say: animals have a right to decent treatment, and Torah speaks to this right. Rambam (Moses Maimonides, Spain, 1135 – Egypt, 1204) affirms this interpretation. He tells us that the purpose of shiluach ha-ken is to spare the mother the pain of seeing her offspring or eggs taken from her.

Targum Yerushalmi (erroneously attributed to Yonatan b. Uzziel) claims that to earn God’s mercy, we must act mercifully toward other creatures that dwell on earth. He thereby suggests that the mitzvah of shiluach ha-ken is intended to instill in us the habit of the middat-rachamim (the attribute of mercy). Ramban (Moses b. Nachman - Nachmanides - Spain, 1194 - 1270) concurs; if we learn to treat animals with compassion, how much more compassion will we show other human beings?

Rabbi Don Isaac Abravanel (Portugal 1437 - Venice 1508), in his commentary to Deuteronomy 22:6 suggests a third, and very different purpose behind shiluach ha-ken (dismissal of the nest). He writes:

The Torah’s intention is to prevent the possibility of untimely destruction and rather, to encourage Creation to persist as fully as possible… [the end of the verse] in order that you may fare well and live long, means that this mitzvah (of sending away the mother bird) has no intended purpose for the sake of the animals, but rather that it shall be good for humankind, because when the birds will be perpetuated, we will be able to eat from them many additional times… and that is how you will live longer…”

In other words, destroying two generations of a species risks lowering the population to below the level required to serve as food to sustain a human population. While Abravanel is the first to express concern for the population of the species affected, and we might have wished that his concern was for more than a source of food for humans, we nonetheless see his awareness of the essential interplay between humans and our environment, and the importance of sustainability.

If we accept the Rabbis’ first response to “Why?” we are left only with an opportunity to be obedient without any sense that our action itself is meaningful or good. But if we refuse to accept the Torah “on faith,” closing down our minds, we find fascinating discussions are launched by these verses:

1.     The principle of tza’ar ba’alei chayim, the importance of protecting animals from pain and suffering.

2.     The lesson that compassion is a learned attitude and behavior.

3.     Protection and sustainability of species.

Taken together, the common thread is the importance of compassion for all those affected by human behavior: compassion for the mother bird, compassion that can be learned and exhibited in human relationships, compassion for the larger picture of the environment. How much richer and more meaningful this mitzvah is now!

We tend to think that searching for rational explanations, and demanding reasons for requirements made of us, is a modern trait of rational thinkers. Not so. Just look at the dates of the commentators I cited who did just that: the dates range from the third century to the 15^th century.

R. Yose b. Avin’s response suggests that God is the parent who says, “Do it because I told you so.” Not a great parenting technique. Best to follow those who stretch their minds, open their hearts, and exercise their morality. They teach us how to live better lives.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Constitutions and their interpreters / Shoftim

On occasion, the Constitution of the United States is displayed in the rotunda of the National Archives in Washington, DC. On these occasions, the line to catch a glimpse of it stretches down (appropriately enough) Constitution Avenue and curls around the block. The Constitution shapes the structure, function, and operation of our government, yet few can recite it. To fully understand and apply it, we have legions of constitutional scholars and a Supreme Court. We need interpretation and commentary to explain and apply it.

So, too, Torah, which is the constitution of the Jewish people. Like the Constitution of the United States, it requires interpretation and commentary. That process begins with Talmud.  

Torah is certainly our foundational sacred text, the core of Judaism. At so many junctures Torah is remarkably progressive and enlightened, but even at some of these junctures, we experience a sour aftertaste. In this week’s parashah, Shoftim, we find several examples of this sweet-and-sour cuisine. I’ll share with you three examples in this drash.

The parashah begins by instructing the Israelites to establish a system of courts presided over by judges who

…govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly; you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you. (Deuteronomy 16:18-20)

The prohibition against judges taking bribes is indeed admirable, but when you live in a small community, everyone has done favors for everyone else. What is the meaning of bribe? Does it apply only to money? Here the sour aftertaste is what appears to be Torah’s narrow understanding of what may lead to corrupt judges.

My second example concerns the use of witnesses. Numbers 35:30 and Deuteronomy 17:6 have already stipulated the need for two witnesses in order to convict someone of a din nefesh (an offense punishable by execution). In parshat Shoftim, Deuteronomy 19:15 seems to expand that standard to encompass non-capital cases, as well: A single witness may not validate against a person any guilt or blame for any offense that may be committed; a case can be valid only on the testimony of two witnesses or more. What are we do to with all that we have learned from neuroscientists about human observation and memory? We now know that people often provide the worst evidence in crimal cases. Here, the sour aftertaste concerns a standard that appears trapped in the ancient, pre-scientific world. 

My third example concerns the rules of warfare:

When you approach a town to attack it, you shall offer it terms of peace. If it responds peaceably and lets you in, all the people present there shall serve you at forced labor. If it does not surrender to you… when the Lord your God delivers it into your hand, you shall put all the males to the sword. You may, however, take as your booty the women, the children, the livestock, and everything in the town… (Deuteronomy 20:10-14)

Little explanation is required here. Is this a prescription for future -- and current -- military encounters? The “sour aftertaste” is more a toxic mouthful. Enslaving or exterminating a conquered people is simply barbaric and immoral.

All three examples -- judicial bribes, witnesses, and rules of warfare -- highlight an important point: Torah, as our constitution, is the starting point for our values and beliefs. It is our jumping off point for conversations about crucial issues of justice, crime, and warfare (as well as dozens of other topics) but the conversation is fleshed out and shaped by Talmud and continues beyond with extensive and on-going discussion, interpretation, and commentary.

Concerning the acceptance of bribes, our Sages perceive the “sour aftertaste.” In Talmud b.Ketubot 105b we find:

Rava said: “What is the reason for [the prohibition against a judge accepting] a gift? Once he receives a gift from someone, his opinion draws closer to his, and he becomes like him, and a man cannot see guilt in himself.

What is shohad [the term for “bribe” in Deuteronomy 16:19]? [We can understand it as] she-hu chad -- he is one/unified [with the one who gave the bribe]. Rav Papa said: “A person should not judge a case of someone he loves, nor of someone he hates, for one does not see the faults of a loved one and one does not see the merits of a hated one.”

Talmud examines the issue in the bright light of Torah’s morality. Thanks to Rava, we understand Torah’s underlying concern: justice depends upon judicial impartiality, and gifts sway a judge’s judgment. Rav Papa takes us even further. In the pursuit of justice, we cannot stop with forbidding judicial bribery. Close relationships, intimate knowledge of someone -- either because you love or hate that person -- render a judge incapable of delivering blind justice.

Concerning the use of witnesses in a din nefesh to convict someone of a crime punishable by execution, Talmud teaches us by its own example to take into serious consideration what is known through secular sciences. The Sages frequently cite what they have learned outside the bet midrash (House of Study) and integrate it into their arguments. Their standard is our standard: use the best information available in rendering legal decisions.

Concerning the disturbing rules of warfare described in parshat Shoftim, the Rabbis tackle this problem by first neatly creating categories of wars in Mishnah Sotah 8:7. They distinguish between discretionary wars (milkhemet reshut), commanded wars (milkhemet mitzvah), and obligatory wars (milkhemet chovah).

When is this the case [that men may return from the battle front to their homes]? In the case of a milkhemet reshut (discretionary war). But in a milkhemet mitzvah (commanded war) all must go forth, even the bridegroom from his wedding chamber and the bride from her chupah. Rabbi Yehudah said: When is this the case? In the case of a milkhemet mitzvah (commanded war). In a milkhemet chovah (obligatory war), however, all must go to the front, even the bridegroom from his wedding chamber and the bride from her chupah. (m.Sotah 8:7)

The comments in the mishnah, and the discussion in the Gemara that follows, center around the various conditions Torah stipulates (see Deuteronomy 20:5-8) that exempt one from fighting. What gradually becomes clear is that “commanded wars,” such as our passage in Deuteronomy describes, are limited to the conquest of the Land in the time of Joshua, and are therefore a one-time event of the past. Hence the requirement to enslave or slaughter can no longer pertain. It is now forever impermissible.

A constitution without commentary cannot function in a living society. The legal scholars in this country continue to study, debate, and explicate the Constitution; the Supreme Court is a living organ of interpretation. So, too, the Jewish constitution: Talmud begins the process of asking questions, debating difficult issues, and formulating responses to the issues raised by Torah. The process continues to this day.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

"They even offer up their sons and daughters" / Re'eh

A young woman I know was an excellent student in high school. She now attends an excellent university. Yet her parents harangued her -- complete with screaming and invectives -- because she was not accepted to the university they wanted her to attend. Alas, such parents are not rare.

Parshat Re’eh is packed with warnings to the Israelites to scrupulously avoid the idols and idolatrous practices of the people living in the land of Canaan. Moses tells the people:

You must destroy all the sites at which the nations you are to dispossess worshiped their gods, whether on lofty mountains and on hills or under any luxuriant tree. Tear down their altars, smash their pillars, put their sacred posts to the fire, and cut down the images of their gods, obliterating their name from that site. (Deuteronomy 12:3)

And then we come to this shocking verse about child sacrifice practiced by the people then living in the land of Canaan:

You shall not act thus toward the Lord your God, for they perform for their gods every abhorrent act that the Lord detests; they even offer up their sons and daughters in fire to their gods. (Deuteronomy 12:31)

This has me pondering the connection between idolatry and child sacrifice. The Tana”kh records three cases of child sacrifice: Abraham offers up Isaac at God’s command (Genesis 22); King Mesha of Moab sacrifices his firstborn son to assure military victory (II Kings 3:4-40); and Jephthah makes a rash vow to offer the first thing coming out of his house if he returns home in victory; his daughter is the first to emerge from the house to greet him.

It’s easy enough to say that child sacrifice was the premier reprehensible idolatrous practice of ancient peoples. But it’s not clear to me that it ended long ago. I see vestiges of it -- if not downright instances -- today. I began this drash with one of those instances. It often looks like this: Parents whose lives revolve around their children don’t just advantage their children. They enroll them into afterschool classes that occupy their every waking hour. They talk about their children’s grades and awards at every opportunity. They groom them to attend particular universities and push them to become involved in activities that will look good on their college applications. Once in college, these parents require their children to major in only a select number of academic disciplines that they believe will insure prestige and financial success. Their children’s passions are not taken seriously.

“Tiger Moms” on steroids come from every ethnic and religious group. There are, of course, gradations of the Tiger Mom syndrome: parents who are excessively involved in their children’s life decisions, but not to the degree the diehards are. Often these are helicopter and lawnmower parents.

In a drash on Genesis 22 about Abraham and Isaac entitled “The Unbinding of Abraham,” psychotherapist Esther Ticktin writes:

Abraham became idolatrously attached to the inner re-presentation of this child and heir of his. He had had a long time to build up this inner image of what this son was going to be like, and since this son took so long in coming, Abraham had no chance to check his fantasy image with the real person who was his son. And, knowing what we now know about internal fantasy relationships, we may assume that he experienced his son as an extension or a replica of himself, and that fantasy became the center of his life. But, as usually happens, life does not follow the fantasy script, and Abraham’s son turned out to be very unlike his father. Where Abraham was bold, courageous, self-assertive, Isaac was a shy, timid, and passive child. Ishmael would taunt him and Isaac would not defend himself. Chances are that Abraham, for whom nothing had been too difficult up to now, became involved in a single-minded struggle to remake his son in the image of his fantasy -- as have countless other fathers and mothers before and after him. Isaac thus became an obsession with his father. The son who was to have been the symbol of God’s promise to Abraham became, instead, the focal point of all of Abraham’s thoughts, feelings, and energies. He became, in fact, a substitute for God in his life.”

I have come to a slightly different understanding of the phenomenon Ticktin describes so well. Over the years, I’ve seen many of these parents. They appear to worship their kids, but in reality, they view their children as a reflection of them. It’s themselves that these parents worship. They sacrifice their children’s individuality, sensibilities, passions, and independence on the altar of their egos, all the while maintaining they “want the best” for their children. Child sacrifice and idolatry are sadly alive and well.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Sharpen your #2 pencils / Ekev

A physics student entered the lecture hall to take his exam, picked up the test, and read the first problem: "Describe how to determine the height of a skyscraper using a barometer."

The student wrote: "Tie a long piece of string to the barometer, lower it from the roof of the skyscraper to the ground. The length of the string plus the length of the barometer will equal the height of the building."

His exam was returned three days later and this problem was marked wrong. The student went to see the professor, who explained that the answer was wrong because it did not entail using the barometer as an instrument to measure air pressure. “The problem didn’t require that the barometer be used that way,” the student replied.

The professor conceded that this was true and asked, “Your answer did not demonstrate a knowledge of physics. Do you know what answer I was looking for?”

“Certainly,” the student said. “You could use the barometer to measure the air pressure on the roof of the skyscraper and on the ground, and convert the difference into a height of air. But your question didn’t require that I demonstrate a knowledge of how a barometer is designed to be used.”

“So you have other answers?” the professor ventured.

“Absolutely, plenty of them,” the student replied. And he began:

“First, take the barometer up to the roof and drop it off the side. Time how long it takes to reach the ground, and from this calculate the height of the building.

“Or, if the sun is out, measure the length of the barometer and, setting it on its end, the length of the shadow it casts. Then measure the length of the shadow cast by the building. By similar triangles, you can calculate the height of the building.

"Then again, you could tie a short piece of string to the barometer and swing it as a pendulum, first at ground level, then on the roof of the skyscraper. The difference in the pendulum’s period can be used to calculate the height of the building.

“Is that all?” asked the professor.

“No,” replied the student. “You could enter the stairwell and climb to the top using the stairs, marking off the height in barometer lengths. But probably the easiest and quickest would be to knock on the door of the janitor and say: ‘I have this nice, new, valuable barometer. I’ll give it to you if you tell me the height of this building.’”

Since all the students’ responses were legitimate, the professor gave him full credit for his initial answer.

Parshat Shelach-lekha (in Numbers 14) records that the Israelites’ forty-year ordeal in the wilderness is punishment for succumbing to fear and disregarding the favorable report brought by Joshua and Caleb.

Your carcasses shall drop in this wilderness, while your children roam the wilderness for forty years, suffering for your faithlessness, until the last of your carcasses is down in the wilderness. You shall bear your punishment for forty years, corresponding to the number of days -- forty days -- that you scouted the land: a year for each day. Thus you shall know what it means to thwart Me. (Numbers 14:32-34)

Here in parshat Ekev, however, we find a second tradition explaining the four-decade sojourn in the Sinai Wilderness: the Israelites are being tested:

Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that He might test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts; whether you would keep His commandments or not. (Deuteronomy 8:2)

This is the not the only occasion that God tests people. Genesis chapter 22 describes the Akedah (the Binding of Isaac) as a test of Abraham. God demands that Abraham offer his beloved son Isaac as a sacrifice. What kind of test is this? It sounds cruel, doesn’t it?

I want to propose that both Akedat Yitzhak (the Binding of Isaac) and the forty years in the wilderness are indeed tests, but not in the way we generally think of tests.

Four decades in the wilderness, facing trials and tribulations, teaches the Israelites what they are made of. It teaches them their strengths and weaknesses. It reveals their fears and priorities. To enter the land and claim their inheritance, they must know themselves. There’s nothing like adversity to do that.

Similarly, God could not be testing Abraham to see if he will truly slaughter his son. That would be a reprehensible thing to do regardless of whether Abraham believes it to be God’s will or not. My colleague, Rabbi Howard Apothaker, makes a brilliant and innovative argument for another viewpoint: The test is whether Abraham has come far enough in his relationship with God to trust that God will stop him. Abraham’s test is to learn about himself: how deeply does he trust God?

It is a truism that “life is a test.” If forty years in the wilderness is a test -- enough time for one generation to die and another to be born -- then all of life is a test. Every challenge thrust into our laps reveals our true selves -- to us. Every decision we make illuminates for us, in the dazzlingly bright light of reality, who we are and what we are made of.

Thinking about life as a test has served me well at the most difficult and painful times of life, when I think the well is empty and I have no more reserves, or when my patience or good will is worn to a thread. I try to remind myself that this is a test: what am I truly capable of? That thought brings a new perspective, a measure of objectivity, and sometimes enough distraction to rally. God administers the test because that is the nature of life in this universe, all of which is contained in God. You know the bumper sticker: It happens. As people say, “Life is a deck of cards, and you have to play the hand you are dealt.” This is not to say that the world is random and without meaning. We control far less than we think and hope; a great deal of life is good fortune or a lack of it. When it’s the latter, it helps to frame the situation (at least in part) as a test for me to learn what I am truly made of and what I am truly capable of.

It means that God is present and potent. At the most difficult times, facing the most difficult decisions, we can call on God, who is the source of existence itself, the animating force of life, for patience, strength, and courage. There is more of each in each of us -- embedded in the divine spark that vitalizes each of us. When we call on God, we call on the best in ourselves and might be surprised to learn that the well is far from empty.

When we took tests in school, there was almost always “the right answer” and everything else was wrong. But life tests are nothing like school tests. In life, there are often multiple legitimate answers -- as the clever student demonstrated to the physics professor in the joke I began with. It helps to keep that in mind. A “right” answer is one that preserves human dignity and avoids causing pain and suffering. This is a much harder test than the worst physics exams we took in school, but for this, you can leave your #2 pencil at home because there are no circles to bubble in.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman