The victory is tempered by several points not widely covered in the American press. Rabbi Gold and other non-Orthodox rabbis will not be recognized as rabbis under this ruling. Her official designation will be as a "community leader." Unlike Orthodox rabbis, her authority in Jewish law will remain unrecognized by the government and she will not have authority over personal status issues such as marriage and divorce. Also, the funding for her position will not come from the same source as the funding for Orthodox rabbis. They are supported by the Religious Services Ministry. Non-Orthodox rabbis (I know this sounds like a joke) will be funded by the Ministry of Culture and Sport. (Tennis, anyone?)

The significance of the victory should not be overstated. This is a first step. For the time being, the victory is largely symbolic. Yet, it does show that Israel may be getting ready, slowly, to break the monopoly on Jewish religious legitimacy that the Orthodox have held—and ferociously defended—since the founding of the state.

That monopoly has resulted in a bizarre fact: Israel is the only western-style democracy that discriminates against the religious freedoms of Jews. Reform and Conservative rabbis in Israel are not permitted to officiate at weddings. Their authority to authorize conversions to Judaism is extremely limited. Non-Orthodox Jews in Israel routinely travel out of their own country to get married, because the only Jewish marriages recognized by the Israeli government are those that are sanctioned by Orthodox rabbis.

What would we say if such discrimination against Jews existed in any other country?

Those who defend this system state that only a small fraction of Israeli Jews identify with the non-Orthodox movements. That point conveniently ignores the fact that the biggest impediments to the growth of non-Orthodox Judaism in Israel are the legal restrictions that non-Orthodox Jews face in practicing their religion. How fast would Reform and Conservative Judaism grow in Israel if liberal rabbis were given the same authority and legitimacy they enjoy in every other democratic country? No wonder the Orthodox rabbinate has worked so hard against the recognition of non-Orthodox rabbis and no wonder they speak so viciously against non-Orthodox Judaism.

Members of the Israeli Knesset from the Ultra-Orthodox parties have not minced words in denouncing the Attorney General's decision. Knesset Member Moshe Gafni of United Torah Judaism was quoted as saying that Reform and Conservative rabbis are "clowns." Another MK, Nissim Zeev of the Shas Party called non-Orthodox rabbis, "People who falsify the Torah." He said, "This is the beginning of the destruction of the Jewish people in the Land of Israel." 

You heard it here, folks. Forget the Iranian nuclear threat. Instead, watch out for those Reform rabbis.

Sarcasm aside, there is definitely a joyful side to this news. It offers us a glimmer that change is coming. Judaism is a tradition of liberation, not constriction, and the true character of the Jewish faith is bound to emerge eventually. The overwhelming majority of Israeli Jews already reject the tyranny of the Orthodox rabbinical establishment. Given the opportunity to rediscover Judaism in a non-coercive setting—one that treats men and women equally and encourages each person to make his or her own choices in observing Jewish tradition—it is inevitable that many Israeli Jews will find spiritual succor in the non-Orthodox movements. 

Rabbi Gold has stepped through a door. Many will follow her.


Other Posts on This Topic:
The Problem with Certainty

This week's Torah portion (Naso) contains the rules for a "nazir," an Israelite man or woman who chooses to deny various pleasures and accept some strict restrictions. However, the rabbis of the Talmud criticize the ways of the nazir and effectively eliminate the practice. Instead, the rabbis emphasize the piety inherent in appreciatively enjoying the world's pleasures.

The nazir is described as a person, man or woman, who makes a vow for a specific period of time to abstain from wine or other alcohol, and also from eating anything at all made from grapes. In addition, the nazir is forbidden to have any contact with the dead, a prohibition that prevents attending funerals even for close relatives. The nazir also is  forbidden to cut his or her hair for the entire period of the vow. The hair upon the nazir's head is regarded as sacred.

The Hebrew Bible's most famous nazir is Samson, the hero from the book of Judges whose sacred hair gave him superhuman strength—but not, apparently, much judgment about girlfriends. Samson's story is this week's haftarah portion. More on him later.

At the end of the nazir's term of service, the Torah instructs that he or she must come to the Tent of Meeting with a sacrificial offering: "A yearling ram without blemish as a burnt offering and a yearling ewe without blemish as a sin offering" (Numbers 6:13-14). If the nazir is a person who achieves piety through ascetic practice, why is it, the rabbis ask, that the nazir must atone for a sin upon completing his or her vow? What sin? 

The Talmud responds to this question by saying, "What could it be other than that the nazir has sinned by afflicting his or her own soul by abstaining from wine?… If a person is called a sinner just because he or she afflicts his or herself by abstaining from wine, how much more so does such a person sin by afflicting his or herself by abstaining from all food!’” (B. Ta'anit 11a). The rabbis disdain the ascetic choices of the nazir, and all but eliminate the practice.

In criticizing the choice to serve God through self-denial, the rabbis also wonder whether we have a positive obligation to enjoy the gifts of material world, such as wine and food. Is it permitted to abstain from what God has given us for pleasure?

A statement in the Jerusalem Talmud addresses this directly: "Rabbi Hezekiah the Priest said in the name of Rav, 'In the future, a person will be required to give testimony and accounting for all the good things he saw with his eye but did not eat'" (Y. Kidushin 4:12, daf 48b). God gave us the world so that we would enjoy it, not to withdraw ourselves from it.

The rabbis also seem to wonder about the motivations of would-be ascetics. Do they act to aggrandize God or to aggrandize themselves? Is theirs an expression of piety or of ego?

By calling the nazir a sinner, the rabbis make us wonder if many nazirim are like Samson in more ways than one. After all, they recognize that Samson was not just a zealous fighter for Israel, he also was egotistical and self-obsessed. Samson defied his parents when they warned him against marrying a Philistine woman (Judges 14:3). He became a self-righteous vigilante when the wife he spurned married another (15:4-5). He succumbed to his sexual cravings to betray the sacred hair on his head (16:16–17). Is the Bible telling us something about a "nazir personality"—a person whose determination to serve God is motivated by self-seeking arrogance?

The rabbis seek a balance between joyfully accepting the pleasures of the world, and doing so with humility. It is an act of true piety to take part in the good foods that are permitted to us and to find joy in drinking alcohol in moderation. It is a spiritual act to enjoy the beauty of the world and its resources, if we use them with respect and appreciation for the earth and its Creator. It is an act of religious devotion to enjoy sensuality and sexual fulfillment when it occurs between sanctified loving partners and within ethical boundaries. There is piety in pleasure.

There is also a warning here. People who take religion seriously are challenged to ask themselves difficult questions about their own motivations. What are your deeper motivations when you believe that you are acting for the sake of God? Is it really to serve God or your own ego? What can you do to make sure that the practices you take upon yourself remain for the sake of something beyond yourself, and not just to feed your sense of self-importance?

Judaism asks us to walk a thin line. We are to enjoy the world with exhuberant joy and ecstasy.  We also are to acknowledge with gratitude and humility the One who gave us the world. Walking the path described by that thin line leads us toward a life of fulfillment and appreciation. 


Other Posts on This Topic:
Naso: Two Ways of Seeking God's Face
Kedoshim: Being Holy

Interestingly, though, the actual text of the Ten Commandments is not prominent in Jewish tradition. The Ten Commandments are not included in the extensive liturgy of Jewish daily worship. It is very rare that an artistic representation of the two tablets includes the complete text. In fact, the words of the Ten Commandments are generally only heard in the synagogue on Shavuot and when they are read as part of the weekly Torah portion. We do not recite them daily, as we do with other biblical passages

There are historical reasons for this. Early in the rabbinic era, the Ten Commandments were read as part of the morning service, in the place where we now recite the blessing Ahavah Rabbah, which speaks of God’s love in giving us the entire Torah. The rabbis appear to have dropped the Ten Commandments from this place because their inclusion gave the impression that these ten laws were the most important. But, Judaism is a tradition of 613 commandments, not ten. The Ten Commandments say nothing about dietary laws or observing holidays other than Shabbat. They do not command us to provide for the needs of the poor or to actively pursue peace and justice in the world.

Dropping the Ten Commandments from the liturgy may have been a response by the rabbis to early Christianity, which sought to de-emphasize the laws of the Torah and to create a “pared down list” of the most important mitzvot. The rabbis rejected this idea and sought to dispel the notion that the Ten Commandments were superior to the other 603.

The Ten Commandments do have great meaning and significance in Jewish tradition.  It is just that the importance of the Ten Commandments is more about the moment of their revelation than about the specific laws that are included in the actual text.

The chasidic rabbi, Menachem Mendel of Rimonov, actually taught that the words of the Ten Commandment are incidental to the essential experience of God communicating to us. He wrote that, at Mount Sinai, God spoke only the first letter of the first word of the Ten Commandments—the silent letter Aleph. The contemporary Jewish thinker, Rabbi Arthur Green, says of this claim, “God speaks only the great silence; the Divine is a silent womb that contains all of language within it.” 

Is there a contradiction here?  Was the moment of God’s revelation to Israel a moment of a profound ethical teaching, surrounded by shofar blasts and cosmic upheaval, or was it one of preternatural silence?  Perhaps it was both. 

Mount Sinai is the moment that symbolizes the Jewish people's link to God. Like a personal moment of deep meaning and life-changing intensity, Sinai may be described as the cosmic event in which  we feel an internal avalanche that shakes the foundations of our being and our view of the world. It also may be a moment of stunning calm and equanimity in which we feel that we see the world with new clarity. Perhaps this is why Jewish tradition describes the moment of Sinai in such contradictory terms—it is both the storm and the calm at its center.

Many people who have experienced a moment of personal spiritual intensity say that they continue to carry it with them for many years after. The afterglow of that moment comes back at the times when it is needed most, when we feel that life has left us tattered or disconnected from the world.

We can think of the Ten Commandments as the Jewish people’s collective afterglow from our Sinai moment. We felt God within us at that mythical moment at Sinai and ever after we have wanted to carry some reminder of it with us in our soul. We are just like the person who says during a spiritually intense moment, “God, I promise that, from now on, I’m going to live my life differently.”  At Sinai, we vowed that we would abide by a fundamental code for living lives that are ethical, virtuous and meaningful, and the feeling has stayed with us.

This week's Torah portion, I think, says something about that experience.

Parashat Bamidbar describes how the Israelites were encamped around the Tabernacle whenever they stopped their march through the wilderness. Each tribe had its own special place close to the portable Temple that was understood to be the dwelling place of God. As one would imagine, everyone wanted to get as close to they could to the God who saved them and sustained them through the desert.

Yet, there was a special place for the tribe of Levi, the tribe that included the priests and the men who were designated to care for and carry the Tabernacle. They were given the place closest to the Tabernacle and, according to a classical midrash, the other tribes made room for them there. They withdrew to allow the Levites to have the place closest to God (Midrash Numbers Rabbah 1:12). 

Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger, the author of the Sefat Emet, wonders whether the camping arrangement would have caused resentments. He says, "Surely, there must have been some Israelites of great deeds who were of greater merit than the least of the Levites." Why would they have to yield their place close to the Tabernacle in order to make way for some guy who had the job of carrying the tent poles?

To the Gerer Rebbe, the midrash teaches a lesson in humility. He says that, "Even someone great in deeds must know and believe that none of his deeds could overturn the choice of the Blessed One." Your own estimation of yourself should never be a substitute for the reality that God has delivered to you. You think that your smarts and accomplishments make you more deserving of honor than someone else? Back off, my friend. You think your piety is deeper and makes you more worthy of praise than some poser? It is all a dangerous illusion. Real piety knows the bounds of humility. 

The commentary goes further. The true ideal is that we nullify ourselves (להתבטל). We should stand amongst the Jewish people and lose any sense of separation from them. It is like that experience singing in the congregation. We lose awareness of our own voice and enter into the experience of being part of something larger than ourselves. 

The Gerer Rebbe says, "You should submit yourself to serve God with dedication only because it is the Blessed One’s will, and you should not think that your deeds are a means to draw closer to the Blessed One. Knowing this, how is it possible for you to hold yourself higher than even the least of Israel."

When have you had that experience? What transports you into moments when you lose yourself and feel yourself to be a part of God? In those moments, do you, too, forget the desire to get closer to God and discover yourself simply tumbling down the rabbit's hole that, paradoxically, brings us the closest we can be to God?


Other Posts on This Topic:
Vayikra: The Joy of Contrition
The Blind and the Light
"Not One of Them Was Left"

Stop me if you've heard this one:

Man says to God, "Is it true what the psalm says, 'A thousand years in Your sight are as a moment that has passed'? (Psalms 90:4)"

God says, "Yes."

"Then is it also true that a million dollars to You are as but a penny?"

"Yes, that is also true."

"God, may I please have a penny."

"Sure. Wait just a moment."

There was a long process before I could be approved to volunteer at the Center. I made my first trip to visit its residents during Passover last month. I visited again today, meeting with three adult Jewish men who have been found "not guilty by reason of insanity" (NGRI) by a Florida State Court.

There is a lot of misunderstanding about the insanity defense and what happens to people who are determined to be not responsible for their actions due to mental illness. Many people believe  that  defendants who are found NGRI are allowed to walk out of the courtroom and reenter normal society. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The three men I met with today all have been charged with violent crimes. After being found NGRI, they were sent to the Treatment Center, or other similar facilities. Technically, the Center is not a prison, but it might as well be one. It is a maximum security facility with lots of guards, lots of tall fences with razor wire, and lots of heavy metal doors that can only be opened by a security guard watching over a video monitor. Trying to escape is a bad idea. The facility is surrounded by nothing but miles of flat land with little cover, and plenty of alligators and poisonous snakes. 

The biggest difference between this facility and a prison is that the residents (that's what they call them) receive psychotherapy and medications to treat their illnesses. They also receive training on how the legal system works. This is especially important for residents who have been determined to be "not competent to proceed to trial" (NCP). The goal of the Treatment Center is to make them competent, so the Center teaches them about the charges they face in court, what those charges mean, and how the court system will deal with them. 

It is understandable that the three Jewish men with whom I met today are not very happy about being in the Treatment Center. They are glad not to be in a state prison, where there is more violence and where their mental health problems would go mostly untreated. Their fondest hope is to be transferred to a lower security facility, or, even better, to a halfway house where they could begin a transition to freedom. That day could come in a few years for some of them, maybe sooner, or maybe never. Not knowing how long they will have to wait for freedom is very difficult for them.

I spent about an hour with the men today. We talked about this week's Torah portion (Behar-Bechukotai), especially the part about how all Hebrew slaves in ancient Israel were released during the jubilee, which came every fifty years. The idea of having a definite date of liberation, even one many years in the future, would be appealing to these men.

I also answered their questions about Judaism. For the most part, they asked the same types of questions I hear all the time from people who want to know more about Judaism. One resident asked me if the tattoo on his shoulder would prevent his body from being buried in a Jewish cemetery. (No, that's a myth.) Another resident asked, "When did Israel last have a Jewish king?" (First century c.e.). "Could there ever be another king of Israel?" (Depends on whom you ask).

The conversation got to be the most interesting when we talked about divine reward and punishment. It is not surprising that these men wanted to know what Judaism teaches about God's punishment for sin. Does Judaism teach that sinners are punished with hellfire? Why do good people suffer in this lifetime? Do we live in a just universe? Does God not care about the suffering of the innocent?

If you are sitting in a prison after the state has told you that you are not guilty and that you are not responsible for your actions, these questions become rather poignant, wouldn't you say? People with mental health problems often feel like they live in a metaphoric prison—held captive by a mind that inhibits normal interaction with other people, distrusted and scorned by people who fear them. In addition to that, these men live in a  real live realty of razor wire and locked doors. Well, it's enough to make anyone crazy. 

Clearly, the Treatment Center is the right place for these men, even if it is depressing for them to be confined without much freedom. They are receiving treatment for their illnesses. They are safe. They are being cared for by a professional staff that treats them with courtesy and all the dignity possible under the circumstances. They even get visits from local clergy, if that helps. 

Still, no one would volunteer or choose to live in the Treatment Center. According to the state of Florida, these men did not willfully choose to do the things that got them here. Yet, here they are. And, I have to add, it's a good thing, too.

Do we live in a just universe? I'm not sure anyone can answer that question for these men. I'm just grateful for the opportunity to help people who could really use some. 


Other Posts on This Topic:
Ekev: Deuteronomy vs. Job
Behar-Bechukotai: Cycles of Time
Tazria: Newborn Spirituality

In last week's Torah portion, Emor, we learned about a larger cycle, also built on the number seven, that we are experiencing right now. The Counting of the Omer is a "a week of weeks" (seven times seven days) that connects the festivals of Passover and Shavuot. In this week's Torah portion, Behar-Bechukotai, the number seven radiates into an even larger cycle, the cycle of seven years that culminates in the Sabbatical Year. 

For six years you plant your field and six years you prune your vineyard and harvest their produce. But in the seventh year there will be a complete rest for the land, a Shabbat for Adonai. You shall not plant your field or prune your vineyard. You shall not reap the aftergrowth of your harvest or gather the grapes of your untrimmed vines. It shall be a year of complete rest for the land. (Leviticus 25:3-5)

Seven years is a long time. In our society, which seems to have a short attention span, we do not really have any major institutions that run on that long of a cycle. Our presidential elections and the Olympic Games run on four-year cycles, which seems to be about as long as we can focus on anything. We do have a national census on a ten-year cycle, but that does not command the attention of an entire society the way that elections do…and certainly not the way that a society would be focused on a national commitment to refrain from planting and harvesting food for a full year.

There is a scholarly debate about whether the cycle of the Sabbatical Year was ever observed in ancient Israel the way it is described in Leviticus. It does seem dangerous. The Torah promises that a year of extra abundance would proceed the Sabbatical year to provide enough food. But what of the surrounding nations that could take advantage of the Sabbatical Year to attack the nation while it is vulnerable? There are those who say that the Torah presents the practice more for its ideals than for practical implementation. What is that ideal? The point of the Sabbatical year is stated plainly in the text. God says, "The land is Mine, and you are foreigners residing with Me" (Leviticus 25:23). 

This idea is stretched even further in another cycle, seven times as long, also presented in this week's Torah portion. In the year that followed the end of seven Sabbatical Years (a total of 49 years) there was an extra year added to the cycle (a fiftieth year) that was called the Yovel (usually translated as "Jubilee Year"). In that year, not only were the fields left fallow for a second year in a row, all the fields that had been sold in the previous fifty years were returned to the original owner. All Hebrew slaves were freed in the Yovel.

As a side note, one cannot help notice the common theme in the Torah of cycles of time in the pattern of "seven plus one." The seven-day festival of Sukkot is followed by the one-day festival of Sh'mini Atzeret on the eighth day. The Counting of the Omer is seven weeks followed by an extra day to reach the festival of Shavuot on the fiftieth day. The Yovel is the largest "seven plus one" pattern, with an extra, fiftieth year to cap off the cycle of seven seven-year cycles. There must be a reason…

The words from this week's Torah portion that introduce the Yovel also are of interest for their connection to American history. "Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof" (Leviticus 25:10), is the biblical quotation engraved upon the Liberty Bell that announced American independence from the British Monarchy in 1776. 

Ironically, though, we think of the Liberty Bell as a symbol of autonomy—the right to live as we choose to live. In the Torah, it is clear that the message of the Yovel year is, again, just the opposite. All of the earth is God's and God makes the rules; we cannot permanently own anything.

There is something quite beautiful about these large cycles in time, whether or not they were ever observed exactly as they are described in the Torah. They acknowledge that the earth has its own integrity and its own need for rest. "Owning" a piece of land does not entitle any human being to use it however he or she wishes. At best, we may have a piece of land temporarily assigned to us, but even that cannot undermine our obligation to treat the land with respect and give it the year of rest that is sacred to God. 

The same, of course, is true of human lives. We cannot be owned. We do not even own our own lives. In a cycle that takes up most of a typical human lifespan, we are reminded that our existence is temporary and beyond our control. Our highest aspiration in life, therefore, should not be to amass wealth or power, but rather to do joyfully all that we can to serve the higher purpose for which we were made. 

Our lives do not belong to us. We belong to God. Perhaps that is the lesson that we rehearse in small and large cycles throughout our lives. Yet, it requires a lifetime to learn it completely.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Behar: Do Not Wrong One Another
Bechukotai: Being Commanded, Choosing Joy