Enough with all this happiness! The Torah commands, and we dutifully sing, “rejoice on your festival… and be entirely happy” (Deut. 16: 14, 15). The Rabbis explain the original form of rejoicing to be the consumption of the “happy sacrifice” (קרבן שמחה) during Temple times; thereafter everyone should rejoice in their own way—by drinking wine, wearing colorful clothes, giving nuts and popped corn to the kids, and portions of food for the poor—and avoiding mourning during the festive days (b. Pesahim 109a). There’s a rule the masses can embrace!

Could it be that this all amounts to too much levity? This is one way to explain the medieval custom of chanting Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) on Shabbat Hol HaMoed Sukkot (or Shmini Atzeret—for a comprehensive discussion of the origins and explanations of this custom, see Rabbi David Golinkin’s 2006 essay on the subject). Among the theories for why this text is read is simply to complete the cycle of five megillot (the other four are better associated with their festive anchors), or because the title “Kohelet” might be associated with the mitzvah of “Hakheil” which was performed on Sukkot, or because of an opaque verse in Kohelet 11:2, “give portions to seven or eight,” which is associated with Sukkot in Bavli Eruvin 40b.

None of these explanations gets to the content of the book of Kohelet. Rabbi Isserles lists the custom without explanation (OH 663:2). However his student Rabbi Mordecai Jaffee offers an explanation in his halakhic volume “Levush.” He says that Sukkot is dedicated to rejoicing, and the book of Kohelet reminds us that true joy comes not from building wealth (“vanities”) but from satisfaction with what God has provided. This explanation matches a certain mode of pious thinking, though it runs counter to the biblical command to rejoice with the harvest, and the Talmud’s suggestions of rejoicing with wine, new clothes and sweet treats for the children. Continue reading →

Last week I saw a student near Columbia wearing a T-shirt that said, “Never apologize.” I cringed but did not criticize them directly. Perhaps they meant, never apologize for your feelings, or never apologize for your identity. If so, then ok. But perhaps they meant it pure and simple—never apologize, period. I understand the temptations of such a sentiment, but it is the opposite of what we are trying to convey today, when our liturgy is a repeat cycle of Selihot, expressions of remorse and petitions for forgiveness. How then does one apologize?

This semester I am teaching a course on the laws of prayer, drawing mostly on the great code of Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, and of Rabbi Yosef Karo, the Shulhan Arukh. On Monday we focused on the laws of Yom Kippur in order to prepare for this holiest of days. These codes detail the protocol for confession, whether of the high priest in the Holy of Holies, which we will dwell on during the Avodah service soon, or of simple Jews who have wronged God, or one another. An essential component of the process of restoring one’s relationship is to acknowledge precisely what one has done wrong. To apologize.

Here is the established protocol: If it is another person whom you have wronged, then you must go to them and ask forgiveness. If they refuse to forgive, you go a second time, and then a third time, accompanied by three witnesses in order to publicize both your wrong doing and your sincere regret. If the person who was wronged refuses to forgive, then generally, the person who did the wrong is exonerated. The Talmud says to stop going, lest you wind up bothering the other person, harassing them almost, and thus draw them deeper into conflict and their own sin.

Usually three apologies should suffice. But what if the victim of this wrong has since died? What should you do then? The traditional Jewish answer is a bit unnerving. In such a case we are told to gather a minyan of Jews and go to the cemetery where the wronged person lies buried. Standing at their grave with the minyan, a microcosm of Israel, the person who did wrong confesses their sins in detail, apologizing to the deceased victim, and asking forgiveness. This protocol is explained in the Shulhan Arukh, Orah Hayim (the path of life).[1] According to the commentary Mishnah B’rurah, the person who comes to apologize must walk barefooted to the grave (וצריך ללך לשם יחף), as if to reduce the distance between the living and the dead, the guilty and the innocent. Continue reading →

The practice of hagba’ah, the lifting of the Torah scroll, is always dramatic, but especially when one can see unusual features of the scroll from a distance. This is the case with the poem Ha’azinu (Deut. 32: 1-42), which is presented as two narrow columns of parallel verse in phrases of three or four words. Scribes justify these narrow columns, and the visual effect is a pathway through the wilderness on which I imagine walking, bounded by hedges of holy words on either side.

Several of the phrases from this poem have made their way into our liturgy, and one into our halakhic lexicon—the rule that when three people have eaten together then one must “invite” the others to say the blessing after the meal comes from verse three, “when I call out the Name of the Lord, [you, plural] give greatness to our God.”

However, other verses are rather obscure. This year I am drawn to verse ten, which depicts God finding Israel like an infant howling in the wilderness (compare to Ezekiel 16:6 וָאֶעֱבֹ֤ר עָלַ֙יִךְ֙ וָֽאֶרְאֵ֔ךְ מִתְבּוֹסֶ֖סֶת בְּדָמָ֑יִךְ וָאֹ֤מַר לָךְ֙ בְּדָמַ֣יִךְ חֲיִ֔י וָאֹ֥מַר לָ֖ךְ בְּדָמַ֥יִךְ חֲיִֽי׃). Our passage says that God “found [Israel] in a desert region, in an empty howling waste. He engirded him, watched over him, guarded him as the pupil of an eye.”(JPS) The three verbs of the end of the verse are somewhat redundant which, as always, prompts rich rabbinic interpretation. Continue reading →

Anyone here from Kansas? Two weeks ago I made my first trip to Kansas City to give a talk about tzedakah at a beautiful synagogue there. Afterwards I stood in the parking lot, schmoozing with the rabbi about the 2014 attack on their JCC. Three people were murdered that April day by a neo-Nazi Klan member spewing vile anti-Semitic statements. As it happens, all three of his victims were Christian. Two belonged to the massive Methodist Church of the Resurrection, and one to a Catholic church. Yet this was very much an act of anti-Semitic violence.

I asked the rabbi, how has the attack changed your community? In many ways, he said. Look, see the stained-glass windows? They’re coated in bullet proof glass. See here, this is now the only entrance to our building. There are locked gates throughout the building. You met the armed guard when you entered, didn’t you, and of course, there are cameras. Some in the parking lot are high resolution, equipped to read license plates and report any suspicious ones directly to the police department.

That is all impressive, but similar security measures are playing out in synagogues and Jewish schools across the country and world—we are better protected than ever, but we still don’t feel secure. Which would we prefer—bullet proof glass, or better relationships with our neighbors, and a society less saturated with hatred and violence? Continue reading →

One of the greatest privileges and responsibilities of a rabbi is to train candidates for conversion to Judaism. Such people are often spiritual seekers, and their questions challenge teachers whose Jewish identity and practice are well established. Why do you do this? What do you believe? What does this text mean? Will this practice make any difference? Faced with such inquiries, it becomes harder for teachers to treat ritual as habit, and faith as dogma. The questions posed by converts, children, or adults who are first discovering the depths of Judaism are exciting to those of us who teach Torah, forcing us to reexamine our own beliefs and practices.

In a sense, the convert challenges their teacher to detach from group habit and encounter Judaism as an individual standing before God. This is a healthy shift of focus for people who are deeply embedded in community. But the opposite is also true—teachers of Torah must infuse their students with a sense of collective purpose and identity. It is wonderful to be a spiritual seeker, but if one’s journey remains solitary, that is not the Jewish way. Judaism is intended to be communal and cannot be fully practiced all alone. The conversion process therefore includes participation in communal worship, festivals, and meals, as well as learning about Jewish history.

For this reason, the Talmud instructs teachers to ask candidates for conversion why they want to join the Jewish people (BT Yevamot 47a). Don’t you know of our historic struggles? Only when the convert acknowledges the suffering of Israel and states that they are not “worthy” to share in it, are they accepted “immediately” and then taught “some” commandments. The Talmud’s examples of which commandments should be taught to the proselyte are surprising—we teach them about leaving the corners of the field, dropped and forgotten fruits, and tithes for the poor. Not Shabbat, nor kashrut, nor prayer, but tzedakah is the essential commandment for those joining the Jewish people, just as it was for Ruth (see Ruth chapter 2). According to this Talmudic presentation, the key to conversion is neither theology nor ritual, but social solidarity with the Jewish poor. Of course, as Maimonides hastens to add, we do teach them the principles of faith and the essential practices of Judaism, but first comes community (Mishneh Torah, Laws of forbidden relations, 14:1-2). Continue reading →

What do the Torah’s tithes have to do with us? Is there a straight line connecting verses that call for support of the Levite, stranger, widow and orphan to the forms of charity practiced today? Our portion includes an emphatic command not only to mitigate poverty, but also to help the vulnerable achieve satiety: When you have set aside in full the tenth part of your yield — in the third year, the year of the tithe — and have given it to the Levite, the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow, that they may eat their fill in your settlements (Deut. 26:12). This is a high standard, and quite distant from our current practice, but the Torah insists.

Back in Deuteronomy 14, a chapter focused on permitted and forbidden foods concluded with the command to share food with those most in need. There too the standard was to feed them to satiety, that the Lord will bless you in all your work that you do. This claim is reminiscent of Isaac telling Esau to feed him so that father might bless his first born son  (Gen. 27:4). Here too food is a pathway to blessing, but instead of “feeding” God at the altar, we are asked to feed the poor and vulnerable. Does this command apply only to field crops, or does it also cover salaries and capital gains? Continue reading →

What’s our position on mediums? Years ago in Detroit some in the Jewish community were drawn to a woman who claimed that she could channel conversations with their deceased relatives. Families who with my help had faithfully followed the Jewish traditions of hesped, levaya, shiva and kaddish were, some time later, meeting with her to check in with their loved ones. I get the appeal, but really? Do we resign ourselves to a “whatever works” approach, or speak out against practices that seem misguided?

It goes against the grain of our times to criticize others for their spiritual practices, no matter how strange they may seem. On a pastoral level I would never chastise a bereaved person who sought comfort in this way. And yet, when people would ask me, “Does Judaism approve of this?” I felt bound to answer honestly: Certainly not! Our portion warns the people Israel not to imitate such customs, including consulting ghosts or familiar spirits or inquiring of the dead (Deut. 18: 9-12). Instead, we are commanded, “You must be wholehearted (תמים) with the Lord your God.” (18:13) Continue reading →