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.  

Ki Tissa - On Idols, on "I didn't do it", and on Israel the stiff-necked people

Moses goes up on the mount to meet with God, and he is gone so long that the people worry he has abandoned them. They ask Aaron for a way to make God approach the people, or for a new God to lead them. Aaron tells the people to gather their gold and he melts it into the golden calf.* The symbolism of the golden calf is rife with meanings for every age. In ours, we can see it as a condemntation of materialism; that we tend to wroship "gold" (money, etc.) in unhealthy ways. The golden calf might symbolize all sorts of false idols many of us have.  A friend once told me that, in her view, the problem with our society is not that people don’ t believe in anything but rather that people will believe in anything. We replace deities with new age theories (don't even get me started on "the secret"), the newest digital gadgets, the latest fashions, whatever is trending on twitter, etc. This is not to say that we should abandon all of these things. I appreciate a nice pair of shoes as much as the next guy… just ask my husband. But we could all do with some reflection about how much we invest in material goods and exactly what we hope to get in return. Our spiritual and emotional needs cannot be met through these external items.  

 In the story, Moses leaves Aaron in charge. Aaron might have been a wonderful Priest, but he was not a terrific leader. When Moses descends the mountain, furious, he asks Aaron what happened. Aaron replies that he put the gold into a fire and “Out came this calf.” Commentators have tried to excuse Aaron by saying that we was perhaps stalling by collecting the gold items, knowing that Moses would return. But anyone who has spent time around children can see a very childish quality to Aaron’s response. He is basically telling Moses: “I didn’t do it.” Further, the text notes that the people, lacking strong leadership, were running amok. “Moses saw that the people were out of control since Aaron had let them get out of control.” So what we learn from this story is just as much about human leadership as it is about the power of the deity; people need strong leadership in order to feel secure. Without strong models to turn to, people start looking to that which can't truly provide what they're looking for. 

God is angry at the people and suggests to Moses that he will forsake him. Moses, the better leader, negotiates with God. Moses reminds Yahweh about the promises he made to the ancestors. He tells him that if he were to destroy the people now, that the Egyptians would think the Exodus was simply an exercise in futility, and that the Israelite God was evil after all. Moses employs other examples of rhetoric to convince God to spare the people. This suggests a) that the God-character can be manipulated by human speech and b) that Moses, not God, is the true deliverer of the people. The people, even after having experienced the “miracle” of the Exodus, are still seeking strong leadership. Many of us are aware of the leaders and teachers we’ve had who shape us and make us who we are. Even though Moses is angry at the people (he smashes the tablets!), he fights for them. 

Several times in this parasha, God refers to the Israelites as a “stiff-necked” people. What he means is that they are stubborn and will not bow to him. However, I see being “stiff-necked” as a positive attribute, though it is not meant that way in this context. The Maccabees refused to bow, and for this we call them heroes. Our stubbornness as a people has given us our grit, often allowing us to stay Jewish even when it would be much easier not to. We are “stiff-necked” in the sense that we are proud, and that we do not bow when we do not believe. That is a legacy with which Humanistic Jews can identify.

*Historical footnote:

The JPS commentators cite an interesting historical possibility for the Golden Calf scene. After the temple destruction, the united monarchy falls (if it existed; archaeologists and historians cannot conclusively find Solomon’s temple) and the people split into the Northern kingdom of Israel and the Southern kingdom of Judah (there is archaeological evidence of a community in the north and in the south). There is evidence that Jeroboam of the Northern Kingdom created two golden calves. In embedding historical details in the (likely) fictional text of the Exodus, the Southern kingdom of Judah is playing politics with the Northern Kingdom of Israel. In much of the bible, written by the people living in the Southern community of Judah, there is an emphasis on denigrating the practices of the North. Because the bible makes it seem that the South was more righteous and powerful, archaeologists were surprised to find that the community in the North appeared much bigger, more affluent, and stable – a lesson that the bible does not always attempt to encode, but rather create, the historical record. 

Tetsavveh - on service, on spiritual leaders, on sacrifice

A continuation from Terumah, which outlines how the space of the tabernacle must be set up, this parshah talks about how the Priests (beginning with Aaron) are to be dressed and anointed. It then outlines the sacrifices at the temple – what they are and how they must be carried out. This passage reflects the power of the Priests during the time of the Temple in Jerusalem. Because worship relied on the Priests and the offerings made to them, religious life was centralized. Being a Priest was an incredibly important and powerful role – and all this free food from the sacrifices made being a Priest a great gig. The Priests were separate from the rest of the community; they were a set apart. After the temples were destroyed we began to mark religious customs in smaller decentralized places of worship and, importantly, in the home. This meant that Judaism became portable; it did not rely on a central temple. It also meant that women had a greater role to play because they were/are typically the ones who controlled the private domain of the home. 

This passage makes us consider the role of leadership. We no longer look to Priests to guide us in our spiritual practices. Some of us do look to Rabbis (who after the destruction of the temples eclipse Priests as the most important spiritual and community leaders. They became the main access point to God and also emerged as the learned ones in the community who,therefore , became the ones set apart from the people). Do we need external leaders to show us how to practice our Judaism? Do we need teachers to guide us and shed light on the aspects of our tradition that may continue to inspire us today? For many of us we do look to leadership. A good rabbi (teacher) can inspire us, ignite our curiosoty, push us in our thinking, and point us in the direction of ideas and sources we may not know. Leadership matters. Many of us also, however, look within ourselves. We have the tools to educate ourselves about important Jewish texts, history, and culture. We value community, and any community relies on leadership of some kind of other – even if it is grassroots leadership from “below” – but we also value the ability to find meaning for ourselves.  

This parshah also invites us to think about sacrifice. Many of us do not lament that animal sacrifice disappeared with the temples. But the idea of sacrifice is an interesting one. Too many of us lead lives in which we are unwilling to make sacrifices – even for the benefit of those we love. We are a self-interested society; but, it is worth thinking about what we lose when we prioritize only ourselves above all others. There is a fine line between self-love/self-care and selfishness. Those who prioritize themselves last are also not doing themselves or their loved ones a favour; martyrdom doesn't really serve anyone. But neither does self-interest above all else. We are asked to make all kinds of sacrifices in our lives. We make a financial sacrifice when we pursue an education, although we see it as an investment in our future. We make sacrifices of our personal freedom when we decide to take on the awesome responsibility of parenting, although children enrich our lives in immeasurable ways. We make sacrifices for partners and friends who, when they need something of us that conflicts with our own wishes or needs, may be more important at that moment. These sacrifices all hopefully pay off. I make sacrifices for my partner, but trust he would/will do the same for me. When we sacrifice for our children it is because our love for them feeds us, and we want them to be as full and happy as possible. But there are sacrifices we might have to make that do not benefit us directly. People who fight for just causes to which they are committed, people who donate organs, people who risk their own lives to save the lives of others after emergencies or disasters, there are true heroes in the world who understand the beauty of sacrifice. All of us are on a path to find balance in our lives. How much and what are we prepared to sacrifice in order to be the best versions of ourselves?  

Terumah - on sanctuary, on stories, and on space

This Torah portion includes the precise details by which the people are to build a sanctuary/tabernacle for prayer. The context in Exodus is that the people have begun to receive the law but have not yet received the entire Torah. The building of the sanctuary is meant to physically resemble the ways in which he people are becoming a people. The act of wandering is to signify a search or a dislocation. But the precision with which the sacred structures must be built suggests something of permanence. As the people begin to centre their lives around ritual practice, they will shed that sense of dislocation. A physical centre becomes a spiritual way of centring oneself and one’s community. Some feel that the structure described in this portion is the first temple, while others think of it as the template for smaller temples that could have been built anywhere. What we see here is that the Priests are encouraging the people to build structures that will centralize communal ritual practice- thus ensuring Priestly power but also ensuring the people have a place to congregate. Congregations are not for everyone, but we can see in this passage the importance our early ancestors placed in finding ways to bring the community together. Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism, articulated that Judaism was a “civilization” and thus he reimagined synagogues as communal spaces that went beyond prayer. We find our Jewish community centres, congregations, or other groups and meeting spaces to be places for us to get in touch with our deepest selves – by getting in touch with our community.

For Humanistic Jews, it is not prayer that is important but people. We find value in our communities – Jewish and more broadly human. But we need places in which to congregate, to come together. Public spaces are disappearing in many of the cities in which we live. Parks, markets, arenas, these are the centres of human life. It’s where we run into our neighbours and friends. It’s where we can relax in nature or amongst beautiful architecture. Space matters, particularly as it can help to /construct communities and how they function.

There is a beautiful church in Ottawa, Ontario, a city about five hours from where I live. Whenever I am in Ottawa I go into that church, even for five minutes, and sit. I love that church because I know its history – an Italian sculptor came to Canada as part of a competition to win the commission for a sculpture on top of the Canadian parliament buildings. He was so sure he’d win that he did not consider how he would pay for his passage back to Italy if he lost, which he did. Desperate for funds, he convinced the church to take his sculpture instead – it sits on top of the entrance to this day. The church’s congregation outgrew its structure so they built a new church around it so as not to disrupt services, and then demolished the old one from the inside and carried it out the back. All of this is charming as it tells a story of religious life in Canada and how it has been defined by, and also helped to construct, space. But I really love the church because its architecture has a simple beauty. It is not ostentatious as some cathedrals. It is quaint and lovely. And, for me, it is sacred space. I am not a Christian and I do not pray, but I can find meaning in the human project of constructing spaces that are meant to inspire us and to represent the best of human ingenuity, creativity, and passion.

This week’s Torah portion reminds us of the Jewish project of constructing space – complete with symbols such as the menorah, the alter, the ark. Even for those of us who do not pray, we can find meaning in the physical structures that have inspired and housed Jewish communities for centuries. And we can consider what kinds of spaces may feed us today. What kind of beauty, what kind of community, are we looking for, and in what kind of house? Many Humanistic congregations lack buildings of our own. Our challenge is to find spaces that work for us and to remember that building community is an equally important project to building the spaces that house us.

Mishpatim - on measure for measure, on monotheism and/as morality, and on the "magic" mountain

This week’s portion focuses on laws. We can be proud of the ways in which our early ancestors began encoding practices that sought to ensure fairness and justice. We can celebrate the laws that were intended to promote justice, even while we keep in mind the balance that justice during the biblical times might be different from justice today. Rules for how to treat women, slaves, etc. make clear that there was an intention to try to limit suffering, but no intention towards challenging the inherent hierarchies of society. Mishpatim details the “measure for measure” laws: “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.” While this is not progressive justice as we understand it today, it is important to understand that this code ensured some sense of consequences for one’s actions – even in spite of how powerful someone was. It is important that the measure for measure laws follow a lengthy discussion about the treatment of slaves, because what is implies is that all people, regardless of social position, are entitled to justice and, by the same token, all people are subject to the same sets of moral laws and practices. All are deserving of fairness and all are accountable.

Rashi believed that even though “an eye for an eye” appears to suggest that literally the punishment be causing the same injury to the guilty as the guilty did to the innocent, that rather each of these things be assigned value. Rashi notes the importance of work and so suggests that injuries that prevent a person from working should be compensated monetarily. So too, a taken eye should be paid for because it would prevent the person from earning a wage. These legal sections were of great interest to the debaters of the Mishnah (oral law), who sought to solidify legal codes based on the rules in this section (and others), and to Rashi who sought the “plain sense” or “pshat” meaning of the Torah and found much to work with in sections like these that move from plot- and character-driven narrative to law. The JPS commentators note that the legal codes emerging here resemble in many ways the code of Hammurabi in Babylonian law. This was a period in which law was being taught to the people as a whole for the first time, and also codified so that legal practice could be made consistent.

The next section of the parshah includes religious laws. It is important to realize that religious laws, particularly those that are meant to foster monotheism, are embedded in other legal rules. Many contemporary religious leaders argue that organized religion is the vehicle through which people learn morality; that because moral codes are deemed to be commanded by God, people follow them (this is a fear-based morality. I avoid doing bad things because I want to avoid punishment. This is not quite the same as doing good for the sake of good). That argument becomes harder and harder to justify when we see so many examples of “devout” people doing terrible things – often in the name of the very God and religion who are supposed to be the catalyst and impetus for moral and ethical behaviour. We also see many non-believing, secular and Humanistic people (Jewish and non-Jewish) assuming responsibility for ethical behaviour because, in the absence of a deity, we are the only ones who can promote and enact justice and fairness in our world. What we see evidenced in this Torah portion is the way in which the connection between monotheistic belief and morality has been fused through text.

In this parshah we also have the rules for the shmita, the "release" of the land. The text tells the people to sow land for six years but in the seventh year to let it lie fallow. While this does not seem like the biggest deal in terms of the laws set forth here, it reminds us of the seven years of feast and famine in the Joseph story. The people have learned that in order to keep the earth fertile and to stave off hunger, that rotating fallow fields made sense. Jewish environmentalism points to textual moments like this in a celebration of the ways in which our early ancestors understood the symbiosis between a healthy earth and a healthy people. This year is the year of the shmita and many Jews have taken this year as a year of rest and reflection. What can we "release," or let go of that makes us worry or stress? How can we find more ways to take breaks, whether by enjoying Shabbat or other times of quiet? The shmita reminds us that humans are part of the natural cycle whereby productivity is enabled by rest.

The symbiosis between peoples is paramount too. The text says: “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt" and “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” Any repetition such as this may suggest a fusing together of different versions of the text. But there are other interpretive possibilities. The JPS editors note “This verse may be repeated here because strangers, who lacked kin to protect their rights, are at a disadvantage in courts composed of local or tribal elders.” What is fascinating is that the Exodus story, just told a few chapters back, is now being used to inculcate a sense of moral responsibility in the people. The Torah is comprised of narrative and law and we see how they mutually reinforce one another in the text.

This parshah also mentions three festivals: the Feast of Unleavened Bread (what we call Passover), the Feast of the Harvest (what we call Sukkot), and the Feast of Ingathering (what we call Shavuot). These festivals are mentioned again in Leviticus and Deuteronomy where we get more detail about how they are to be celebrated. But here we see evidence that these are some of the earliest Jewish practices. We also see evidence that the celebration and marking of Jewish festivals is connected with the laws that precede and follow this chapter. The law and the cultural practices become bound up in what we call Judaism; they are inextricable from each other during the time of the formation of our people as a people.

The laws of Kashrut, the dietary restrictions, are also detailed here, and also highlight how the formation of the law led to the formation of a people. Eating in a specific way, ensuring that people eat with only those in their same group, was a very concrete way to create and keep the people. Many Jews today still maintain that they keep kosher for the reason that it reminds them of their Jewishness in the quotidian and necessary decisions and acts around food. There are many of us Jews who do not keep kosher, for there are other markers of culture and peoplehood that may be more valuable or relevant to our own lives (and other measures for ethical eating whether fair trade, environmentally sustainable, vegetarian, etc.), the point here is that the text shows us the logic and strategy behind the creation of the Jewish people, and as our legacy this is of interest.

The portion ends with a departure from the laws and a return to narrative. Moses, Aaron and the other “elders of Israel” ascending up the mountain. The text says “they saw the God of Israel: under His feet was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity” (24. 9 – 10). Commentators have had to wrestle with the contradictions inherent in these lines. On the one hand, God is not supposed to be visible, and on the other the text, if divinely written/inspired, must be true. So how do Moses and the others “see” God? Commentators explain that the sapphire-like pavement “under God’s feet” was above them, so they “saw” something like a reflection of God refracted through this pavement-like blueness. Thus God was visible, but obscured. Further commentators extrapolate from this explanation that this is why the sky is blue – God is above us but obscured by the sapphire-like pavement that serves as the barrier between us. The bible and such commentaries were written before we had the scientific means to understand much of our natural world. We have an evolved understanding of nature now, just as we have an evolved sense of justice and fairness, yet the text provides us with insight into how our early ancestors made sense of these big questions.

Yitro - on teamwork, on text, and on the ten commandments

Jethrow, Tziporah’s father, comes to Moses and sees his great work. Moses is slaving (pardon the use of the term) morning until night in the service of his people. Jethrow tells Moses that “the thing you are doing is not right; you will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone” (18.17-18). Jethrow, Moses' non-Jewish father-in-law imparts some of the best wisdom in this parshah and in the Torah: we need each other. A good leader delegates; a good community supports on another. Jethrow does not simply tell Moses that shouldering the entire burden is wrong because he will tire himself out, but that ultimately he will also fail his people. It is not only for the good of Moses that Jethrow tells him to share the work, but to empower the community as well. Moses selects leaders and judges from amongst the people. A society is more functional when there are many leaders from within. This is the lesson Jethrow imparts on Moses. Not only do we as individuals need help sometimes (we cannot do it alone) but the worth of work done as a collective is greater than the sum of its parts.

The idea of community is furthered in this week's parasha by the great moment of solidification of the Jewish people. In Yitro we have the revelation of God to the Israelites at Mt. Sinai. Here we have storytelling at its greatest. There are cues relating to the passage of time to build suspense, there is the pathetic fallacy (when the weather resembles the mood) of the thunder and lightening, there are sensory details such as the sound of the blast of the horn, the visual effect of the smoke and fire on the temple mount, etc.

Here is where the people are told that their freedom from Egypt and the miracles they witnessed come at a price. “I the LORD am your God who brought you out of Egypt, the house of bondage. You shall have no other Gods besides Me” (20.2-3). This is the first commandment of the decalogue, the ten commandments (considered the most important of the commandments – there are indeed many more in Jewish law). The people are prohibited from constructing idols, from taking God's name in vain. They are told to keep the Sabbath, to honour one's parents, to refrain from committing murder, adultery, theft, bearing false witness or coveting.

While many of us may not take the story of the revelation at Sinai literally, we can applaud that our early ancestors were interested in constructing a moral code. The commandments relating to God are part of how the commandments relating to humans and their interactions are justified. Any parent who has told their child to do/not do something just because “I say so” knows that authority can be used to promote morality (not that it's always the best strategy). That is what is happening with these commandments.

We all benefit from a system that instructs us not to steal from or murder each other. The ten commandments are really very human commandments. Even those that are more about the relationship between people and God have meaning for Humanists. The God-character tells people to honour the Sabbath to commemorate the creation of the world in six days. People need rest to be productive. The idea of the holiness of the Sabbath is a way for people to carve out a sacred time to be with their families, a time for reflection, and a time to rejuvenate themselves. At the time of the Bible's writing (and this section was clearly written and re-written – we see elements of many writers and a chronology that gets confused because of the multiple layers of narrative) there were not exactly good labour laws. The commandment to keep the Sabbath meant a balance between work and rest that served human needs.

In the beginning of this discussion I suggested that we need community – we rely on one another. Towards the end of it, we have commandments that suggest that individuality is also important. We must respect other people, and we show that respect by respecting one another's property, spouses, and lives. We are told in the decalogue that we as individuals have both rights and responsibilities, which serve as a balance to our need for community. We have worth as individuals, we must be moral as individuals, and our strength, morality, worth, and goodness are enhanced by our relationship with our community/society.

Beshallah - on crossing, on complaining, and on Christian/Jewish theologies

In this parshah we have the very famous crossing of the “Red Sea” - as most people know it. Most scholars today call it the “Reed Sea.” The people are rushing away from Pharoah who decided to chase the Israelites to get them back. The commentator Ibn Ezra wonders why the people didn't turn around and fight (the numbers, we are told, are about 600,000 Israelites to 600 of Pharoahs soldiers). This is also about the “slave mentality” that the Israelites need to get rid of. Jewish interpretation of the text typically holds that the Israelites needed the wandering in the desert to slough off the slave mentality. It's not that Egypt and Israel are so far from each other (they're not) that it should take 40 years of wandering. It's that there needed to be a generation born in freedom who could find success in the “Promised Land.” This is a troubling interpretation – do we really believe some people are so badly damaged by past abuse or injustice that they cannot be redeemed? The hopeful side of this understanding of the wandering is that it has often been the case that the descendents of Jews who suffered were able to prosper. This was true of the children of those who were expelled from Spain, for example, and settled in places like Amsterdam. It is the experience of many children of Holocaust survivors. It is the experience of people who came to North America as poor immigrants and have children who are very wealthy and successful. There are all kinds of mystical associations we have for the parting of the sea. A Kabbalistic Rabbi once told me that there were not only huge walls of water on either side of the Israelites but also that on the walls of water were fruits and other things. This was to signal the ultimate majesty of God and the fact that this was in no way a “natural” occurrence but a divine miracle. This addition to the story reminds us that Jews throughout the generations have added in details like this to embellish our stories (stories usually get embellished in their retelling), and make them consistent with their theology/world view. However the seas part in the narrative, we know what happens: the Israelites make it across but as Pharoah's army follows them they are subsumed.

You would think this would lead to a period of rejoicing, but what follows is really a series of complaints from the people to Moses. Can we consider this the origin of Jewish kvetching? They've already complained that they are going to be killed by the Pharoah's army. Then they complain there is no water, so Miriam draws water from the well. But then they immediately complain of hunger, so God sends his “manna from heaven.” Still unsatisfied, they once again complain again about the lack of water. Finally, once they are no longer thirsty, they are attacked by Amalek and once again worry about war. There is an interesting pattern to these problems: war, water, hunger, water, war. The palendromic effect is also a cycle. Just as last week we had the first mention of Rosh Chodesh, reminding us of the cycle of the moon, here we are reminded that life is full of more difficult cycles as well. The text is certainly saying that the people should learn to trust that God will provide for them. Humanistic Jews can reflect on the highs and lows of human existence and draw the opposite lesson: we need to rely on ourselves and our communities to solve our problems.

Miriam becomes an important character because it is she who leads the people to water. Moses delivers the people from Egypt, but Miriam is also the salvation of the people because of this water. Many people put a “cup of Miriam” filled with water on their seder table to remember the women of the story and Miriam's contribution specifically. As the people worry about starvation, some complain to Moses that it would have been better to serve in Egypt than to starve in the wilderness. It's worth thinking about contemporary ways in which this choice is ours. Many of us “slave” at jobs that do not fulfill us for fear that otherwise we would wither/starve. What is our choice? Do we brave the unknown even when it is risky but when it may promise a better life? Again, this is what many of our families did in immigrating to lands unknown. Do we choose to remain where we are, figuring that known suffering is better than the unknown? The story makes it clear that this “slave mentality” is the wrong way of thinking. But I think we can find more compassion for people who stick with what is safe – particularly as we do not expect to be given “manna from heaven,” but know that we have to put bread on our tables ourselves. The text does challenge us, however, to take risks and to be brave in the pursuit of our own happiness.

The final incident of this parshah is Amalek's attack. His army approaches and Moses sends Joshua to build an army to fight. Moses, meanwhile, climbs up the Mount and holds his hands up. When his hands are up the Jews are winning. When he lets them fall Amalek gains the advantage. Ultimately, exhausted, his hands are held up by Joshua (the chief warrior) and Aaron so that the Jews can win the day. Jewish commentators suggest that this is either Moses channelling God, or that Moses' hands in the air are a reminder to the people about the miracles they have seen – the Reed Sea, the water, the manna, and to remember that God is on their side. This is what gives them the strength to win. Christian commentators find Christ imagery in the scene. When Moses' hands are being held up in what can be described as a “T” position, it resembles Christ on the Cross. In Christian theology, this moment unites Moses with Jesus; Moses as the deliverer of the people prefigures the messiah. It is interesting sometimes to notice that the details of the text have been used by so many competing cultures to bolster their own theologies. There is the theistic Jewish view, the Christian view, and we can also find a Humanistic view: whatever the reason Moses' hands need to be held up, it is important to note that he can't achieve his task alone. The arms being held up are a reminder that there are times in which we all need to be held, supported, bolstered by our community. Aaron was the voice for Moses and Yahweh, Joshua is good at making war, Moses is good at leading the people, but none can do their jobs without the others and without the support of their whole community behind them.

The parshah ends with a paradox. Amalek's name is never to be spoken again (his attack so brutal) yet we are to remember this moment forever. This is one of many examples in the text in which the Jews are commanded to both remember and to forget. We repeat Amalek's name to remember the incident, even though it should be blotted out. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi`s book Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory points out that there are frequent references to remembrance in the Bible. We are commanded to remember God and his promises to remember his people. The paradox of memory concerning Amalek gets used in all kinds of ways. I was recently attending a panel on Child Soldiers in Africa that mentioned this moment from Exodus. We can think of similar horrors, particularly the Holocaust, that are too horrible to remember but impossible to forget. We have a duty to remember, but trauma cannot be completely assimilated in the mind or the memory. This is a key paradox for the Jewish people as we are constantly struggling with this tension between forgetting and remembering our history.

Bo - On Reparations, on Ra, and on Rosh Chodesh

In this parshah, we have the eighth and ninth plague (locusts and darkness). The plagues are narrative signs of Yahweh's power (in the story his “wonders” are a way to convince the Egyptians that the Israelite God is more powerful than their own Gods), so that the Israelites – living in amongst “idol-worshippers” will learn to trust Yahweh. They are also signs to the Egyptians that Yahweh is powerful and his people will win the day. This is the way most religious people understand the plagues. But Humanistic Jews do not take the plagues literally and do not take them as a sign of any God's power. So what do they represent to us as literary symbols? They represent the worst of all possible horrors that could happen at that time to those people. They do represent the power of nature and its forces – even in the past few years we have been witness to terrifying and crushing natural disasters (some claim these are not so natural but brought on by climate change and therefore are human acts of devastation). It is hard to imagine freedom coming out of such horrors. And I think the plagues remind us that there are clear winners and losers in the Exodus story. Of course we celebrate that any slave might win their freedom, but it is useful to think here about the innocent Egyptians too. In any political rift there are good people who fall on the “wrong” side from the point of view of the victors and of history, and who are victims of their own leadership. It is important to feel compassion for their suffering as well. In this week's section Moses once again asks Pharoah to let the Israelites leave, and this time he replies that the men can go. Commentators suggest that Pharoah thinks that the men are not truly leaving, but are going to pray to their God outside of the city walls. But Moses makes clear that he is also going to bring the women and children too – a sign that prayer is not the objective. The Exodus is not about the ability to pray – something for which the women could (would) be excluded – but rather it is about the ability to be a people. Women become very important in this parshah for reasons which will be clear when we think about Rosh Chodesh (the new moon). God tells Moses that he is about to get the Jews out, but then there is a break in the narrative action and God tells Moses to tell the people to ask their neighbours for objects of silver and gold. There are many interesting reasons commentators offer for this. One is that these will serve as reparations for the years of slavery. Another is that by gathering the courage to ask their neighbours for gold (who may refuse, /may act violently, or may turn to violence to get the items back later), the Israelites are beginning to slough off their “slave mentality” and demand what is rightfully theirs. This is the first step in becoming a people capable of self-governance. These items will later be used to build both the Golden Calf and the Ark. Religious interpreters take this as a sign of human free will; our resources can be used for building something terrible or something beautiful. A Humanistic interpretation can draw on the same metaphor – we have the capacity to choose to be and do good or not; it is entirely in our hands.

We have an interesting mention in this parshah about how, prior to the slaying of the first born, no one would harm the Israelites and not even a dog would bark at them. Why the dogs? One reason is to suggest that the Jews were being completely protected at this time. Another interesting answer is that the writer(s) of this moment in the text were cognizant of devaluing Egyptian Gods, many of whom resembled animals, including a dog. If the dogs are on the side of the Israelites it serves as a symbol of the superiority of the Jewish God and the lack of potency of the “false” ones. This also becomes important in this parshah because it discusses Rosh Chodesh. The most powerful God in Egypt was the Sun God Ra. By emphasizing the importance of the moon, and by setting the Jewish calendar according to its rhythms, the text encourages the Israelites to move away from Egyptian sun-centred theology towards what is now Jewish theology.

This parshah contains the first biblical mention of Rosh Chodesh. God tells Moses, in the company of Aaron, that there should be a monthly celebration of the moon. Rashi notes that Aaron is present for this conversation as an honour for his help in creating the plagues. It is also important because it creates the first “Beit Din” - a model for rabbinical authority and judgments that have settled disputes Jewishly/Halachically until today. Rosh Chodesh becomes a women's holiday for many reasons, including our associations with monthly cycles. Women in many cultures are associated with the moon. Sometimes this is about the menstrual cycle. Sometimes, less flatteringly, it is because the sun gets associated with logic and the moon with a “lunatic” element that is often applied to women. What is true is that when women lived closer to nature they would cycle with the moon. The time of the “red tent” (women had to be separated from the rest of the group during menstruation) would have followed the lunar cycle. As Anita Diamant makes clear in her famous novel, the red tent can be seen as a time for women's rest, togetherness, and spiritual renewal. The mention of Rosh Chodesh here, just as the people are about to leave Egypt, also signifies renewal.

Just as the moon waxes and wanes, Jewish history is made up of the textures of exile and return, bondage and freedom. Rosh Chodesh continues to be a time to think of renewal. It is like a mini-Yom Kippur that happens each month, giving us the chance to focus on our goals, on who we want to become and what we want to accomplish in the month ahead. The Exodus story is a story of renewal and rebirth – fertility metaphors are therefore apt. The parshah ends with the terrifying tenth plague – the death of the first borns. The death of children is the ultimate signifier for destruction and death. But what follows in the story is the ultimate signifier for birth and life. Pharoah not only allows the Israelites to leave but actually casts them out. The Jews are born anew. It is the time for the rebirth and the renewal of the people.

Va-era: On exile, on El Shaddai, and on Exodus as metaphor

In Va-era most of the “magic” of the story is revealed. God creates the plagues and Egypt is terrified. Many contemporary historians, theologians, and archaeologists have tried to historicize the plagues. In spite of their efforts, it seems unlikely that all of a sudden the water turned to blood (but people claim a reddening of water through soil absorption is possible). Frogs falling from the sky have been explained through bizarre meteorological phenomena, and so on. While I can understand the desire to prove that the story is "true," it is the magic of the story that I find compelling. The book of Exodus has such incredible narrative power. The Exodus story leaves no historical/archaeological evidence. What it leaves is an extremely important story that serves as the cornerstone of Jewish culture. And the way this story has lasted is through its exceptional plot devices – such as the plagues. What we have here is terrific creative writing – not terrific/terrifying natural/supernatural phenomena. There is a difference between “fact” and “truth” in narrative. We can learn a lot about history, for example, through reading historical fiction. Not every word must be “true” in order to capture the mood or experience of a particular historical event. While the Exodus story is not fact, it does speak a certain truth about Jewish identity. We have experienced exile and disenfranchisement, and we have also found hope and new lands that accommodate us. We have survived as individuals and as a community. The Exodus is our fundamental story – even if it is not fact, it is true to us in real ways. One of the things the narrative can tell us about history is what stories our ancestors thought would be important for the creation/sustenance of a community. This story has indeed been part of Jewish survival – the Passover seder is something that Jews around the world have practiced for millenia. This is something historical that binds us that is rooted in fact.

In this parshah the God-character refers to himself as “El Shaddai” - a name he used in Genesis when forming the covenant. Jewish scholars wanting to believe in the truth of the bible have suggested that this naming is important because here in the Exodus story we see God keeping his earlier promise to guard and proliferate the people. Again, this is not “true,” but is great literary criticism. We now have many scholars who have shown that the different names for God are part of strands of different writers of the bible that were redacted into a (mostly) coherent narrative. Again, throughout our early ancestry this story was looked at, added to, revised, and passed down. This history of narrative is a very important historical event for us as Jews, even if the story itself is not.

A friend of mine who is not Jewish once told me that her father used to read her the bible as a literary text and what bothered her most was that God hardened Pharoah's heart to prevent him from letting the people go. Why would the God, wanting his people to be free, do this? Why not let Pharoah follow his initial impulse to free the Israelites? There are many possible answers for this part of the story and I'll offer a couple that I find compelling. Maimonides suggested that Pharoah's sins were so great that God took away his ability to repent as harsh punishment. God “hardening” the Pharoah's heart was thus not specifically to block the Israelite departure but rather to show that our humanity is a reward we get from God. What I like about this is the focus on humanity as something to treasure. The Pharoah shows us how much one can suffer through one's own indifference to others. Others scholars have suggested that the Israelites would not have appreciated freedom unless its cost was high. If they had been allowed to leave easily they may not have valued the deliverance to the promised land nor the land itself. Some even suggest that the people needed to see the danger of a dictator so they would create a more open political society themselves. These all have value in terms of human lessons we can learn from the story.

The plagues all have their terrible effects on the Egyptians – and many Humanistic Jews find that we cannot celebrate the suffering of the Egyptians. There are some lovely humanistically-oriented interpretations of how the plagues would have badly affected the Israelites as well as the Egyptians – thus blurring the boundary between “us and them” in the story, and reminding us that the suffering of some should prevent the joy of all.

I wrote this commentary in Jerusalem a couple of years ago. The week of this parshah, I was standing with the women of the wall – a group of feminists who have been transgressing gender codes and praying at the Western Wall in Jerusalem since 1988. They read from the Torah (for this they move – it is still illegal for women to do this at the wall), and push the boundaries of both feminism and orthodoxy. Standing at that incredibly meaningful historical and cultural site, a woman gave a lovely Dvar Torah (commentary) about how the plague of Darkness reminds us to find the light wherever we are. The oppression of women, she was saying, continues to be a plague amongst and affecting contemporary Jews. This unreasonable blindness to the necessity for equality illustrates the darkness of our own day. We must work to find freedom, and with it to find the light of reason, understanding and compassion.

Each time Moses asks Pharoah to “let my people go,” Pharoah's heart is hardened and he says no. The repetition of “Let my people go” serves as an important refrain in this story and others. Michael Walzer's book Exodus and Revolution elucidates how oppressed peoples besides the Jews, such as Southern Black slaves, have found solace and hope in the biblical Exodus story. The song “Let my people go” is an example of how the Jewish Exodus story became part of the American struggle for freedom on the part of subjugated people of colour. Walzer sums up by saying there are three lessons we learn from Exodus. 1) Wherever you are it is probably Egypt. 2) There is hope for redemption/a Promised Land. 3) The only way to get there is by holding hands and marching (I once heard this last point explained instead as “The only way to get there is through the Wilderness”). Although we are not at the point of the biblical story yet where the Jews are allowed their freedom, Walzer's claims resonate with the Plague of darkness. There are times that seem overwhelmingly bleak, but we do our best to make positive change in the world; we can find hope and find community. This is how we turn darkness into light.

Shemot - on birth, the burning bush, and bloodlines

In the beginning of the book of Exodus we have a sense of how things progressed since Joseph. The Israelites have proliferated and, instead of dominating the land, are now subjugated within it. Most are familiar with this story from Pesach haggadot, popular films, etc. The text tells us that the midwives are responsible for such healthy numbers of Israelite children. When Pharoah decries that Israelite first born sons be killed, the women refuse (both the mothers and the midwives). This is because, the texttells us, the women fear the wrath of God more than the Pharoah. Perhaps it is also because the women love their children more than they fear death. The midwives who deliver Moses, Shifrah and Puah, are the unsung heroines of the story. Many feminist haggadot and Jewish scholars have recuperated them in tellings of the Exodus story. Moses is not the only one to “deliver” his people. The story of Exodus is a story of rebirth – an emergence from slavery to freedom. Birth and rebirth become important themes in the unraveling of the story.

Those wont to look for themes of justice in the text tend to focus on Moses' objection to the exploitation of labour. While of course many see this as a sign that he somehow knew he was an Israelite, or somehow had more sympathy for the Israelites than others of his class and culture while living in the Egyptian palace, his objection is not necessarily on the basis of nation but rather on the basis of simple human values. He objects to the degradation of others. This is a sign that Moses is right for the job of delivering his people. We too must remember to object when others are harmed or hurting – not just people similar to us in class, culture, or other category. All humanity is deserving of respectful treatment.

The text in Shemot involves some fantastic storytelling. Those who study archetypes in literature are likely familiar with the quest narrative. No such narrative is complete without a damsel in distress. In the Exodus story we have several damsels – Tziporah and her sisters – who are harassed/attacked at the well. Moses saves the women and, as is typical for the hero of the quest narrative, gets the girl. While this is obviously a one-sided portrayal of women, Tziporah is a very important character. Tziporah, a Midianite, provides us of an example of someone who can intermarry into the Israelite “tribe” and be very concerned with its welfare, without having been born into it. The Tanakh gives us examples of healthy and successful intermarriages (even as it forbids intermarriage in other sections). For those who have culturally mixed families, we can look to Tziporah as a heroine. Tziporah also brings Moses to her father Jethrow who counsels him and, in many ways, spiritually trains him to be up to the job of deliverer. Of course the story ultimately names God as the deliverer, but we should notice that Jethrow's teachings and encouragement give Moses the strength to fight his fight for justice and freedom. We can learn from this that we may encourage and guide one another towards whatever may be our goal, our deliverance, our “promised land” - whatever that may look like for us as individuals.

The “burning bush” is an important literary symbol for the everpresence of God. What can it mean to humanists? An ever-burning passion or love? Humanity – which also sees destruction but continues to exist and thrive? The constant “light” and “fire” that guide our struggles for justice? All of these are possibilities. When Moses meets the God-character in the form of the burning bush he is told “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh,” translating roughly to “I am what/that I am.” Religious Jews understand this phrase to capture the enigmatic and all-encompassing nature of God. But it is also a sign to Moses that he must be who he is as well. Some of us, like Moses, are leaders. Some of us are creators (artistic creation, procreation, etc.). Whatever feature some look to in a God-figure can also be found in the burning light of the human spirit and experience. Hope is fundamental to our continued struggle to improve our condition. The “promise” need not come from on high. We have work to do and, in being all that we are, we rise to meet our challenges.

God tells Moses that he will perform wonders which will convince the Egyptians that he means business. God turns Moses' staff into a snake. He turns water into blood. One doesn't have to be Freud to read some sexual/gendered meanings in those particular symbols. That aside, what does the magic mean? For some it does prove the existence of God. For most, this is a narrative aspect of the story (particularly attractive to children). Freud and many later psychoanalytic critics discuss “looking for signs and wonders” - in our dreams, in our slips of the tongue, in what seem like coincidences. We see the “signs” we wish to see. We believe “wonders” when they confirm our pre-existing world view. But we may miss “signs” as well. A sign that someone we love is in pain. A sign that we are not really fulfilled in our work. We have a pharmaceutical industry devoted to getting us to ignore the real, natural signs that tell us if we are on the right path. Like the Egyptians who ignore Moses' magic, we ignore the signs that tell us what is right for us, sometimes to cope but sometimes to our peril.

I will end with two aspects to this parasha that most people do not mention. The first is that Moses has a speech impediment which is why his brother Aaron does all the talking when they meet the Pharoah. There is a mishnaic explanation for Moses' speech problem (relating to a test he is given as a baby to see whether he is in fact an Israelite. He is offered to eat something sweet or something made of hot gold. God guides him to lick the hot gold so he will be spared suspicion. His burnt tongue is the cause of his later impediment). But we can learn other lessons from the speech aspect of the story too. Firstly, many of us have hurdles to overcome – some have exceptionalities in terms of learning or expression. Some overcome poverty and some overcome abuse. Whatever our past, we can learn to work with and around what seems like a barrier. One way of doing this is to find community.

Moses tries to get out of his task of approaching the Pharoah, using his speech impediment as an excuse. God tells him that Aaron will be with him and will talk. Together we can find complementary strengths. Aaron is Moses' brother. But we can be brotherly and sisterly in our interactions with one another. We can make up for the gaps in one another's abilities. We can be stronger when we work together.

The second aspect of the story that doesn't get much airtime is this scene. ”At a night encampment on the way, the Lord encountered him and sought to kill him. So Zipporah took a flint and cut off her son's foreskin, and touched his legs with it, saying, “You are truly a bridegroom of blood to me! And when He let him alone, she added, “A bridegroom of blood because of the circumcision.” This is an enigmatic passage. It is not entirely clear, but most rabbis interpret that God was about to kill Moses (the “him” does not refer to anyone clearly but Moses was the subject just prior). Why would the God-character, who has just chosen Moses as the deliverer of his “chosen people,” want to kill Moses just as he sets off to do what he asked? Some feel there is missing information. Perhaps in the earlier versions of the story Moses committed some transgression that got edited out so as to maintain a pure view of his good character. Nevertheless, this is part of the story and we can do interesting things with how it alters the meaning.

First, there is an equalizing effect brought to the story through this passage. Moses saved Tziporah and her sisters at the well, but now it is Tziporah who saves Moses. The circumcision is what does the trick. While some may see this as a sign that circumcision is essential to Jewish culture as emblematic of the convenant of God, one can also read the opposite. Tziporah declares the act one of a covenant between she and Moses – a human bond that buys his protection. He is “truly” her bridegroom – and she repeats that it is because of the blood. Blood is a sign of protection, and some rabbis have argued that as she touches the blood to Moses' "leg" it foreshadows the spreading of blood on doorposts for protection later in the story. There may be cultural information we do not have about what this sign means. What we do know for sure is that Moses and Tziporah's son was not circumcised until this moment. Moses is on the way to deliver the Israelites and the lack of a circumcised son suggests that a) he does not yet see himself as part of this people descended from Abraham or b) he does not see circumcision as essential to the identity. This means that either he is willing to sacrifice himself for the good of a people to which he does not belong like he does when he tries to save the labourer, or it means that the “covenant” as marked by circumcision may have varying dimensions and meanings.

The parshah does not end happily. Moses notes that after he begins his negotiations with the Pharoah things get worse for the people. He is disheartened. We, like Moses, must remember that sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. Change is slow. We must nevertheless try to make the world as just and free as possible. Like Moses, we're on a journey.

Va Yehi - on parents, on poetry, and on peoplehood

Jacob's death reminds us that the connection between parents and children is sacred. While in today's world family relationships can be very complicated, many Jews identify strongly with family, and in particular with parental love. Jacob is able to die in peace because he is able to reunite with Joseph. Many of us may also be able to find more peace if we reach out to those in our family with whom we may have difficult or severed connections. Before Jacob dies he adopts Joseph's children into his line (thus creating the eleventh and twelfth tribes). He then blesses each child, speaking to them of the qualities that they will impart to their descendents. This is done through poetry, and is one of the passages in the Torah worthy of close study. It gives an overview for what the writers of this section (in the time of the Judges) thought about their forebears and about what the forebears would have hoped they would become. The attributes of each son are emblematic of qualities the writers imagine were hoped to be inherent to the culture.

In this section, Jacob's death is given much attention but Joseph's follows quickly and with very little said about it, except that we are told that Jacob asks to be returned after his death to the promised land, while Joseph's body remains in Egypt. We have here a sense that the promise of Genesis – Abrahamic descendents and the coming up and together of a people – is fulfilled here. Jacob as the last of the major patriarchs will return to the land, while his descendents will go out into the world.

The contemporary struggles with how we define our peoplehood, and our sense of belonging in it, as well as the claim to land on which this Torah portion hinges, are the stuff of serious consideration. The twelve tribes may not mean much to us today, but a sense of peoplehood does. We may not feel a strong connection to “the holy land,” but, then, we may. For some of us these ties still are rooted in biblical text, for many of us they have to do with political and social values, history, and a more contemporary sense of selfhood.

This portion concludes Genesis, the beginnings of Jewish peoplehood, and with the poetry ascribing qualities, destinies, and love for the Abrahamic descendents, it gives us an opportunity to reflect on our sense of belonging, and our sense of what it means to belong, to the Jewish people. Not all of the twelve sons are the same. In fact, it is the diversity of the qualities they bring – some brave, some wise, some loyal, etc. - that gives strength to the people. So too with Jews today. We do not have to think or act the same way. We are stronger due to our differences from each other. We do better when our individuality can be recognized as contributing to the group. The poetry of the bible is sometimes quite moving. This time, the words make us think of our “mishpocha” (family) in the largest sense, and what our place in it may be.

Va-Yiggash - on pain, on performance, and on power

In last week's parshah I spoke about the dangers of the pressure to forgive. This week we are reminded that when people show true remorse for their actions, and in particular when they have learned from past behaviour, forgiveness is better for all involved. Judah was one of the brothers instrumental in throwing Joseph into the pit. It is notable that at that time he felt one of his brothers to be expendable. Knowing the pain he caused his father (Rashi has a midrash about how Judah suffered pain when he told Jacob about Joseph's “death” to reinforce this idea), he could not allow Benjamin – the other of Rachel's sons – to be sacrificed for the good of the group. Thus Judah has learned about loyalty, compassion, and is willing to sacrifice himself for those he loves. He earns Joseph's forgiveness. Two touching moments follow. Joseph reveals his identity to his brothers and Jacob is brought to Joseph. What do these scenes tell us? Joseph had been hiding his true self for a long time. Of course his brothers did not know who he was, but even prior to their arrival in Egypt, Joseph was essentially a stranger. He was not able to be fully himself in the palace, particularly when cut off from his own community. This is a reminder of the relief one can feel when we shed whatever mask it is we may wear. Many of us perform different social roles – we can be one person at work, one at home with our own families, one with our birth families, one with friends, etc. Even though we are different things to different people, we can still strive to be genuinely who we are. Part of Humanistic Judaism's value is acknowledging that there are many ways of being Jewish, and that one should not artificially pretend to be something one is not. Joseph models the freedom that comes with integrity. He is happiest when he can fully be who he is. The reunification between Joseph and Jacob is very sweet. Both have suffered in the absence of one another, and this scene gives a sense of closure to the hurt amongst members of Joseph's family.

Unfortunately, there are less happy lessons in this week's portion as well. The famine Joseph had dreamed of arrives and Egypt is suffering. Joseph is able to control the economic and social situation in Egypt given his prophetic abilities. His brothers are given land and title and food because of Joseph's work. They even enslave Egyptians as part of their economic management strategy. We know that in the story of the Exodus it is the Israelites who are enslaved. We should be reminded that power can be a wonderful thing but can also sow the seeds of a misuse of that power. Joseph attained great success and did a lot of good. He mitigated the effects of famine and thus earned his powerful position. But no one likes to feel that someone has power over them, and this is the problem. The Israelites will find themselves on the other side of that power dynamic soon enough. We must remember that it is important to be empowered, to feel in control of oneself and one's behaviour, and to enjoy a sense of self-worth that comes out of who we are and what we do. It is also important to remember that we can use our power to similarly empower others and we can use it to disempower others. When our power infringes on that of others, resentment and anger are soon to follow. Though it may seem trite, we all do better when we all do better. This is another lesson from this parshah.

Miketz - on foresight, on forgiveness, and on food/famine

In this portion the Joseph story continues. Because of his ability to interpret dreams he becomes a vizier to the Pharoah. His prediction of plenty followed by famine not only wins him a seat of power, but also saves Egypt. From this we learn, like in last week’s parasha, that Joseph is a character from whom we learn to make our own luck. He becomes a success in spite of the odds. We also learn that it is important to plan ahead. In a world in which people tend to live far beyond their means, it is worthwhile to consider the lesson of prudence here. The saving of grain in the story leads to the saving of people.

In this portion, Joseph's brothers (not having the benefit of foresight) are suffering in the famine and go to Egypt to ask for help. Joseph recognizes the brothers but they do not recognize him. This is connected with Joseph's ability to “see” the big or complete picture. The brothers have a hard time seeing or recognizing what is going on, but Joseph is attentive and benefits from that attentiveness. Joseph sets up a test for his brothers. He tells them to return with their youngest brother Benjamin. Benjamin, replacing Joseph as Jacob's favourite son – for he is the last remaining son of Rachel as far as Jacob knows – did not accompany his brothers the first time. Though Jacob is reticent to let him go for the second journey, he realizes they all may starve and thus he consents. On their return, Joseph makes it seem like Benjamin stole a special cup. He is testing the other brothers to see if they have learned their lesson. Will they stay faithful to Jacob and defend his favourite son, or will the old feelings of jealousy prevent them from doing justice? We find out the answer next week.

What is clear from these tests is that Joseph is willing to forgive his brothers. He has the power to turn them away or even put them to death in retaliation for their ill treatment of him. But rather he creates conditions by which they can prove themselves worthy of his forgiveness. This suggests that forgiveness is a positive value, but that in order to forgive someone they must show that they have learned something or would act differently. Forgiveness is a hot topic in contemporary society. We are told from life coaches, therapists, and self-help books that when we forgive someone we are doing ourselves a favour; holding a grudge is as bad for the grudge-holder as it is the one who committed the original offense. That is true, except I'd like to add a caveat that the Joseph story illustrates nicely. We are told to forgive. We are also told “fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” It is exhausting to put pressure on ourselves to forgive those who continue to hurt us. It is good for us to find a way to let go of that hurt to be sure, but forgiveness itself needs to be earned. In the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we ask others to forgive us. We also – and this is crucial – consider how we have acted and how we may improve. Forgiveness is only really possible if we are willing to take responsibility for our behaviour and try to be better. Forgiveness goes hand in hand with change and growth. Joseph sets up this test because he wants to forgive his brothers, but he also wants to ensure that they are worthy of that forgiveness; that they have learned their lesson and are better for it.

Miketz is one of those Torah portions which makes us realize how literary the bible can be. The plot includes twists, suspense, and humour. The characters are knowable and relatable. We want justice to win out in the end. We are engaged readers. The literary aspects of the Torah, and how one can read the bible as literature, are much-discussed issues in the fields of biblical criticism and literary studies. It is useful to sometimes stop and take note of the well-crafted writing of some of our earliest authors and appreciate the story for the story itself.

Because the test that Joseph sets up for his brothers is the stuff of great literature, we tend to overlook what is going on with Jacob. Consider the story from his point of view. He has lost his favourite son and now is threatened with the loss of another. While showing favouritism for a child is never a good parenting strategy, we can have some sympathy for Jacob in the choice he has to make. He either lets Benjamin go or he risks starvation. There is a midrash that speaks of “Jacob's Dilemma” which says “You may learn from the story of Jacob that it is a man's worst trial to have his children ask him for food when he has nothing to give.” The famine is a plot device that gets the brothers to Egypt, but is important to consider in itself as well. Hunger is devastating and there is still far too much of it. Jacob reminds us of our responsibility to feed the hungry. The midrash about Jacob works nicely in conjunction with something Rashi noted about this portion. He makes the link between the word for corn/food in the Joseph story (shever) with the word for hope (sever). Indeed, it is difficult to ascend in power and position (the way Joseph does) when hungry. It is difficult to have hope without bread. Joseph offers his brothers food and thus sparks the hope that they may reconcile. Let all of us work for a world in which both bread and hope are in abundance for all.