Va-Ethannan - on the decalogue, on destroying idols, and on deciding for ourselves

This parshah begins with Moses telling the people how he begged God to let him into the land, but it will be Joshua to lead the people in. This is an interesting narrative moment because the people (his addressees), like the later hearer/reader of these words, feels a genuine pathos for Moses. This is one of many reminders that Moses is human, not divine. This is important because he is not just a figurehead but rather a role model. he overcomes adversity (e.g. becoming a speaker in spite of his speech impediment), faces adversaries, deals with family squabbles, and lives a life of frustration and disappointment, as well as joy and triumph. This introduction to the weekly parshah is a good reminder of the fullness of humanity. What follows is very directed by and at God and worship, but behind all of the commandments and theistic pronouncements is the understanding that all of this is in the service of humanity. We are to follow the law not just for love of a God, but love of our neighbour. This is the backdrop to, and spirit of, the Decalogue that we visit again in this parshah.

Why are the ten commandments recited twice in the Torah, once in Exodus and once in Deuteronomy? The most widely accepted answer amongst scholars is that the writings reflect two different early Jewish communities. As noted above, it is likely that Deuteronomy was not intended by its writers to exist alongside other biblical books. Many scholars compare and contrast the versions, and there are differences, but the substance of the ten commandments remains the same. As Moses tells the commandments he addresses the people directly, and notes that they saw and heard elements of divinity and majesty at the mountain. These sensory details anchor the narrative – again, Deuteronomy is quite aware of its own narrativity – and not only must the people remember this experience, but they are told to pass it on to their children. We see here the formation of narrative memory, we are told that we are witnesses and then told to tell our story as witnesses. The rituals of the Passover seder mean this telling and remembering occur annually, and have, indeed, served as the backbone to peoplehood for centuries. Much is made of the first two commandments that “I am the Lord your God … you shall have no other Gods beside me” and “You shall not make for yourself a graven image” The first commandment can be read two ways: it either suggests that there is only one God or, more plausibly, that there are many Gods but Yahweh is the one that the Israelites/Jews must worship. The prohibition against idolatry is a move towards destroying the images of not just Yahweh, but the Gods with whom he competes. The world in which the Torah was written (accounting for the long span of time over which it was written), was not a monotheistic world. Much of the discussion of the “oneness” of God (see below as well regarding the Shema) speaks to a monolatrous, not monotheistic world. The JPS editors note that there is sometimes an anachronistic reading of the bible; that Second Temple communities read monotheism into earlier texts that had a divine council (a group of Gods who ruled, and competed sometimes for position) in mind. The editors note as well that sometimes modern Jews are unaware of the tension between monotheism and monolatry because synagogue prayer books also obfuscate the issue through translation/explanatory notes that upholds monotheism. It is too bad that the theological debates that present in the text of the bible are ignored by so many. Those who read the bible historically should be fascinated to learn of how our ancestors altered their view of God(s) and how our people developed. This is part of the richness of our textual tradition. The JPS editors also suggest that “the Decalogue inextricably ties love of God with love of neighbor” as most of the commandments have to do with how we treat each other. While the way we read the bible theologically might vary across the movements, it is almost universally recognized that there can be no love for divinity without love for humanity.

The commandments such as honouring one’s parents, prohibitions against adultery (although, note, adultery meant only men sleeping with married women. A married man could have affairs with others and it was not in violation of the law) are useful in trying to create an orderly and perhaps even a just society. There are also commandments that appeal to the best part of ourselves. We are commanded not to covet what our neighbour has. While theft can be prohibited, jealousy cannot. Still, the text wants us to recognize this as a fault. A better way to put it might be: “try to be happy with what you have.” The commandment to keep the Sabbath not only has been extremely important in building and maintaining Judaism as a coherent group, but has leant meaning to Jewish lives. While I do not “keep” the Sabbath halachically, I do try to celebrate Shabbat dinner with friends and family, I love getting together with my Humanistic congregation to sing, eat, and celebrate as well, and I think separating a time in the week for rest is hugely valuable in our busy lives. Humanistic Jews can take much from the Decalogue, and can also note with interest that our ancestors created one of the earliest law codes.

Following the recitation of the Decalogue we have the words that have become one of the most recognized pieces of Jewish liturgy: the Shema. If the Decalogue can have meaning for Humanistic Jews, can the Shema? The words we get in the text are. ear, O Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord alone (6.4). This is the JPS translation. Readers might be more familiar with “the Lord is one” as the translation, but the word “echad” leaves on the possibility of both “alone,” “one,” and also “united.” Again, in the translation we can see the tension between monotheism and monolatry. For Humanistic Jews, the translation will likely not make a difference for us. We do not recite the Shema because it cannot be divorced from its theism. But because so many Jews associate the Shema with their forebears, their upbringing, or their sense of Jewish collectivity, we have versions that we do say and find meaningful. One of many versions in our movement is:

Shma Yisrael ava Neetol Chelek beTikkun Olam

Hear O Israel, Let us take part in repairing the world

This version makes our task of Tikkun Olam (repairing the world) central. Others make our commitment to community central (although, it is hard to claim that Jews/our community/humanity is "one" –given how much we disagree/diverge). The point is that Humanistic Judaism must always struggle with the tension between using text and retaining the integrity of saying what we believe. The shema has been, for us, an evolving conversation about how we approach these issues.

As the people are about to enter the promised land, they are told to construct and remain a separate community amidst others. For this reason, intermarriage is strictly forbidden (7.3-4), particularly because there is an anxiety that the non-Jewish women might turn children away from belief in Yahweh. This too appears familiar in contemporary contexts. There is so much anxiety about whether children from intermarried homes can/should/will be Jewish. Humanistic Jews dispense with these anxieties. We trust the Jews who come to our communities to decide what is right for them. Some of our families who have intermarried see themselves as “just Jewish,” some celebrate other cultural/religious traditions as well, some are ambivalent and some passionate about the issue, etc. The truth is that the range we experience in our communities is the same as in all liberal communities. The difference is that all of these couples and families, regardless of the choices they make and the ways they identify, are fully welcomed in our communities. Just as it is a mistake for Jews to read monotheism onto a text that existed before a monotheistic world, so too would it be a mistake to disparage the text when it is inconsistent with our contemporary values. The ban on intermarriage makes sense for a people who are figuring out how to live amongst others and yet retain a distinct peoplehood (although, it strikes me as ironic that the ban on intermarriage is meant to be spoken by Moses, who himself intermarried).

There are other moves towards creating a distinct group in the text. Here we have the mention of Jewish chosenness, an issue that also becomes controversial for modern Jews. Moses says that God values the Jews and fights for them not because they are the biggest of communities (in terms of number), but because they are the “smallest of peoples.” It is understandable that, because the Jews have always had small numbers, the writers of the text wanted to give the people reasons to remain in the community. The idea of chosenness by God, fostering a special sense of pride, is one of these reasons. Humanistic Jews, and other liberal Jewish groups, reject the idea that the Jews are better than others. But we do take pride in the ways that we are unique and special. All peoples have roots and traditions, and we are proud of our own.

The final idea to be addressed in this parshah is that of free will. Our stance on intermarriage is just one example of how we believe in and encourage “free will” for Humanistic Jews. Judaism as a whole believes in free will, but defines it differently. In this parshah we have the Jewish proof-text for free will, as Moses tells the people that God hopes they will do his will (i.e. he does not know for sure) (5.25). In the numerous debates on the existence of God, the point is often made that God cannot be fully omnipotent and also allow for free will. Here we also see that free will limits his omniscience – if the people can decide whether to follow him, and he does not know whether they will, then he has neither total power nor total vision. But this is not what I mean by “free will” for members of the Humanistic Jewish community. I am speaking more of a freedom of will that transcends theology. We believe that people should be free in as many ways as possible, so long as they are not injurious. We want people to be free to explore Judaism’s history, texts, and cultural traditions (and we do not censor these out of fear for what they’ll find). We want people to be free to identify with their Jewish identity and peoplehood in the way(s) that make sense to them. We want people to find what is meaningful, and pursue happiness on their own terms, regardless of how it may conflict with tradition or Halachah (Jewish law). We value not only the aspect of “freedom” in the concept of “free will,” but also of “will” itself. If we are the ones who are both the cause of the world’s problems and also the only ones who can change/improve the world, then our will matters immensely. We need to take seriously the impact of our choices, and know that our will has a profound impact on ourselves, others, and our world. If humanity willed that violence would end, that the environment be protected, that all children be educated, that hunger be abated, we could make those things happen. This is the Humanistic interpretation of free will.

Devarim - on Moses, on meta-textuality, and on membership in a group

Deutoronomy is not so much a new book as a recapitulation and commentary on the other books. Its introduction in Parshat Devarim introduces Moses as addressing the people. Following from Numbers it is clear that Moses is just outside the land. It is clear that Moses cannot really be the narrative voice of Deuteronomy, as some of what is included in the text could only be known by a later writer. Moses also needs to narrate the details of his own death at the end of Deuteronomy, something most agree suggests anachronism and conflation. The position of the narrative voice, is only one of the narrative details that make the book confusing. Devarim goes over some of the “historical” details from Numbers – how many Israelites died in the desert, some of the battles fought, etc. In some cases the versions match, and in others there are changes. We can account for these changes in a number of ways.

Above I put scare quotes around the term “historical” because Humanistic Jews believe the Torah is more of a literary document than a historical one. Following the information we have gleaned over recent decades through archaeology, we know that the story of the Exodus, and the related incidents and vignettes about it, likely did not happen. The history we can find through reading Torah, however, is the history of its writing, compilation and redaction – which tells us about who our people were and how their communities transformed. Deuteronomy was likely intended to stand alone – to replace the other biblical books. It was likely never intended to be the fifth in a series (why else would it go over and change earlier stories?) The Deutoronomistic istory (typically viewed as presented through the books of Joshua – 2 Kings), wants to provide a summary of the stories that give rise to a peoplehood in the hopes of solidifying this peoplehood. This is particularly important as these writers compose post-exile, and know that foreign powers can threaten their community. Deuteronomy, therefore, attempts to solidify the people, not so much through the adherence of people to land, but rather adherence of the people to God. In Devarim, Moses is speaking to the people about how they could/should have reached the land but didn’t trust enough in God to win their battles with enemies. He reminds that Yahweh had to kill the entire desert generation (strikingly, he notes almost simultaneously that the people should trust Yahweh to protect them, even while he attributes their demise to the “hand of God”).

What we find in Devarim, the parshah and the book, is a curious and careful interplay between history and fiction. The writers come much later than those who wrote the other books of Torah. In attributing their words to Moses, they play with the idea of narrativity. Moses has been the speaker of the bible in other books, thus they pseudepigraphically assign Devarim to him as well in order to preserve tradition. Preserving tradition is the main thrust of the book, after all. The audience for it is even more connected with Moses than before; just as they might be outside the Promised Land in exile, so too was Moses denied entry. There is an interesting moment in the parshah when Moses claims that God is angry with him because he is angry with the people for their rebellion and cowardice in the desert (1.37). In Numbers, Moses’ own failings result in Yahweh’s anger. Here, however, we have a revision. Why? Perhaps to signal that Moses is the people’s leader, not a figure to be viewed in and of himself; if the people fail, so does he. There is a comment here on leadership and on community. No one person can or should define the people. Rather, the people are responsible for staying true to the laws and stories of the biblical books, as represented in this one. The Jewish Study Bible’s introduction to Deuteronomy puts all of this beautifully:

“The modernity of Deuteronomy is that it does not permit itself to be read literally or passively. It challenges its readers actively to confront the problem of the relation between divine revelation and human interpretation, even as it breaks down the conventional boundaries between Scripture and tradition. It makes paradox central to its structure. As the book narrates the story of its formation, it also anticipates its prior existence as a complete literary work” (361).

Deuteronomy is, because of its literary self-consciousness, an important book for Humanistic Jews. It calls attention to itself as a work of literature, and it struggles over whether to place authority with the human or the divine. Ultimately, it uses divinity to unite humanity – something which, in a very theistic world, was quite a Humanistic move.

Today we no longer need divinity to unite us as a community or to provide us with legitimacy in our own authority. Just as the writers of Torah did, we find the stories that lend our lives meaning, and we take on the task of being their interpreters. We also find ways of bringing community together and holding onto our Jewish identities, individually and communally, just as the writers of Devarim wanted to find ways to do. The Torah has never been a static document, but rather has transformed according to the needs and desires of the people for whom it is meant to guide and inspire. Humanistic Jews are part of this beautiful and dynamic process. Just as there is a meta-literary aspect to Devarim, as the text seems conscious of itself as a text, so too is there a meta-literary aspect to a Humanistic response to Devarim, as we interpret the text that is, in many ways, about who has the authority to interpret.

The name for this biblical book and its first parshah, Devarim, like other biblical books, is taken from an important word in the first line. This book/parasha begins “these are the words” of Moses’ address to the people. Although the line is typically translated this way, the word devarim in Hebrew means “the sayings” (related to the word “medaber” which means speak). The word “devarim” also means things and even actions. Humanistic Jews believe strongly that our words and actions should align. Words are, in a sense, things and actions. They have tangible effects and consequences. One of the reasons Jews find our communities is because prayer might not hold significance for them, and to recite prayers in which one does not believe is to denigrate the self, those who do believe those words, and the words themselves. More consistent with an ethical viewpoint is to find words that do carry meaning, which is what our communities can provide. The book of Deuteronomy literally puts words in Moses’ mouth, but we should beware that it, and other biblical and traditional books, need not put words in our own. Just as we possess the authority to interpret text, we possess the authority to determine which texts provide meaning, which recitations we deem beautiful enough to turn into liturgy, and which words are consistent with our beliefs and actions.

This parshah shows Moses speaking to “all” the people. Rashi notes that this is so that all of the community knows what has been spoken and is included. The idea is that no one should be exempt or set apart from the rules or rebukes Moses offers. Indeed, much of what he says in this parshah is a rebuke. Even though the desert generation has died out, Moses addresses the people in the second person when describing their lack of faith, bravery, and will to make it to the Promised Land. This resonates with earlier ideas in the bible about how future generations carry the sins of their fathers, but it is broader than that. The idea is that all the people are subject to the same rules and practices and all the people are responsible for each other. Humanistic Jews are individualists but also know the value of community. We absolutely need to take ownership of our own behaviour, but are we also responsible for the behaviour of our fellow and sister Jews? Not all of them, not literally. But I have often noted we celebrate Jews of note, those who have made significant contributions to their field/the world (i.e. “Did you know that astronaut/novelist/scientist/humanitarian is Jewish?). But we do not do the same with Jews of notoriety (one never hears “Did you know that criminal/embezzler/fraudster was Jewish?). Why do we feel that the accomplishments of Jews reflect well on us, but the failures of Jews do not reflect badly? What is our relationship as individuals to the broader Jewish community? It is not my contention that we should bear responsibility for the choices others make. But I do believe we have a responsibility, like the Jews at Sinai, for watching out for each other, for creating opportunities for one another to be educated, and to do good (and not just for other Jews – for the community at large), and for being models of ethical, just, and loving behaviour. We need not be perfect (what kind of a model is perfection? A model must be possible to emulate). But it is useful to consider the nexus between self and other in terms of how we see our place in our Jewish community, our cities/countries, and our world. This is the interpretation of Moses’ address that I, and I hope other Humanistic Jews, find meaningful.

Mattot - Mase'ei - on women, on worship, and on war

In case we were feeling emboldened and empowered by the upholding of Zelophedad’s daughters’ request for inheritance in last week’s parshah, this week we are reminded that a woman under the care of her father or husband (this includes most women except for widows and very few who remain unmarried after their fathers die) are often subservient to them. Vows made to God are considered unbreakable, however women’s vows can be annulled by their husband and father and are also considered breakable if made without the husband or father’s consent. We are reminded that women have very little power in this society. Zelophedad’s daughters are revisited in this parshah. A concern is raised about their inheritance rights leading to land being transferred to another tribe should they choose to marry. Thus they are told they can marry only within their own tribe – highlighting that the control of women has not subsided, but perhaps has been further heightened, in spite of their successful legal claim.

The rest of the parshah deals with warring between the Israelites and the Midianites. A continuation of the condemnation of the casual sexuality and other perceived sins, the priests are clearly asserting their own power and worth in the writing of this section. Eleazar (son and successor to Aaron) shows his military power, and the struggle is about purification as well as domination/conquering. The Israelites are very successful and they slay many people, they save only the virgin women who are presumably held captive. They also purify themselves after the slaughter according to Priestly law and ritual. Although the text does not mention that the Israelites are so successful because they are under God’s protection, the preceding chapters dealing with sacrifice, how to uphold the calendar/ritual holidays, and also on vows, makes the connection implicit. Of course, the writers of the story have an investment in presenting them as being victors because God is on their side.

Mase’ei picks up where Mattot leaves off – describing the settlement of the Israelites as they approach Canaan. Mase’ei goes back through the wandering of the desert and traces where the Israelites are said to have stopped along the way. This provides a fictitious geographical history of the wandering in the desert and eventual conquering of Canaan. Not all scholars believe the text to be fictitious, but there is no historical evidence that the Israelites were in these places listed. Rather, it seems like the narrative retroactively invents the history so as to convince the people of the Exodus narrative. The narrative is compelling indeed. Obviously if your forebears wandered in the desert for forty years, did not survive, and left you to enjoy the land, not to mention the extreme punishments they endured for transgressions relating to faith/belief, there is a stake in you sticking with this people, this emerging religion. The Exodus narrative as repeated every Passover is still a pronounced experience of inculcation into peoplehood.

After this “history,” God tells Moses to tell the people how to conquer Canaan. They must, essentially, destroy the Canaanite people and their objects of worship or else they will be destroyed. This section is about transferring all cultic and religious practice from Canaanite to Israelite (and what becomes Jewish) culture. Again, the story of the exodus is a tool to help bring forth this shift. The juxtaposition of these two elements – the wandering narrative with commands for how to solidify and solemnify as a cult/religion – shows us how inextricable these elements are.

The next section focuses on justice and, in particular, the consequences for and of murder. It discusses that, once in the land, the people should establish areas where those accused/suspected of murder may flee and remain safe until tried. This is the establishment of due process and restraining the emotion which may provoke vengeance. The text also states that “You shall not pollute the land in which you live; for blood pollutes the land” (35.33). The text makes a direct connection between the land and the people. They are going to populate Canaan; they are going to finally be a people in a land. Now the people are even more responsible to act justly. Note that the text instructs that we not turn on one another – that we not “pollute” the land with one another’s blood – a reminder that it is not just the external enemies we face but division from within. When Jews fight one another, in violence or in ideology, we risk severing ourselves from one another and from our historical ancestors. The message in this parshah, just as the metaphor of the promised land looms large, is that we create the promised land by honouring each other.

Pinchas - on violence, on valour, and on victory

What I love about Torah is the sometimes striking juxtaposition between that which we find deplorable and that which we find inspiring. Parshat Pinchas is named for the man who brutally murders an Israelite man and a Midianite woman for engaging in intercourse. The text sees his actions as positive, but if the xenophobia doesn't bother you, the stunningly violent description of how they die should. Given that Moses married Tziporah, also a Midianite, the Torah contains contradictions on the point of intercultural relations. I find the story of Pinchas, and his treatment as a hero, difficult -- and patently contrary to the elements of justice and morality I seek in the text.

And yet in Parshat Pinchas we also have one of my very favourite stories: The Daughters of Zelophehad. Left without a father and without any brothers, they have no legal claim to inheritance. They approach Moses and Eleazer and ask to be granted something so that they may live and so that they need not marry simply to survive. This part of the parshah is about resistance and justice. The women actively challenge male-only inheritance rights, thus inserting questions and provoking thinking about the lack of choices for women in a male-dominated society. The women state their case rationally and respectfully, but also resolutely. They are freedom fighters. The resolution is that they are told that their “plea is just” and they are granted property. What role models for Jewish women who have, in the last few decades, similarly pleaded and reasoned, explained and fought, for equal standing for women in Jewish institutions and structures! In Torah, like in life, we sometimes find horrific events that are hard to make sense of. But we also find stories of resistance that make the world better.

Balak - on borrowing, on braying, and on building schools

Parshat Balak gives clues as to how the Jewish people and our texts evolved. Balak, hires a prophet/seer Balaam to curse Israel as they are making their way to the land. Balaam, an enemy of Israel, nevertheless has powers typically associated with a deity. This hints at early beliefs in a pantheon of gods (the book of Job gets at the same point). This story appears to share elements with other Mesopotamian texts, implying the kind of cultural mixing and sharing of stories that is natural in a multi-ethnic/cultural environment. What this suggests is that incorporated into the literature of the Hebrew bible are stories from other cultures, and this in turn tells the story of our people and its genealogical development.

Unfortunately, despite borrowing from other cultures, this parshah asserts Jewish chosenness/superiority. God warns Balaam not to curse the Israelites, for they are “blessed” (22.12). Lines such as these have motivated Jewish culture to adopt a sense of their own chosenness and worth above others. Indeed, we have sympathy for the plight and fate of the Jewish people, but we hope for all peoples to have lives of dignity and worth. We do not delight in Jewish identity because it is superior to others, but only because in a world where all people have claim(s) to roots and traditions, these are our own. The idea of chosenness is something that Jewish reformers, including Humanistic Jews, have found to be in conflict with others of our Jewish values.

The narrative here turns downright strange, as Balaam’s ass sees one of God’s angels (again, implying some sort of multi-layered divinity) and tries to dodge it. This occurs three times, and three times Balaam whips the ass, which finally causes the ass to speak. The ass asks, essentially, why he is being beaten and notes that Balaam, having ridden him his whole life, should know that his strange behaviour is a warning sign, and he should take it seriously. It is rare, even in the literature of the bible which can ask us to suspend disbelief about certain characters and events that seem unlikely (to say the least), for the natural order of things to be so shaken. Even in a world in which bushes burn and staffs turn to snakes, animals rarely actually speak. What does it mean? For one thing, it is a clue as to how the original writers of this story understood the natural world and its gods differently to the early Hebrew writers, but that the text made it in anyway. It is a multicultural layering of meaning. Figuratively, we could ascribe the meaning of an ass pleading to be understood through his behaviour and, only after exasperation, through language. Animals/the natural world cannot speak, but give us signs as to how we are doing in their stewardship. We need to listen.

These are poetic insertions into the narrative, again making this parshah particularly interesting from a genre point of view. Part of what Balaam speaks through his oracle is “how fair (sometime translated as “lovely”) are your tents, O Jacob” – something that has become part of Jewish liturgical services. While most rabbis have thought that Balaam says this at the sight of the temple, Targum Jonathan suggests that it was instead at the sight of the schools the people created. I love this idea! Balaam is convinced of the worth of the Israelite people because they have built schools! Although we reject the idea of chosenness, we can be proud of certain aspects of our heritage. A respect and love for education is not a singularly Jewish value, but it is a Jewish value we can locate in our textual sources. Parshat Balak is one of the strangest in the Torah cycle. Its value is in its clues as to Jewish evolution, in terms of our borrowing from other cultures, our relationship to the idea of "chosenness," and a sense of wonder at the natural world that does, in its way, speak. How could we learn about all this if not through Jewish text and, as the text itself indicates, Jewish education?

I am an intermarried rabbi - CJN piece

http://www.cjnews.com/columnists/guest-voice-i-am-intermarried-rabbi

Hukkat - on afterthoughts, on acts of rebellion, and on advocacy

The bulk of the parshah tells the story of the “rebellion” or “sin” of Moses and Aaron. About Miriam, one of the great leaders of the Exodus, the text simply says “Mirian died there (Kadesh) and was buried there." It is written as a footnote. There are many biblical characters whose death is not given much importance, but simply stated factually as part of the narrative. This death, however, is told particularly briefly. Later in the same parshah, after Aaron dies, we know he is mourned thirty days. Miriam’s death is given no such fanfare. Miriam's important contributions are dismissed and her voice is silenced, thus mirroring the experience of women in Judaism throughout the ages. The aftermath of Miriam’s death is that the people are lacking water (we recall that Miriam had been the one to bring forth the waters previously). Once again the people complain to Moses and they wish they had died or had not left Egypt which would be better than facing yet another calamity (by now this is a familiar refrain). To show Yahweh’s power, Moses and Aaron are told to assemble the people and, in front of them, order a rock to give water. This is meant to highlight God’s power and also to reassure the people that they will continue to be provided for. Moses and Aaron assemble everyone, but then instead of commanding the rock to give water, Moses strikes the rock with his rod. Water comes forth and the people are happy. But then, in a shocking turn of events (narratively speaking), God tells Moses that because he did not “trust” God enough to sanctify him in front of the people, Moses will never enter the promised land. This is one of those moments at which it seems easy to criticize the idea of God, and certainly the idea that God is benevolent and loving. The God figure here is depicted as being vengeful and mean-spirited. It is unclear that Moses ever meant to defy him, hitting the rock instead of asking the rock to produce water seems to be a very slight mistake. Some commentators suggest that the transgression is that when Moses asks of the people “shall WE get water?” before striking the rock, that this leads the people to believe it is Moses and Aaron who are their protectors and saviours, not God. This is what provokes his fury. The text is therefore making a comment about leadership. It is not enough that Moses and Aaron have to wander in the desert for forty years, listen to the people’s kvetching, perform the will of God etc. But they must do all of this exactly how God demands and always in public praise of him. The lesson is that obedience to God is everything. A Chassidic friend of mine told me that this is her understanding of this moment in the text: “we have to do God’s work on God’s terms” is how she phrased it. 

For Humanistic Jews, there are lessons that come from exploring the character of Moses and what it means that he can never reach his goal. Many people feel as Moses does; they struggle to bring their people somewhere wonderful, even if not reaching it themselves. This is the story of the Jewish immigrant to North America who struggled hard to provide an education and standard of living for their children that they knew they could never enjoy themselves. This is the story of those working to cure diseases or discover scientific advances that they know will only benefit future generations. This is the story of people who plant trees so that their grandchildren will enjoy their fruit. Moses and Aaron are meant to lead the people to their freedom, but they are servants – yes, they are meant to serve God, and when they transgress they are punished. But they are also leaders par excellence of their people: their work is for the benefit of others. This is something laudable with which many of us can identify.  

For Aaron's part of the punishment, he is left to die. God tells Moses to ascend the mountain with Aaron and his son Eleazar, to take Aaron’s “vestments” and give them to Eleazar, and to leave Aaron there to die. It is notable that Moses had argued with God on behalf of the people numerous times, pleading with him for mercy and to spare the innocent, he does not try to save his brother. In fact, the next thing that happens is that the people once again complain about God’s provisions and God sends serpents to bite them. They appeal to Moses to help them and he speaks to God to help the people (by creating a copper serpent that would provide solace - something approximating idolatry, some point out). Moses’ seemingly easy acceptance of Aaron’s death is troubling, especially in light of how quickly he comes to the aid of the others. There is a lesson here that sometimes we focus on helping our broader community so much that we become deaf to the concerns of those closest to us. Or perhaps as servants of the people, Moses and Aaron feel it is inappropriate to advocate for themselves. The harshness of the way Moses, Aaron, and Miriam are treated certainly suggest something about leadership and community. At this point in the text it is clear that it is the people as a group, not any individual (even ones as central and revered in the text as Moses and his siblings), that matters. The people will enter the Promised Land. Israel will survive, even though its deliverers will not. It is the community that is important. 

Korach - on class, on criticism, and on community

Here we have yet another rebellion – this time mostly aimed at Aaron. Korah, the leader of this anti-Aaron movement, argues that the whole community is holy and therefore all should perform the same rites. He rebels against the priests being a class above all others, asking "why are you different from and above us?" The parshah makes clear that a rebellion of this nature is not to be tolerated. Moses tells those rebelling that they’ve gone too far and that God will deal with them – which he does. All of those who rebelled are swallowed up by the earth and taken to "sheol" and/or consumed by fire. Doubting the order of things is not only frowned upon, but the narrative inscribes a real sense of danger: to question authority is to die. Yet many of us might really identify with Korah. We do take issue with the idea that some within Judaism – first priests who handled the sacrifices and then the rabbis who superseded them after the temple destruction made central sacrifices impossible – are above all others. We want members of our community to be empowered. Indeed, we believe that no one is intrinsically worth more than any other.                                               Traditional interpretations of this parshah suggest that an individual who tries to seize power instead of going along with community can be dangerous. Included in the analyses of the parshah are questions and discussions of how much it is fair to punish the group for the actions of one individual, or a few. Do we bear guilt for one another's choices? Where does individualism infringe on the rights of the group and vice versa? The text wrestles with the power balance between individuals and community. Its answer is adhering to strict hierarchy to keep the peace. This is not our answer, but these are still our questions. 

Shelach Lecha - on spies, on surveying the land, and on sympathy

In this parshah, the Israelites once again doubt that they will see the Promised Land. A team (often called spies, but this isn't quite accurate) is sent to survey the land and to report back as to any challenges or dangers. Most return saying that conquering the land will be impossible. Caleb and Joshua, however, feel differently and think they should proceed. Some of the people complain that it would be better to have stayed in Egypt, even to die in the wilderness, than to face what they perceive to be certain violent death in battle for the land.  There are many readings of both the optimism of Caleb and Joshua and the fear of the people. Many liken the former to the Zionists who helped create the modern state of Israel. But it is tough to grapple with the harsh treatment of the people who doubt. Those who do not believe they can defeat their enemies are doomed to die in the desert. Yet I have sympathy for those who have suffered under tyranny and wish to avoid meeting a similar fate. It is possible to both laud Caleb and Joshua as heroes and seek to understand the mentality of those who could not follow them.

 There may be times when we face circumstances that seem daunting or even impossible. Optimism in the face of adversity can be a wonderful tool – not just for oneself but for others. Like the brave and daring Zionists who created the state of Israel, Caleb and Joshua established themselves as leaders who could inspire others to embark on a difficult but wonderful journey. Not all of us are Calebs or Joshuas. Sometimes fear is reasonable and even useful. But the world needs those who can rise up to a challenge and help those less hopeful to join them on the journey. 

Be-ha Alotekha - on God and chutzpah, on gossip and hurt, and on the group and helpfulness

In this parshah, the people commemorate the Passover. This is the first such event in the desert, thus marking the time between Sinai and the wandering. Some in the camp (the JPS translation calls them “riffraff” but the implication is that they are those outside of the Israelite tribes who chose to join the exodus), begin to complain that there is no meat. Moses, in utter exasperation, becomes angry with God and says he would rather die than have to face leading these people. He also suggests that if God created the people than maybe he should deal with them. For this, partly as punishment and partly to provide him with aid, some of Moses’ spiritual gifts get transferred to 70 leaders who will aid him in the task of leading the people. This parshah therefore offers lessons in leadership and our struggles in life. Sometimes we are faced with situations in which we must care for or carry those who do not appear to be pulling their weight. Many of us work with people who complain and expect miracles to happen to ease their discomfort. Moses shows that leadership is hard; the people are never satisfied. And his criticism of the God-character – that if he created all of these people why can’t he deal with them – shows the kind of chutzpah that Humanistic Jews love. Moses is a good leader because he questions authority as much as he embodies it. The 70 leaders become like prophets. Joshua – who we will learn has warrior tendencies and personality – feels Moses should resist competition and be the sole leader. But Moses knows that strong leadership is a team-effort and that if he shares the load he will not burn out as quickly. This is excellent instruction for anyone in a leadership position, from teachers to parents to office managers etc. But beyond the idea of leadership is the idea of community. Many hands make light work and sometimes all that is needed to face a challenge is some company. Moreover, Moses shows us that it is ok and sometimes even necessary to ask for help.   As if Moses is not having a tough enough time, Miriam and Aaron begin to chide him for marrying a Cushite woman. This is one of the passages that tells us either that intermarriages were frowned upon, or that intermarrying was commonplace and the writers of the text hoped to “correct” the practice. In some passages, such as this one, intermarriage is portrayed as negative. In others, such as the Book of Ruth, intermarriage is no issue at all. The issue of intermarriage in the text here is a bit of a red herring. The real sin is “lashon hara” or gossip/slander. Miriam and Aaron should not shame or speak negatively to Moses. Many Jews take very seriously the idea that we should not shame others, even when we disagree with their choices. Miriam is punished by getting leprosy (or some disease that produces white scales on her body) and must be excised from the group for a week. This punishment from above seems, again, rather harsh.  In this week’s parshah, we see examples of people faltering which, in fact, is a reminder that these narratives are about the fundamentals of humanity. All of us may feel ourselves to be in the position of Moses – that we cannot face the challenges before us. Asking for help is hard but when we get help it can change everything. Community is important. Many of us may feel ourselves to be Miriam – we speak out against what we think is wrong and then we are the ones to get punished. The biblical characters portray many truths about human nature, and this is how we learn from them. Humanistic Jews do not believe that we will be punished by a God for our transgressions. But we do believe that when we rise up to face our challenges, when we learn to speak more gently with our loved ones, when we find ways of dealing with the kvetchers in our midst, we can become the best versions of ourselves. 

Naso – On skin disease, on sacred time, and on the Sotah (suspected adulteress)

In Parshat Naso we find the organization of the camp and also the purity regulations. Anyone with skin diseases, sexual discharge, menstruation, or those “defiled by a corpse” had to be excised. While many of us find these pronouncements exclusionary (particularly to women who were the only group to regularly experience one of these), it is also understandable that the control of disease and other concerns over cleanliness and health, particularly in the absence of medical knowledge, were paramount.  The text is not simply about purity in terms of cleanliness but also creating sacred space. While the word “sacred” is controversial in Humanistic Jewish circles, we can all identify with the idea of creating space and time that is set apart. The Levites are in charge of “worldly” (i.e. secular) and “sacred” matters. We sometimes label this division the sacred and the profane, but can also think of it as the regular and the special. When we celebrate Havdallah, we mark the division between special time and regular time. It is not that the rest of the week is “profane” as in offensive, but it is not special as is the Shabbat. Of course we try to bring elements of depth and light into our regular time and space, but we also all have certain times and places that are marked for deep critical reflection, quiet, or thoughtfulness. We also designate times and spaces for celebrating special occasions such as birthdays, anniversaries, commemorating yahrzeits, etc. Naso challenges us to consider how we make spaces special – by placing a mezuzah on our door with a text that is meaningful for us perhaps – and how we designate certain times to be set apart from others. The text can remind us to consider how we bring the idea of the “sacred” into our secular lives.

 Naso also contains a very interesting idea concerning the relationship between people as it corresponds with the relationship between people and God. In chapter 5 the God-character instructs Moses to “Speak with the Israelites. When a man or woman commits any wrong toward a fellow man, thus breaking faith with the Lord, and that person realizes his guilt, he shall confess the wrong he has done. He shall make restitution in the principal amount and add one-fifth to it, giving it to him who he has wronged (5. 5-8). It goes on to describe how, in the event that no restitution can be made directly to the person or his kinsman, it shall go to the priests. But it is significant that restitution be granted to the person directly when possible. Even though ethical behaviour is justified through the mechanism of the “faith with the lord” that must not be broken, really the idea is that people must behave well towards and with one another. In excerpts such as these we find evidence of how our earliest ancestors tried to create a just society. The particular law being referenced in this passage is that one should not steal from a convert. The relationship between the people and outsiders is tricky. In trying to create a distinct identity lines must be drawn. But the “ger” or stranger/convert is to be treated ethically. This is a reminder that our tradition holds as an extremely high value that we behave ethically within and without our own people. Our treatment of converts, those intermarried into Jewish families, or our neighbours, is a reflection of our cultural values as well as our personal ones.

 Just as we think the Torah might be a text wholly in pursuit of justice, Naso also contains the idea of the trial by ordeal for the Sotah, the “suspected adulteress.” Any man who suspects his wife to have been with another man brings her before the priest (notice there is no parallel for a suspected male adulterer). The suspected adulteress is given water laden with written curses and dirt from the tabernacle, which the text says will not harm the innocent but will create a distended belly (implying the lack of ability to carry children to term) in the guilty. It is a horrific scene designed to produce guilt and shame, and perhaps even physical torture. 

Women are tightly regulated because of the “purity” of the birth line. Thus the parshah’s themes of purity, and the book of Numbers’ themes of loyalty and peoplehood, coalesce through the control of women. The English word “nation” comes from the root “natio” or birth/to be born. All nations depend on the loyalty of women to keep bloodlines pure. Societies throughout time and across the globe have created measures to ensure women stay within the bounds of marriage. Nationhood and sexism have thus reinforced one another. 

 Perhaps what is most disturbing is that the ritual occurs even if the man has a vague suspicion. We can imagine instances where even a man who had no such suspicion but wanted to control, torture, or threaten his wife might take advantage of the ritual. We can also imagine instances of men having suspicions of innocent wives but the wives dying anyway. There is no consequence to a man for going through the ritual – he bears no guilt, the text says – but the woman, regardless of guilt, is shamed and harmed in the process. It is a remarkably sexist passage in Torah.

Interestingly, there is no evidence to suggest the ritual of the Sotah was ever practiced. Rather, the text here serves as a cautionary tale for women. It is not encoding the law as such but projecting a potential legal practice in order to regulate women. What is Torah? Law book? Fictional narrative? It’s not really both or either. 

Bemidbar - on Shavuot, on showing loyalty, and on standing together

I delayed writing this until after Shabbat/Shavuot to be able to reflect upon the incredible experience of being at the Tikkun Leil Shavuot (all night learning session). We honour the tradition of studying Torah all night by experiencing learning sessions on a range of Jewish topics. This is my favourite community-wide Jewish event in Toronto! Hundreds of Jews from all denominations and walks of life come together to learn, eat, and be together. The panel I was on that offered the most material related to the weekly parshah was entitled "What happened at Sinai? Who cares?" Four rabbis from many movements discussed the meaning of Torah, the story of the revelation of Torah at Mt. Sinai (the rabbinic explanation for Shavuot), and more. We often disagreed but there was lovely overlap as well, particularly about the Jewish expression of Tikkun Olam (repairing the world) being a core part of what we value about Judaism. I also had the opportunity to co-lead the Havdallah ceremony with a Kohenet from Jewish Renewal, Annie Matan. I loved this experience! We asked everyone inside a packed theatre to imagine that this night was their mountain. To look around and notice who they were standing with. To realize that we may not believe literally that "all Jews were at Mt. Sinai the moment of revelation" as the religion teaches, but we can use that metaphor to imagine ourselves as part of a community with long-standing roots who come together to experience significant moments together.  All of this is a lovely lead in to the book of Numbers. The title in Hebrew means in the wilderness/desert, but the title in English – “Numbers” – comes from the Greek Septuagint version which took the title from the census at the book’s beginning. In this book we’ll experience a narrative about loyalty and betrayal. While most religious interpreters understand that the narrative is about loyalty to God, in a Humanistic understanding we might find more interesting the lessons about loyalty to humans and about leadership in general. Moses has sacrificed for his people and is trying to deliver them to their promised land, but the people rebel. While the book is clear that those who make moves against their own people should be condemned, there are also hints that Moses and his siblings are a) disloyal themselves at times and b) sometimes let their power lead them to act unfairly. The book of Numbers can remind us of other literary texts, such as Hamlet, that focus on both how power corrupts but also how loyalty/disloyalty can have a significant impact on a kingdom or people. In the book of Numbers we have censuses, land divisions, and appeals for justice, which all work to solidify the people as a people. Loyalty is going to be paramount to keep this group together. Passover is celebrated in the desert for the first time, and the commandment to wear tzitzit is prescribed – both powerful ways of distinguishing the Israelites from others and making them cohere as a unified group. Thus the narrative continues to describe how a people becomes a people and, although we know the narrative is almost certainly not historically accurate, readers through the generations have identified with the characters in the desert and the story has served to solidify loyalty amongst the people through the generations. 

In this parshah, we have the first census mentioned in the bible. The idea of a census being written into the text is likely simply a reflection of a practice that was happening in order either to collect some form of tax or to count those who might qualify to fight against enemies. The census here comes up with a number of over 600,000, which is clearly impossible. While commentators have theorized that the census was so God could count his most beloved people(oddly suggesting that the all-powerful deity did not already know who or how many his people were), this idea of chosenness weaves its way throughout the book of Numbers. Many modern Jews take issue with the idea of the chosen people, but one can also understand that in a text about inculcating people into a coherent group, the concept was one that could wield a lot of leverage.  

The idea of leadership, or at least of those set apart, is inscribed in this first section of the book. Chieftains of each clan are put in charge of counting the people, and the Levites are not counted in this initial census but rather put in charge of the Tabernacle. Midrash indicates that the Levites are granted special status because of their continued loyalty to God, thus reinforcing the themes of loyalty and power that run throughout the book. As the camp is arranged, the tribes are organized according to their matriarchs from Genesis and the attributes of Joseph’s sons. Again, this reinforces the idea that God rewards those who have been loyal and instrumental in defining the Israelites as a people. 

Lastly there is the idea of the wilderness/desert. Midrashim often highlight that Yahweh shows his love to the people in the desert, the most barren and desolate of places, to highlight that he is ever-present even in times of distress. From a Humanistic perspective, it is interesting to consider the meanings of the desert as well. We all find ourselves feeling lost at times. Our wanderings might not be so long or so dangerous, but many of us feel stuck or without a particular direction at different points in our lives. The way through the wilderness is often to lean on others. Community is essential for both survival and also finding hope and peace – especially in the “deserts” of our lives. The coming together of the people as a people in the desert is a reminder that finding our own place in community is a way of garnering strength as we face our own challenges. Standing with Toronto's diverse Jewish community at our mini-Sinai for Shavuot each year is a good reminder of that. 

Behar and Behukkotai - on shmita, sabbatical, sustenance

In this double parshah, we have the rules for leaving the land fallow on the shmita, the sabbatical year. We know that agriculturally land requires time to be left fallow in order to maintain good soil quality. But there are ways in which the agricultural can give rise to the cultural. Many of us are considering the idea of shmita metaphorically, especially now as we are in currently in a shmita year. We live in an age where there is a lot of talk of mindfulness, of living in the present moment. And yet we simultaneously live with the expectations of being able to multitask, of being constantly accessible, and of being able to manage our many roles seamlessly. We are overworked, overcommitted, and overwhelmed. Devices meant to make our lives easier often make us feel that we can never take a break. They are there to enable us to be “connected,” and yet I believe there has never been a time in history when people feel less connected to their families and communities.

Shmita literally means release. What if we released ourselves from some fear, guilt, and obligation? What if we asked ourselves what can I let go of? Fields which give us food and sustenance, if overworked and overwrought, will stop producing. And we are the same. If we are overworked and overwhelmed then we will be unable to be fully available to those we love. We too have a limit. And in this culture that measures goodness by productivity, it is good to remind ourselves that rest breeds productivity. Just like the harvest will be better if we rotate our crops and let the land rest, we will be better if we have a chance to rest and recuperate as well.

Emor - on bloodlines, on biblical holidays, and on blasphemy

This parshah lays out further rules for the priests. It is notable in a text so laden with patriarchal rules of leadership and control, that the place of women is often delineated based on the threat they pose to that very control. If women, through their sexual and reproductive choices, taint the bloodline, they threaten the nation building that obsesses the text writers. One example is the rule that if a “daughter of a priest defiles herself through harlotry, it is her father whom she defiles; she shall be put to the fire” (21.9). The sexism is blatant. But the more the text tries to rob women of their power, the more it underscores the fact that women's capacity for reproduction always posed a challenge to patriarchal power.  The nervousness may have come from the fact that the power structure in the Priestly period, as typical of all periods, was contested. In this parshah, we see that Priests (here marked as descendants of Aaron) have special prohibitions. Just as the people is being set apart from their neighbours (see Aharei Mot from last week), the leaders are being set apart from the common people. Our societies all function through divisions and stratifications. This is sometimes a problem – such as when one class oppresses another, and it is sometimes healthy – such as when leaders are chosen by the people to take on certain roles and tasks. Our communities often struggle with how leaders should be of the people and also for the people. Rabbis and Madrikhim, educators and administrators, have training, skills and expertise that may not be common to most of our community. We are, in a sense, set apart. The difference is that we do not claim superiority and, certainly, we do not claim divine authority. The Priestly prohibitions are to signal a divine separation; Priests are more godly than other humans. This is understandable in the text as the Priests are attempting to inscribe and enshrine their own power. But when we take on a “holier than thou” attitude today, we run the risk of delegitimizing ourselves and alienating others.

The theme of separation continues in the parshah. Some separations are good. We demarcate between holidays and other special times, and the regular work week. This parshah lays out practices for the Sabbath and other holidays, reminding us that these special times only remain special through the rituals, practices, texts, and observances that are particular to them.  The holidays mentioned here are some of the earliest we know were practiced: Sukkot, Shavuot, and Pesach. It is not a surprise that these holidays are rooted in the agricultural and climatic calendar, thus meaning they were likely adapted from earlier practices not particular to Israelite/Jewish culture. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are also mentioned in this parshah, including the “loud blasts” (the shofar) that must ring out. Sometimes it is awe-inspiring to consider how old many of our holidays are. We know that their practices and meanings have changed over time. Still, it is wonderful that Jews throughout the ages have celebrated these special times, and have made the meanings of these holidays fit their lives according to the place and time where they have lived. Our holidays show that there has always been great diversity amongst Jews and our ancestors, and also that we are united through our cultural heritage. 

The parshah ends with a short narrative, which interrupts the flow of the divine commandments, about one who speaks God’s name in blasphemy. The blasphemer vignette, the JPS commentators suggest, is purposefully an interruption in the text in order to highlight that God does not enjoy un “untroubled relationship” with his people. I think this is a delightful reading of how the form reflects the content. The blasphemer interrupts the narrative in text just like "blasphemers" interrupt a common narrative about what Judaism is (monotheistic, religious as opposed to cultural, based on prayer, etc.)  In today’s Jewish world, Humanistic Jews are sometimes seen as the “blasphemers,” not in defiling the name of God, but denying the need to believe in one or pray to one at all. But we are part of a long line – even reflected in Torah! – of skeptics, unbelievers, those willing to challenge the status quo in their belief and in their communities. Indeed, the relationship between God and the Jews has never been untroubled and easy. We have always wrestled with deistic belief. Humanistic Jews are, ironically, traditional in that sense. Our texts highlight that there have always been those like us amongst the people, and that we serve an important role.

Aharei Mot -- Kedoshim - on the ban on homosexuality, on brotherly and sisterly love, and on bridging divides

This double parshah week is particularly interesting because the two seem to be in conflict. Aharei Mot contains some of the most objectionable ideas we find in Torah, particularly a condemnation of homosexuality. In Kedoshim, conversely, the theme is brotherly love. This is the enigma and the beauty of Torah: sometimes beautiful wisdom comes alongside pieces that make us uncomfortable. The tension I love in studying Torah is that between tradition and change. In Leviticus 18.22 we have many prohibitions, including the very controversial ban on homosexual relations. This prohibition is repeated in parshah Kedoshim (20:13). The context for the prohibition suggests that it is less about sexuality and more about cultural identity. God tells the people that they must separate themselves from the practices of the Canaanites. In this context, it makes sense that the culture of the Canaanites be demeaned in the text. If homosexual relations were deemed germane to Canaanite culture, their prohibition may be more to do with establishing power over a united, and distinct, people than condemning the practice for something inherent to it. Jews are a distinct people, however we are rarely fully united. We see the world so differently from one another. Leviticus 18 has turned a lot of Jews away from Judaism. As have other prohibitions, such as the ban on intermarriage. It is useful to consider that in this same parshah, God considers the “ger” (stranger, someone among the people, later understood by rabbis as convert) to have the same rights and obligations as the Israelites. We are the people who believe, after all, that we must love our neighbour as we love ourselves. We find this wisdom in the parshah too.  

A meaningful Jewish life is to find peace amidst the tensions of tradition and change, and to honour Jews as a distinct people while being good, kind and inclusive to all. This parshah includes a lengthy description about Azazel, the scapegoat. We know many examples of when Jews have been scapegoated by those who viewed us through a xenophobic lens, when we lived largely under the cross or crescent moon. Tragically, Jews sometimes scapegoat one another, blaming the problems of our community and people on those who do not conform or, as a friend of mine says, those who are “Jewing” it wrong. We read parts of Acharei Mot on Yom Kippur, a time when we are hoping to cast off our sins. Like the scapegoat, like the cleansing rituals detailed in the parshah, we are hoping to make ourselves clean of our mistakes. One mistake we continue to make, I believe, is to let our pride in our peoplehood sway us to hurtful tribalism, even xenophobia. Once, perhaps, we needed to distinguish ourselves from the Canaanites. But what allegiance do we owe now to our countries, Canada, America, etc.? Surely we are secure enough in our Jewish identities and cultures that we no longer need laws that are so fiercely and strictly trying to determine who is out and who is in. When we let our pride make us feel superior to others, when we try to rank Jews as “better Jews” or worse, when we tell people that they are not pure enough to be married or Bar Mitzvahed with us, while we despair our congregations are emptier and emptier, when we completely stop evolution and change – even in the face of doing what is right – because of tradition, then we have lost sight of who we are, who the Torah intends us to be. 

This is the wisdom that comes in Kedoshim, the second of the double parshah we read this Shabbat. Kedoshim is about moving from wrong to right – from abomination to holiness and righteousness. We have laws that are meant to enhance moral human behaviour, such as to leave part of what we reap from the field for the poor and the needy, to deal honestly with one another, to care for the weak and disabled, and, again, to love your fellow as yourself which, as Rabbi Akiva said, is a “fundamental principle of the Torah”. Whether we are talking about loving our “kinsfolk” in terms of the Jewish community or our broader communities, when I look around, I think we could be doing a better job. Towards the end of Kedoshim, God says (20.22 – 24):  You shall not follow the practices of the nation that I am driving out before you. For it is because they did all these things that I abhorred them. You shall possess their land, for I will give it to you to possess, a land flowing with milk and honey. I the Lord your God has set you apart from other peoples. And therein lies the contradiction: be a people set apart, but a people who love and care for others. The people of Israel (by that I mean both the country and all of us as Jews), are duty-bound to set a high moral standard. We must find the balance between pride and xenophobia, tradition and change. To me, there is no point in studying Torah, except to learn how to be a better Jew and a better human being. There are therefore sections that I find very difficult. But this challenge is part of what makes the study great. 

The Rabbi of the Birmingham Temple (flagship of the Humanistic Jewish movement), Jeff Falick, who identifies as gay, says he loves reading Leviticus 18 on Yom Kippur. It reminds him of how far we have come as Jews – that we have become more open, accepting, and loving of difference among us, even as we continue to struggle with the tradition/change dichotomy. As Humanistic Jews, we care about social justice, some of which springs beautifully from the deep roots of Torah. The main idea in Kedoshim is that we are all holy. If we retain this belief, that all people have value, we do the work of the Torah with the best of intentions for others. 

Tazria-Metzora - on the Bar Mitzvah, on the body, and on biblical reimagination

The double parshah for this week deals with the impure and unclean. From a biblical perspective, this includes menstruation and leprosy. Some joke that this is the most dreaded week to have a Bar or Bat Mitzvah because writing a Dvar Torah on these subjects is tricky for anyone, much less an adolescent. In my movement of Humanistic Judaism, we do not require that Bar and Bat Mitzvahs read the Torah portion for their birthday or the date of the ceremony. We encourage them to choose projects of relevance to them to research and write about, we offer Torah readings that inspire them and challenge them to enter into the conversations about biblical interpretation that have excited Jews for centuries, and we ask them to complete Tzedakah work in their community to emphasize the “mitzvah” in Bar/Bat Mitzvah. We have changed some of the tradition around the Bar Mitzvah (Bat Mitzvahs are themselves a change from tradition) in order that they be relevant and meaningful. I have a friend who jokes that when he did his Bar Mitzvah it was on the “leprosy one.” He can’t remember anything else. I want more than that for our youngsters. Of course, change and tradition are constantly in tension in Judaism. Some change is necessary; no one does things the way they did in biblical times as we do not have a temple. Most Jews do not attempt or wish to follow all or most of the Halachah. But that doesn’t mean Jewish law, text, and tradition are irrelevant. For many of us, tradition gets a vote but not a veto. But we must carefully consider how and why we create change. Judaism continues to undergo evolution and revolution. It makes us nervous, but also excites us to be part of its ever-changing landscape.

In Metzora, it is menstruation which is the subject of the rule-making. The text is 

very clear that the menstruating woman is “impure” that the Priest should offer a sin-

offering (and a burnt offering) on her behalf, and that separation is necessary. It is not 

like the “red tent” was such a bad place to be; separation had its advantages. And we can 

understand these rules as evidence for the fear (and loathing) of women’s bodies and 

cycles on the part of the male authorities of the time, their power subverted somewhat by 

their fear of the power of the female body and cycle. But we do not have to celebrate the 

parts of the bible that remind us that sexism is endemic to the Jewish religion. We 

continue to work to extricate the sexism from Judaism. 

Shmini - on the profane, on piety, on purification

Shmini means “eighth.” In this parshah it refers to the eighth day of the Tabernacle. There were seven days of training in which the tabernacle was erected and taken down each night. On the eighth day the practice was to end and the temple to stand. The eighth day is, then, the first day in many ways. For this parshah this matters because we are reminded about cycles. After the seven days of the week another week begins. After the seven days of training the eight day starts a new cycle. This reminds of how Jews traditionally have circumcised sons on the eighth day; after the full first week of life the child begins anew with this ritual (in the Humanistic and other progressive movements of Judaism, we offer baby namings for girls and those who choose not to circumcise so as to honour the birth of any child. Baby namings also often happen on the eighth day to retain that symbolism). Many of the important Jewish holidays are celebrated as eight days in the diaspora. Sukkot and Pesach, both seven-day long holidays (corresponding with the days of “creation” from the bible), each get an additional day to make up for the differences in the lunar cycle. Eight is also the number of days in Chanukah (not a biblical holiday). The cycle of the moon defines our calendar, the cycle of the week defines the structure to our lives. After Shabbat, the day of rest, we celebrate Havdallah, meaning separation. It is time to mark the transition between the sacred time of Shabbat and the ordinary time of the week. Some see Havdallah as more of a join than a separation – we bring the sacredness into the rest of the week by beginning the week with the lovely rituals of lighting interwoven candles, singing songs, and smelling spices.  

In Shmini, Aaron is told that the job of the Priests is to “distinguish between the sacred and the profane". This dichotomy informs philosophy and literature. While many of us do not believe that ordinary life is “profane” and that religious observance is "sacred,” it is worth asking ourselves what is sacred for us in our own lives? What is meaningful? Is it useful to create separation, to reserve special time for reflection, to unplug from our electronic world, to stop working for a while, to rest? Is it useful to bring the sacred elements of our lives into the ordinary? This week maybe seven won’t be our lucky number. Instead let’s focus on eight. The day after the cycle of the week when we can reflect on what is extraordinary about our ordinary weeks and lives.  

We should hang onto some of those happier thoughts as we traverse Shmini. The challenge of Leviticus is sometimes to find meaning when the narrative and some of its messages are disagreeable. Shmini begins with a continuation of the commanding and performing of sacrifices by Aaron and the other priests. Two of Aaron’s sons, overzealous in their offerings, transgress the commandment. They burn an offering they were not supposed to. As punishment, God strikes them down right away. This is a reminder that the God-character of the bible is not the benevolent, loving God that some imagine. The JPS editors call the act of the offering “misguided super-piety,” a term I find striking. The mistake of Aaron’s sons is to go too far in trying to prove their faith in God, so far that they end up disdaining God by breaking his commandments. To me this resonates with people who make a huge show of prayer, attending religious services, or keeping certain religious commandments, but do not regard the morality or meanings behind those acts. Sometimes “super-piety” is indeed “misguided” because people spend so much energy trying to please God that they forget to be good to one another. Shmini is a reminder that the God-character demands to be served on his own terms. Humanistic Jews, believing that the concept of God is meant to serve human needs, and not that humans are meant to serve God, note this and the many other examples of the vengeful, wrathful God of the bible, as evidence for how religion has been used as a tool for control, not just inspiration, and how we can extract the meanings that make us fuller human beings without enslaving ourselves to the precision of the commandments. 

In Shmini the commandments that are extended to the whole community, not just the priests, are the kosher laws relating to the consumption of flesh. Some of these may seem abstract – why is it fine to eat animals that chew their cud but not ones that don’t? – but there is evidence that these laws were ways of encouraging the most hygienic eating possible based on the knowledge of the time. We can appreciate that our ancestors were interested in health and hygiene. Of course, our contemporary health and hygiene relating to the eating of animals is very different. I would certainly encourage those who choose to eat meat to eat local and organic meat before kosher meat. I would encourage people to consider the cruelty of factory farming practices, the environmental impacts of eating meat often, and the concerning rates of obesity, heart disease, cancer, and other health problems that have been linked to a North American diet that tends to over-emphasize meat. Of course, we are all entitled to make our own choices over what and how we eat. In my view, however, the wisdom of the bible is that it can give us a reason to think critically about the consumption of animals. Some of us choose vegetarianism and some do not. But we should all make informed choices about how what we eat affects animals, ourselves, and the planet.  

The purity laws of Shmini extend beyond the eating of animals. We are introduced to the idea of a “wellspring” that can purify. This gives way to the Mikvah in which women and men dunk for purification. Most of the time the dunking has to do with cleansing after a woman’s period (speaking of cycles) or childbirth. Many Jewish feminists, therefore, have rejected the Mikvah. However, many women have chosen to “take back the waters” (Rabbi Elyse Goldstein has an article by that name). Before a wedding, after a birth, leading up to a holiday or significant event, the symbolism of purification – to help us distinguish or separate between the sacred and the profane or the ordinary and extraordinary, or simply the renewal of a cycle or the start of something new – can be a meaningful act.  

Tsav - on distinctions, on disillusioning, and on drive

In this parshah we get more rules for the alter, some addressed to the people but most addressed to the priests. Here we see the anointing of the priests – very clearly showing that some people are made holier than others. The priests, as the access point to God, are elevated above the level of mere human. Towards the end of the parshah we even see that if the priests leave the temple before the required seven days after anointing that they will die. They have crossed from the realm of the human to a more spiritual realm and it would be lethal to cross back. 

The supernatural implications of this kind of idea do not appeal to Humanistic Jews and, indeed, many other rational Jews. Neither does the idea that some humans are above others. Obviously we live in a world with different levels of power and privilege, but no human is essentially more holy than any other. With the destruction of the temple comes an equalizing and, although many Jews mourn over the destruction, for many of us that equalizing is a positive. Of course, rabbis took the place of priests as the access point to God – and many behave as though they are superior to others. But many do not. The best leaders are those who acknowledge their humanity and find ways to make their own lives meaningful and inspire others to do the same. None of us can be perfect and all of us are simply human. 

This idea comes across in the parshah. The priests are exalted and are given the sacrificial offerings. But they also are charged with cleaning the ashes from the perpetual fire. The idea of a flame that burns and should never go out is not unique to Judaism, but is a powerful idea. An eternal flame can represent the continuity of a people, and also the goodness within us as individuals and as a community. It can be the fire of passion and the light of reason. The idea of the ever-burning fire provides nice symbolism for us to consider – what do we value and hope to be everlasting? Of course, the fire produces ashes and these must be dealt with. The priests are custodians – of the people’s access to the spiritual, but also of the physical temple. In removing the ashes, in doing the physical work, they solidify their humanity and their connection with the other humans – even as they are performing the most holy tasks. All of us must try to find this balance between doing the drudge-work that must get done but making sure we attend to the flame inside of us that drives our deeper selves.  

Vayikra - on legal code, on liability, and on lesson-seeking

Whereas the books of Genesis and Exodus are comprised mainly of narrative, in Leviticus (Vayikra), the text begins to read more like legal code and less like literature (of course, Torah is all this and much more!). Our challenge is to find the narrative behind the legal text. What are these laws meant to accomplish? Whose power is enshrined? What do we know about a society that needed these laws and/or followed them? 

The text gives us clues as to how our ancestors lived and the society they hoped to build. For example, in this parshah we have details about how to perform ritual sacrifices made to ameliorate wrongdoing. The text makes a distinction between willful acts and accidental ones. Offerings are required in either case, but the distinction is important. To give a contemporary example, if we are driving a car and cause an accident in which someone is hurt, we may experience guilt and sadness. There may be things we can do to address the hurt we’ve caused, such as pay for the damage to the other car, ensure that if medical help is needed that it is provided, etc. We are still responsible for hurt we cause by accident, but the hurt is not a reflection of our morality or humanity.

If, however, we hurt someone intentionally, such as by gossiping about them, stealing from them, etc., then we are accountable for that in a different way. We are responsible to repair the damage but also to consider how we might learn a moral/ethical lesson and how we might change ourselves to better reflect our own humanity. Although the text does not say all of this, the distinction it draws between intention and action should drive us to contemplate its implications in our own lives. 

As we enter into the book of Leviticus, we move from compelling narrative to legal codes; often laws that we no longer practice and sometimes find offensive. To seek out the intention behind the text, there are many more questions we could ask: were these laws created so that people would start/stop doing something? Were they really practiced? Were the laws written retroactively to try to present a society as something other than what it was? Was there a true desire for law and order? Not every parshah provides us with answers to these questions. But many do, and it is fascinating how the Torah, in its exploration of literature, history (both real and imagined), and law can give us much to think about, even in the most trying of sections. We will explore Leviticus through this frame. 

Va Yakhel - Pekudei - on contributing, on cycles, and on change

Va Yakhel and the next parshat, Pekudei, are read together. Some weeks have double entries to make the number of Torah portions conform to the lunar calendar. But this time the pairing makes sense. Both parshot are completely concerned with setting up the Tabernacle and readying the Priests as the previous chapters have outlined. A nice thing about parshah Va Yakhel is the communal sense of building something together. The tabernacle is meant to be set up with great precision, including being adorned with jewels, gems, and other things. Artists contribute what they can, women contribute their weaving, and what is really being constructed and weaved together is community through space. 

Pekudei is the final parshah of the book of Exodus. Exodus ends not with a dramatic narrative moment, but with a continuation of the preparations for Moses to descend from the mountain and for Yahweh to completely forgive the people for the golden calf so that he may dwell in the Tabernacle as opposed to on Mount Sinai. The idea is one of cycles: rebirth for the people is possible. Thus it is fitting that the day the Tabernacle is finally completed is New Year’s Day – the first day of the first month. This marks the second year of freedom. The people have had the opportunity to learn from their mistakes. The new year gives the chance for a fresh start and for new beginnings. Thus it is fitting that the book of Exodus – the story of the rebirth of the people from slavery to freedom – ends at the beginning of a new year. 

Each new year and season we too have the opportunity for a mini-rebirth. We are not created completely afresh, but we can freshen up ourselves, our goals, and our relationships. We can use the markers of time’s passing to remind us to be reflective, always changing and growing to become the best versions of ourselves we can. Our Jewish texts teach us that to do so, to engage in a process of self-renewal, is an act that connects us with our Jewish legacy. Exodus has taken the people from slavery to freedom. The text places important emphasis on the relationship between the people and their leaders, their space, and their hope. We find many Humanistic lessons in the Torah, but these lessons are embedded perhaps most meaningfully in the narrative of Exodus. This is the foundational narrative of our people, told annually at Pesach, and remembered always when we hear of struggles for freedom and justice.