What a strange ritual! What possibly could be the purpose of a ritual in which the leaders of a town declare their innocence in the case of a murder that did not take place in their town and of which they had no knowledge? What exactly are leaders saying by making this declaration?

In the Mishnah, the rabbis seem to have the same questions about the purpose of the ritual of the eglah arufah ("the cow with the broken neck"). They state:

Surely, it would not occur to anyone that the elders of the rabbinic court spilt this blood!  Rather, the declaration means, “He did not come into our hands and we did not send him away without food.  We did not see him and allow him to leave without escort." (M. Sotah 9:6)

The rabbis seem to be saying that there might actually be a hint of guilt upon the leaders of the nearby city for this crime. Their declaration is not just that they did not commit the murder, it is that they did not allow the crime to happen by neglecting the needs of the person who was killed in the lands adjacent to their town. They must perform this ritual because they should be held responsible—morally and legally—for the care of any stranger who happens to pass by their land. 

Do we accept that responsibility?

On average, more than thirty people are murdered every day in the United States. The U.S. has by far the highest murder rate in the industrialized world, despite having an overall crime rate which is similar to that of other industrialized nations. (Why?). 

When most of us hear statistics like this, we think about the role of poverty and guns in creating a climate for homicide. We may think about the frequency with which racial minorities are the perpetrators and the victims of these murders. But we don't often think about our own culpability. 

What would happen if we had to make the declaration of the cow with the broken neck described in this week's Torah portion? What if, every time you read about a homicide in your town or an adjacent area, you had to travel to the scene of the murder and declare that you had no opportunity to offer the victim food, to care for him or her, or to offer protection from harm? Could you do it? Could any of us?

As I have remarked before, the Torah has no particular interest in the rights of an individual, but it has a very keen interest in a person's obligations. The Torah offers us no right to remain uninterested in murders committed in the places near where we live. By the very fact that we do live in the place, we already are implicated. We are obliged to protect from harm even the stranger who is passing through.

If we do nothing, who will absolve us?

There were no more joyous days for the people of Israel than the Fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur, since on these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out dressed in white and dance in the vineyards. What were they saying? "Young man, lift up your eyes and choose wisely. Don't look only at physical beauty. Look rather for family, 'For charm is false, and beauty is vanity. A reverent woman is the one to be praised!'" 
—M. Ta'anit, 4:8 (quotation from Proverbs 31:30)

Today is Tu B'Av, the fifteenth day of the month of Av.  It is a minor holiday whose theme is love. Some have called it the "Jewish Valentine's Day."

There are no mitzvot associated with this day–nothing you are required to do, nothing from which you are required to abstain. It's just a day for love and joy. 

Do something intentional today to make yourself a little bit extra joyful. Put on some clothes that make you happy. Get a massage. Give your loved ones an extra kiss. Make yourself happy for your own sake, for the sake of those around you, and for the sake of God and the world.

The entire passage (through verse 21), traditionally is called "Kabalat Ol HaMitzvot," or "The Acceptance of the Yoke of the Commandments." It was omitted from the liturgy by the early Reform Movement on the grounds that it is theologically unacceptable. As a result, there are many Reform Jews who attend synagogue regularly and have no idea that this passage was ever recited prominently at the center of  every morning and evening service. In truth, there also are plenty of Conservative and orthodox Jews who never have noticed the passage and its problems as they mumble their way through it.

The problem with the passage is the problem of how we view divine reward and punishment. The early reformers argued that the passage seems to say that all good fortune is a reward for good behavior, and all misfortune is a punishment for bad behavior. Such a belief is neither  supported by what we observe in the world, nor is it ethically defensible. We know that there are, in fact, many good and innocent people who suffer catastrophes and there are many evil people who enjoy pleasure and comfort. The passage is, at best, troubling.

But who says that we should reject everything in Torah that makes us troubled or uncomfortable? Once the red ink starts in editing the Torah, it is difficult to keep it from flowing onto every page. I would prefer to see what is truthful in the passage and also to acknowledge the discomfort. I would rather argue with the Torah than ignore it.

We can view the passage as a poetic statement of the general idea that "what goes around, comes around." People who live lives of caring, love and compassion do tend to reap a harvest of joy and fulfillment in their own lives—even when misfortune falls. People who live lives of selfishness and hard-heartedness do tend to suffer from isolation and fearfulness—even in the midst of material comforts. You cannot say that it works that way in every case, but it is a generally truthful statement about our lives that is worth teaching and repeating. 

It is also worth remembering that the theology of this passage is not consistent throughout the Hebrew Bible. There are other sections that appear to be direct counterpoints to Deuteronomy's theology of reward and punishment. In particular, the book of Job seems to be in a twenty-five-hundred-year argument with the book of Deuteronomy. 

The book tells the story of Job (Iyov in Hebrew), a righteous man who is punished by God. When Job asks God why he has been made to suffer despite all his good behavior, God famously responds with a non-answer: "Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?  Speak if you have understanding" (Job 38:4). In contrast to Deuteronomy, the book of Job acknowledges that the good do suffer, but that it is beyond the ability of human beings to understand why. We were not there at the creation and we are not privy to God's plans. 

Deuteronomy says that our suffering is, in part, our own fault. Evil things happen to us because of our failings to sanctify God's presence in our lives. Job says that we have no answers to questions about human suffering. We can only hope to respond with reverence to a God who is beyond our understanding.

It is possible that neither answer will satisfy us. We may feel tempted to say that everything is random and there is no meaning—hidden or knowable—to explain the universe. But, if that is so, then our lives, also, have no meaning and there is no significance to anything we do in life, good or bad. I prefer to think that truth lies somewhere between Deuteronomy and Job. 

There is a divinity that shapes our ends—to coin a phrase—and our actions do play some role in hewing them. However, it is not for us to understand exactly how or why some suffer and others enjoy fortune. We try to make the best choices we can in life, not in order to receive a reward, but because the choice itself is its own reward.

The Kotzker teaches that seeking God is the same thing as yearning for God. The very act of searching for God is enough—it is sufficient—to find God. The moment we recognize that finding God does not need to be a struggle—all that is needed is to open our hearts—God will enter us. The main thing that keeps us distant from God is the mistaken conviction that we have not yet done enough to merit God's nearness.