Torah Commentary on Mishpatim: The Rules/Laws, Code of Hammurabi, and the Relevance of Religion

To me, this parashah is probably one of the most complex parts of Torah to relate to in modern times. I also think it's what drives a lot of people away from religion — it's outdated, right!?

It's all the regulations about slaves and stuff that seems inhumane and absurd in modern times. Many argue that the Torah is unjust in even creating regulations regarding "slaves" because of what the Jews went through in Egypt. Likewise, our modern construct of slavery is one of abuse, neglect, and racism. The interesting thing about Torah slavery, though, is that it is entirely unlike the slavery of Egypt and the U.S. South.

Slavery in the Torah is often an individual selling their services to repay a debt or to work off bankruptcy. It isn't buying and selling individuals off a butcher's block on a dock somewhere. This is important to note. Torah begins this parashah, following the Decalogue, with the stipulations of slavery for an important — and modern applicable — reason. Having just gotten out of slavery, it's necessary to create rules and regulations for keeping slaves to ensure that the treatment of Egypt is never touched again. It's like a "do unto others as you would have liked to have been done unto you" setup. Anyhow, this is applicable in modern times as a reflection of not wishing ill upon those in a situation which you have presently experienced, I think.

Does Eye for an Eye Really Mean an Eye for an Eye?

Let me be (not) the first to say I love Hammurabi and his codes. Love may not be the right word, but the concept is brilliant, and for those who get all sauced up over history, it's absolutely tickling. The Codes of Hammurabi shaped much of the law in those early years based on the talion, or the basic "eye for an eye" principle. A lot of people come back to this Biblical principle when discussing the death penalty or other punishment. In essence, it seems to make some kind of sense. Why shouldn't the person feel the same pain/anguish that their murderer felt? But luckily, there was wising up, and (most) people realized that in no way does it equate to the original crime. Oftentimes, murderers are conscienceless and will never be able to feel that pain or sorrow.

The Sages agree that people deeply misunderstand "eye for an eye," for the very reason just mentioned. Maimonides said, 

"There never was any Rabbi, from the time of Moses ... who ruled, based on 'eye for an eye,' that he who blinds another should himself be blinded." 

Instead, the principle is a graphic way of explaining that punishment should not be too lenient or harsh, but should fit the crime. Torah has ways with words, it's a beautifully written manuscript and oftentimes says a lot of things it does not necessarily literally intend to say.

I find myself distraught at times over the literal nature of which things are interpreted. Yes, I preach that poetry should not be overly interpreted and that accessibility in writing is one of the most profound problems of writers who must flaunt some earth-shattering style. But Torah was composed so very, very long ago. Words change. Etymology is the key to understanding evolution in texts, darn't. Euphemism and analogy should not be taken for granted or go unused when understanding Torah.

Jews Control All the World's Money ... Right?

Say hello to Ex. 22:24, aka the laws of usury! I take particular interest in this topic, because I once wrote extensively about it for one of my classes, though I forget which. Interestingly, in most Christian texts, this is typically cited as Ex. 22:25. Bizarre, yes? I haven't run into any discrepancies as such before.

My interest in this passage relates to the whole (mistaken) idea that Jews are in control of all the world's finances. Most are unaware that Jews were essentially forced into money lending in the Middle Ages after the Catholic Church outlawed money lending because of this very passage.

 The catch, of course, was that the text says that you shouldn't charge interest to "my people" or sometimes translates as "to your brethren." That, you see, is how the Church figured that it was okay for the Jews to take on the task ... so Catholics were still allowed to borrow, and it wasn't against the law, because Jews were NOT their "brethren." It was a loophole that the Church was well aware of, and in a way it set up the Israelites for years of victimization. Additionally, it became one of the few things Jews were allowed to do at the time, because so many professions and trades were outlawed for them.

So every time someone makes a snide remark about how Jews are incredibly wealthy or run the world's finances, I bring up the fact that it was the Catholic Church who opened this gateway for the Jews. Don't blame the Jews!

Are Religions Like Judaism Still Relevant in 2024?

I read somewhere that many of Torah's laws are like an onion -- there are many layers to the meaning. As time passes, a layer peels away and we must return to the law to seek out it's spiritual meaning so that we do not simply discard it as outdated and irrelevant. Here's an article over at Chabad.org that discusses the different ways we interpret Torah, especially in relation to this parshah.

I'm a firm believer that every rule and law in Torah is completely applicable today, if not from a literal standpoint then from a metaphorical and spiritual standpoint. I highly doubt G-d would reach down and throw out a bunch of essential rules for life, only to have them become outdated in a couple thousand years. Adaptation is, perhaps, a test of faith, intelligence, understanding, and acceptance.

Another great article, "Is Religion Still Relevant?" by Yossy Goldman, is pretty high-quality. It runs with the idea that "everything has changed, but it's stayed the same."

The very same issues dealt with in the Bible -- sibling rivalry, jealous partners, and even murder -- are still the stuff of newspaper headlines today. So what else is new? Has anything changed? Yes, today we have astronauts and space stations and laser beams and laptops, but the basic issues and choices human beings must face remain identical. Once upon a time the question was do I hit him with my club or slice him up with my sword. Today the question is do I call up the nuclear submarines or send in the guided missiles? ...

... Torah is truth and truth is eternal. Scenarios come and go. Lifestyles change with the geography. The storylines are different but the gut level issues are all too familiar. If we ever needed religion -- or in our language, Torah -- we need it equally today and maybe more so. May we continue to find moral guidance and clarity in the eternal truths of our holy and eternal Torah. Amen.

So whenever you think back to the mitzvot or Torah and think, "Psshaw, oxen and slaves are so old school" take another look. Read the commentaries, explore the Torah, examine the Sages, talk to Rashi and Maimonides because there is definitely more to "an eye for an eye" than meets the eye.

(Sorry, had to end like that. It made me giggly silently, hah!)

Editor's note: This was published in February 2007 and has been updated for accuracy and relevance. 

TRANSLATE with x

English

Arabic	Hebrew	Polish
Bulgarian	Hindi	Portuguese
Catalan	Hmong Daw	Romanian
Chinese Simplified	Hungarian	Russian
Chinese Traditional	Indonesian	Slovak
Czech	Italian	Slovenian
Danish	Japanese	Spanish
Dutch	Klingon	Swedish
English	Korean	Thai
Estonian	Latvian	Turkish
Finnish	Lithuanian	Ukrainian
French	Malay	Urdu
German	Maltese	Vietnamese
Greek	Norwegian	Welsh
Haitian Creole	Persian

TRANSLATE with

COPY THE URL BELOW

Back

EMBED THE SNIPPET BELOW IN YOUR SITE

Enable collaborative features and customize widget: Bing Webmaster Portal

Back

What's Bothering Chavi: The Bereishit Edition

Yes, yes, I know that we just finished up the week of reading Noach and the flood narrative, but I'm still in last week for this newly anointed edition of ...

You see, I'm part of this amazing women's learning group every Saturday morning on Shabbat. There's roughly 6-8 of us who gather in a classroom and schmooze about our lives and families (occasionally while partaking of delicious home-baked goods and Trader Joe's chocolates) and talk about the weekly Torah portion. The aliyot (every weekly Torah portion is separated into seven different sections, or aliyot) are dished out to different women who do a bit of reading, studying, and then during our learning share their thoughts, ideas, and what's bothering them.

More often than not, there's a "What's Bothering Chavi?" that can't be explained, although I'm utterly elated when someone has an answer or idea to help me out.

This week, I was looking back at the first portion of the Torah, Bereishit. In this portion, after the creation narratives (of which there are two versions, by the way), Adam and Chava (or Eve if you prefer the English) eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and are booted out of the Garden of Eden. After being clothed by HaShem in animal hide, they have relations and Chava gives birth to Cain and Hevel (or Abel if you prefer the English).

What happens next, most people will tell you is that Cain and Hevel present an offering to HaShem that isn't met with the jolliest of responses, and then Cain kills Hevel, HaShem is none too happy, Cain repents, and so on.

Now, what no one seems to discuss is the fact that Cain and Hevel presented an offering to HaShem.

Jigga wah?!

We're pretty early on in the story of mankind and all of a sudden these two guys have the wherewithal, knowledge, and impetus to make an offering. So what's bothering Chavi?

• How did they know to make an offering?
• Was HaShem expecting offerings at this point?
• How did they know what to offer?
• If there was little to no knowledge of offering specifics, how could HaShem be unhappy with what they brought? (After all, most of the commentaries I read discussed the offerings' qualities, not why or how they decided to make said offerings.)

So, do you have any thoughts? Ideas? A quick Google presents some Christians sites discussing the matter, suggesting that HaShem actually made the first offering (to Himself?) on behalf of Adam and Chava when he fashioned their clothing out of animal hide. But ... this just doesn't sit right with me. How often does HaShem say, "Oh, guys, it's all good, let me take care of that for you" ...?

Also, the detailed list of the who, what, when, where, why, and how of offerings came much later, so this early rendition of giving seems odd, out of place, and uncomfortable to me.

Ready? Set? Chuck your thoughts at me!

Understanding Parshat Ha'Man

EDIT: Okay, so after more days of digging through this portion I noticed something else that sort of throws a wrench in my "food specific" issue. At the beginning of the portion HaShem says he'll provide basar in the evening and lechem in the morning. It's only when the people actually receive the food that we read that the basar was specifically quail (shlav). This raises two questions for me:

1. Quail is considered fowl, but here it is specifically called basar or meat. So why is there such a gripe with chicken and other fowl being considered meat when it comes to the separation of meat and milk? 
2. Is it possible that the Israelites were valid in their request to understand what lechem exactly they were getting, since HaShem went from broad to specific with their evening course (i.e., basar to shlav and lechem to ....?)

---

I've been reading with astonishing regularity Parshat Ha'man -- the portion of the Torah in Exodus in which HaShem hears the people kvetching and gives them manna to keep them fed during the 40 years in the desert. The idea behind reading the portion every day is that it's a segula for parnassah. 

Okay, that's a lot of words you might be unfamiliar with. In Judaism there are many different types of segulas or things that Jews do to try and change the course or the way things are. It can be a procedure of activities or simply a prayer, but the idea is that it will create a change or provide some type of new "luck."

In this case, the segula for parnassah (or livelihood) is to say Parshat Ha'man every day for forty days (except on Shabbat). It's not magic, but some people find it kind of hokey. Other people have different segulas for getting pregnant (go to the mikvah after a woman who has several children) or for meeting a spouse.

So I've been reading the portion about manna, and with every day I read new questions arise. It's not an incredibly long portion, so the small things slowly start to create questions without answers.

The basic summary of the portion is that the people are kvetching about their situation in the wilderness, so HaShem says he'll provide them with quail in the evening and bread (lechem) in the morning to eat. As it goes, there are specific instructions about when to go out and collect the bread, and every person is to gather only according to their needs and the needs of their house. The people went out to collect it, and marveled at the miracle said, "man hu?" meaning "what is it?" and henceforth called it man instead of lechem. On the sixth day, the people are told to take a double portion for the Sabbath. Some people disobeyed and HaShem lamented the people disobeying the command. For the next 40 years the people ate the man and then entered the land.

My biggest beef with the portion so far has been in understanding the food -- there's quail, there's lechem (bread), and there's the man. In reality, the man and lechem are the same thing, with the main difference being that HaShem, Aharon, and Moshe insist on calling it lechem and the people seem to be averse to the term, marveling and calling it man.

Moshe even seems irritated at the people, reiterating that it's lechem. It seems to me that he's saying "Seriously, people, it's bread, that's what it is, and you know what bread is!"

So here's my question: Why do the people insist on not knowing what it is? Why do they insist on calling it man instead of lechem? Is it emblematic of the rest of the portion, of the people being resistant and stubborn, blind to what is before their eyes? 

Lech Lecha and Then?

The view from here. 

This week's Torah portion (aka parshah) is the classic trope for converts the world over: Lech Lecha.

At the ripe age of 75 years old, Avram (that's his name before he becomes Avraham) is commanded by G-d to leave home, to go forth from your land and your father's house, from everything you've ever known, to a land that will be revealed. Avram puts the ultimate trust in HaShem to guide him, but not without plenty of bumps and "hold on a second" moments along the way.

The promise, HaShem says, is that he will multiply Avram and bless him and his progeny and curse those who curse Avram and his kin.

The reason this parshah is so outstanding and emotional for converts is because Avram is, for all intents and purposes, the first willing convert. He hears G-d's calling and says, "Sure, let's do this" willingly and wholeheartedly while holding fast to his nature to battle with G-d over the things that he doesn't understand or agree with (just think about Sodom and Gemorah in Bereshit 18).

For me, this portion has always held a near and dear place, because coming from a place where I didn't know or grow up with any Jews, the "calling" (if you can even call it that) came as much from within as from without and the moment I felt it, life changed indescribably forever.

At this point in my life, where I think of myself so much less as a convert and more as just another Jew trying to find the right path and living how HaShem wants and needs me to, how do I relate to Lech Lecha?

Well, I'm mere days away from my one-year anniversary of aliyah (moving to Israel). Officially, the anniversary is October 16, I can't think of a more appropriate parshah.

Like Avram, I felt a calling (for years, folks, since at least 2008) to make Israel my home. I was being called to this land that was a mystery to me, even after frequent visits. The promise of finding a mate and starting a proper family stood waiting for me. So I packed up, left the land of my father, and arrived to the place that HaShem seemed to need me.

What happened? I was mated and started "multiplying" almost instantly. The amount of people I know who moved to Israel and got pregnant after some time of trying is equally astounding. There is something to be said to HaShem's promise to Avraham Avinu (our father), which continues to benefit the Jewish people thousands of years later.

Avram might have been the first to leave his comfort, his family, and start anew at the will of G-d, but modern aliyah is a true nod in the direction of the trope of Avram. It's hard, it's complicated, and we all end up screaming and crying in HaShem's general direction because of the roller coaster of emotions, finances, and reality that Israel really does do everything in her power to chew us up and spit us out. But we also learn to appreciate and experience the sense of community and family, the angels in our midst who would bend over backwards to make us feel at home, loved, cared for, and wanted.

Aliyah is not for everyone, but then again, not everyone can be an Avram, either.

So how do you bring Lech Lecha into your every day life? How do you go forth into the great unknown -- be it personally, emotionally, at work or at home? 

Shabbat Shalom everyone!

The Syndrome: Jewish Mother Martyrdom

The past week was particularly challenging for me, between getting over being horribly sick, preparing for Shabbat, and struggling with the financial reality that we still have not rented out our old apartment meaning our bank account is quite unhappy and my stress levels are super high. By the time Shabbat rolled in, things were tense and all I could think was that those angels were showing up as I lit the candles and they were not happy with what they saw and this week is going to be a mess, right?

After lighting I curled up on the couch with the boys off at synagogue and opened up the book I'm reading at the moment, One Baby Step at a Time: Seven Secrets of Jewish Motherhood, and there it was, I was up to the middle of a chapter and a piece called "Winning Shabbat" followed by a chapter called "What We Need to be Happy."

Sometimes, HaShem hands us exactly what we need when we need it.

In "Winning Shabbat," the author Chana Weisberg talks about perspective. As I get more pregnant, I think more and more about how this baby is going to arrive and all of the housekeeping and working and being a good wife is going to fall by the wayside and how it's going to grate my "must do everything right and immediately and constantly" nerves.

I was born for Jewish mother martyrdom, you see. My default in anything and everything is knowing how to best do anything (after all, I'm a master Googler).

Citing Rebbetzin Yemima Mizrachi, the author writes,

"We must decide that the work we do is a teruma, an offering that we give with joy to God, rather than a temura, something that we do for other people with the expectation that we are going to get something in return."

It's about overcoming our nature.

"It reminds me of how our Sages teach that Sarah was barren for many years because she ahd been born without a womb. And then, when she was ninety years old, after a life of praying and doing good deeds, God rewarded her with a pregnancy -- without a womb!"

The gist is that if we learn to overcome our nature, whether it's a tendency toward jealousy or grouchiness, miraculous things can happen (look at Chana, too!). My nature these days is one of "I must do everything" and "Things only get done right when I do them." It's the Jewish mother martyrdom nature that I really, really have to learn to step back from. After an amazing dinner out with friends, things got calmer, things were talked out, I shared the chapters I'd been reading with Mr. T, and the tension that Shabbat came in with dissipated.

(I also have to say that it was an appropriate week to read this with the Torah portion of the week, Noah. One of the big discussions about the portion is why Noah was viewed as so special, yet by the end of the portion he gets drunk and is shamed. How did someone rise so high and fall so fast? We're taught that it's about perspective. Avraham walked before G-d, whereas Noah walked with G-d. Avraham was bold and outspoken when it came to his fellow man. Noah simply obeyed, didn't question anything, and waited for permission for anything to happen. Noah didn't have the right perspective, you see.)

Reading over the essays in the next chapter about finding happiness and figuring out what we (mommies, women in general) to get everything done but still have our special, happy place.

"The greatest gift we can give our families (and ourselves) is a mother who is thriving physically, spiritually, and emotionally."

So I've been thinking. What do (or will) I need to stay sane and happy so I can be the best Jewish woman possible and the best mother possible?

The author talks about needing a few hours to spend on Torah a week, to not make cooked dinners every night of the week, and to have a cleaning lady once a week.

The funny thing is, her needs greatly resemble mine.

Last week I kept telling myself "You're going to sit down with the weekly Torah portion, learn it, devour it, and blog about it like you used to." When I was living in Washington DC and Chicago back in 2006-07, I devoted my late-night, post-Washington Post work nights to a coffee shop and the weekly parshah. It fulfilled me, it kept me feeling academically minded while I wasn't in school, and it gave me perspective on my Jewishness on a weekly basis.

It gave me strength.

When I was in grad school in Connecticut, I had tons of Jewish learning happening all the time, because I was both in grad school and working on my Orthodox conversion. When I hit NYU and life started crumbling, I still had my classes, I still had Jewish thinking and learning, and felt like I was giving back to myself but also fulfilling a major happiness need.

Since then, it's been tough. I've been trying to figure out what it is that I need to be happy, while also being a stellar wife and future mama.

As I figure out what I need to be happy (scheduled blogging time, an evening of pleasure cooking, once a week in a coffee shop working, and so on), I'm curious what those of you out there -- whether you're a hard-working woman trying to find time for yourself or a mother of many who can't seem to find a moment to herself -- need to be happy. Have you even thought about it?

My last piece from reading so far? This little morsel from Rebbetzin Feige Twerski:

"Grow where you are planted." Recognize that the life you have is not arbitrary, but orchestrated from above and hence is, at this moment, the context to which you must bring your finest efforts. 

After the Long Hiatus

It's been a long time since I sat down and did any learning. I feel horrible about it, especially with the abundance of time that being mostly (and now completely) unemployed has granted me. I have spent the past several months crawling the internet for any and every job possible, lamenting my comfortable beginnings in Israel. I was spoiled, I was unprepared, and if I weren't married and having at least one income coming in, I don't know where I'd be right now. But I can't help but feel like I've been doing myself and HaShem a disservice.

Here I am, living the dream, and probably not being nearly as grateful as I should be for the entire situation. We get what we give, and I'm not giving much of anything, which might explain my current predicament.

And even if it doesn't, the parshah -- BaMidbar -- is clutch. I just wish I had more to say.

The best approach in my opinion? Rabbi Jonathan Sacks speaks about the power of the relationship between HaShem and the Israelites when he connects the parshah to the haftarah. Despite many false starts and failures, HaShem never turns his back. There's always the promise, the commitment, the fact that HaShem just can't let go. It's the ultimate trying relationship.

I suppose no matter what I do -- or don't do -- HaShem will be there waiting for me.

I also appreciate this commentary on the first verse of this week's parshah: "And G-d spoke to Moses in the desert of Sinai" (BaMidbar 1:1).

The Torah was given to the people of Israel in the ownerless desert. For if it were given in the Land of Israel, the residents of the Land of Israel would say, "It is ours;" and if it were given in some other place, the residents of that place would say, "It is ours." Therefore it was given in the wilderness, so that anyone who wishes to acquire it may acquire it. (Mechilta D'Rashbi)

There's a nod to converts in there, I think.

What does HaShem have in store for me? I don't know. Some days I feel like I'm swimming in the sand (bada ching!) and some days I feel like everything is in proper working order and right where it's supposed to be. I suppose this is the aliyah experience, isn't it?

Terumah: Just a Thought

Before we purchased this couch, we invested in Torah.

This week's parshah (Torah portion) is Terumah, in which HaShem commands us to build the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary and dwelling place, as the Israelites travel through the desert. The Mishkan became the Holy Temple, and after the Second Temple fell in 70 CE, the Jewish home became the central dwelling place for HaShem.

Driving down any street where new construction is going up you'll see the shells of homes under construction. We start with the bones of a building and construct it inward, with the knickknacks, drapes, color combinations, bookshelves, and family photos all coming in at the end stages of construction.

In this week's parshah, however, we see that the first aspect of construction was the ark -- the resting place of Torah -- and then come the various vessels, the walls, and finally the framework.

What does it all mean? Why do we build our homes hafuch? (That's the name of a popular take on coffee in Israel, which just means upside down or inside out.)

When we build a home, we must place Torah at the center of everything before we begin to build anything else. Before we pick out towel colors or bathroom mats, before we pick out a couch or decide on plate patterns, Torah must have been placed at the center of the relationship.

If anything, Mr. T and I placed Torah on the ground floor of our relationship before building or exploring the everyday, seemingly monotonous aspects of our future together. Can you imagine first dates talking seriously and passionately about tzedakah and minhagim (traditions)? With a Torah-based marriage, you're setting yourself up for a dwelling place for the shechinah (the presence of HaShem). Until the Holy Temple is rebuilt, the Jewish home is the best and most important way we can express our dedication to HaShem, Am Yisrael, and, ultimately, each other.

So, what do you think about it?

Shemot, Rachav, and Jericho

I'm really disappointed in myself for forgetting one of the most important parshiyot in the narrative that is my life -- Shemot, last week's parshah.

Why is it so significant? Three years ago I completed my Orthodox conversion on January 1, and after I converted friends threw me a bit of a "congratulatory" Shabbat dinner in West Hartford. At that dinner, I gave a d'var Torah on Shemot. Oddly enough, this past week I was in Mitzpeh Yericho for Shabbat with Mr. T and his son staying with some very, very good friends, and only after I got home and pulled up this d'var Torah did I realize how even more appropriate the d'var really was.

It begins like this, addressing the fact that the verb tzade-pey-nun appears in this form only twice in the entire Tanakh.

In this week’s parshah, sh’mot, Moses is born during a dangerous time in which Pharaoh has forgotten Joseph and the Israelites. Moses’ mother, fearing for his life, hides him – specifically, the text says, “and she hid him” or (ותצפנהו) – which has an interesting parallel that I’d like to share with you. 

In the book of Joshua, there is an incident – a very important incident – in which Rachav (Rahab), a harlot living in Jericho, hides Joshua’s spies from certain death. In the incident, in Joshua 2, Rachav is said to hide the spies when the king comes looking for them. Specifically, it says (ותצפנו), or “and she hid the men.”

The d'var goes on to compare the experience of the Infant Moshe to the Infant Israel in Joshua, citing Rachav's direct quotation of Moshe in Deuteronomy 4:39. The d'var goes on to discuss converts, the power of the convert, and why HaShem holds the convert so close.

From Numbers Rabbah 8:2, the midrash says,

“Why does the Holy Blessed One love the righteous (referring to a discussion of converts being loved as the righteous)? Because they have neither inheritance nor family. Priests and Levites have an ancestral house, as it says, “House of Aaron, praise the Lord. House of Levi, praise the Lord” (Psalms 146:19). If someone wants to be a kohen or levite, one cannot because one’s father was not. But if someone wants to be righteous, even a non-Jew can, since that is not dependent on ancestry.”

The midrash continues with a parable about the stag that attaches itself to the king’s flock. Daily, the king instructs his shepherds to take care of the stag, and they ask the king why he cares so much about this one animal:

"The king responded, 'The other animals have no choice; whether they want or not, it is their nature to graze in the field all day and to come in to sleep in the fold. Stags, however, sleep in the wilderness. It is not in their nature to come into places inhabited by man. Is it not to a sign of this one's merit that he has left behind the whole of the wilderness to stay in our courtyard?' In like manner, ought we not to be grateful to the proselyte who has left behind his family and his relatives, his nation and all the other nations of the world, and has chosen to come to us?"

It's a beautiful sentiment. And it's one that so many Jews grow up with -- "love the ger" -- and one that so many people misunderstand or don't know how to properly put into place. It doesn't just mean "be nice," but so much more including "don't embarrass the convert" and "don't blow their cover" and "if you're hozer b'teshuva or ba'alei teshuva understand that the narratives are very different" and "hey converts don't bully other converts." The midrash spends a great deal of time elucidating the merits of converts like Ruth and Rachav, not to mention discussing just how precious they are in the eyes of HaShem.

So I'm a week late on the parshah, but that doesn't mean the message and lesson aren't incredibly valuable and worth a read and consideration.

Parshah Ki Tavo: Are You Listening?

A modern photograph by Roie Golitz | "Shofar"

"Before he began his lesson to the scholars," says the Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 30b), "Rabba used to say a joking word, and the scholars were amused. After that, he sat in dread, and began the lesson."

So the rabbis did have a sense of humor. But is something like the following passage humorous, or just ridiculous? I mean, it does include a "Why does the chicken ..." question.

Rabbi Zera encountered Rabbi Yehuda standing by the door of his father-in-law’s house. He observed that Rabbi Yehuda was in a very cheerful mood and understood that if he asked him the secrets of the universe, he would tell him. Rabbi Zera asked: Why do the goats go first at the head of the flock and then the sheep? Rabbi Yehuda replied: It is in accordance with the creation of the world. First there was darkness and then there was light [the goats are dark colored and the sheep are white]. Rabbi Zera asked: Why do the sheep have [thick] tails which cover them, and the goats do not have tails which cover them? He answered: Those with whose material we cover ourselves [i.e., wool of sheep] are themselves covered, while those with whom we do not cover ourselves are themselves not covered. Rabbi Zera asked: Why does a camel have a short tail? He answered: Because the camel eats thorns [and a long tail would get entangled in the thorns]. Rabbi Zera asked: Why does an ox have a long tail? He answered: Because it grazes in the marshland and has to chase away the gnats with its tail. Rabbi Zera asked: Why are the antennae of locust soft [i.e., flexible]? He replied: Because it dwells among willows and if the antenna were hard it would be broken off when it bumped against trees and the locust would go blind. For Shmuel said: If one wishes to blind a locust, let him remove its antennae. Rabbi Zera asked: Why is the chicken’s lower eyelid bent upwards? He answered: Because it lives on the rafters, and if smoke entered its eyes it would go blind. (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 77b)

I spent a lot of time mulling over this week's parshah when I was preparing to offer up learning for my awesome coworkers yesterday. I was torn between the discussion in Torah Studies adapted by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson about why the text specifically mentions Egypt and Laban when discussing the first fruits.

“And you shall speak and say before the L-rd your G-d: ‘An Aramite destroyed my father, and he went down into Egypt and sojourned there, few in number … And the L-rd brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand … And he has brought us into this place and has given us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. And now behold I have brought the first-fruit of the land which You, O L-rd, have given me ...’ ”

The Aramite being Laban and Egypt being, well, Egypt. The discussion surrounds why these two specific instances are mentioned above all the other tragedies that were befallen by the Israelites. It all comes down to those being to instances where total destruction was a promise, but also moments in which we were "permanently settled" in a land that was not ours. You see, the first fruits offering is meant for when we're dwelling in the land that HaShem gave us. Because during these two narratives we were settled but not in Israel -- compared to the other tragedies that befell us during the wandering -- these two hold a significant place in us needing to remember those times when we were not where we were supposed to be. It's a gnarly concept, and you can read more about it here. 

But for me, I ended up focusing on something incredibly simple that we probably overlook that Rabbi Jonathan Sacks didn't overlook. There is no word in Torah meaning "to obey." Judaism is not a religion of blind obedience, despite what many thing and the way that many profess to live their lives Jewishly. The word in Torah that often is used when HaShem is saying "hey, you, do this or else" is "to hear" or l'shmoah. And what a perfect time of year for this parshah, right? We're commanded in the month of Elul to hear the voice of the shofar, because it is the closest thing we can get these days to truly hearing the "voice of G-d." 

The question is ... If HaShem is not demanding that we obey, but rather that we simply hear, what does that mean for us in the scheme of things? 

We talked for about a half-hour at our staff meeting yesterday about this concept, and the best way for me to approach it is this: We're commanded to listen to HaShem. To hear HaShem. We're invited to be active participants in this world, to really think about the reasons and the words that we're given in the Torah. And when we make that choice to really listen, we see that so many of the 613 mitzvoth are about ethics, values, and morality. They're not as distant and strange as we might think they are -- the problem is that we don't take the time to listen, examine, and explore. 

And, I also pointed out, the problem today is that so many Jews do listen -- but not to Hashem. So many Jews choose to listen, but instead to intermediaries that would wish to send them down the wrong path, a path where the listening comes second-hand. I say this in regards to the Haredi and to the most secular of Jews. 

We are commanded as individuals to listen to HaShem. To process, consider, evaluate, to truly be active in life, in this experience of Judaism. Are you listening? 

Parshat Shoftim: The Role of Rabbi

As I so often do when it comes to the weekly Torah portion, I'm looking into the archives for inspiration because this week -- nay, this month -- has been busy and I'm finally feeling the strangle-hold loosen. One major event and one major project at work have come and closed (well, except the project, which was my baby of online course registration for the first time at my job, but it's up-and-running, which is all I really wanted).

Even still, as Shabbos nears, there are a million and one thoughts pouncing around in my braincage, so hoo-rah for the archives of this here blog. These thoughts come from 2006, believe it or not, just a few months after this blog got legs and started walking. Back then, I was wholly devoted to the weekly parshah. After a late night of copy editing at The Washington Post, or on a quiet day off, I'd wander to a Dupont Circle coffee shop with my chumash and read the entire portion, taking notes along the way in a steno notebook. Those were the days. Straight from August 2006, I give you ...

---

One: Some Elul thoughts, or A month of rabbis on Elul

From Chabad.org (probably my MOST favorite site):

"It is like a king who, before he enters the city, the people of the city go out to greet him in the field. There, everyone who so desires is permitted to meet him; he receives them all with a cheerful countenance and shows a smiling face to them all. And when he goes to the city, they follow him there. Later, however, after he enters his royal palace, none can enter into his presence except by appointment, and only special people and select individuals. So, too, by analogy, the month of Elul is when we meet G-d in the field..." (Likkutei Torah, Re'ei 32b; see also Likkutei Sichot, vol II p. 632 ff.)

Further:

"In Elul, teshuvah is no longer a matter of cataclysmic 'moments of truth' or something to be extracted from the depths of the prayerbook. It is as plentiful and accessible as air: we need only breath deeply to draw it into our lungs and send it coursing through our veins. And with Elul comes the realization that, like air, teshuvah is our most crucial resource, our very breath of spiritual life."

Note: Reading this last line made my eyes well up. I know that most of you don't know me, and I don't know you, and that the web is a place where we come and go as we please in and out of the lives of others -- nameless and faceless -- so I don't expect you to understand how powerful the idea of teshuvah is for someone like me. But if you have the slightest notion of what it means to truly need something, to need hope in order to even imagine carrying on another day, then you understand this idea of the "very breath of spiritual life."

Two: Parshat Shoftim

Shabbat Shalom. This week, Moses instructs the appointment of those who will pursue and enforce justice. In every generation, according to Moses, there will be those entrusted with the task of interpreting and applying the laws of the Torah. This parsha has quite the place in modern Judaism, and an article I read last night in Tikkun really makes this hit home. The article discussed the modernization of Judaism, the evolvement from priests to rabbis to lay people. The latter, of course, being the modern application of those entrusted with leading services and minchas.

It wasn't rare at my shul back home [Referring to South Street Temple in Lincoln, NE] to have a lay person lead services, delivering the sermon and bringing the Torah out. It was strange, to me, though it also was relaxing, as I could paint myself in that picture up on the bima. At the same time, I worry about the future of the rabbi in modern Judaism. Orthodox and Hasidism seem to have a pretty tight rein on the idea of the rabbi -- they are, as Moses foresaw, those entrusted with "interpreting and applying" laws of Torah. The article stressed the importance of an academic Jewry that could serve as lay leadership, interpreting and applying the laws. Analyzing them to bits for blogs and sermons on Saturday mornings. Is this the next step of the teacher evolution?

There's nothing wrong with lay-led services, but the rabbi's purpose is ever so important. Rabbis (those trained, anyhow) serve as encyclopedias of every cubit (har har) of Judaism, from Rashi to Maimonides to the Baal Shem Tov to Moses. Rabbis I've encountered may not know everything, but their passion for exploring and teaching and interpreting the laws of Torah are astounding. Lay leaders are often very involved in shul activities, serving on trustees boards and donating large sums to the local Yeshiva or Birthright foundations. They often have a deep-seeded need to participate in the community, Torah studies and shul choirs. But lay leaders also tend to be businessmen/women, journalists, artists, computer scientists, engineers, doctors, etc. Rabbis have the chance to hone their skills and focus on one thing -- Torah, Judaism, halakah. Lay leaders already have so much on their plate without tossing responsibilities of rabbinic duties on top.

Maybe it is preemptive, but the article made me wonder. Is this the evolution of our sages, scholars and teachers in modern Judaism? Are rabbis an endangered species, not from a lack of interest but because lay leaders are taking the reins?

Note: This piece of the post was interesting to me especially after a rather tenuous conversation that occurred on Facebook last month (or was it earlier this month?) where I posed the question of a rabbi's role outside of Orthodoxy, where rulings on halachic matters require an almost constant attention of every moment of every day in a frum person's life. Perhaps I answered my own question without even knowing it. 

Parshat Re'eh: To State or Not to State

On Thursday I had the pleasure of talking about this week's parshah in our weekly Stand Up staff meeting. This is the quick and dirty of what I talked about, and I hope it gives you some serious food for thought.

First, I offered up a quick summary of what is offered up in parshat Re'eh:

• Blessings & curses (shout it from the mountains!)
• But what about bechira hofshi (free will)? Rabbi Akiva in Avot 3:19 said, “Though everything is foreseen by G-d, yet free will is granted to man.” 
• Re’eh is singular -- "You see" -- putting emphasis on the individual.
• Rules for living in Eretz Yisrael (centralized worship)
• One note: When in mourning, you cannot physically harm yourself. 
• Don't become a Canaanite (false prophets and idols are not cool)
• Review of kashrut (you heard them at Sinai, so hear them again)
• Tithing (that's 10 percent of one's annual produce)
• Shmitah year (let the land rest, yo)
• Laws of Passover, Sukkot, and Shavuot (pilgrimage and sacrifice -- according to your means)

Then I got into the meat of what either Matters to Chavi or is Bothering Chavi. I started with Devarim 17:14-15,

When you enter the land the Lord your God is giving you and have taken possession of it and settled in it, and you say, “Let us set a king over us like all the nations around us,” be sure to appoint over you a king the Lord your God chooses. He must be from among your fellow Israelites. Do not place a foreigner over you, one who is not an Israelite. 

I tied this to something I actually posted here on the blog in this post from July 17 about the decision to make aliyah and the challenges I was facing.

There is a positive, biblical commandment to dwell in Eretz Yisrael, as it says, "You shall possess it and dwell in it" (Devarim 17:14, 26:1). (Sefer Chareidim, Mitzvot Asei HaTeluyot B'Eretz Israel, chap. I, sec 15.) 

Chazal (חז"ל acronym for Chachameinu Zichronam Livracha -- “Our sages, may their memory be blessed”) say that this mitzvah is equal to all the mitzvot of the Torah (Sifrei, Re'eh 28), and it is one of the 613 mitzvot according to the Ramban.

And then I posted The Big Question: What does this mean for the Land of Israel today? Are we rushing a good thing?

This question is based on the understanding of many Hasidic dynasties who have expressed anti-Zionist opinions because of the "Three Oaths" -- found in Talmud Tractate Ketubot 111a -- by which all Jews are bound.  This discussion comes from the book Vayoel Moshe written in 1961 by Satmar Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, who, by the way, was living in Israel at the time. The title of the book states very plainly the rabbi's stance in opposition to the State of Israel,

"And Moses agreed to stay ... an alien in a foreign land" (Exodus 2:21).  

Moses agreed to stay an alien in foreign land, so we should to, right?

So the "Three Oaths" discussion comes from a passage from Shir haShirim in which God made the Israelites promise "to wait for Him before arousing his love" as King Solomon pleaded -- three times -- with the daughters of Israel not to stir “his love” before the time is due. So what are the "Three Oaths" that dictate why we shouldn't have established a State of Israel (beyond, of course, the obvious statement that the State of Israel is a secular, heathen place failing in its Judaism):

1. Do not ascend to Eretz Yisrael as a group using force
2. Do not rebel against the nations of the world
3. The nations of the world will not persecute the nation of Israel excessively (guessing PEOPLE/Am Yisrael)

So, what do you think? Are we rushing things? How do we reconcile the knowledge that the Torah tells us to possess and dwell in the land but that it was meant, perhaps, for the most immediate of generations (aka those that actually did enter and possess the land)? Do Hasidim have footing upon which to stand with the whole "we're rushing it, and this is the reason Mashiach hasn't come yet" argument?

Are We Chosen? What About Israel?

Eikev is, in truth, one of my favorite parshiot. It repeats a lot of what we heard elsewhere in the Tanakh, but clearly HaShem thinks we need to be swung over the head a few times to really have things sink in (we are, after all "a stiffnecked people"). Last year I wrote some thoughts down on the parshah, and I'm repeating them here. Why? Because no one reads my parshah posts anyhow. This is more self-gratifying than anything. But I hope you do read. Especially this first bit and the last bit.

---

Eikev comprises Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25 and is a continuation of Moshe's final words to the Israelites in which he implores them to follow the word of HaShem and he reminds them of all of those ... missteps ... that they're so well known for, the Golden Calf incident among them.

In Deut. 7:14, it says

ברוך תהיה מכל העמים

Most would probably use this line as proof, especially with the English translation, that Jews view themselves as greater, holier, more special than other people. The English translation often reads "You will be blessed above all people." The Hebrew uses the preposition min (מן or -מ), which means "from." It's a comparative preposition, and it would be used to say "I am smarter than him" (אני יותר חכמה ממנו). A literal translation would be "I am more smart from him," but that's how Hebrew works. When you're comparing two things, you're setting them apart. Something is XXX from XXX.

Thus, this specific phrase from the parshah, which is found in a million other places in the Torah actually means that HaShem has made us different from other nations. Different, separate, unique. Remember that when you're eating a big plate of bacon with all of your non-Jewish friends. (I'm only half-joking here.) Is our uniqueness granted by HaShem inherent? Or must we act different?

....

Later on in Deut. 9 I find it odd that the retelling of the Golden Calf incident from Ki Tisa doesn't mention an important aspect of the narrative. When Moshe descends the mount and finds out what has happened, the Golden Calf is burned and its ashes are spread into the water that trickles down from the mountain. In Ki Tisa, the people are then required to drink the concoction of ashes and water, but in Eikev, there's no mention of this ritual. I find it interesting simply because this very ritual of ashes and water was a very common one in the Ancient Near East, which makes me wonder if when the writing of Deuteronomy was going on the ritual was taboo among the Israelites. (Remember: The Golden Calf is one of my academic pursuits du jour.) 

....

There's also a lot of talk in this parshah about going to "possess" the land that HaShem as given our forefathers. It makes me jealous of those who've been able to make aliyah (or moving to Israel) a real, tangible thing. And maybe what that nagging empty feeling that really strikes me at random intervals is. All I can say for now is, in time. Ultimately I'll be in Israel, I just don't know when. HaShem promised it to my -- OUR -- forefathers, so it's only right that we should make it happen. It's not a "maybe," it's a "must be."

Note: I'm jealous no more! A year ago I was longing for freedom from a bad marriage, for aliyah, and now? Well, here I am -- it's happening B"H!

....

But the way the parshah ends has me a little unsettled. From Deut. 11:22-25:

For if you keep all of these mitzvot that I command you to do, to love HaShem, to walk in all His ways, and to cleave to Him, then HaShem will drive out all of these nations from before you and you will possess nations greater and stronger than you. Every place upon which the soles of your feet will tread will be yours: from the desert and Lebanon, from the river, the Euphrates, and until the western sea, will be your boundary. 

No man will stand up before you: the Lord your G-d will cast the fear of you and the dread of you on all the land upon which you tread, as He has spoken to you.

This sort of makes it sound like we're going to be some big scary force that the rest of the nations cower before, and I'm not sure I like the sound of that. There's no real "how" for this, and that also has me worried. And the word "possess" ...? Of course, I'm thinking of the physical, when perhaps HaShem really means possess in terms of possessing respect and acknowledgement. The verb is לרשת, which translates to inherit or succeed, so I suppose it's pretty clear that it's a physical take-over or succession.

But now I wonder ... back then, nations were small, nations were made up of peoples sharing a similar geographic boundary. Nations aren't like what we have today. The boundaries are clear in this portion, so perhaps, then, the claim has been satisfied -- almost. Maybe it doesn't mean world domination, but simply geographic domination over the specific land area that HaShem gave our forefathers. Does this mean we're just that much closer to redemption? It does say "HaShem will cast the fear of you and the dread of you on all the land upon which you tread," so perhaps it does intend something bigger, something greater, something more massive than the geographic boundaries of Eretz Yisrael. However, maybe that bigger, greater thing isn't domination in the sense of politics or military but rather a domination as I mentioned before -- one of the heart and mind, one of respect and acknowledgement.

Perhaps HaShem meant for us to have Eretz Yisrael, but perhaps he also meant for us to have the hearts and minds of the rest of the world. The children of Israel, set apart from all other people yet loving and caring for those unlike ourselves. Perhaps HaShem expected us to fight for mutual respect.

Balaam and the Place of Teshuva

This week's Torah portion is unique. It is the only parshah in which we have to take Moshe's word for what happened because no other Yisraelim were present. It's also one of the few parshiyot in which there is a non-Israelite prophet speaking on behalf of HaShem -- and he only has good things to say. (The rabbis say that there were seven non-Israelite prophets.)

In a nutshell: Balak the Moabite is freaked out, so he hires Balaam (a well-known sorcerer) to curse the Israelites. Balaam goes off to get his curse on, when HaShem interjects (through the talking donkey!) and fills his mouth with a whole bunch of positive prophecy. Balak sends a bunch of Moabite women to seduce the Israelites, it works for a bunch of them, resulting in their deaths and Phinehas doing something rockstar-like.

So what's interesting to me in this week's parshah? Well, there's the fact that Ruth -- Judaism's beloved convert and the line of the Messiah -- is descended from Balak (his great, great, great, great something or other granddaughter, to be precise). As the story goes, Ruth was blessed with becoming an Israelite because of the one thing that Balak might have done right (the 42 sacrifices he offered while trying to sway HaShem's opinion, even though Balak was using it as bribery rather than tribute). I guess, from my perspective, it appears that Ruth had to do some major teshuva for being descended from some pretty callous and hateful individuals.

No, to focus on the convert would be predictable (and not so interesting). Thus, I want to focus on the idea that HaShem is always with Israel.

"No harm is in sight for Jacob,
No woe in view for Israel,
The Lord their God is with them (יי אלהיו עמו)
And their king's acclaim in their midst." (Numbers 23:21)

On this, the Baal Shem Tov quipped,

"A Jew is never alone: Every place he goes and everywhere he stops -- Adonai, his God is with him."

So, what do you think? Is a Jew ever alone? The amount of mitzvoth to which we are commanded would suggest that if HaShem isn't always with us, then we sure as well better think HaShem is with us. It's a hyperconscious way of life, to always feel and know that HaShem is there. Women are gifted with tzniut and men with tzitzit. Physical incarnations of reminders. (And yes, there are many more, but those are the basics.)

Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotsk said in this regard,

"A person who goes through life with a commitment to the Godly, the Heavenly King resides with him; if he does act sinfully then the Holy One does not take a great note of it." (Rashi similarly said: "The Holy One does not see the sins of Jacob, - when they transgress His words, He does not investigate after them.") 

So, living a life committed to the hyperconsciousness of the ever-presence of HaShem in our lives grants us a little ... "get out of jail free" card? 

Rabbi Israel Rhizin said that even when a Jew sins, 

"even in the depths of depravity there remains within him a spark of godliness; a speck of the light of t'shuvah still flickers in his heart -- even at the time of sin. "

Basically, HaShem gives us a lot of credit, respect, and holds an eternal hope for us. You can always come back, Judaism says. HaShem has been holding out for us to get our you-know-what together for a long time. Don't we owe it already?

The idea of teshuvah is something that's very important to me these days. Like any Jew who has gone astray, I'm in a mode of hardcore teshuvah. I've made mistakes, I've made stupid stupid stupid mistakes that I knew were wrong. And yet, for some reason, HaShem stayed with me and guided me back and is gifting me with amazing happiness and insight into who I am and where I'm going. 

Even in my stupidest moments, HaShem was with me. So I would be inclined to take Balaam's prophecy with much truth and confidence. I can only hope that Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotsk was right and that my sins were put in Column Z and not Column A. 

Parshat Naso: The Origins of Hair Covering

That's me with a tichel, circa this time last year in Jerusalem.

Hello faithful blog readers! I've been meaning to do a video blog for a while, but I just haven't had the time to sit down and do it. Any topics you'd like me to speak frankly on?

Anyhow, I wanted to post really quick about this week's parshah or Torah portion (Naso), because it is within this that we find the beginnings of the laws of hair covering. I've written extensively on it, because I think that it's important that we understand the halachot or laws of hair covering, but also the societal and cultural norms that have painted our colorful history of hair covering. Thus, I give you two blog posts:

• Cover Your Hair: Why? -- This gives the halachot and rabbinic background on the topic.

• Covering Your Hair: Leprous Plague? -- This looks at the cultural context of hair covering and how/when sheitels or wigs came into practice and the various opinions on the tichel (scarf) versus the sheitel, as well as different modern rabbinic takes on hair covering.

Enjoy!

To Prep You for the Parshah ...

This week's parshah is Acharei-Kedoshim, which is chock full of mitzvoth. When it comes to the commandments, there are huge discussions to be had about the laws from the Torah versus mitzvoth from the Rabbis, as well as the "fences" that the ultra-Orthodox build around the basic halachot (laws).

This story is my favorite example of the mitzvoth in Judaism:

As a seminary student in Israel, my wife and her friends had to cook their own meals. One evening, as my wife was about to broil a chicken, a roommate stopped her, horrified at what was happening. "Don't you know that you can't cook a chicken whole, that you must remove the legs first?" her friend exclaimed. 

My wife had never heard of such a thing, and neither had the few rabbis they spoke with about it the next day. So the roommate asked her mother why she cooked chicken that way. Her mother said that she had copied her own mother who was fastidious in the observance of kashrut laws. So they asked the grandmother: "Why did you always cut the legs off the chicken?" 

"Simple," she explained, "There wasn't enough room in the pan!"

Then again, when it comes to fences, as Vayikra 18:30 says, "guard my guardings" (וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם אֶת מִשְׁמַרְתִּי) ... which suggests, perhaps, HaShem wanted us to put up some fences. The question is: How many? How big are those fences?

Also: Every time I go to someone's house for the first time and observe their own minhagim (tradition) quirks, I wonder and ask where they came from. Often times, people don't know. It makes me wonder how easy it would be for me to simply create a tradition, to build a fence around a mitzvah and make it standard. Oh the options!

Brightening Up in Boulder

For me, Boulder is where it's at. Spiritually, with comfort, with kindness.

I spent another Shabbat there, and I was once again reminded why it feels so comfortable in that community. When you're sitting around a third-meal table singing niggunim and all of the voices -- no matter how few -- seem to match up like a well-trained chorus, when you feel comfortable moving from learning in the sanctuary to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, when children take you to you in seconds giggling with you, when you feel at home ... that's Boulder for me. It was what I needed in this moment of my life where "change" seems to be the only constant.

The learning aspect of being in Boulder is something that I love. When I'm alone in Denver, I don't know what shabbat is supposed to be.

Item 1: The parshah on Shabbat was Shemini and it contained the midpoint of the Torah as measured in words when Moshe considers offerings. Those words that fall on either side of the midpoint are דרש דרש, darosh darash. The doubling of words in Hebrew often implies an intensity of the basic word, so in this case it suggests intensive inquiry, an intense searching. That's Judaism in a nutshell, folks.

Item 2: We discussed Nadav and Avihu and the prohibition of certain actions while intoxicated. The conclusion that we arrived at was that they weren't literally drunk, but perhaps drunk on HaShem. They were so up in the clouds that this world didn't make sense to them. They were, in a way, too high up for this world. It's how I feel sometimes, like I can't connect to this world. I don't, however, want to be the next Nadav or Avihu ... but there are some minds that aren't long for this world because they can't connect on the appropriate level to people, they can't figure out relationships. The lesson: figure out how to live in this world, figure out relationships, figure out how to bring ourselves down to this world. We live here, we don't live in shamayim.

I feel like I walked away from my Shabbat in Boulder with a more vivid view of my neshama. I feel like the flame is brighter, and that I'm moving forward. Small steps, Chavi. Small steps.

And of coure, in addition to just feel at home in Boulder, there's the fact that the Pearl Street Mall is a lot like Ben Yehuda ... especially after Shabbat. Don't believe me?

This was Friday before Shabbat. I roamed the mall ...

This guy was bananas. Muscles like crazy. 

Ben Yehuda has break dancing, Boulder has Improv Yoga. 

Parshat Terumah: Giving & Taking

This week's parshah begins with something very near and dear to the heart of the Jewish community: contribution. HaShem says to the Israelites, “Take for Me (vayikchu-li) an offering from every person whose heart inspires him to generosity" in preparation for the construction of the mishkan, the tabernacle that will be carried throughout the desert and eventually will lead to the building of the Beit haMikdash, the holy Temple.

It's a particular word spin, and I hope it makes you pause. The Big Man speaks, saying we should take from ourselves -- but only if we're inspired! The verb that's used does not mean give, it means quite literally to take, which also is peculiar because how does one take of himself or from himself? How does one provide a contribution on command and guarantee that it's genuinely inspired?

Very little of giving today happens on demand. HaShem doesn't call us on Super Sunday and say we have to give to our local federations or that the local Jewish retirement facility needs funds so we must give. And even if that did happen, would we? What compels us to give? Is it the action of taking of ourselves rather than giving of ourselves? It becomes a two-way street when you take something from your own life, from your own lot, and provide it for others. When you give, it's less so.

I want to start using more folktales on the blog (and really, who doesn't), so let's start with this one, a Yiddish one, that offers perspective on the difference between "giving" and "taking."

"Yankel the Cheapskate" would not give money to anyone, for any reason. It didn't matter how important the cause. No one could crack him. He just wouldn't contribute. One day, Yankel was crossing the river in a small boat. Suddenly, a huge storm breaks out, and his boat capsizes. Luckily, another boat approached. The sailor calls out to him: "Give me your hand. Give me your hand."

Yankel can barely hear him over the strong winds and the roaring waves. He hears only one word, over and over: "Give, Give..."

And good old Yankel can't help himself. He yells back: "No. I don't give. I don't give."

Again: "Yankel, give me your hand! Give me your hand." And again Yankel screams: "Never. I don't give."

Finally, in desperation, the rescuer yells: "Yankel, take my hand." And Yankel says: "Oh, take? Sure."

I think that this week's parshah offers a spin on what we considering taking. To take something from someone else benefits the self, so perhaps HaShem knew that asking the Israelites to take of themselves would give them a chance to feel a part of the building of the mishkan. No matter how poor or rich, old or young, everyone provided for the construction. Everyone took of themselves to put into the construction of a dwelling place for the shechinah (the divine presence of HaShem). 

An old adage says that "A fool gives, a wise person takes." Be the wise person and whenever you offer a contribution or gift, make sure that you're taking of yourself and not just giving. Okay? Okay. 

That's your public service announcement for Shabbat. If you want more on the awesome goodness that is tzedakah, I suggest you check out Maimonides Eight Levels of Charity, which is fascinating. 

Breaking Through the Darkness

In 2007, I wrote, regarding this week's Torah portion:

Having never read through the Bible/Torah before, even in my youth (I was raised w/o religion, essentially), I was unfamiliar with some of the plagues. Perhaps the one I was most unfamiliar with is the Ninth Plague -- darkness. The sages surmise that it wasn't physical darkness, such as that brought by a sandstorm or eclipse, but rather that it was "a spiritual or psychological darkness, a deep depression." The Torah reads, "People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was" (Ex. 10:23). The commentary comments that people suffering from depression often lack the energy to move about or to concern themselves with others, focusing instead on themselves. Having nearly drowned in the sea of darkness that is depression myself, I read this and am completely overwhelmed. My mother and the man I love both suffer that which was plagued on the Egyptians. A darkness that comes and goes, though.


The commentary reads: "The person who cannot see his neighbor is incapable of spiritual growth, incapable of rising from where he is currently." Amid the Ninth Plague, "People could not see one another." The Catch 22 of depression is that, oftentimes, one feels so absolutely alone that he or she is driven into the depths of darkness where it is most lonely. Yet, if the person is incapable of seeing his or her neighbor to begin with, and within darkness is also unable to see his or her neighbor, what is to release them so that they can attain spiritual growth?


One of the hardest lessons that I'm learning after my divorce, my move, and my new relationship is knowing that I'm not alone. So many people have supported me through everything, and there have been so many expressions of love, support, and outreach, but when you're stuck in your aloneness and loneliness, those are hard spaces of darkness out of which to break.

Taylor reminds me, almost daily, that I am not alone -- "After all," he says, "Isn't this why we have each other?"

My dialogue with HaShem is continuous, and many of my prayers are for strength, peace, and guidance. I'm slowly rising from the darkness that I have known for so long, and it starts with realizing that I am not alone, despite how much I feel that. It's like an arrested development. At some point, I was faced with being alone, worthless, the wish that I had never been born vocalized outside myself. I'm attempting to remove myself from that arrested status emotionally and mentally.

I would guess that this plague, the plague of darkness, was the most painful and heartbreaking of them all. I wish such a plague upon no one and only hope that we all can learn from darkness and remember that the one thing that HaShem truly asks of us is to bring light into this world. And that light arises from our neshamot. Be true to yourself, let your neshama shine through, light the fire and let it grip the world around you into brightness.