In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Emor, we read, “You shall faithfully observe My commandments: I am the Eternal. You shall not profane My holy name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelite people…” (Lev 22:31-32) What does it mean to profane or to sanctify G-d’s name? Many people think that this is about using G-d’s name in vain – swearing on G-d’s name or saying things like, “Oh my G-d,” but I think that the juxtaposition of “You shall faithfully observe My commandments” with “You shall not profane My holy name” has something more profound to teach us.
The way that we act in the world reflects our heritage, our culture, our religion, our families. I remember that my grandparents used to ask of the news: “Is it good for the Jews?” I know the embarrassment that I feel when a Jewish public figure does something wrong. Why should I feel embarrassed? I didn’t do the wrong thing. But I feel humiliated for what that person’s behavior might imply to others about Jews in general.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “G-d is G-d whatever we do or fail to do. But G-d, having set His [sic] image on every human being, took the risk of identifying His presence in history with one small people with whom he made a covenant in a lonely desert long ago, and that fact has charged Jewish existence with immense responsibility ever since. We are G-d’s witnesses. How the people of G-d behaves affects how G-d Himself is perceived.” This is not true only of Jews. Christians and indeed, the concept of the Christian G-d are judged by the acts of other Christians, Muslims as a whole by what individual Muslims do etc. We are all representatives of our family, faith, country, and indeed of humanity as a whole. If we are made in the image of G-d, and we behave unethically – what does that say about G-d? If we declare our Jewishness publicly and behave poorly, what does that say about the Jewish idea of G-d or the Jewish religion in general? We observe G-d’s commandments in order to not profane G-d’s name because, hopefully those commandments are a blueprint for living an ethical life. We should strive to be our best selves, because why else are we here if not to leave the world better than how we found it?
Cantor Sally Neff
This week we will be reading from parashat Kedoshim. Kedoshim, along with sections of last week’s Torah portion, Acharei Mot, make up what modern scholars refer to as the Holiness Code. Practically speaking, if one was to unroll the Torah from end to end, like we do at Simchat Torah, these parshiyot are found right in the middle. One might say, they make up the heart of the Torah.
Most of the mitzvot found in the Holiness Code have little to do with our relationship with God. Instead they are mostly focused on our relationships with our fellow human beings. They are mostly ethical in nature. The rational for their observance can be found at the beginning of Kedoshim, “You shall be holy, for I, the Eternal your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:2). This means that if we wish to be blessed and be closer to God, we need to walk in the pathways of holiness.
The term for ‘holy’ in Hebrew is Kadosh. Kadosh also means separate or sanctified. This is why when a couple gets married, in Judaism we refer to it as a kiddushin, a separate and sanctified relationship.
This is also why we are often referred to as the Chosen People. It doesn’t mean that we were chosen because we are better than anyone else. Rather we were chosen to live and embody what it means to be kadosh, holy, separate, and sanctified. What sanctifies us? It is our individual and communal choices to strive to embody the ethical teachings of our tradition, especially those found in kedoshim.
We were not chosen to suffer. We were not chosen to be persecuted. However, I think one of the reasons why we have suffered and have been persecuted over the generations is because people don’t like to be told or reminded of how their actions and choices are not ethical. This is certainly an oversimplification of our history, but it is certainly a part of it.
What does it to mean to be kadosh, to be holy? As one of our great rabbis of the Mishneh, Rabbi Hillel taught, that which is hateful to you, do not do unto others. All the rest is commentary, go and learn.
On this Shabbat may we all strive to be a little more kadosh, especially in a world that could use more sacredness and holiness and less hate.
Rabbi Benjamin Sharff
This week we will be continuing the reading of parashat Acharei Mot (see Cantor’s D’var Torah from last week). In it we read, “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws. My rules alone shall you observe, and faithfully follow My laws: I the Eternal am your God” (Lev. 18:3-4).
This is an incredibly problematic passage. If we are to read it literally, it means we are not to follow the practices or Egypt or Canaan, but by extension we should not follow the laws of any nation. We are to follow the laws and practices that were only ordained by God.
And yet, at every point in history, Judaism has been influenced and adopted ideas and customs of surrounding cultures. The Reform movement is only one the more recent of the many iterations of Judaism to do so. Even our ultra-Orthodox brethren who subscribe to the belief of “all that is new is forbidden by Torah,” dress in the custom of Polish gentry from the 18th century.
The rabbis came up with a rabbinic maxim of dina de’malchuta dina, “the law of the land is the law.” This concept appears twenty-five times in the Shulchan Aruch, the code of Halacha. Now most of these laws pertained to what we might refer to as civil matters. Nonetheless, even the rabbis worked to reconcile Leviticus with the reality of living in the world.
As the Torah: A Modern Commentary goes on to state, “Judaism has been able to absorb values, ideas, and customs that are compatible with its basic outlook, while rejecting what could not be reconciled with the religious and ethical teachings of the Torah” (pg. 776).
Judaism, at its core, has always been a pragmatic tradition, for the most part. We strive to reconcile the sacred with the profane in all aspects of life. This is why the Torah is the beginning, not the beginning and end of our legacy. Centuries of interpretation continue to make meaning out of our ancient text, acknowledging that new is not bad, it just needs to be understood more and reflected upon.
Or as the Torah Commentary goes on to say, “By obeying God’s law, humankind lives well and meaningfully” (ibid.) The key being to make meaning. It is not merely a matter of picking and choosing which laws to follow, but to understand them in the broader cultural, social, and religious milieu. This is why we wrestle and struggle with our text, because what may be clear upon initial reading is much more subtle, nuanced and challenging.
May we all continue to be challenged.
Rabbi Benjamin Sharff
As a reminder, tonight we will be celebrating Solidarity Shabbat with Congregation Sons of Israel Nyack at 7:30 PM. This will be preceded by an interfaith dinner at 6:00 pM for those who RSVP’d. If you did RSVP, please be sure to bring Walmart gift cards to be shared with refugees being housed in New York State.
What is this week’s Torah portion? Well actually, it depends on who you ask. The Torah stipulates that Passover is a festival that lasts seven days. “Seven days you shall eat unleavened bread.” (Ex. 12:15) So if that is the case, Passover ends on Friday night, and Saturday morning we should read the next Torah portion. But many communities celebrate Passover for eight days, so if you ask the internet, most sites will tell you that the Torah portion on Saturday is the one for the eighth day of Passover. What gives? Why do so many celebrate eight days, and why do some celebrate seven? And what is the Torah portion this Shabbat?
The Jewish calendar is a lunar one that in ancient times depended on witnesses who would declare sightings of the new moon. Beacon fires would be set on mountaintops to spread the word throughout the Jewish communities that the new moon had been spotted. The fires would relay from hilltop to hilltop until “one could behold the whole of Diaspora before him like a mass of fire.” (Mishnah Rosh Hashanah 2:4).
This system worked well for a long time to enable the Jewish people throughout their travels to celebrate the set days and times for the seasons and festivals. However, once relations with neighboring sects worsened, things began to unravel. The Samaritans harassed the Jews by lighting beacon fires at the wrong times. The Sanhedrin (the ancient legislative and judicial body for the Jews) substituted messengers. The problem with messengers is that unlike beacon fires, they do not travel at the speed of light. Since only the Sanhedrin was allowed to pronounce the new moon, communities needed to wait until the date had been properly established by the arrival of a messenger. Celebrating festivals for an extra day would ensure that even if there was some confusion, at least one of the days would be the correct one. In the land of Israel, holidays continue to be celebrated as specified in the Torah.
The witness system of defining the calendar ended around the middle of the 4thcentury (the Byzantine Christian Empire forbade it). At that point, the calculations that the Sanhedrin had used as a backup were published, and the Jewish calendar became fixed and calculable for the future. Nevertheless, the custom of observing extra days of holidays outside of Israel persisted. I can almost hear them saying, “but we’ve always done it that way!”
So, outside of Israel, Passover was celebrated as an eight day holiday. Reform Judaism observes festivals (often with the exception of Rosh Hashanah) as the Torah defines them. This is partially because science tells us exactly when the new moon is, but also partially to celebrate the return of the Jewish people to Israel by observing holidays as they would be observed in Israel – seven days for Passover. Orthodox and most Conservative congregations honor the traditions of the past – partially as a constant reminder that we are still in the diaspora.
So this week is a rare thing where the Jewish people will not all be reading the sameparashah at the same time. Some people will be reading the section designated for the eighth day of Passover. At RTR, we will be reading from the first half of Acharei Mot. Next week, we will read from the second half of Acharei Mot and thus be back in sync with the rest of diaspora Jewry.
Whether you celebrate eight days or seven, we hope that you had joyous and meaningful holiday celebrations and we wish you Shabbat Shalom.
Cantor Sally Neff
We are in the middle of what some might refer to as the ‘icky’ part of the Torah. Last week we read from Tazria, and this week we are reading from parashat Metzorah. The portions are always combined when the Jewish calendar does not have an additional month. Perhaps this is because the rabbis wanted to get through these sections as quickly as possible.
Metzorah, in particular, deals with tzara’at, often translated as leprosy. However, it was more likely some sort of scaly skin ailment. Metzorah also presents us with cases of domiciles having some sort of a plague or possibly fungal or bacterial or mold infestation, though the Torah is not clear on this. We also encounter the issue of bodily emissions as well as menstruation.
In the cases of tzara’at and a ‘plague’ on a house, a priest is called in to inspect it. If they are determined to be infected, the priest will pronounce the purification rituals. There are also purification rituals as well for bodily emissions and menstruation.
The larger challenge is to make sense of all of this, as modern readers. One possibility is that it had to do with striving to create more sanitary conditions for the community. When someone or something is infected or afflicted, best to remove them from the community so as to prevent the disease from spreading. However, there are contradictions within the purification rituals that would support this argument.
A more likely interpretation is that the Torah is acknowledging real transformations and transitions within the sacred and the profane. Or as is written in the WRJ Women’s Torah Commentary, “The body passes through the various stages and is likely to cross several borders between ritually pure and impure over the course of its existence.”
There is no value judgment placed on whether one is ritually pure or impure. It just means that if one is ritually impure, there are certain roles they cannot perform related to the sacrificial cult until they are in a state of ritual purity again.
If this is the case, then why spend so much time dedicated to ‘icky’ issues? The answer is in part because life is messy, yet the Torah is concerned with all aspects of life, not just those focused on prayer and ritual. This then empowers us and should also inspire us to ritualize all elements of life, including the ‘messy’ parts.
As Elyse Goldstein wrote in The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, “each month, when I get my period, I say: ‘Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, she’asani ishah: Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has made me a woman.’ Saying the blessing becomes a revolutionary moment … (it) affirms my holiness and sanctity within the context of menstruation, not despite it.”
May we all continue to find ways to affirm our holiness and sanctity each and every day through sickness and health, and through all that life brings.
Rabbi Benjamin Sharff
 Eskenazi, Tarama Cohn and Andrea L. Weiss, ed., The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, 2008, pg. 672.
 Ibid. pg, 675
This week’s Torah portion deals with some of the different things that make a person tamei (the noun form is tumah) and tahor (the noun form istaharah). These words are often translated as clean/unclean or pure/impure, but that isn’t really what they mean. One who is tahor is ritually fit to appear in the Temple and one is tamei is not. What things make someone tamei? In general, the things that make a person tamei involve contact with the liminal forces that divide life and death – blood, semen, birth, death. According to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “these categories flow from the contrast between G-d and human beings. G-d is immortal, humans are mortal. G-d is spiritual, humans are also physical… Conditions that render a person tamei are those that testify to our mortality and physicality.”
We move in our lives through moments of tedium and of transcendence, between birth and death, sickness and health – we are constantly navigating a river of emotion and action, intellectual analysis, and gut feeling. None of those are unholy, but each has its place. We must exercise to be healthy, but we don’t bring our weights and gym shorts to a dinner party. Ecclesiastes wrote, “to everything there is a season,” and sometimes we are so eager to return to our daily lives, that we don’t give ourselves enough time to live in the tamei state – to immerse in the liminal moment that life has served up and then indeed to transition back. Why do we think this can or should be instantaneous?
Today when a healthy woman gives birth to a healthy child, she is discharged from the hospital in the next day or two and is expected to be up and about very shortly thereafter. The Torah commands her, though, to take some time to live in the experience that she has undergone. Rabbi Malka Drucker wrote, “In a time when women give birth on Monday, go home Tuesday and have a dinner party Thursday, Tazria gives us permission to enter the fluid, deep transcendence that giving birth offers us. A child is born, a woman becomes a joyful mother, and G-d is never so near. We are invited to withdraw briefly from the chatter and flow of everyday life to shake our heads and exclaim, “G-d is in this place and I’m staying here for a while!”
Tumah and Tahorah are part of the cycle of our humanity. The judgement inherent in the English translations of these words have lead us to dismiss the concepts entirely when there may be rich lessons contained therein. If we look at tumah and tahorah through the lens of sacred time, we can ask ourselves whether we are taking enough time to care for ourselves in our own liminal moments and to spiritually transition out and prepare to rejoin our sacred communities.
Cantor Sally Neff
This week we will be reading from Parashat Shemini. It is a particular favorite for those looking to comment on a Torah portion because it not only contains the ordination of Aaron and his sons as priests, but also the sudden inexplicable death of Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu.
There are numerous midrashim related to the demise of Nadav and Avihu. As the story goes, they, without being commanded to, chose to offer up incense and aish zarah“alien fire” as an offering to God. As the Torah teaches, “then fire came forth from the Eternal and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Eternal” (Leviticus 10:2).
The Torah tends to be very terse of language. There is no great rational given for what transpired, so the rabbis were left to try to fill in the gaps. One of the midrashim or rabbinic stories explains that the sons wanted to elevate themselves above Moses and Aaron. Another is that they viewed themselves as being too good for any potential wife because of who their father and uncle were. Another is that they were drinking the day they made this sacrifice and therefore died because of their disrespect to the Sacred and Holy. And yet another explains that they did not physically die, but instead it was a death of the spirit.
When looking at all of these midrashim, they struggle to explain the inexplicable, sometimes more successfully than others. In the end, they tell us more about the interpreters than perhaps about the events of the Torah.
But this is one of the most beautiful parts of being Jewish. Our sacred text is incomplete. One could argue that this is by intent. We are meant to struggle with the meaning of the text. We are also meant to find our own interpretations. As Rabbi Ben Bag Bag said in the Mishnah, “Turn it, and turn it, for everything is in it. Reflect on it and grow old and gray with it. Don’t turn from it, for nothing is better than it” (Pirkei Avot 5:22).
Also, in case you are interested, we do this every Saturday morning at 9 AM with our Taste of Torah. We bring ourselves and our experiences to engage in dialogue with our Sacred text. No previous knowledge or experience with Torah study is required or even needed. All we need are you and a willingness to keep turning Torah, which in turn, helps us grow in our understanding of what our tradition demands of us.
Rabbi Benjamin Sharff
This week we will be reading from Parashat Tzav, which is a continuation from last week’s Torah Portion Vayikra and is focused on the sacrificial cult as established through Aaron, Moses’ brother. As Cantor wrote in her D’var Torah last week, “According to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Leviticus is divided into three parts. The first is about the holy – more specifically sacrifices.” And yet, the question comes up pretty much every year, why do we spend so much time reading about the sacrifices?
With the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash (The Temple) in Jerusalem by the Romans in the year 70 C.E., the sacrificial cult ended. Though there are prayers in our liturgy calling for the restoration of Jerusalem and the return to sacrifices, our tradition has evolved and transformed since then. As we learn about from our haftarah portion this week, in the words of Jeremiah, “Listen to Me, and I will be your God, and you shall be My people; walk only in the way that I have commanded you, and it shall go well with you” (Jeremiah 7:23).
Jeremiah was castigating the people because he felt they were violating the tenants of the proper sacrifices. More than that, he was also setting the groundwork for an eventual turn away from this entire form of worship.
Our modern tradition may be related to the sacrifices our ancestors offered up, but it is also radically different as well. Nowadays we focus on the performance of gemilut chasidim, acts of loving kindness and worship rather than offerings. How we choose to do Judaism is perhaps even something Moses and Aaron would not recognize, but it would hopefully be something they approve of.
I recently had a conversation with some students who kept apologizing because they are not “super-religious.” I asked them to define what it means to be “super-religious.” For them it meant coming regularly to services and keeping kosher. Like the sacrifices, this is one way to define one’s religiosity. However, there are so many more ways. I argued that by living and embodying contemporary Jewish values in their homes, schools, and in their lives, they were in fact, “super-religious.”
Worship takes on many forms. For our ancestors, it was all about the sacrifices. For the later rabbis it was all about observance and the performance of mitzvot. For Reform Judaism, for the longest time it was an emphasis on Tikkun Olam, repairing the world. We are now in a time of transformation again where we get to define what worship means to us. It can certainly be in the synagogue and in the sanctuary, but more and more, it also means to walk in God’s ways wherever we are.
Rabbi Benjamin Sharff
This week, with Parshat Vayikra, we begin the book of Leviticus. The first word of the book, and the one that also gives this Torah portion and indeed this entire book of the Torah its Hebrew name is, “Vayikra” – He (sorry for the gender pronoun) called. The use of this word to start the Torah portion seems redundant. The first verse of Vayikrareads, “The Eternal One CALLED (Vayikra) to Moses and SPOKE (vay’dabeir) to him from the Tent of Meeting SAYING (leimor). The Torah is famously succinct, so why so many words that seem to say the same thing?
Most of G-d’s messages in the Torah are preceded by the words, “Vayomer” (He said), “Vay’dabeir” (He spoke) or “Vay’tzav” (He commanded). These are all words of authority. But Vayikra doesn’t have this connotation at all. Vayikra is an invitation to engage. The book of holiness begins with a sacred summons.
The word, Vayikra is written in an unusual way in the Torah itself. The aleph at the end of the word is tiny. Why should this be so? If the aleph were not there at all, the word would be vayikar – He encountered, chanced upon. What is the connection? Why make the aleph small? Some people experience holiness in grand moments or major life events. For others, it’s more subtle. It’s a chance experience, an encounter with the Divine, a “still small voice” – a tiny, silent letter aleph.
The book of Vayikra brings to mind both types of holy encounters and invites us in to find a spiritual path. According to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Leviticus is divided into three parts. The first is about the holy – more specifically sacrifices. The second is about the boundary between the holy and the world – the things that prevent us from entering sacred space. The third is about taking the holy into the world. Leviticus democratizes holiness so that it becomes a part of the ongoing life of the people as a whole, and not something that only Moses can approach. Later, when prayer replaced sacrifice, this process would get taken even further.
Holiness is about setting things apart for a sacred purpose. Vayikra calls us to live a life of sacredness – whether we are the person who sees G-d’s hand in everything, or the person who seeks to hear that tiny, silent aleph. Vayikra is a challenging book, it is difficult to understand, has moral difficulties, and is hard to relate to. But we cannot begin to approach it without first engaging with it, and with that first word, Vayikra, we are invited to start.
Cantor Sally Neff
With this week’s Torah portion, Parshat P’kudei, we complete the reading of the epic book of Exodus. The book began with the words, “V’eileh sheimot” – these are the names. “These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob.” A new king arises who did not know Joseph and the children of Israel become slaves. The book tells us of the birth of Moses, his rise to leadership, the plagues, the Exodus, the ten commandments, the sin of the golden calf, and finally the building of the Tabernacle – a portable sanctuary. The people leave Egypt a “mixed multitude” and over the course of their wanderings in the dessert will become the Jewish people.
The last sentence of the book of Exodus reads, “For over the Tabernacle a cloud of the Eternal One rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys.” By the end of this grand book of the Torah, we have not completed our journey. We are still in the wilderness, but now we have an accessible, visible, spiritual presence that accompanies, unifies, and comforts us.
The book began with the names – the foundation of who we came from, but it ends with the word, “journeys.” Our journeys are what will define us going forward. As Jews throughout our history, we have always been wanderers, but our connection to our people, our faith, our history, and our Torah have been the fire and the cloud that have united us. The names are our foundation. The journey is our destiny. The destination has never really been the most important part. In fact, even by the end of the Torah, we haven’t reached The Promised Land.
It is so easy to become caught up in our visions for our future, in goals yet to be realized, but we learn from the Torah that perhaps the purpose of the goal is to lead us through the journey.
Cantor Sally Neff