Feel the Light / Parshat Tetazveh

Although the Egyptians discovered how to fashion candles of beeswax 4000 years ago, in Eretz Yisrael during the biblical period clay oil lamps and olive oil provided illumination. Antiquities shops throughout Israel today offer such lamps for sale and many people I know display them in their homes. No doubt, every home in ancient Israel sported such lamps and, as Torah tells us, the menorah in the Mishkan (wilderness Tabernacle) was composed of seven oil lamps.

Our Torah portion begins:

You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of crushed olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. (Ex. 27:20)

The eternally burning lamp stand is the model for the Ner Tamid (eternal light) that hangs above the ark of every synagogue, symbolizing our eternal covenant with God and reminding us that every synagogue is a mikdash m’at (a Mishkan in miniature).

The verse quoted above tells us that clear oil of crushed olives was required for lightning the menorah. Why does Torah bother with these details? Would we not have known that oil is made by crushing olives and must be clear and pure?

Concerning the requirement for clear, refined oil to fuel the menorah, traditional commentators tell us this teaches that just as the oil must not be contaminated, neither should we allow ourselves to be contaminated by selfishness, pride, and avarice. We should seek to refine ourselves through patience, chesed (loving kindness), and tzedakah (righteousness).

Midrash Exodus Rabbah 36:1 learns another lesson from the clear, refined olive oil about preserving a strong Jewish identity: “Even as the oil of the olive does not mix with other liquids with which it comes into contact, so has the people Israel kept its own identity when it came into contact with other nations.” The best way to preserve our unique values, worldview, and sacred texts is to cultivate in ourselves and in our children a strong and vibrant Jewish identity.

What about the crushed olives? Rashi interprets these words katit l’ma-or v’lo katit la’menuchot (literally: “for the menorah and not for the meal offering”). Rashi’s words have been understood (out of context) to be a psychological message: “crushed for light, and not for depression.” Life deals crushing blows to us. Sometimes these crushing blows affect us as individuals. Certainly loss and death are the most staggering. At many times in history, we as a people experienced crushing blows. Yet our response – Rashi tells us – should be to look for the light, and to be a light to others. The response to darkness is to light a candle. The response to loss is love. The response to despair is to kindle hope.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Nuggets of Gold in the Ark / Parshat Terumah

What did the wilderness Tabernacle look like? What was it made of? How was it constructed? A myriad details of the Tabernacle, as well as its furnishings and vessels are contained in parshat Terumah. Sages and scholars have poured over this parashah in an effort to understand every detail of the complex structure our ancestors built in the wilderness and regularly dissembled and moved to a new location where they reassembled it. The material list alone gives us pause to consider the project with awe: fine twisted linen, cloth woven of goats’ hair, dolphin skins, acadia wood planks (some overlaid with gold), silver sockets, an acacia wood altar overlaid with copper, pails, scrapers, basins, hooks and firepans of copper, and much more.

Here’s a broad view: the wilderness Tabernacle consisted of a Ohel Moed (Tent of Meeting), and within that the Mishkan (Tabernacle). The Mishkan consisted of two chambers: the Kodesh (Holy) and the inner sanctum, the Kodesh ha-Kodashim (Holy of Holies). In the Holy of Holies the aron (ark) containing the tablets Moses brought down Sinai rested.

Parshat Terumah’s details, like the aron itself, contain treasure. Here are two nuggets of gold:

Overlay [the ark] with pure gold – overlay it inside and out – make upon it a gold molding round about. (Exodus 25:11)

Why cover the inside of the ark with gold? No one will ever see it because the ark is sealed and never opened. The Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 72b comments, “Any Torah scholar whose interior is not like his exterior is no Torah scholar.” Yoma’s message applies to scholars, to be sure, but to us all, as well. We all seen people whose slick façade covers a lack of integrity or morality; we see them in positions of leadership, in business, in the community. They use the world and others for their purposes, taking far more than they give. Talmud reminds us to be sure it doesn’t describe us.

Another nugget of gold:

Make for it [the ark of acacia wood] a rim of gold round about (Exodus 25:24).

Again, the Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 72b comments: “R. Yochanan said: There were three crowns: of the Altar, of the Ark, and of the Table. The one of the Altar [representing the priesthood], Aaron deserved and received. The one of the Table [representing royalty], David deserved and received. The one of the Ark [representing Torah] is still available, and whoever wants it, may come and receive it.” We can continually receive Torah as we continually increase our learning. As Hillel taught (Pirke Avot 2:5): Fix a time for study. Thus the Talmud continues: “R. Yochanan pointed out a contradiction. It is written zar yet we read it zir [crown or wreath]: If he deserves it, it becomes a wreath for him; if not it remains alien to him.”

Talmud is reminding us all that Torah study is essential to a full Jewish life. The Talmud doesn’t prescribe precisely what or how to study, only that we should all be involved in the process. These days, with all the resources available to us in adult education classes, the shelves of bookstores and on the internet, it is easy to earn the crown of Torah and through it broaden our horizons and deepen our understanding of life’s purpose. It’s never too late to start, and always rewarding.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

An eye for an eye / Parshat Mishpatim

The Torah is filled with passages that have been misunderstood and misinterpreted, sometimes due to ignorance and sometimes out of malice. One such passage occurs in parshat Mishpatim, which is also known as Sefer haBrit (“the Book of the Covenant”), a collection of civil, criminal, moral, and religious laws following on the heels of the account of revelation and the Eser Dibrot (Ten Commandments) of parshat Yitro.

The first section of Sefer haBrit (Exodus 21:2 – 22:16) deals with civil and criminal matters. There it is stipulated that if two men become engaged in a brawl and one of them shoves a pregnant woman, causing her to miscarry, the man responsible must pay the husband of the woman compensation to be determined in court that will take into account the demand of the husband. In contrast (and here comes the oft-misunderstood passage):

But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. (Exodus 21:23-25) (See also Leviticus 24:19-20.)

The term for this legal formulation is Lex Talionis (the law of retributive justice). A similar formulation is found in the Code of Hammurabi, who ruled Babylon in the 18th – 17th century B.C.E. The Code calls for death and disfigurement on the basis of an “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.” (At the same time, it also calls for a presumption of innocence – the earliest example on record – and the presentation of evidence in court.) We do not know if the Lex Talionis of Hammurabi’s Code was carried out literally in ancient times. There are scholars who believe that the Code itself was not the law code by which the society operated, but rather the fulfillment of a divine mandate by the gods to the king: a law code to prove he was divinely ordained to rule, but not one which was operative in ancient Babylon.

In the Torah, however, “an eye for an eye…” was never understood literally. Leviticus 18:9 is very clear on this point:

You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your countrymen. Love your fellow as yourself: I am the Lord.

Talmud is also clear: “eye for an eye” means that one who causes physical injury pays compensation in proportion to the extent of the injury, no more and no less. Torah’s laws apply to all equally, and so the notion of literal physical retaliation is absurd: if a blind man put out the eye of a sighted man, how could the law be fulfilled if understood literally? The actual monetary amount to be paid was determined by a court.

It was taught [in a baraita]: R. Shimon b. Yochai says: "Eye for eye" means pecuniary compensation. You say pecuniary compensation, but perhaps it is not so, and actual retaliation [by putting out an eye] is meant? What then will you say where a blind man put out the eye of another man, or where a cripple cut off the hand of another, or where a lame person broke the leg of another? How can I carry out in this case [the principle of retaliation of] "eye for eye" seeing that the Torah says, You shall have one manner of law, implying that the manner of law should be the same in all cases? (Baba Kamma 84a)

Those who insist that Torah mandates physical retribution either do so out of ignorance or malice. In the case of the latter, they wish to paint the God of Israel as permitting barbaric vengeance, and Jewish law is inherently cruel and savage. In fact, the law of “an eye for an eye…” renders bodily injury in retribution impermissible. Rather, the case must be adjudicated by a judge who determines fair monetary compensation to settle the matter and hopefully prevent the possibility of future violence.

Far from testifying to a “cruel God” or sanctioning vigilante justice and violent retribution, the biblical law of Lex Talionis is the law of a compassionate God who seeks to mitigate the human propensity for vengeance and violence. Recourse and compensation are found in the courts, a place of justice and peace.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Path to Holiness / Parshat Yitro

We read the Eser Dibrot (the Ten Commandments) this week. In congregations throughout the world, people will rise to hear them read. The Eser Dibrot were also recited in the Temple in Jerusalem, in early synagogues, and in some synagogues in the modern period, as well. In reality, the Eser Dibrot do not stand alone in Jewish tradition; they are a gateway to the rest of halakhah. But just what is halakhah? Usually translated “Jewish law,” I would argue that this is an unfortunate misunderstand with wide-ranging repercussions.

Two questions arise: Is the purpose of Torah to convey law? Is law the essence of Judaism? I would answer “no” to both questions.

We live today in a secular society tinged with antinomianism. We object to externally imposed behavioral restraints, moral standards, and what we consider unnecessary rules. At the same time, there is a movement in the Jewish world toward Judaism-through-law, as if living Jewishly is all about intense focus on what is permitted and what is forbidden – a pushback against secular distaste for rules? Increasingly restrictive and absurd kashrut standards are a prime example of this movement.

Torah is about our people’s experience of, and relationship with, God. It is about life immersed in the Divine. Therefore, it speaks to our individual, and collective, relationship with God. Every deep and abiding relationship obligates. My relationships with my husband, children, friends, congregants, and colleagues all impose obligations on me. That is the nature of a committed relationship. It is the nature of the specific relationship that determines the parameters of those obligations.

In our tradition, commitment is expressed as halakhah, which as I mentioned is incorrectly understood as “Jewish law” and more accurately translated “a path one walks.” Torah is not “Law” but “Guide.” There is a world of difference between “Law” that begets “Jewish law” and “Guide” that gives rise to “a path one walks.” The latter is active, dynamic, evolving, because it reflects an active, dynamic, and evolving relationship with God. To calcify halakhah or use it as a battleground for establishing the authority of one group over another, is to miss the beauty, love, and spiritual nature of our tradition, and to bury opportunities for experiencing holiness beneath a mountain of permitted-and-prohibited regulations. Jewish practice should be an opening to experience holiness in our lives, not a matter of holier-than-thou.

There is an allegory: The doves complaint to God that they are defenseless because their beaks are weak and they cannot run. God provides them with wings so they can fly, but they then complain that with wings they are even more burdened. “Fools!” God says, “If you use them correctly, you’ll take flight and command the skies.”

So it is with us. If we use our tradition correctly, we too can soar spiritually. Shabbat can free us from work and the pressures of daily life to enjoy our families, reconnect with God, and consider what is most meaningful to us. Regular prayer can help us gain control over our lives, directing our efforts toward that which is purposeful and monitoring the relationships in our lives that are so important. Kashrut can help us attune our lives to the environment and world beyond our homes and workplaces, a way to connect at the most elemental level to God’s universe. Closing shabbat with Havdalah can help us recognize and appreciate that not all time is the same qualitatively and that holiness is something we bring to the times, events, and relationships in our lives.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Who May Sing Halleluyah / Parshat B'Shallach

For three weeks we have been recounting the story of our redemption, from the moment Jacob and his family went down into Egypt, through the plagues, on into the wilderness. The week’s parashah, B’shallach, recounts the climax: the actual moment of redemption when the Israelites crossed the Reed Sea and the waters closed in on the Egyptians so they cannot follow after them.

Then the Lord said to Moses, “Hold out your arm over the sea, that the waters may come back upon the Egyptians and upon their chariots and upon their horsemen…

Thus the Lord delivered Israel that day from the Egyptians. Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the shore of the sea. When Israel saw the wondrous power that the Lord had wielded against the Egyptians, the people feared the Lord; they had faith in the Lord and God’s servant Moses.

Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song to the Lord. They said: I will sing to the Lord, for God has triumphed gloriously; horse and driver God has hurled into the sea. The Lord is my strength and might; God is become my deliverance. This is my God and I will enshrine God… (Exodus 14: 26, 30, 15:1-2)

The 15th chapter of Exodus is comprised of the song of redemption the Israelites sang. It is so powerful and important that it is included in each morning’s prayers, at the beginning of shacharit (the morning prayers), establishing the purpose of prayer as redemption. What is more, this shabbat is known as Shabbat Shira (the sabbath of song) because this ancient paean in praise of God is the centerpiece of the parashah. The entire congregation stands to hear it chanted.

In the Talmud (Megillah 10b) we are told that when Israel was redeemed,

The ministering angels wanted to chant songs of praise, but the Holy One blessed be God said, “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you would chant praises?

God’s contempt and disgust are evident in the text. The angels in heaven are silenced and rebuked for rejoicing at a time when the Egyptians are suffering death in the sea. This might well be the all-time favorite midrash and has found its way into many haggadot for Pesach. It is taken as a lesson on empathy and compassion: we may not rejoice when our enemies are suffering.

Yet God does not stop Israel from singing a song of victory and redemption at the shores of the Reed Sea. It is only the angels who are censured. Perhaps this is became we humans are not angels, and need the catharsis of rejoicing when we experience redemption so that we can affirm both the possibility and necessity of redemption. Perhaps it is because, having experienced redemption, Israel will fully comprehend the need to bring redemption to others. Perhaps it is because Israel does not take “credit” for the destruction wrought against Egypt nor learn from it that they should impose suffering on their enemies; rather it is God’s triumph that is the focus of the Shira. Perhaps it is because the Shira ends on a note of peace and tranquility, evoking the image of God’s Holy Mountain and Sanctuary, where some day – in the messianic future – peace will reign.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

"Plagues" or "Marvels"? / Parshat Bo

Last week’s parashah, Va’era, recounted the first seven plagues. This week’s parashah, Bo, recounts the last three: locusts, darkness, and the death of the firstborn. We refer to the Ten Plagues in our Haggadah as the Eser Makkot – the ten “strikes” or “plagues.” Torah confirms that they are nega “affliction” (11:1) but also employs other terms with far more positive connotation:

• Nifla’ot “wonders” (Ex. 3:20)
• Otot “signs” (Ex. 8:19 and 10:2)
• Moftim “marvels” (Ex. 11:10)

There is a world of difference between a “plague” and a “marvel.” Certainly there is a difference in the eye of the beholder. For Israel Eser Makkot are wonders, signs, and marvels. For Egypt they are afflictions and plagues.

For the Torah, every event in the lives of God’s people is pregnant with meaning and purpose, and God is behind each event. Hence plagues against Egypt are “signs” of God’s power and sovereignty in the universe, “wonders” in the eyes of Israel.

There is a danger to this perspective. If each significant event in the vicissitudes of history is orchestrated by God, then everyone is continually being rewarded or punished by God, and we need only look at the outcome to confidently (and arrogantly) pass judgment on the players, as Pat Robertson’s recent repugnant remarks concerning the devastating earthquake in Haiti remind us.

Our Rabbis recognized this danger and attempted to ameliorate its effect by withdrawing (in a sense) from the march of history and declaring a “time out” until the arrival of the messiah. But this is a not a solution for me. The solution for me lies in a different conception of God and God’s interaction with the universe. God is the divine spark that operates through us, the ordering principle of the universe that makes life possible, the ethical drive that propels us to righteousness when we are attuned to God. God is within and beyond, but God doesn’t not sit at a cosmic keyboard programming the world.

For us as Jews, remembering is a sacred obligation. We are commanded repeatedly to remember: to remember that we were enslaved in Egypt, to remember that God redeemed us from bondage, to remember our covenant with God, to remember what Amalek did to our people. Remembering need not be an act of academic historicism nor an occasion to judge others. Remembering can be a profound religious act of ascribing meaning to reality, and directing our lives toward a future of redemption, justice, and compassion.

The plagues suffered by Egypt remind us that the suffering of our enemies is still human suffering, and that even amidst great suffering, redemption is possible. When Israel left Egypt they took others with them: they were an erev rav “a mixed multitude” (Ex. 12:38) because they knew that only through compassion for others can justice for any be realized. They understood that through justice and compassion, and with God’s strength, guidance, and support, redemption could be realized. That redemption is with us still – in our memories and directing our actions – so that we can be God’s hands in bringing redemption to others.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Blossoming at any age / Parshat Va'era

Moses was eighty years old and Aaron eighty-three when they made their demand on Pharaoh. (Exodus 7:7)

Moses and Aaron got a late start on the careers and endeavors that made the most enduring difference to the Jewish people and the world. They are not alone: Abraham was 70 when God called him from Ur of the Chaldees to leave everything and everyone he knew and start anew so that he would be the progenitor of the Jewish People. Rabbi Akiba was 40 when he began to learn the alphabet and how to read, and he systematized and shaped halakhic methodology and scriptural interpretation. If Abraham is the father of the Jewish People, Akiba is the father of Rabbinic Judaism.

Pirke Avot 5:23 provides a lifecycle schedule:

At five, one studies Tanakh. At ten, Mishnah. At 13, the mitzvot. At 15, Talmud. At 18, marriage. At 20, pursuit of a livelihood. At 30, the peak of strength. At 40, understanding. At 50, advisor. At 60, old age. At 70, the hoary head. At 80, strength. At 90, a bent back. At 100, it is as if one is already dead and passed out of this world.

If we examine various commentaries on this passage in Pirke Avot, we find that some read koach at 80 (strength at 80) as a sincere expression, but many read it as a sardonic comment or a euphemism for weakness. But Torah suggests – through the model of Moses – that 80, and indeed any advanced age, can be a time of remarkable capacity and strength. We have all known elders who retained their vitality because they had not only attained wisdom through learning and life’s experiences, but chose to invest in others and thereby found great purpose to their latter years.

Sadly, there are many elders in our midst who do not feel that their lives have continuing meaning and value. Perhaps there is more we can do to integrate such people into the life of the community, pairing them with children who have no local grandparents so they can share their stories, wisdom, recipes, and love.

There is a message in this for each of us, as well. Age is, in large measure, attitude. We can be 80 with strength, or 80 with “strength.”

What are you going to do next with your life?

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman