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Sermon Shofetim 2024

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On the first shabbat of the month of Elul – the month when we Jews traditionally focus on an examination of or lives in order to intensify the journey of teshuvah – of returning to God – in preparation for the Yamim Noraim – the Days of Awe, we always read Parashat Shofetim.  This parasha, which forms part of Moses’ last speeches to the people of Israel, his ethical legacy to accompany them into the land into which he cannot go, includes important guidance for future leadership of the people –  the creation of a justice system for the Israelites; the limits of material power for future kings, priests and Levites; and a review of the laws of warfare.

Probably its most  famous line is

צדק צדק תרדף למען תחיה וירשת את־הארץ אשר־יהוה אלהיך נתן לך {ס}         “

Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the ETERNAL your God is giving you”

And this commandment has been a cornerstone of Rabbinic Judaism, which created a wealth of detail on the pursuit and maintenance of a judicial system for everyone to use.

The rabbis were also focused on what appears to be an extra word in the text. Tzedek is usually paired in biblical text with Mishpat – Righteousness with Law or Justice, but here we have a repetition – within the context of establishing a legal system – not of a judicial term per se, but of an ethical one.  One explanation is that the repeated word emphasises that the  pursuit of righteousness is one that has to be carried out with righteousness – in English there is  a phrase that “the end justifies the means”, but here the exact opposite is the case – no matter the rightness of your cause, how you accomplish it matters. And Ibn Ezra (12th century Spain) clarified further – the duplication of “Tzedek” refers to Justice without reference to the circumstances – whether it is to your own profit or your own loss, whether it is in word or deed, for Jew or non-Jew, friend or enemy – Justice must be pursued for its own sake. 

Our tradition teaches that this repetition of “Tzedek” is also an oblique reference to compromise. When in moral philosophy there are two positions that each hold true, each are “good”, and yet these positions clash, there has to be a balancing of the “goods”. All true ethical decisions involve balancing and weighing competing needs and benefits – for the individual and for society for example, and so rabbinic teaching uses this verse to mandate a compromise that is just. When there are two competing “goods”, one must work to find an acceptable compromise between them.

The third word of this verse, the imperative verb “tirdof”, that we must pursue Justice, is also taken up by our tradition. Justice is never to be taken for granted, but must be actively and continually created. In a human world driven by self-interest, it is easy to give in to  the temptation to bend rules, to benefit from the disbenefit of others, to skew our actions. Whether it be buying an item priced so cheaply that in no way could the worker have been paid a fair amount for their labour, or using our position to privilege ourselves or our family, all of us can fall prey to temptation. The pursuit of justice is an ongoing struggle. Rav Yonatan Chipman wrote “no person is “righteous” as a fixed quality of their being as a person.  Justice, truth, righteousness, integrity, are all the results of a daily struggle to do good and not to be influenced or tempted to depart from the straight and narrow.” We live our lives in aspiration to be better people, an aspiration that can end only with our death.

               Parashat Shofetim, named for the establishment of a series of law courts and judges, is actually more widely concerned with the whole of Israelite society and in particular with its leadership.  Bible has a way of being relevant to every society and every epoch, and the issues Moses addresses in this portion remain pertinent and significant for us today. Indeed, the behaviour of those who are put in positions of leadership in our day concerns us all. As in the famous curse, we are “living in interesting times”, where the leaders of many countries seem to be choosing dangerous pathways, ratcheting up anger and fear and hatred of the other.

               Here in Shofetim we have the rules not only for a legal system, but for the political leader – the King.  We are told:   “ If, after you have entered the land that your God יהוה has assigned to you, and taken possession of it and settled in it, and you decide, “I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,” then you shall be free to set a king over yourself” (vv14-15)

               The Hebrew is potentially ambiguous. Is it a commandment? or is it simply a recognition that people may want to have such a form of leadership even if it is not what God would prefer?

In part because of the histories recounted in the books of Samuel and Kings, and the weight of tradition that ties monarchy to messianism, many medieval commentators decided to include kingship into the 613 mitzvot of bible – a commandment to the Jewish people from God.

But there was one important medieval dissenter to this idea, one whose argument and whose writings on political theory have  become even more powerful in modernity. I refer of course, to Don Yitzchak Abravanel.

Maybe it was because he had held high-level positions in three different royal courts: Portugal, Spain, and the Kingdom of Naples, that his views on monarchy differed from many of his contemporaries. He saw at close quarters the dangers of unbridled power that was invested in monarchy. And as a grammarian he believed that any divine mandate for monarchy was at best a misunderstanding of the spirit of the texts.  For what it is worth, I agree with him on this.

Don Yitzchak insisted that the Israelites were not commanded by God to select a king and he made a linguistic as well as anthropological case for his point. And he took the idea further, from theological into political discourse.

He asked a question no-one was asking. Is a king (that is a leadership figure with absolute power) at all necessary for a State to run well?  He first offers, then disposes of the prevalent idea that the position of the Monarch is analogous to the position of God in the world, a figure who will unify the people, who provides continuity, whose role is to focus and underpin power, even if not to actually use that power.

He writes that a monarchy is unnecessary. While the biblical text shows God recognising that the people may want to have a monarch just like all the other people around them, God doesn’t seem particularly enamoured of the idea, instead it seems that God is allowing it to happen ONLY as a kind of bridge to a future society that would function quite differently, with every person responsible for the community. For Abravanel, the monarchy begins as a sop to public anxieties about leadership. And part of his argument is based right here in Parashat Shofetim. Because the text emphasises interesting limits set to the what the monarch will be able to do and to have. We read:  “[The King]  shall not keep many horses or send people back to Egypt to add to his horses, since יהוה has warned you, “You must not go back that way again.” And he shall not have many wives, lest his heart go astray; nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess.  When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll by the Levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere his God יהוה, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching as well as these laws. Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from the Instruction to the right or to the left, to the end that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel. (Deut. 17:16-20)

It is clear that Moses, in his final days trying to inculcate values to both build and hold the Israelite society together, also has a somewhat jaundiced view of monarchy. And he tries hard to limit the power and the hedonism and self-interest that may easily develop in the role.

Don Yitzchak Abravanel not only argues persuasively against any biblical mandate for a monarchy, he argues against any mandate for that type of life-time leadership, either inherited or acquired by other means. He maintains that not only is a monarch unnecessary, but that they are potentially a damaging form of leadership. And in his powerful commentary he offers another model of leadership that he believes would be much better – a government formed by a group of people, chosen for a brief period of time, who would come together to make the decisions required for the well-being of the society and the State. He wrote “It is not impossible that a nation should have many leaders who convene, unite, and reach a consensus and can thus govern and administer justice. . . . Reason suggests that . . . between the one and the many, the many should be heeded.”

               Now Don Yitzchak had seen absolute monarchy close up and understood its dangerous flaws. He also, on arriving in Italy, saw the republics of Florence and Venice, which operated outside the all-powerful Papal control, and which he saw had a series of checks and balances that allowed for good governance. So maybe it is no surprise that he had strong views on how leadership should be formed and how there needed to be an ongoing understanding of the needs of the community in order to provide appropriate governance.

               In the Nevi’im, the second section of the Hebrew Bible, there is developed a further model of leadership. There is, at the behest of the people, (and with a false start with the kingship of Saul), a hereditary monarchy that descends from David. From the time of Moses we already have an hereditary priesthood, of the tribe of Levi, with the High Priests descending from the line of Aaron. By the end of Deuteronomy, as we read today, there is a system that is not hereditary, but seems to be based on the knowledge, judgment and ethical reputation of its participants – the Judges. This system has roots right back to Moses’ father in law, Jethro, who advises Moses to set up a arrangement of courts so that Justice is never delayed. And of course we also have the individuals who challenge everything and everyone – the prophets – called to speak their truth to power. The prophets are each individuals, arising from no system or class or family, and who have no common background. Their role is to call for moral and ethical imperatives when these are being ignored; reminding the people of God’s continuing watchfulness for the people of Israel, even when God may seem to be very distant.

               From very early on Judaism teaches that good  leadership must come from all aspects of the society working together, each bringing their differing viewpoints and differing priorities.  There would be some stability and some interruption embedded in the model, some continuity and some evolution or even revolution. Leadership is not an absolute attribute – as even Moses found out –  there will always be people who challenge those in power.

The Talmud (Shevuot 39a) tells us that “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh”, meaning “all of  Israel are responsible each for the other”. The idea of communal responsibility, and of each of us being in relationship with each other, is fundamental to our society.  The passage goes on to remind us that if we see another person about to commit a sin we must intervene to warn and if necessary to stop them. We are not permitted to keep silent when we see injustice. The point being always that responsibility for our society does not rest with a small number of officials -even if they have been elected or appointed to roles with the oversight or status to govern. Responsibility for our society rests with us all. Each of us must step up to leadership.

Shortly we will be celebrating the Yamim Noraim, the festivals of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, traditionally the great days of Judgement when we take the time to look into our souls and examine how we are living our lives, and hopefully return to the ways of righteousness – Tzedek.  The language of the liturgy reminds us that God notices us, notices how we live our lives, notices both the good and the bad that we do. The fact that we pray in community, confess together in the first person plural to a list of alphabetical misdeeds, helps us to face up to our own behaviour and encourages others to do the same. We are reminded – repeatedly – of the fragility of our lives, of our impermanence, of our own mortality. And we are reminded – repeatedly – that we are not alone.

It sometimes feels – indeed in these last weeks and months it has felt most dreadfully strongly – that God has not noticed our pain, that our leaderships have failed us, that there is no righteousness nor justice in the world.

               I write this sermon on the day that the bodies of six hostages – young people who were so recently alive in Gaza – have been brought back to Israel for burial. The day when the pain within the Jewish world is so extreme one can scarcely breathe. Where is God? Where are our leaders? Where is righteousness?

               And I am reminded by a colleague that God still sees, that God notices and holds firm to the values of life and of peace and of human beings living together. And that our role is to manifest those values and bring them into the world. “Tzedek Tzedek tirdof “– Never stop pursuing righteousness, whatever the circumstances, however difficult the context.

              

Il primo shabbat del mese di Elul – il mese in cui noi ebrei tradizionalmente ci concentriamo sull’esame della nostra vita per intensificare il cammino di teshuvah – il ritorno a Dio – in preparazione agli Yamim Noraim – i giorni di soggezione – leggiamo sempre la Parashat Shofetim.  Questa parashà, che fa parte degli ultimi discorsi di Mosè al popolo d’Israele, il suo lascito etico per accompagnarlo nella terra in cui non può andare, include importanti indicazioni per la futura guida del popolo – la creazione di un sistema di giustizia per gli israeliti; i limiti del potere materiale per i futuri re, sacerdoti e leviti; e una revisione delle leggi di guerra.

Probabilmente il suo verso più famoso è

צדק צדק תרדף למען תחיה וירשת-הארץ אשר-יהוה אלהיך נתן {ס}         ”

Giustizia, giustizia perseguirete, affinché possiate prosperare e occupare la terra che l’Eterno, il vostro Dio, vi sta dando”.

Questo comandamento è stato una pietra miliare dell’ebraismo rabbinico, che ha creato una ricchezza di dettagli sul perseguimento e il mantenimento di un sistema giudiziario a disposizione di tutti.

I rabbini si sono anche concentrati su quella che sembra essere una parola in più nel testo. Nel testo biblico, Tzedek è di solito abbinato a Mishpat – Rettitudine con Legge o Giustizia, ma qui abbiamo una ripetizione – nel contesto dell’istituzione di un sistema legale – non di un termine giudiziario in sé, ma di un termine etico.  Una spiegazione è che la parola ripetuta enfatizza il fatto che la ricerca della rettitudine è una ricerca che deve essere portata avanti con rettitudine – in inglese c’è una frase che dice “il fine giustifica i mezzi”, ma qui è l’esatto contrario – non importa la giustezza della vostra causa, conta il modo in cui la realizzate. E Ibn Ezra (Spagna, XII secolo) ha chiarito ulteriormente: la duplicazione di “Tzedek” si riferisce alla giustizia senza riferimento alle circostanze, sia che si tratti di un profitto o di una perdita, sia che si tratti di parole o di azioni, per un ebreo o un non ebreo, un amico o un nemico, la giustizia deve essere perseguita per se stessa. 

La nostra tradizione insegna che questa ripetizione di “Tzedek” è anche un riferimento obliquo al compromesso. Quando nella filosofia morale ci sono due posizioni che sono ciascuna vera, ciascuna “buona”, eppure queste posizioni si scontrano, ci deve essere un bilanciamento dei “beni”. Tutte le vere decisioni etiche implicano un bilanciamento e una ponderazione di bisogni e benefici in competizione, per esempio per l’individuo e per la società, e quindi l’insegnamento rabbinico usa questo versetto per imporre un compromesso che sia giusto. Quando ci sono due “beni” in competizione, bisogna lavorare per trovare un compromesso accettabile tra di essi.

La terza parola di questo versetto, il verbo imperativo “tirdof”, secondo cui dobbiamo perseguire la giustizia, è ripresa anche dalla nostra tradizione. La giustizia non va mai data per scontata, ma va creata attivamente e continuamente. In un mondo umano guidato dall’interesse personale, è facile cedere alla tentazione di piegare le regole, di trarre vantaggio dai disagi altrui, di distorcere le nostre azioni. Che si tratti di acquistare un articolo a un prezzo così basso che in nessun modo il lavoratore avrebbe potuto essere pagato in modo equo per il suo lavoro, o di usare la nostra posizione per privilegiare noi stessi o la nostra famiglia, tutti noi possiamo cadere in tentazione. La ricerca della giustizia è una lotta continua. Rav Yonatan Chipman ha scritto: “Nessuna persona è ‘giusta’ come qualità fissa del suo essere persona.  La giustizia, la verità, la rettitudine, l’integrità sono tutti risultati di una lotta quotidiana per fare il bene e non essere influenzati o tentati di allontanarsi dalla retta via”. Viviamo la nostra vita aspirando a essere persone migliori, un’aspirazione che può terminare solo con la nostra morte.

               Parashat Shofetim, che prende il nome dall’istituzione di una serie di tribunali e giudici, in realtà riguarda più ampiamente l’intera società israelita e in particolare la sua leadership.  La Bibbia ha un modo di essere rilevante per ogni società e ogni epoca, e le questioni che Mosè affronta in questa parte rimangono pertinenti e significative per noi oggi. Infatti, il comportamento di coloro che occupano posizioni di comando ai nostri giorni ci riguarda tutti. Come nella famosa maledizione, “viviamo in tempi interessanti”, dove i leader di molti Paesi sembrano scegliere strade pericolose, facendo crescere la rabbia, la paura e l’odio verso l’altro.

               Qui in Shofetim abbiamo le regole non solo per un sistema legale, ma anche per il leader politico – il re.  Ci viene detto:   “Se, dopo che sarai entrato nel paese che il tuo Dio ti ha assegnato, ne avrai preso possesso e ti sarai stabilito in esso, e deciderai: “Voglio mettere un re su di me, come fanno tutte le nazioni che mi circondano”, allora sarai libero di mettere un re su di te” (vv. 14-15).

               L’ebraico è potenzialmente ambiguo. Si tratta di un comandamento o semplicemente di un riconoscimento del fatto che le persone possono desiderare di avere una tale forma di leadership anche se non è ciò che Dio preferirebbe?

In parte a causa delle storie raccontate nei libri di Samuele e dei Re, e del peso della tradizione che lega la monarchia al messianismo, molti commentatori medievali decisero di includere la regalità nelle 613 mitzvot della Bibbia – un comandamento di Dio al popolo ebraico.

Ma c’era un importante dissenziente medievale a questa idea, le cui argomentazioni e i cui scritti di teoria politica sono diventati ancora più potenti nella modernità. Mi riferisco, ovviamente, a don Yitzchak Abravanel.

Forse perché aveva ricoperto posizioni di alto livello in tre diverse corti reali: Portogallo, Spagna e Regno di Napoli, il suo punto di vista sulla monarchia era diverso da quello di molti suoi contemporanei. Vide da vicino i pericoli del potere sfrenato di cui era investita la monarchia. E come grammatico riteneva che qualsiasi mandato divino per la monarchia fosse, nel migliore dei casi, un fraintendimento dello spirito dei testi.  Per quanto possa valere, sono d’accordo con lui su questo punto.

Don Yitzchak insisteva sul fatto che agli israeliti non era stato comandato da Dio di scegliere un re, e ne sosteneva la tesi sia dal punto di vista linguistico che antropologico. E ha portato l’idea oltre, dal discorso teologico a quello politico.

Ha posto una domanda che nessuno si poneva. Un re (cioè una figura di comando con potere assoluto) è necessario per il buon funzionamento di uno Stato?  Prima offre, poi elimina l’idea prevalente che la posizione del monarca sia analoga alla posizione di Dio nel mondo, una figura che unifica il popolo, che fornisce continuità, il cui ruolo è quello di concentrare e sostenere il potere, anche se non di usarlo effettivamente.

Scrive che la monarchia non è necessaria. Sebbene il testo biblico mostri che Dio riconosce che il popolo potrebbe desiderare di avere un monarca come tutte le altre persone che lo circondano, Dio non sembra particolarmente entusiasta dell’idea, anzi sembra che Dio permetta che ciò avvenga SOLO come una sorta di ponte verso una società futura che funzionerà in modo molto diverso, con ogni persona responsabile della comunità. Per Abravanel, la monarchia nasce come una risposta alle ansie dell’opinione pubblica riguardo alla leadership. E parte della sua argomentazione si basa proprio su Parashat Shofetim. Il testo, infatti, sottolinea gli interessanti limiti posti a ciò che il monarca potrà fare e avere. Leggiamo:  “[Il re] non terrà molti cavalli e non rimanderà gente in Egitto per aumentare i suoi cavalli, poiché יהוה ti ha avvertito: “Non devi più tornare per quella strada”. Non avrà molte mogli, perché il suo cuore non si smarrisca, e non accumulerà argento e oro a dismisura.  Quando sarà seduto sul suo trono reale, farà scrivere per lui una copia di questo Insegnamento su un rotolo dai sacerdoti levitici. Che rimanga con lui e che lo legga per tutta la vita, affinché impari a riverire il suo Dio יהוה, a osservare fedelmente ogni parola di questo Insegnamento e queste leggi. Così non si comporterà in modo altezzoso con i suoi simili e non devierà dall’Insegnamento a destra o a sinistra, affinché egli e la sua discendenza possano regnare a lungo in mezzo a Israele. (Deut. 17:16-20)

È chiaro che Mosè, nei suoi ultimi giorni di vita, nel tentativo di inculcare valori per costruire e tenere insieme la società israelita, ha anche una visione un po’ strana della monarchia. E cerca di limitare il potere, l’edonismo e l’interesse personale che possono facilmente svilupparsi in questo ruolo.

Don Yitzchak Abravanel non solo argomenta in modo persuasivo contro qualsiasi mandato biblico per una monarchia, ma anche contro qualsiasi mandato per questo tipo di leadership a vita, ereditata o acquisita con altri mezzi. Sostiene che non solo un monarca non è necessario, ma che è una forma di leadership potenzialmente dannosa. E nel suo potente commento offre un altro modello di leadership che, a suo avviso, sarebbe molto migliore: un governo formato da un gruppo di persone, scelte per un breve periodo di tempo, che si riuniscano per prendere le decisioni necessarie al benessere della società e dello Stato. Scrive: “Non è impossibile che una nazione abbia molti leader che si riuniscono, si uniscono e raggiungono un consenso e possono così governare e amministrare la giustizia. . . . La ragione suggerisce che … tra l’uno e i molti, i molti dovrebbero essere ascoltati”.

               Ora don Yitzchak aveva visto da vicino la monarchia assoluta e ne comprendeva i pericolosi difetti. Arrivando in Italia, vide anche le repubbliche di Firenze e Venezia, che operavano al di fuori dell’onnipotente controllo papale e che, secondo lui, avevano una serie di pesi e contrappesi che consentivano un buon governo. Non c’è quindi da stupirsi che egli avesse una forte opinione su come si dovesse formare la leadership e su come fosse necessario comprendere costantemente le esigenze della comunità per fornire un governo appropriato.

               Nei Nevi’im, la seconda sezione della Bibbia ebraica, viene sviluppato un ulteriore modello di leadership. C’è, per volere del popolo (e con una falsa partenza con la regalità di Saul), una monarchia ereditaria che discende da Davide. Già dai tempi di Mosè abbiamo un sacerdozio ereditario, della tribù di Levi, con i sommi sacerdoti che discendono dalla linea di Aronne. Alla fine del Deuteronomio, come leggiamo oggi, c’è un sistema che non è ereditario, ma sembra essere basato sulla conoscenza, sul giudizio e sulla reputazione etica dei suoi partecipanti – i Giudici. Questo sistema affonda le sue radici nel suocero di Mosè, Jethro, che consiglia a Mosè di istituire un sistema di tribunali in modo che la giustizia non venga mai ritardata. E naturalmente abbiamo anche gli individui che sfidano tutto e tutti – i profeti – chiamati a dire la loro verità al potere. I profeti sono individui che non provengono da nessun sistema, classe o famiglia e che non hanno un background comune. Il loro ruolo è quello di richiamare gli imperativi morali ed etici quando questi vengono ignorati, ricordando al popolo la continua vigilanza di Dio sul popolo d’Israele, anche quando Dio può sembrare molto distante.

               Fin dall’inizio l’ebraismo insegna che una buona leadership deve provenire da tutti gli aspetti della società che lavorano insieme, ciascuno portando i propri punti di vista e le proprie priorità.  Il modello prevede una certa stabilità e una certa interruzione, una certa continuità e un’evoluzione o addirittura una rivoluzione. La leadership non è un attributo assoluto – come scoprì anche Mosè – e ci saranno sempre persone che sfideranno la società.

Il Talmud (Shevuot 39a) ci dice che “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh”, cioè “tutto Israele è responsabile l’uno dell’altro”. L’idea della responsabilità comunitaria e del fatto che ognuno di noi sia in relazione con gli altri è fondamentale per la nostra società.  Il brano prosegue ricordandoci che se vediamo un’altra persona che sta per commettere un peccato dobbiamo intervenire per avvertirla e, se necessario, per fermarla. Non ci è permesso tacere quando vediamo un’ingiustizia. Il punto è sempre che la responsabilità della nostra società non ricade su un piccolo numero di funzionari – anche se sono stati eletti o nominati per ricoprire ruoli con la supervisione o lo status di governare. La responsabilità della nostra società è di tutti noi. Ognuno di noi deve fare un passo avanti verso la leadership.

A breve celebreremo gli Yamim Noraim, le feste di Rosh Hashanah e Yom Kippur, tradizionalmente i grandi giorni del Giudizio in cui ci prendiamo il tempo per guardare nelle nostre anime ed esaminare come stiamo vivendo le nostre vite, e speriamo di tornare alle vie della rettitudine – Tzedek.  Il linguaggio della liturgia ci ricorda che Dio si accorge di noi, si accorge di come viviamo la nostra vita, si accorge del bene e del male che facciamo. Il fatto di pregare in comunità, di confessare insieme in prima persona plurale un elenco di misfatti in ordine alfabetico, ci aiuta ad affrontare il nostro comportamento e incoraggia gli altri a fare lo stesso. Ci viene ricordata – ripetutamente – la fragilità delle nostre vite, la nostra impermanenza, la nostra mortalità. E ci viene ricordato – ripetutamente – che non siamo soli.

A volte si ha l’impressione – e in queste ultime settimane e mesi l’impressione è stata fortissima – che Dio non si sia accorto del nostro dolore, che le nostre leadership ci abbiano deluso, che non ci sia rettitudine né giustizia nel mondo.

               Scrivo questo sermone nel giorno in cui i corpi di sei ostaggi – giovani che erano vivi a Gaza – sono stati riportati in Israele per la sepoltura. Il giorno in cui il dolore all’interno del mondo ebraico è così estremo che si riesce a malapena a respirare. Dov’è Dio? Dove sono i nostri leader? Dov’è la rettitudine?

               Un collega mi ricorda che Dio vede ancora, che Dio si accorge e mantiene saldi i valori della vita, della pace e della convivenza tra gli esseri umani. E che il nostro ruolo è quello di manifestare questi valori e di portarli nel mondo. “Tzedek Tzedek tirdof” – Non smettere mai di perseguire la rettitudine, qualunque siano le circostanze, qualunque sia il contesto difficile.

             

Naso – a sermon about counting and about what counts.

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Naso Sermon Milan 2024

There is a long standing minhag that we never count Jews.  When checking for a minyan, the tradition is to say “not one, not two, not three.. etc”.  Or else to use a verse with ten words in it, most usually:

 Hoshiah et amecha u’varech et nachalatecha ur’em venas’em ad ha’olam.”   Save Your people, and bless Your inheritan​ce; tend them, and carry them for ever.  (Ps28:9   Kitzur Shulchan Aruch 15:3).

Yet the fourth book of Moses, known to us as “Bemidbar” – “In the Wilderness”, may originally have been called “Humash Hapikudim” – the book of counting (Mishnah Menachot 4:3), and only later did Jewish tradition prioritise the story of travelling from Mt Sinai to the very edge of the promised land and name the book for the place where the people lived for 40 years till the generation of slaves had died out.

 Sefer Bemidbar opens not long after the exodus from Egypt. The Book of Leviticus is in the nature of an excursus – a manual for the establishment and practises of the Aaronide priesthood – so just a year or so after escaping from slavery Moses is told to count the number of fighting-aged men, from every tribe except the Levites. As well as counting for army service, the various tribes were given detailed instructions as to where they would be placed each time the people set up camp.   Following this census for military purposes, here in Parashat Naso there is the counting and detailing of the various different groups within the Levitical tribe, in order to organise the priestly duties and the ongoing work of the Tabernacle.

With two censuses in quick succession, it is no wonder that the Book is known outside the Jewish world either from its Greek translation “Arithmoi”, or its Latin name “Liber Numeri” – “the Book of Numbers”. The sheer amount of numbers and calculation in the first few chapters alone feels overwhelming.

Among the plethora of numbers, and the organisation of the people into numbers who might fight and numbers who might perform the ritual service,  there is a very odd phrase in the text that call out for our attention.

While the counting that is going on in such detail and with such care, we are alerted to the notion that this enumeration is not “normal” counting, in that none of the words we would ordinarily use for such an activity are used – God could have suggested for Moses to limnot, lifkod, lispor,  – all of them common words in bible for the act of calculating amounts.

Instead, What God instructs Moses to do is “Naso et rosh” – “lift up the head of…..”

Clearly, in the practical acts of calculating the population for particular roles, there is more than merely counting that is going on. The text describes the people who are being counted as being  counted in their groups – tribal groups, ancestral sub-groups. Yet at the same time, each one must be individually considered. Each one’s head must be lifted, their individual faces seen. They must be noticed.

The words “Lifting the head “ are used a few times in the census taking in the books of Exodus and Numbers, but it is also used in the bible for a number of different reasons – it is used to denote a restoration or recognition of status, as in its earliest use when Joseph tells Pharaoh’s cup bearer that his dream means that Pharoah will reinstate him.

 Other passages use the absence of lifting of the head as describing a form of submission  or that the lifting of their heads by enemies is an act of war (See psalm 83:3; Job 10:15; 1 Chron 10:8)

What ties these various passages throughout Tanach together is that lifting the head is about asserting oneself, about being seen. Those being counted might be part of a larger group – a small cog in a larger machine – but the words make clear that this does not stop the person also being an individual human being.

So in a census to assess the military capability of the people, or to assign the various roles of the priesthood – given that both activities need to maintain clear hierarchies and boundaries, and both operate on the margins of life and death – it seems particularly out of place to use the language of individuality.  Yet here is the biblical text calling out to us  as if to say– “each one of you that I am counting is a particular and unique human being”.

We are also aware that God has already warned Moses that counting the people is dangerous and could bring about a plague. So in the earlier census, each man of fighting age was told to bring a half-shekel coin as “an atonement offering for his life”. A half shekel, no more and no less, so that the object of the counting  was the coin, and not the human being. (ki tissa Ex 30:12)

When King David will carry out a census for military purposes – against the advice of Yoav – a plague does indeed break out with the loss of seventy thousand lives. (2Sam 24)

 Counting Jews is dangerous-  it may take away their lives.

Why should there be such a strong taboo against counting Jews? Right from the early promises to Abraham God has said his descendants would be more than the stars in the sky and the sand in the desert – too numerous to count.   And why should counting be done at one extreme by the proxy of a coin, and at the other by lifting the head of each and every individual and noticing them?

Tradition gives us many answers, always a clue to the reality that we have no certain answer.

The Talmud (Yoma 22a) The Gemara  cites the opinion of R’ Elazar that whoever counts the people of Israel transgresses a negative commandment, as it is stated: “The Number of the Children of Israel will be like the sand of the sea, which cannot be counted”. And Rav Nachman Bar Yitzchak writes, that he transgresses two negative commandments, for it is stated in that verse “which cannot be (1) measured or (2) counted”. – two different (and more normal) verbs.

The fourteenth century Spanish Rabbi Bachya ben Asher ibn Halawa (Rabbenu Bachya) had an interesting insight into this question. He points out that each person, while being individually counted, is separated from the community. This very separation is dangerous, making them vulnerable and alone. For him it was only as an integral part of the community that a Jew could be safe.

Ovadia Sforno, the fifteenth century Italian commentator also had a view – that the lifting of each head for the purpose of counting for either military or other obligation would mean that we would be noticing not only the individuals, but also by default becoming aware of those who could no longer be counted – those who had died in battle for example. By being counted “in” attention would inevitably be drawn to those not present – something dangerous for morale in wartime.

Using the phrase “lift up the heads of each person” when counting the numbers for communal purposes sets up a sort of paradox.  Counting people means both absorbing them into the greater whole and therefore losing their individuality,  while lifting their heads to count them means the precise opposite – valuing the uniqueness of each human being who is being counted.  But it is a paradox that shapes our understanding of being in community.  We are each of us valuable and unique individuals who have a particular and necessary role in the world:  in the words of Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav “The day we are born was the day God decided the universe could no longer exist without us”. At the same time, we must never separate ourselves from the community, for in doing so we lose our purpose and we diminish not only our own selves but also the power and safety of our community. 

We, the Jewish people, have been in a period of counting the omer, the 50 days between Pesach and Shavuot, which have just ended. We do not really know the purpose – is it days from Pesach and leaving slavery, or days towards Shavuot and accepting Torah?   But every night we have faithfully recited the blessing and counted off another day, another week.  And this counting has culminated in a festival where once again we replay the formation of our people, the relationship with God that is documented by the giving of Torah.

But in recent days there has been another counting going on, the days since the seventh of September have been days of counting without end. Counting the dead, counting the missing, counting the hostages and waiting for them to come home. We are lifting the heads and seeing the individuals, noting who is present and who is not present. Grimly aware of the void in our communities.

Pictures of the kidnapped and the murdered are being “lifted up” in public,  we have seen empty chairs around seder tables, the very public electronic markers of the increasing number of days of the hostages not coming home.  The images of those who have been forcibly separated from the community are seared into our consciousness. We count the days, we count the deaths, we count the people we cannot see and cannot know their fates. And indeed we are in a time of terrible tragedy.

Every individual caught up in this maelstrom of horror matters. Each of them must be noticed, their individual absolute value observed. No one should become irrelevant, or seen as cannon fodder, or collateral damage for a greater purpose.  Even while people are being counted for going to war, they are deliberately seen not as a number, but as a human being of intrinsic absolute worth. When a community no longer notices the humanity of all its component peoples, then it devalues itself and places itself in danger, just as much as it devalues and endangers the individuals within it.

For many people in Israel and beyond, our calendar is not showing us to be in the month of June, but trapped in the month of September, for many today is the 289th day of September. Trapped in the horror of a pogrom in the Land of Israel and trapped in the horror of a retaliatory war that is endangering the lives of so many people on both sides of the conflict. Both sides are trapped with a leadership that does not seem to recognise the value either of community or of individual human beings.

The bible understands the need for people of fighting age to be identified, and it understands that those same people must be identified not as an anonymous number but as full human beings with gifts and talents, hopes and dreams, relationships and emotions. It is no paradox in truth to see both the community and the individual while assessing strengths. It is the reality of communal responsibility at work.

After all these days of counting, of watching and waiting and reading and heartbreak, I have no words except to know that we must continue to lift up the humanity of everyone involved in this tragedy, to remain connected to them as we count the days, the people, the events. We are living in a human tragedy not a divinely ordained one, and the way through it is to remember the humanity of everyone involved.

Esiste un minhag di lunga data secondo il quale non si contano mai gli ebrei.  Quando si verifica la presenza di un minyan, la tradizione vuole che si dica “non uno, non due, non tre… ecc”.  Oppure di usare un versetto con dieci parole, di solito       

וּרְעֵם וְנַשְּׂאֵם עַד הָעוֹלָם בָרֵךְ אֶת נַחֲלָתֶךָ.  הושִׁיעָה אֶת עַמֶּךָ      Hoshiah et amecha u’varech et nachalatecha ur’em venas’em ad ha’olam”.   Salva il tuo popolo e benedici la tua eredità; curalo e portalo in eterno”.  (Sal 28,9 Kitzur Sh Ar15,3).

Tuttavia, il quarto libro di Mosè, noto come “Bemidbar” – “Nel deserto”, potrebbe essere stato originariamente chiamato “Humash Hapikudim” – il libro del conteggio (Mishnah Menachot 4:3), e solo in seguito la tradizione ebraica ha dato priorità alla storia del viaggio dal Monte Sinai fino ai confini della terra promessa e ha dato al libro il nome del luogo in cui il popolo visse per 40 anni fino all’estinzione della generazione degli schiavi.

 Sefer Bemidbar si apre non molto tempo dopo l’esodo dall’Egitto. Il Libro del Levitico ha la natura di un excursus – un manuale per l’istituzione e le pratiche del sacerdozio aronide – e così, appena un anno dopo la fuga dalla schiavitù, a Mosè viene detto di contare il numero di uomini in età da combattimento, di ogni tribù tranne i Leviti. Oltre al conteggio per il servizio militare, alle varie tribù furono date istruzioni dettagliate su dove sarebbero state collocate ogni volta che il popolo si fosse accampato.   Dopo il censimento a fini militari, in Parashat Naso si procede al conteggio e al dettaglio dei vari gruppi all’interno della tribù levitica, per organizzare i compiti sacerdotali e il lavoro continuo del Tabernacolo.

Con due censimenti in rapida successione, non c’è da stupirsi che il Libro sia conosciuto al di fuori del mondo ebraico con la traduzione greca “Arithmoi” o con il nome latino “Liber Numeri”. L’enorme quantità di numeri e di calcoli nei primi capitoli è già di per sé schiacciante.

Tra la pletora di numeri e l’organizzazione del popolo in numeri che possono combattere e numeri che possono svolgere il servizio rituale, c’è una frase molto strana nel testo che richiama la nostra attenzione.

Mentre il conteggio avviene in modo così dettagliato e accurato, siamo avvertiti del fatto che questo conteggio non è un conteggio “normale”, in quanto non viene usata nessuna delle parole che normalmente utilizzeremmo per un’attività del genere – Dio avrebbe potuto suggerire a Mosè di fare limnot, lifkod, lispor, tutte parole comuni nella Bibbia per l’atto di calcolare le quantità.    Invece, ciò che Dio ordina a Mosè di fare è “Naso et rosh” – “alza la testa di…..”.

È chiaro che negli atti pratici di calcolo della popolazione per determinati ruoli, non si tratta solo di contare. Il testo descrive le persone che vengono contate come se fossero contate nei loro gruppi – gruppi tribali, sottogruppi ancestrali. Allo stesso tempo, però, ognuno deve essere considerato individualmente. Bisogna sollevare la testa di ognuno, vedere i loro volti individuali. Devono essere notati.

Le parole “alzare la testa” sono usate alcune volte nel censimento nei libri dell’Esodo e dei Numeri, ma sono usate anche nella Bibbia per una serie di motivi diversi: sono usate per indicare un ripristino o un riconoscimento di status, come nel suo primo uso quando Giuseppe dice al portatore di coppa del Faraone che il suo sogno significa che il Faraone lo reintegrerà.

 Altri passaggi usano l’assenza di sollevamento della testa per descrivere una forma di sottomissione o che il sollevamento della testa da parte dei nemici è un atto di guerra (cfr. Salmo 83:3; Giobbe 10:15; 1 Cron 10:8).

Ciò che lega questi vari passaggi in tutta Tanach è che alzare la testa significa affermare se stessi, essere visti. Chi viene contato potrebbe far parte di un gruppo più ampio, un piccolo ingranaggio di una macchina più grande, ma le parole chiariscono che questo non impedisce alla persona di essere anche un essere umano individuale.

Quindi, in un censimento per valutare la capacità militare del popolo, o per assegnare i vari ruoli del sacerdozio – dato che entrambe le attività devono mantenere chiare gerarchie e confini, ed entrambe operano ai margini della vita e della morte – sembra particolarmente fuori luogo usare il linguaggio dell’individualità.  Eppure, il testo biblico ci chiama come a dire: “Ciascuno di voi che io conto è un essere umano particolare e unico”.

Sappiamo anche che Dio ha già avvertito Mosè che contare il popolo è pericoloso e potrebbe provocare una pestilenza. Così, nel censimento precedente, a ogni uomo in età da combattimento fu detto di portare una moneta da mezzo siclo come “offerta espiatoria per la sua vita”. Mezzo siclo, né più né meno, in modo che l’oggetto del conteggio fosse la moneta e non l’uomo. (ki tissa Es 30,12)

Quando il re Davide vuole effettuare un censimento a fini militari – contro il consiglio di Yoav – scoppia una pestilenza che provoca la perdita di settantamila vite. (2Sam 24)

               Contare gli ebrei è pericoloso: potrebbe togliere loro la vita.

Perché c’è un tabù così forte contro il conteggio degli ebrei? Fin dalle prime promesse ad Abramo, Dio ha detto che la sua discendenza sarebbe stata più numerosa delle stelle del cielo e della sabbia del deserto: troppo numerosa per essere contata.   E perché il conteggio dovrebbe essere fatto da un lato con la delega di una moneta e dall’altro sollevando la testa di ogni singolo individuo e notandolo?

La tradizione ci dà molte risposte, sempre un indizio della realtà che non abbiamo una risposta certa.      Il Talmud (Yoma 22a) La Gemara cita l’opinione di R’ Elazar secondo cui chi conta il popolo d’Israele trasgredisce un comandamento negativo, come si legge: “Il numero dei figli di Israele sarà come la sabbia del mare, che non si può contare”. E Rav Nachman Bar Yitzchak scrive che egli trasgredisce due comandamenti negativi, poiché in quel versetto si dice “che non può essere (1) misurato o (2) contato”. – due verbi diversi (e più normali).

Il rabbino spagnolo del XIV secolo Bachya ben Asher ibn Halawa (Rabbenu Bachya) ha avuto un’interessante intuizione su questa questione. Egli sottolinea che ogni persona, pur essendo contata individualmente, è separata dalla comunità. Questa stessa separazione è pericolosa e li rende vulnerabili e soli. Per lui un ebreo può essere al sicuro solo in quanto parte integrante della comunità.

Anche Ovadia Sforno, il commentatore italiano del XV secolo, aveva un’opinione: sollevare ogni testa allo scopo di contare per obblighi militari o di altro tipo significava notare non solo i singoli individui, ma anche diventare consapevoli di coloro che non potevano più essere contati, ad esempio coloro che erano morti in battaglia. Essendo contati “in”, l’attenzione verrebbe inevitabilmente attirata da coloro che non sono presenti, cosa pericolosa per il morale in tempo di guerra.

L’uso della frase “alzate le teste di ogni persona” quando si contano i numeri per scopi comunitari crea una sorta di paradosso.  Contare le persone significa assorbirle in un insieme più grande e quindi perdere la loro individualità, mentre alzare le teste per contarle significa esattamente il contrario: valorizzare l’unicità di ogni essere umano che viene contato.  È un paradosso che dà forma alla nostra comprensione dell’essere in comunità.  Ognuno di noi è un individuo prezioso e unico che ha un ruolo particolare e necessario nel mondo: nelle parole di Rabbi Nachman di Bratzlav “Il giorno in cui siamo nati è stato il giorno in cui Dio ha deciso che l’universo non poteva più esistere senza di noi”. Allo stesso tempo, non dobbiamo mai separarci dalla comunità, perché così facendo perdiamo il nostro scopo e diminuiamo non solo il nostro io, ma anche il potere e la sicurezza della nostra comunità. 

Noi, il popolo ebraico, siamo stati in un periodo di conteggio dell’omer, i 50 giorni tra Pesach e Shavuot, che si sono appena conclusi. Non ne conosciamo bene lo scopo: sono i giorni che ci separano da Pesach e dall’abbandono della schiavitù, o i giorni che ci separano da Shavuot e dall’accettazione della Torah?   Ma ogni sera abbiamo recitato fedelmente la benedizione e contato un altro giorno, un’altra settimana.  E questo conteggio è culminato in una festa in cui ancora una volta riviviamo la formazione del nostro popolo, il rapporto con Dio documentato dalla consegna della Torah.

Ma negli ultimi giorni c’è stato un altro conteggio, i giorni dal 7 settembre sono stati giorni di conteggio senza fine. Contare i morti, contare i dispersi, contare gli ostaggi e aspettare che tornino a casa. Alziamo le teste e vediamo gli individui, notando chi è presente e chi no. Siamo tristemente consapevoli del vuoto nelle nostre comunità.

Le immagini dei rapiti e degli assassinati vengono “sollevate” in pubblico, abbiamo visto sedie vuote intorno ai tavoli del seder, i marcatori elettronici molto pubblici del numero crescente di giorni in cui gli ostaggi non tornano a casa.  Le immagini di coloro che sono stati separati con la forza dalla comunità sono impresse nella nostra coscienza. Contiamo i giorni, contiamo i morti, contiamo le persone che non possiamo vedere e non possiamo conoscere il loro destino. E in effetti ci troviamo in un momento di terribile tragedia.

Ogni individuo coinvolto in questo vortice di orrore è importante. Ognuno di loro deve essere notato, il suo valore assoluto individuale deve essere osservato. Nessuno deve diventare irrilevante, o essere visto come carne da cannone, o danno collaterale per uno scopo più grande.  Anche quando le persone vengono contate per andare in guerra, vengono deliberatamente viste non come un numero, ma come un essere umano di valore assoluto intrinseco. Quando una comunità non si accorge più dell’umanità di tutti i popoli che la compongono, allora svaluta se stessa e si mette in pericolo, così come svaluta e mette in pericolo gli individui al suo interno.

Per molte persone in Israele e non solo, il nostro calendario non ci mostra nel mese di giugno, ma intrappolati nel mese di settembre, per molti oggi è il 289° giorno di settembre. Intrappolati nell’orrore di un pogrom in Terra d’Israele e nell’orrore di una guerra di rappresaglia che sta mettendo in pericolo la vita di tante persone da entrambe le parti del conflitto. Entrambe le parti sono intrappolate da una leadership che non sembra riconoscere il valore della comunità o dei singoli esseri umani.

La Bibbia comprende la necessità di identificare le persone in età da combattimento, e comprende che quelle stesse persone devono essere identificate non come un numero anonimo, ma come esseri umani a pieno titolo, con doni e talenti, speranze e sogni, relazioni ed emozioni. Non è un paradosso in verità vedere sia la comunità che l’individuo mentre si valutano i punti di forza. È la realtà della responsabilità comunitaria al lavoro.

Dopo tutti questi giorni di conteggio, di osservazione, di attesa, di lettura e di strazio, non ho parole se non quelle di sapere che dobbiamo continuare a sollevare l’umanità di tutti coloro che sono coinvolti in questa tragedia, a rimanere in contatto con loro mentre contiamo i giorni, le persone, gli eventi. Stiamo vivendo una tragedia umana, non divinamente ordinata, e il modo per superarla è ricordare l’umanità di tutte le persone coinvolte.

The Haggadah is a Book of Hope

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The bible commands: “Explain to your child on that day, “It is because of what God did for me when I went free from Egypt…” (Exodus 13:8).

On this verse stands the edifice that is the Pesach seder. The Haggadah fulfils the Mishnaic obligation (Pesachim 10:5) by including the phrase “B’chol dor vador chayav adam lir’ot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mimitzrayim. “In every generation everyone must consider themselves as if they came forth from Egypt.”

The phrase “in every generation” also appears in “vehi she’amda” – “in every generation there are those who rise up against us to destroy us” which is placed immediately after “Blessed is the One who keeps their promise to Israel”, and concludes that God redeems us.

The Haggadah expects complete and unquestioning faith in God’s redemption, even while reminding us of the continuing threats to our existence.

It’s easy to see the seder as an historical artefact, connecting us to our foundational story of the exodus and the beginnings of peoplehood, but a story nonetheless. Easy to gloss over the terror of the Hebrew slaves, the pain of the plagued Egyptians. We try to connect by adding modern glosses – oranges or olives on the seder plate, empty chairs for those prevented from joining a seder, reminders that the world has not radically changed. But how does one process the events of 7th October or indeed last weekend?  The continuing agony that shows no sign of redemption, the sense that we are all in metaphorical Mitzrayim?

How to express the multiplicity of feelings we are experiencing? Our own existential dread and the pain of so many innocent deaths on both sides? Our texts teach that God stopped the angels singing at the death of the pursuing Egyptians asking “My creatures are dying and you want to rejoice?” We take out drops of wine while reciting the plagues, to remember the suffering of others. But none of this feels to be enough in today’s world – the story has broken through into our reality and the current rituals need renewing.

We can repurpose some – an empty chair for a hostage; spilling drops of wine for the destroyed kibbutzim and for the destroyed cities in Gaza; we might write four more questions, describe four more questioners; for the invitation “all who are hungry come and eat” we could donate to services feeding the displaced. And we could create others – give blood, break matza (or two) into many pieces to recreate a different whole, rewrite shfoch hamatcha, instead asking God to pour love into our world.

Despite the texts of terror within it, the Haggadah is a book of hope. We have to find that hope.

(written for Leap of Faith, Jewish News, April 2024)

Whoever destroys a single life is considered to have destroyed a world

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Judaism teaches that the value of every human life is infinite, and the Mishnaic statement that “Whoever destroys a single life is considered to have destroyed a world. Whoever saves a single life is considered to have saved a world” has become a popular text for activists everywhere, most recently seen in the film depicting the work of Nicholas Winton.

This statement is found in tractate Sanhedrin, in the context of judicial procedures, to remind witnesses that their testimony could cause the death of the defendant. It is an anti-capital punishment device.

Derived from the idea that the first human was the progenitor of all human beings, this shared ancestry is developed immediately afterwards. We are told that the first human was created alone so as to maintain peace among peoples, none of whom could claim a more ancient or noble bloodline.  Which makes a controversy about our statement all the more interesting. The Mishnah was redacted by the second century CE, but the earliest surviving written texts we have are medieval. And some of these have an added word “miYisrael” implying that the text refers only to Jewish lives. Scholars debate which is the earliest version, but I am convinced that it is the universalist text that is the earliest formulation. Besides extant ancient texts without the qualifier, Rashi’s commentary and even the Quranic version which retains a universal meaning, it is the context of maintaining equity and equality among peoples with a single shared root that is so powerful for me. Instead of valuing “our own” more, it teaches that we have a common humanity that overrides any particular identity.

The film “One Life” rightly gives Nicholas Winton great credit for saving nearly 700 children and their future descendants – entire worlds indeed. But I cannot help feeling that in the glow of this telling we gloss over the many worlds that are lost. Winton himself keenly felt the loss of the final train carrying 251 children which was stopped from leaving on the day war was declared. Records of the Council for German Jewry meeting the Prime Minister show Jewish leaders desperately trying to save Jews already endangered in Germany. Keen not to embarrass the British Government, they limited their request to saving children, took all financial responsibility, and assured that most would emigrate . The result was the Kindertransport – separating families whose descendants were physically  safe but often psychologically traumatised.  It is heartbreaking to read how political and economic imperatives trumped human life then. And nothing has changed.

Saving one human life saves a potential world, but we should never forget that destroying one human life destroys a potential world. And the responsibility for that destruction weighs on us all.

Lo yit’pached clal. Be afraid, but do not allow fear to overwhelm you.

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In the song “a very narrow bridge”, we sing that the world is a very narrow bridge, and the important thing is not to be afraid.

It is based on the writing of Rabbi Nachman of Bratislav, but there is one crucial difference in wording – because Nachman did not suggest we should not be afraid. He wrote that we should not make ourselves afraid – we should not paralyse ourselves with the fear that can arise from our own creative imaginations.

Fear is a reasonable human response to situations that might be dangerous, or unknown, or unpredictable, or threatening. It is an ancient response that resides in the amygdala, deep within our brain,  which processes memory, decision making and emotional responses. When the amygdala triggers a fear response, it also sends messages to prepare our bodies to respond, to choose either fight or flight. Our stress levels, our breathing, heart rate and blood pressure increase, we become hyper vigilant.

Fear is what may keep us safe, remove us from dangerous situations even before our conscious brain can assess and decide what to do. Some fear appears to be inborn – babies will “startle” at a loud noise for example.

But fear can also be damaging to our wellbeing if we allow it to take us over. It can stop us from enjoying normal life. It can limit us and imprison us, distort our perceptions and our ability to engage with others.

Right now the Jewish community around the world is living in a state of hypervigilance, of heartbreak, of rage, of stress. We cannot begin to process the reality of the pogrom that took place on the 7th October within the land of Israel. We cannot yet comprehend the human cruelty that took place, the violence wreaked on the bodies of babies and children, young people who a few minutes earlier had been dancing at a peace festival, older people shot or burned alive in their homes, whole families obliterated.

Of course, one of our responses is going to be fear. The world has tilted on its axis. Things we thought were true and safe turn out not to be so. Friends may not have reached out to us, or maybe they reached out with statements that seem to deny the reality of the events, being  equivocal or “both -sides”, condemning Israel’s response while ignoring Hamas’ violence towards peaceful civilians. We see the media blithely reporting Hamas’ press releases as if they were certifiably true, and only afterwards, sotto voce, admitting they were not. We see the reality of the maxim that “lies can go right round the world before truth gets its boots on.” We see people we thought were critical thinkers speak up with the words of propaganda. We wonder at the interfaith organisations who choose not to say anything about the murder of Israelis and the violation of their corpses by terrorists. We see the news organisations that will not call Hamas terrorists, for “policy reasons”,  but who will talk of terror attacks in other, similar situations outside of the middle east.

Of course we will feel fear. But let us return to Rabbi Nachman who wrote:

ודע, שהאדם צריך לעבר על גשר צר מאד מאד, והכלל והעקר שלא יתפחד כלל

And know that human beings must travel on a very narrow bridge, and the rule, the important thing, is that one should not make oneself afraid at all.  (Likutei Tinyana 48)

               He used the reflexive form of the verb “to fear”.  Not “we must not fear”, but “we must not make ourselves afraid”, “we must not let fear overwhelm us or paralyze us” 

Rabbi Nachman is reminding us that we have choice. We do not have to give in to an ancient reflexive terror that we cannot control, but we can indeed take control of our fear, and we can mitigate it with reasoning, with thoughtfulness, with checking out our situation and analysing our risk.

It will take time for us to learn to function in our new reality post the simchat torah pogrom. It will take time for us to let our stress levels settle, to lower the physical and mental tensions leading to fight or flight. It will take time for us to learn to trust as we trusted before. We will have to mourn our dead, learn to live with the tragedy of lives so brutally ended, go through the many processes of adjusting to our new reality. But one thing we can do now, and we must do now. We must not make ourselves any more afraid than the situation requires. We must not give in to despair. We must continue to affirm life. We must continue to live fully, openly, Jewishly, humanly. In this way, we can control our own narrative and hold on to our own values. We will not be erased or diverted from the gift of our own lives.

The birth of Reform Judaism – two hundred years and a barmitzvah…

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Reform Judaism has its roots in the eighteenth century Enlightenment.  Around the time of the French Revolution the Jewish world opened up to the outside, European Jews were recognized for the first time as citizens of the countries in which they lived, and with the requirement to live in ghettos gone, the people could finally settle where they pleased, dress how they liked and follow the occupations that they wanted. Suddenly the freedom to think rather than to accept unquestioningly what one was told became a powerful force for change. As Gunther Plaut wrote “the Western Jew left his ghetto and tried to find his place in the larger society…could one continue to be a Jew and still enjoy the benefits of the great revolutions?..one would have to study Western culture, language and history, [learn about] the world one hoped to enter… Some chose this moment to  escape altogether and for a time it appeared as if the flight might assume epidemic proportions. The need to find modern forms for the ancient faith was a significant stimulus for the rise of Reform”(The Rise of Reform Judaism).

Where Reform Judaism focused to address this new thinking and need for modern relevance was on the message of the Hebrew Prophets. While traditional Judaism oriented itself to Halacha, the Reformers were directed by the prophetic tradition, its ideals and its values resonating with their belief that the world could and must be shaped by people’s ideas and their actions.  Leopold Zunz championed the modern study of Jewish history to see what could be learned from it to develop modern understanding.  Abraham Geiger also used history to show that Jewish life had always been one of continual change, with old practices abandoned and new ones introduced, all in order to keep Judaism alive and relevant. He suggested that observance and synagogue worship might be changed to appeal to modern people.

In 1810, in Seesen, Israel Jacobson, who had already created a school built on the Enlightenment values of egalitarianism and pluralism, built a synagogue where the services were accompanied by organ music, where men and women studied and worshipped together, where the liturgy stressed the congregational unity and was not only in Hebrew, and ethics were taught and discussed. The first service in the Seesen Temple was on 17th July. While we may not recognise – or like – some of the Seesen innovations, Reform Judaism has continued to evolve and grow, seeing itself as part of the millennial Jewish journey, with Torah as our foundation document, and we are dedicated to continuing to learn and study our sources. Reform Judaism has continued to see that serving God is something done not only through prayer or ritual behaviour, but also through ethical action to make the world a better place. It has continued to understand that the individual has choices, and that while many different people have many different truths, absolute Truth belongs only to God. Any answers we may have are  fragmentary, provisional, and can act only as pointers towards the bigger Truth. We have a dialogue between tradition and modernity, supported by a number of guiding principles that include valuing personal choice and authenticity, egalitarianism, inclusivity, engaging deeply with Jewish texts and traditions.  It isn’t easy to be a Reform Jew, and we are not practising Judaism lite – instead we are engaging in the age old practice of trying to understand God’s voice in our world, of bringing about a better world by our own efforts and so bringing God’s presence into our world. Each of us has a responsibility, an ethical imperative to act, to make our choices well. We cannot rely on just doing as was done before, instead we have to think, enrich our tradition with modern learning, engage actively with modern life and thought as well as root ourselves in our source texts and traditions. As a religious philosophy Reform Judaism contains all the uncertainty of any living and evolving thinking. We are constantly living the tension between our  eternal truths and values while at the same time holding an open and positive attitudes to new insights and experiences. More than two hundred years after Israel Jacobson began his experimental service in Seesen we can be proud of our history and our dynamism, both of which continue to affect our evolving relationship with our world. And it is our task to be part of the development. As Rabbi Tarphon said in the first century CE – a time of great reforming of Judaism after the destruction of the second Temple in Jerusalem – “It is not our duty to complete the work, but neither are we free to desist from doing it” (Mishnah Pirkei Avot).

What is Reform Judaism? An ongoing conversation…..

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paper written for a rabbinic conference on reforming religion

One of the questions we ask ourselves and repeatedly try to answer, albeit not with great success or satisfaction is:   – what is Reform Judaism? Rabbi Morris Joseph in his sermon at WLS asks the very same question at the turn of the 20th Century, saying “It may not be superfluous to point out that Reform does mean something. Not all of us, I am afraid, are very clear as to this point…Reform means a great deal more than the organ and no second day festival…Reform stands for a great, a sacred principle, of which these things are but symbols…it is an affirmation of a desire, an intention, to cling faster than ever to all that is true and beautiful in Judaism. ..Reform has, first and chiefly, to convert those who have ranged themselves under its banner to nobler ideals of living. This is the great truth which nearly all of us miss. Reform is not a movement merely; it is a religion, a life. …it is not merely the expression of a creed, negative or positive, but a pledge binding those who identify themselves with it to the highest ideal of conduct, to a higher ideal even than that which contents the non-Reformer.. “One might say that the emergence of Reform Judaism in the late 18th Century was a not a religious development at all, but a European lay initiative, arising from the effects of the Enlightenment. It began by ‘modern Jews’ challenging prevailing traditional religious beliefs and designing a form of Judaism that would enable Jews to be accepted both as individuals and as a group into European society.  [Moses Mendelssohn (1729-86), father of the Jewish enlightenment (Haskalah), more than any other forged a way of holding the two worlds together in a way that Spinoza(1632-77) had not been able or willing to do a century earlier ]

Rabbis only got involved much later in the mid 19th century, and by using academic study (Wissenschaft des Judentums) tried to formulate ideological and theological positions and to support the emerging Reform innovations.  It seems to me that that pattern has continued in European Reform Judaism – the continuing communal challenge to traditional ideas, the continuing desire to be part of the mainstream modern world, coupled with the rabbinic task of creating the bridges which allow for modernity to impact on Judaism without causing it to lose its particular flavour and perspective. 

As rabbis, ours has become the task of formulating the ideology and of co-creating the overarching principles that contain and maintain our Reform Jewish values. We take for ourselves the shaping and determining of the boundaries that retain our particular identity, while allowing for the diverse expressions of these principles that will emerge in different communities at different times.

There is a prevalent myth behind many of the challenges to the legitimacy of Reform Judaism that somewhere there must be an objectively authenticated Judaism, (orthodoxy). 

But any survey of the history of Judaism will instantly reveal that each generation responds to the needs of its time, adapting to their contemporary political, geographical and historical exigencies.  While it may take great pains to profess otherwise, classical Rabbinic Judaism is one long process of change, reformation and adaptation – even now.  The rabbinic dictum that Revelation took place only once and for all time, in the form of an Oral Law given simultaneously with the Written Torah at Sinai, and which is to be mined from the text only by the initiated who possess a set of carefully hewn hermeneutical principles, was a device that gave Jews, for many generations, the permission to read the text both exegetically and eisogetically, and thus to keep it alive and relevant.  It was a brilliant device, but somewhere along the line a distortion has appeared so that the notion of one given Revelation which is unfolded by the knowledgeable and trained elite seems to have become frozen, and with it congealed the ongoing and dynamic process of Jewish response to the world.  Scholars began to argue over minutiae rather than focus on the Reality the minutiae were designed to remind them of.   The purpose of lively debate became to prove right or wrong, rather than to increase the richness of the understanding.  And suddenly authenticity became something everyone sought uniquely for themselves, while denying it to others.                     

Progressive Judaism emerged as a reaction to this congealing of responsive Judaism.  Its innovative and brilliant insight was that of progressive revelation. Instead of there having been one total disclosure at the theophany which we are still unpeeling, it reframed the rabbinic teaching to produce the same effect with a different instrument. Progressive Judaism taught about Progressive Revelation – as each new person reads the text, there is a possibility of new understanding of the divine purpose.

Unlike classical rabbinic Judaism, this new thing was not considered to have been discovered or uncovered, as having an independent existence.  Instead we are clear that it is  the interaction between reader and text that brings it into being.  By bringing our own experience, our own values into our reading of the text, we bring forth a particular reading which did not pre-exist.  We emulate our Creator in this continuing act of creation. By language we cause new things to exist – we call forth new worlds and populate them.In the preamble to the Statement of Principles adopted in 1999 by the Pittsburgh Convention of the CCAR, is the comment “Throughout our history we Jews have remained firmly rooted in Jewish tradition, even as we have learned much from our encounters with other cultures. 

The great contribution of Reform Judaism is that it has enabled the Jewish people to introduce innovation while preserving tradition, to embrace diversity while asserting commonality, to affirm beliefs without rejecting those who doubt, and to bring faith to sacred texts without sacrificing critical scholarship”We like to use the language of tradition with modernity, continuity with change – we present ourselves as an evolving expression of the Judaism of the ages, so that in the language of Pirkei Avot, Moses may have received (kibel) Torah at Sinai (whatever that means); handed it on (m’sarah) to Joshua, Joshua to the elders, the elders to the prophets, and the prophets passed it on to the men of the great assembly – and we see ourselves in that chain of tradition, receiving something all the way from Sinai, taking charge of it in our own times.

The website for the Reform Movement tells us “It is a religious philosophy rooted in nearly four millennia of Jewish tradition, whilst actively engaged with modern life and thought. This means both an uncompromising assertion of eternal truths and values and an open, positive attitude to new insights and changing circumstances. It is a living evolving faith that Jews of today and tomorrow can live by”. The front page of the annual report for the Reform Movement makes much of the words “Renewing, Revitalising, Rethinking, Representing – Reform”.  The prefix re- meaning “again, back” is only added to verb bases  The Movement website presents five core principles: “welcoming and inclusive; rooted in Jewish tradition; committed to personal choice; men and women have an equal place; Jewish values inspiring social change and repair of the world”  Reform Judaism calls itself ‘Living Judaism’.  We see ourselves being in the continuous present – we were not the subject of a Reformation, once and for all, but are always in the process of reforming our theological understanding and its practical expression.  And we keep re-forming ourselves. Thus it is important that we have as healthy an interest in the process of how reforming takes place as we have in the content of our Judaism. So we have to ask ourselves – on what basis are we challenging the present and changing the status quo?  What are the ways in which we do this? Who is the ‘we’ who is deciding? How is reform happening?

The phrase ‘Living Judaism’ brings us to some interesting places. We recognise Judaism as a living system.  And let’s have some definitions here: Living systems are open self-organizing systems (meaning a set of interacting or interdependent entities forming an integrated whole) that have the special characteristics of life, in that they are self sustaining and interact with their environment. They are by nature chaotic. As Meg Wheatley says  “If you start looking at the processes by which living systems grow and thrive, one of those is a periodic plunge into the darker forces of chaos. Chaos seems to be a critical part of the process by which living systems constantly re-create themselves in their environment.” ….Living systems, when confronted with change, have the capacity to fall apart so that they can reorganize themselves to be better adapted to their current environment. She goes on to say “We always knew that things fell apart, we didn’t know that organisms have the capacity to reorganize, to self-organize. We didn’t know this until the Noble-Prize-winning work of Ilya Prigogine in the late 1970’s.  But you can’t self-organize, you can’t transform, you can’t get to bold new answers unless you are willing to move into that place of confusion and not-knowing which I call chaos.” (Meg Wheatley)

I would like to introduce to you some learning not from the traditional sources, but from the modern world of biology and complexity:

The first is the notion of a self organising system: Self-organization is the process where a structure or pattern appears in a system without a central authority or external element imposing it. This globally coherent pattern appears from the local interaction of the elements that makes up the system, thus the organization is achieved in a way that is parallel (all the elements act at the same time) and distributed (no element is a coordinator). In a self organising system the collective following of a few simple principles can lead to extraordinarily complex, diverse and unpredictable outcomes. 

One example is the way that birds flock in the sky. It can be predicated on just three simple rules:

Always Fly in the same direction as the birds around you

Keep up with the others     

Follow your local centre of gravity (i.e. if there are more birds to your left, move left. If right, move right)

The second is the idea of punctuated equilibrium: This is a theory that comes from evolutionary biology, which suggests that evolution is not a slowly progressive and continuously ongoing event, but that instead species will experience little evolutionary change for most of their history, existing in a form of stasis. When evolution does occur,  it is not smooth, but it is localised in rare, rapid events of change. Instead of a slow, continuous movement, evolution tends to be characterized by long periods of virtual standstill (“equilibrium”), “punctuated” by episodes of very fast development of new forms. Punctuated equilibria is a model for discontinuous tempos of change. According to those who study such things, “Self organised living systems are a conjunction of a stable organisation with chaotic fluctuations.” (Philosophy Transactactions A Math Phys Eng Sci. 2003 Jun 15;361(1807):1125-39.  Auffray C, Imbeaud S, Roux-Rouquié M, Hood L.)

Doesn’t it just define Judaism through the ages, and Reform Judaism in our world – A conjunction of a stable organisation with chaotic fluctuations. And these chaotic fluctuations that punctuate our history are the drivers of very fast development and change.I’m sure we can all think of the events – Abram living with his family in Ur Casdim until God says “Lech lecha”. Exodus from Egypt. Sinai. Entering the land; Destruction of first and then second temple, Exile and Return; loss of Northern Kingdom….coming closer to home the development of oral law, of synagogue communities, rabbis taking over from priests in the religious leadership, Karaites; Mishneh Torah, Shulchan Aruch, Expulsion from Spain and Portugal, Moses Mendelssohn and the Haskalah, large scale Aliyah from Russian empire; Salanter and the mussar movement; Hasidim and the lubavitcher dynasty; Israel Jacobson and the Seesen school experiment to name just a few.

The question I have now is – if we truly are a living self organising system, then we are not so much driven by our ideology or our tradition as we are a people whose structure develops without a central authority or external element imposing it. Instead what we become develops from the local interaction of the elements that makes up the system, – that is the people within Judaism. With enough impetus and enough individuals wanting it – or doing it -we become who we are in a way that is parallel (all the elements act at the same time) and distributed (no element is a coordinator). 

An example – Pesachim 66a – Hillel could not remember how to carry the knife for the pesach sacrifice on Shabbat. His response was “But,” he added, “things will work out, because even if Jews are not prophets themselves, they are the sons of prophets.” The next day, Shabbat Erev Pesach, these semi-prophetic Jews arrived at the Temple with their animals for the Pesach sacrifice. From the wool of the lamb protruded a knife, and between the horns of the goat a knife was to be found. Upon seeing this Hillel proclaimed: “Now I recall the law I learned from Shemaya and Avtalyon. This is the procedure which they taught me!So how do we hold on to the continuity / tradition we assert is integral to the change /modernity we bring.

Second question – If we do truly function along the lines of punctuated equilibrium, then what are the next things to punctuate our equilibrium? What will bring about the rapid development after our periods of stasis? Should we be looking out for them and encouraging them?

Third question – complex systems emerge from the utilisation of a few very simple rules. Morris Joseph knew what the rules were in Reform Judaism even if, according to his sermon, his congregation on the whole didn’t.  Firstly that it was “religious, and that its religious life must be expressed in public worship”. Reform Jews may be “less bound ritually and ceremonially, but are therefore more bound religiously and morally”Secondly that” in order to live, Religion has to adapt itself to the shifting ideas of successive ages”Thirdly, that while progressive Religion is a great idea, progressive goodness is a far greater one. Reform has, first and chiefly, to convert those who have ranged themselves under its banner to nobler ideals of living. Reform is a religion and a life”

What is Reform Judaism? An ongoing conversation…

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How do we know that we are Reform Jews?                                                                                

 I’d like to begin with what for me are two ‘given’ assumptions:                                                        

One is that Reform Judaism is religious Judaism.                                                                                         

The second that Reform Judaism is multi-dimensional. 

So:-

Reform Judaism is Communal as well as Individual.                                                                              

Reform Judaism is Universal as well as Particularistic.                                                                      

Reform Judaism is Traditional as well as radically Transformational.                                                 

Reform Judaism is Political as well as Spiritual. 

Reform Judaism has essential core meanings which we create and share, and at the same time there is no central system of control – modern Reform Judaism emerges from the relationships between the meanings we agree and share. This multi-dimensional view gives us both a direction in which to grow, and also a boundary.  We cannot make our decisions based only on one morality or ethic but always have to find a balance for the moment.  We always have to search for the meaning, rather than mechanistically to follow one fixed ideology.  In Reform Judaism every generation must challenge, must connect and re-connect perpetually.  Every generation must recreate tradition for itself.

Chukkat – Sermon for Lev Chadash 2023

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Sermon  – Chukkat Lev Chadash 2023

וּמִשָּׁ֖ם בְּאֵ֑רָה הִ֣וא הַבְּאֵ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר אָמַ֤ר ה’ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה אֱסֹף֙ אֶת־הָעָ֔ם וְאֶתְּנָ֥ה לָהֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃ {ס}

 אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את עֲלִ֥י בְאֵ֖ר עֱנוּ־לָֽהּ׃ בְּאֵ֞ר חֲפָר֣וּהָ שָׂרִ֗ים כָּר֙וּהָ֙ נְדִיבֵ֣י הָעָ֔ם בִּמְחֹקֵ֖ק בְּמִשְׁעֲנֹתָ֑ם

And from there to Be’er, which is the well where the Eternal said to Moses, “Assemble the people that I may give them water.” Then Israel sang this song: Spring up, O well—sing to it—  The well which the chieftains dug, Which the nobles of the people started, With maces, with their own staffs.

Here in Parashat Chukkat, forty years after leaving the slavery of Egypt, we are preparing for the transition of leadership from the generation who led the people of Israel on their long sojourn in the desert and beginning to look towards the reality of being a people living in their own land.   The deaths of Moses’ siblings and fellow leaders – Miriam and Aaron – are recorded. After the mourning rites are concluded, and Elazar the son of Aaron takes his place as High Priest, The  people once more “ spoke against God, and against Moses: ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? for there is no bread, and there is no water; and our soul loathes this light bread.’”  God’s response was to send fiery serpents which bit the people and caused a terrible plague, and the people recognised they had sinned against God and begged  Moses to  pray for the plague to stop. There follows a very strange episode where God tells Moses to create the image of a serpent from brass, set it on a pole, and that anyone who looks at it will be cured – the image still used as an international symbol for healing, having come into the pagan world through the Greeks as the “Rod of Asclepius.” (Asclepius, the Greek god of healing, is mentioned by Homer in the Iliad (circa eighth century bce) who may well have encountered it being worshipped by the Israelite and Philistine tribes living by the sea, who had promoted it into a religious cult which the King Hezekiah destroyed along with other idolatrous practises that had crept into Israel in the more than seven hundred years since the re-entry of the people with Joshua.

But lets leave aside this curious story in favour of another intriguing snippet of biblical text – the brief verses which are known as “the song of the well” I quoted at the beginning.

At the beginning of the exodus, Moses, Miriam and the people sang a song having crossed the Sea of Reeds and evaded the Egyptian pursuers – Shirat Hayam, the song of the sea. Later, in the book of Deuteronomy we will be treated to the final testimony of Moses to the people, written in the form of a song – Ha’azinu.    But here we are almost at the end of the journey and close to the borders of the land the people will shortly enter and settle, and here we have reference to another song. A song that is not the song of Moses, but the song of Israel.

In the Talmud we read that (Ta’anit 9a):  “Rabbi Yosei, son of Rabbi Yehuda, says: Three good sustainers rose up for the Jewish people during the exodus from Egypt, and they are: Moses, Aaron and Miriam. And three good gifts were given from Heaven through their agency, and these are they: The well of water, the pillar of cloud, and the manna. He elaborates: The well was given to the Jewish people in the merit of Miriam; the pillar of cloud was in the merit of Aaron; and the manna in the merit of Moses. When Miriam died the well disappeared, as it is stated: “And Miriam died there” (Numbers 20:1), and it says immediately in the next verse: “And there was no water for the congregation” (Numbers 20:2). But the well returned in the merit of both Moses and Aaron.”

Now both Miriam and Aaron are dead, and there is a question about who and what will sustain the Jewish people in the future. And this is the moment of change, the pivot from strong and almost parental leadership to something quite different – communal activity and responsibility.

Look at the introduction of this song: –   אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את

“Then the children of Israel sang this song”

The midrash (Yalkut Shimoni on Torah 764:26) notices the unique nature of this verse. “Rabbi Avin the Levite said: When Israel stood up to chant the song at the sea, Moses did not let them chant it by themselves, but like a teacher who recites a portion in Scripture with a student when s/he is young, so did Moses recite it with Israel: “then sang Moses and the children of Israel,” like a student who repeats after the teacher. But after forty years [in the wilderness], Israel matured and on their own proceeded to chant the Song of the Well, as is said, “then sang Israel” (Num. 21:17).

In other words, at the beginning of the 40 year sojourn in the desert, the people were childlike, in need of guidance and leadership, unable to take the agency for their own lives and their own choices. But now as we come to the end of the Book of Numbers, the people have matured, and are not only able but also willing to take responsibility for their lives.

The Book of Numbers – Bemidbar – has a clear narrative arc and trajectory that is quite different from the books that precede it. It begins with a census, (hence its more usual name of Numbers or its rabbinic name of Pekudim, of counting) but while the census is made in order to plan for military operations, it has very specific language –  

שאו את־ראש כל־עדת בני־ישראל למשפחתם לבית אבתם במספר שמות

“raise the head of everyone of the congregation of the children of Israel according to the families of their ancestral houses, count according to their names….

Each person is counted “bemispar Shemot” – named as they are counted. Each person is an individual and is known by name. The census is conducted not by Moses and Aaron directly but by tribal representatives, one from each tribe, each one a leader within the tribe.

So from the very first verses of the book, the leadership is being extended out into the tribes.  When the tabernacle is dedicated it is the chiefs of the tribes who bring the sacrifices, leading the midrash to infer that Aaron was distressed that he was not part of the ritual (Tanchuma Beha’alotecha 5 on Num. 8:2)and that his role was no longer central and unique but available to individuals.

Throughout the book there are stories of the primacy of individual agency rather than the supine following of a charismatic leader. There are of course stories of this going wrong – Eldad and Medad prophesying strangely in the camp for example, or Korach determined to say that everyone of the people of Israel is a leader and therefore Moses and Aaron have taken on too much leadership and should withdraw – but the point remains, the people are learning to take responsibility, to think and to act for themselves. They may continue to have leaders and clearly this is important – but the leadership is constrained in a particular way, not any more the charismatic demanders of followers, but people who have responsibility for the people they are chosen to lead. The trajectory will of course continue – through to the demand for a monarchy and the choice of handsome Saul who failed to enact God’s will for the people, and of course we sometimes continue to choose inept or self-aggrandising leaders and we continue to pay the price. The populist “strong men” chosen by many nations and peoples – not only our own – are inevitably infantilisers and limiters of the freedoms and choices of people who choose them.

But back to the song of the well, this short recorded text hinting at a much longer poem. We are almost at the borders of the land of Israel, the long wait is about to be over, the next phase is on the horizon. And the people sing their song without permission or mention of any leader. We are reminded – quite deliberately so – that the relationship of the people with God is not contingent on its leadership. There is no mediator between the two parties. God is supporting the people and the people know this. They are ready to take this relationship further on their own terms and for themselves, no matter how charismatic or forceful the leadership may be. There are some things a leader is necessary for, and others that are – and that have to be – the choices of adult human beings.

The people sing to the well, they call forth the life giving water for themselves. They remind themselves that this well has been created by the history of their own people, the hard work of their ancestors. This well belongs to them, not as a miracle, but as the product of the relationship they have forged over time, and for themselves with God.

Now when they are poised to take the land they have yearned for for so long, they are ready and able to do so. Unlike the beginning of their journey when they saw themselves as weak and vulnerable and unable to take their destiny in their own hands, now they are fully able to take the next steps.

They have learned that the well can be dug by themselves. That the resources they need are available if they search them out and claim them. That the living waters that Miriam had provided for them miraculously are in fact living waters that they themselves can create.

The book of Numbers is sometimes understood to have originally been the final book of Moses – the story stops with Joshua taking on the mantle of leadership and the people poised to take the final steps of the journey.

In order to do this they need to have confidence not only in God and their mission, but also – crucially-  in themselves and their own agency and responsibility. The song of the well tells us that they have transformed themselves over the generation in the desert and they are ready.

The future awaits…

Sermone – Chukkat Lev Chadash 2023

וּמִשָּׁ֖ם בְּאֵ֑רָה הִ֣וא הַבְּאֵ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר אָמַ֤ר ה’ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה אֱסֹף֙ אֶת-הָעָ֔ם וְאֶתְּנָ֥ה לָהֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃ {ס}

 אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת-הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את עֲלִ֥י בְאֵ֖ר עֱנוּ-לָֽהּ׃ בְּאֵ֞ר חֲפָר֣וּהָ שָׂרִ֗ים כָּר֙וּהָ֙ נְדִיבֵ֣י הָעָ֔ם בִּמְחֹקֵ֖ק בְּמִשְׁעֲנֹתָ֑ם

E da lì a Be’er, che è il pozzo dove l’Eterno disse a Mosè: “Raduna il popolo perché io dia loro dell’acqua”. Allora Israele intonò questo canto: Sorgete, o pozzo – cantate ad esso – il pozzo che i capi hanno scavato, che i nobili del popolo hanno avviato, con le mazze, con i loro bastoni”.

Qui, in Parashat Chukkat, quarant’anni dopo aver lasciato la schiavitù dell’Egitto, ci prepariamo al passaggio di consegne dalla generazione che ha guidato il popolo d’Israele nel lungo soggiorno nel deserto e iniziamo a guardare alla realtà di essere un popolo che vive nella propria terra.   Vengono registrate le morti dei fratelli di Mosè e dei loro compagni di guida, Miriam e Aronne. Dopo che i riti di lutto sono stati conclusi e Elazar, figlio di Aronne, ha preso il suo posto come Sommo Sacerdote, il popolo ancora una volta “parlò contro Dio e contro Mosè: “Perché ci hai fatto uscire dall’Egitto per farci morire nel deserto? Perché non c’è pane e non c’è acqua; e la nostra anima detesta questo pane leggero””.  La risposta di Dio fu l’invio di serpenti di fuoco che mordevano il popolo e causavano una terribile piaga; il popolo riconobbe di aver peccato contro Dio e pregò Mosè di pregare affinché la piaga cessasse. Segue un episodio molto strano in cui Dio dice a Mosè di creare l’immagine di un serpente di ottone, di metterla su un’asta e che chiunque la guardi sarà guarito – l’immagine è ancora usata come simbolo internazionale di guarigione, essendo entrata nel mondo pagano attraverso i greci come “verga di Asclepio”. (Asclepio, il dio greco della guarigione, è citato da Omero nell’Iliade (circa ottavo secolo a.C.), che potrebbe averla incontrata adorata dalle tribù israelite e filistee che vivevano in riva al mare, che l’avevano promossa in un culto religioso che il re Ezechia distrusse insieme ad altre pratiche idolatriche che si erano insinuate in Israele negli oltre settecento anni trascorsi dal rientro del popolo con Giosuè.

Ma lasciamo da parte questa curiosa storia a favore di un altro intrigante frammento di testo biblico: i brevi versetti noti come “il canto del pozzo” che ho citato all’inizio.

All’inizio dell’esodo, Mosè, Miriam e il popolo intonarono un canto dopo aver attraversato il Mare dei Giunchi e aver eluso gli inseguitori egiziani: Shirat Hayam, il canto del mare. Più tardi, nel libro del Deuteronomio, ci sarà la testimonianza finale di Mosè al popolo, scritta sotto forma di canto – Ha’azinu.    Ma qui siamo quasi alla fine del viaggio e vicini ai confini della terra in cui il popolo entrerà e si stabilirà tra poco, e qui abbiamo un riferimento a un altro canto. Un canto che non è il canto di Mosè, ma il canto di Israele.

Nel Talmud leggiamo che (Ta’anit 9a):  “Rabbi Yosei, figlio di Rabbi Yehuda, dice: Tre buoni sostenitori sorsero per il popolo ebraico durante l’esodo dall’Egitto, e sono: Mosè, Aronne e Miriam. E tre buoni doni furono dati dal Cielo attraverso la loro agenzia, e questi sono: Il pozzo d’acqua, la colonna di nuvola e la manna. E approfondisce: Il pozzo fu dato al popolo ebraico per merito di Miriam; la colonna di nuvola per merito di Aronne e la manna per merito di Mosè. Quando Miriam morì, il pozzo scomparve, come si legge: “E Miriam vi morì” (Numeri 20:1), e subito dopo si legge: “E non c’era acqua per la comunità” (Numeri 20:2). Ma il pozzo tornò per merito di Mosè e di Aronne”.

Ora sia Miriam che Aronne sono morti e ci si chiede chi e cosa sosterrà il popolo ebraico in futuro. Questo è il momento del cambiamento, il passaggio da una leadership forte e quasi parentale a qualcosa di molto diverso: l’attività e la responsabilità comunitaria.

Guardate l’introduzione di questa canzone: – אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת-הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את

“Allora i figli di Israele intonarono questo canto”.

Il midrash (Yalkut Shimoni su Torah 764:26) nota la natura unica di questo versetto. “Rabbi Avin il levita disse: Quando Israele si alzò per cantare il canto sul mare, Mosè non lo lasciò cantare da solo, ma come un insegnante che recita una parte della Scrittura con un allievo quando è giovane, così Mosè lo recitò con Israele”: “allora cantarono Mosè e i figli d’Israele”, come un allievo che ripete dopo l’insegnante. Ma dopo quarant’anni [nel deserto], Israele maturò e procedette da solo a cantare il Canto del Pozzo, come si dice: “allora cantò Israele” (Num. 21:17).

In altre parole, all’inizio dei 40 anni di permanenza nel deserto, il popolo era infantile, bisognoso di una guida e di un comando, incapace di assumersi la responsabilità della propria vita e delle proprie scelte. Ma ora, alla fine del Libro dei Numeri, il popolo è maturato e non solo è in grado, ma anche disposto ad assumersi la responsabilità della propria vita.

Il Libro dei Numeri – Bemidbar – ha un chiaro arco narrativo e una traiettoria molto diversa dai libri che lo precedono. Inizia con un censimento (da cui il nome più usuale di Numeri o il nome rabbinico di Pekudim, di conteggio), ma mentre il censimento è fatto per pianificare le operazioni militari, ha un linguaggio molto specifico – . 

שאו את-ראש כל-עדת בני-ישראל למשפחתם לבית אבתם במספר שמות

“alza la testa di tutti i membri della comunità dei figli d’Israele secondo le famiglie delle loro case d’origine, conta secondo i loro nomi….

Ogni persona viene contata “bemispar Shemot”, cioè viene chiamata per nome mentre viene contata. Ogni persona è un individuo ed è conosciuta per nome. Il censimento non è condotto direttamente da Mosè e Aronne, ma dai rappresentanti delle tribù, uno per ogni tribù, ognuno dei quali è un leader all’interno della tribù.

Quindi, fin dai primi versetti del libro, la leadership viene estesa alle tribù.  Quando il tabernacolo viene dedicato, sono i capi delle tribù a portare i sacrifici, il che porta il midrash a dedurre che Aronne era angosciato dal fatto di non far parte del rituale (Tanchuma Beha’alotecha 5 su Num. 8,2) e che il suo ruolo non era più centrale e unico ma a disposizione dei singoli.

In tutto il libro ci sono storie che mostrano il primato dell’iniziativa individuale piuttosto che il seguire supinamente un leader carismatico. Naturalmente ci sono storie in cui ciò va storto – Eldad e Medad che profetizzano in modo strano nell’accampamento, per esempio, o Korach deciso a dire che ogni membro del popolo d’Israele è un leader e quindi Mosè e Aronne hanno assunto troppa leadership e dovrebbero ritirarsi – ma il punto rimane, il popolo sta imparando ad assumersi la responsabilità, a pensare e ad agire per se stesso. Potranno continuare ad avere dei leader, e chiaramente questo è importante, ma la leadership è limitata in un modo particolare: non più carismatici che chiedono seguaci, ma persone che hanno la responsabilità del popolo che sono state scelte per guidare. La traiettoria continuerà, naturalmente, fino alla richiesta di una monarchia e alla scelta del bel Saul, che non riuscì a mettere in atto la volontà di Dio per il popolo, e naturalmente continuiamo a scegliere leader inetti o autocelebrativi e continuiamo a pagarne il prezzo. Gli “uomini forti” populisti scelti da molte nazioni e popoli – non solo il nostro – sono inevitabilmente infantilizzatori e limitatori delle libertà e delle scelte delle persone che li scelgono.

Ma torniamo al canto del pozzo, questo breve testo registrato che allude a una poesia molto più lunga. Siamo quasi ai confini della terra d’Israele, la lunga attesa sta per finire, la fase successiva è all’orizzonte. E il popolo intona il suo canto senza il permesso o la menzione di un leader. Ci viene ricordato – volutamente – che il rapporto del popolo con Dio non dipende dalla sua guida. Non c’è nessun mediatore tra le due parti. Dio sostiene il popolo e il popolo lo sa. È pronto a portare avanti questa relazione alle proprie condizioni e per se stesso, a prescindere da quanto carismatica o forte possa essere la leadership. Ci sono cose per cui un leader è necessario, e altre che sono – e devono essere – scelte di esseri umani adulti.

Il popolo canta al pozzo, invoca per sé l’acqua che dà la vita. Ricordano a se stessi che questo pozzo è stato creato dalla storia del loro popolo, dal duro lavoro dei loro antenati. Questo pozzo appartiene a loro, non come un miracolo, ma come il prodotto del rapporto che hanno instaurato nel tempo e per se stessi con Dio.

Ora, quando sono pronti a conquistare la terra che hanno desiderato per tanto tempo, sono pronti e in grado di farlo. A differenza dell’inizio del loro viaggio, quando si vedevano deboli e vulnerabili e incapaci di prendere in mano il proprio destino, ora sono pienamente in grado di compiere i passi successivi.

Hanno imparato che il pozzo può essere scavato da soli. Che le risorse di cui hanno bisogno sono disponibili se le cercano e le reclamano. Che le acque vive che Miriam aveva miracolosamente fornito loro sono in realtà acque vive che essi stessi possono creare.

Il libro dei Numeri è talvolta inteso come il libro finale di Mosè: la storia si ferma con Giosuè che assume il mantello della guida e il popolo pronto a compiere gli ultimi passi del viaggio.

Per farlo, deve avere fiducia non solo in Dio e nella sua missione, ma anche – cosa fondamentale – in se stesso e nella propria agenzia e responsabilità. Il canto del pozzo ci dice che si sono trasformati nel corso della generazione nel deserto e sono pronti.

Il futuro li attende…

Sermon at Lev Chadash: parashat bemidbar and hachnasat sefer torah May 2023

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Bemidbar Lev Chadash May 2023

Sefer Bemidbar begins with a strangely precise location in time and place:

  וַיְדַבֵּר יְהוָה אֶל-מֹשֶׁה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי, בְּאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד:  בְּאֶחָד לַחֹדֶשׁ הַשֵּׁנִי בַּשָּׁנָה הַשֵּׁנִית, לְצֵאתָם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם–לֵאמֹר.

1 And the Eternal spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, in the tent of meeting, on the first day of the second month, in the second year after they were come out of the land of Egypt, saying:

The effect is rather like the first lines of a ketubah, a marriage contract, which details the date and the place of marriage very precisely, before going on to record the terms of the agreement between the two parties, something which the mystical tradition develops, seeing Shavuot as the wedding between God and Israel, where the Torah is the ketubah – the covenantal document.

And yet this precision masks something else – we simply don’t know where the conversation took place exactly – Midbar Sinai, the wilderness of Sinai – is by definition uncharted land.

The book is called  the book of Numbers – to reflect the two censuses of men of military age that take place within it, a title given in the Greek translation (Septuagint) and carried over into other biblical translations, but its Hebrew name gives us a different perspective which Jewish tradition finds to be the most important way of seeing the narrative – BaMidbar – in the wilderness.

Wilderness – it conjures images of deserted wasteland, a place of emptiness and of silence. And yet the word Midbar conjures the opposite. Derived from the verbal root “Daled, Veit, Reish” , its “sister” words from the same root include “diber”– to speak, tell, or promise,  Davar – a matter or a thing, and also – though less frequently – to arrange, to command, to appoint, to commune, to guide….

Lots goes on in the Midbar, it is a multi-vocal sort of place, brimming with possibilities and with material realities – not really a wilderness at all.

There is much rabbinic material that speaks to the Torah being given in midbar – in territory that belongs to no one and to everyone. Midbar is universal space, so the giving of Torah within it is a reminder that God’s word is universal.

Why was the Torah not given in the land of Israel?  In order that the nations of the world shall not say: “Because it was given in Israel’s land, we do not accept it.”  And lest others say: “In my territory, the Torah was given and so only belongs to me.”  ….“Therefore, the Torah was given in the desert, publicly and openly, in a place belonging to no one.

To three things the Torah is likened: to the desert, to fire, and to water. This is to tell you that just as these three things are free to all who come into the world, so also are the words of the Torah free to all who come into the world” (Mekhilta B’Chodesh 5).

We were formed as a people in the desert. The torah documents the process from Egypt to the borders of Israel: the sloughing off of slavery, the evolving of structures such as the priesthood to give us focus and religious leadership, the development of social codes enabling us to form a coherent community with shared values and shared focus.  And most importantly our desert formation gave us a particular framework through which to live – in the desert there is no need for the accumulation of material goods, “it is the place of nomads who have that which they need, and all they need is the essentials and not the extra belongings…life in the desert is preparation for a life of freedom” (Erich Fromm). And instead of attending to the acquisition of material goods, something else becomes our treasured possession – the Torah. 

The midrash gives us the reason that God led us in the desert for forty years “Said the Blessed Holy One, “if I lead them directly, then every person will take possession of their field and their vineyard and will work in them, and not engage in Torah. Instead I will lead them through the midbar, where they will eat the manna, and drink the water of the wells (of Miriam) and the Torah will embed into their bodies” (Midrash Tanchuma, Beshallach)

In the Midbar we were given Torah, we received Torah, we absorbed Torah. We became a people of Torah. The name of this book reminds us of our desert formation, nomadic and without possessions, we created ourselves through Torah.

Later in the book we read about part of the journey the people went on to take

וּמִשָּׁ֖ם בְּאֵ֑רָה הִ֣וא הַבְּאֵ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר אָמַ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה אֱסֹף֙ אֶת־הָעָ֔ם וְאֶתְּנָ֥ה לָהֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃ {ס}         אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את עֲלִ֥י בְאֵ֖ר עֱנוּ־לָֽהּ׃

…….וּמִמִּדְבָּ֖ר מַתָּנָֽה׃    וּמִמַּתָּנָ֖ה נַחֲלִיאֵ֑ל וּמִנַּחֲלִיאֵ֖ל בָּמֽוֹת׃

And from there [they went ] to Be er, which is the well where God said to Moses, “Assemble the people that I may give them water.” Then Israel sang this song: Spring up, O well—sing to it— …..And from Midbar to Mattanah, and from Mattanah to Nahaliel, and from Nahaliel to Bamot…. (Num 21)

This text frames our relationship with Torah. Mattanah is a place name, but it also means “a gift”. Nahaliel means a “wadi of God” – a valley through which water flows, but the root of the word can also mean an inheritance;  and Bamot means high places.

In Talmud we read a homily using this sequencing:

“Rava said: Once a person renders himself like a wilderness, deserted before all, the Torah is given to him as a gift [Mattanah], as it is stated: “And from the wilderness Mattanah.” And once it is given to him as a gift, God bequeaths [naḥalo] it to him, as it is stated: “And from Mattanah [to] Nahaliel.” And once God bequeaths it to him, he rises to greatness, as it is stated: And from Nahaliel, Bamot, which are elevated places. And if he elevates himself and is arrogant about his Torah, the Holy One, Blessed be God, degrades him, as it is stated: “And from Bamot the valley” (Numbers 21:20). And not only that, but one lowers him into the ground, as it is stated: “And looking over [nishkafa] the face of the wasteland” (Numbers 21:20), like a threshold [iskopa] that is sunken into the ground. But if he reverses his arrogance and becomes humble, the Holy One, Blessed be God, elevates him,  (BT Nedarim 55a)

Unpacking the text is a joy – Rava, a fourth generation Babylonian teacher (amora) is one of the most frequent of teachers in the Talmud. Here he is using these verses to remind his audience of how Torah impacts us and develops and grows us both as individuals and as a people. To be able to absorb Torah deeply we have to make ourselves ready, to be open to everyone and everything, and to have no preconceptions or prejudices. Once we have made ourselves “like a wilderness”, then Torah is given to us like a gift. A gift moreover that comes from God as an inheritance, a family treasure. And this gift, if received in a state of humility and openness, will enable us to become greater, will develop and evolve our understanding of our world. But if we should become arrogant, then the opposite will happen and we will be forced into humility, alone in an abandoned wasteland. Yet there is always the possibility of redemption – should we recognise that we have become removed from others, arrogant and self-important, and make an effort to cast off that unwarranted superiority, once more the offer of Torah and its “living waters” is available to us.

One of my favourite ideas about the encounter with God in the wilderness of Sinai is that “the people only heard the first letter of the word “Anochi” “I am”. That letter, an alef, is a silent letter.  But that silent letter in that Midbar place was all that was necessary for God and the Jewish people to have a conversation (R.Menachem Mendel Torum of Rymanov, quoted in  Zera Kodesh (2.40) by his student Naftali Horowitz)

Why a silent letter in a place belonging to no-one? The Alef, being the first letter of the alphabet stands for the number ONE – the unity and uniqueness of God.

But there is more. The Alef is written in Torah as a vav surrounded by two yods – whose gematria adds up to 26 – the same as the gematria for the tetragrammaton yod heh vav heh. So what the people perceived in hearing that silent letter was the absolute presence of God.

And there is more. The Alef can be read as being a face, with two eyes (the yods) and a nose (the vav). So when we see another human being, we can see an Alef – we can see the image of God within them.  When Torah was given to us, the most important gift was to see God in ourselves and others.

All of which is a long way of saying that we encounter God when we truly see and engage with each other. We truly belong to Torah – and it to us – when we make ourselves open and without prejudice, when we exercise our curiosity without judgment – when we become Midbar and celebrate the potential within us.

The Midbar formed us as a people and it is as a people that we have sustained ourselves and thrived where so many other peoples have passed into history. And the Torah gave our peoplehood meaning – as Leo Baeck wrote “

The Torah, which is, as a whole, roughhewn, unfinished, and unsystematic leaves many things open. It is full of questions. [And so]…The Torah is the most stable element of Judaism and at the same time its most dynamic force”

 It is as a people of Torah that we are meeting today – from Pittsburgh to Milan, and with roots that go back to Israel, to north Africa, to Ashkenazi, Sefardi, Italkit and Mizrachi ancestors. We were all at Sinai says our tradition, we all heard that alef, we all experienced Midbar.

And just like at Sinai, we are enacting the giving of Torah – maybe not exactly as Moses experienced it, but giving and receiving just the same, and it is surely no accident that you have come to us from Temple Sinai so that we are indeed receiving Torah miSinai!

It is a singular mitzvah to be part of hachnasat Sefer Torah – the welcoming of a sefer torah into its new community. Today’s welcoming is the end of a long process of planning, and I hope the beginning – or at least the Sinaitic staging post – of a longer journey together.

We stand together and see in each other’s faces the Alef that reminds us that God is in each one of us; we hear together the silent Alef of God’s presence that is symbolised by the Torah – the ketubah text of our symbolic marriage that will we will celebrate again next week at Shavuot.

I think all of us present today will remember this moment – this echo of Sinai, this enactment of peoplehood, this generous gift from another part of the Jewish world that will help Italian Progressive Judaism to continue to grow, and that will remind us that we are not only a people – Am Yisrael – but also a large and extended family –  Mishpacha. 

We are at our best when we are Midbar. When we are open and free from material desires and preconceptions, when we are humble and curious about each other. Abraham’s tent was famously open on all sides – the paradigm of Midbar.  As Abraham shows, the outstanding mitzvah in Midbar is hospitality to the passing stranger who is reliant on the care of the more established residents.  When we are Midbar we see the Alef on every face – the image of God in every human being and we understand the importance of sustaining each other.

This weekend we are all Midbar, welcoming of each other, sharing our stories, eating together, travelling together, praying together, giving and receiving Torah. The distance from Pittsburgh to Milan may be nearly seven thousand kilometres but does not need a 40 year journey – we stand together once more as at Sinai, we confirm our peoplehood and our commitment to Torah.

May our journey continue together and may we build ever closer links.