Uncensered

Leviticus, the middle child of the Pentateuch, is often overlooked as we prepare for the spring and its bevy of colorful holidays. However, the Book does offer some pyrotechnics in this week's portion, Shemini (9:1-3):

Then Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, each took his censer and put fire in it, put incense on it, and offered foreign fire before the Lord, which He had not commanded them. ² So fire went out from the Lord and devoured them, and they died before the Lord. ³ And Moses said to Aaron, “This is what the Lord spoke, saying: ‘By those who come near Me, I must be regarded as holy; And before all the people, I must be glorified.’” So Aaron held his peace.

This is not only a personal tragedy, but a national one as well. For 25 chapters--the last 16 of Exodus and the first 9 of Leviticus--the Israelites are dedicated to one purpose: constructing and consecrating the Tabernacle and its vessels, including the human ones, Aaron and his four sons. Now, the elder two--already designated for greatness at Sinai (Exod. 24:1-9)--are dead, precisely at the height of the celebration, the eighth (shemini) day, following a week-long initiation process.

So what did they do wrong? The Baal Haturim, famous for his love of mnemonics and gematria, here hews closely to the simple meaning of the words.

"Which He had not commanded them"--now, we cannot say that he neither commanded them to do so nor commanded them not to do so! Rather, it means "which he commanded them not to." The same is true of "or any of the host of heaven, which I have not commanded" (Deut. 17:3) [that God commanded not to worship the stars].

What law did they violate? Apparently, Baal Haturim alludes to Exod. 30:9: "You shall not offer foreign incense on it." But if the prohibition is foreign incense, why speak of "foreign fire," both here and in Numbers 3:4?

The fact is that fire is a leitmotif in Shemini, appearing no less than--what else?--eight times in the story of the eighth day. At first, the fire is outside the camp, for the incineration of a special type of sin-offering. At the completion of the ceremony, Aaron blesses the people and a fire comes down from heaven to light up the altar, at the center of the camp. By then kindling their own fire, Nadab and Abihu defile the Tabernacle and defy God, for which they end up paying the ultimate price, as a divine fire comes forth to devour them. To set matters straight, Moshe stresses three times that the survivors, Aaron, Eleazar and Ithamar, must eat their portions from "the fires of the Lord." Procedure must be followed, even in their bereavement.
All of this seems esoteric to the modern reader. Divine fire, profane fire--what does it all mean? However, the power of our fire is far from a moot point. The idioms are the same in English and Hebrew: opening fire, ceasefire, under fire. When we hold our fire and when we fire away are questions of morality. The stakes are so high that we as a society must be exacting in determining when such fire is justified and when it is not. Nadab and Abihu, after all, were righteous men, destined for positions of prominence, but their momentary error in judgment doomed them. God knew what was in their heart; all we have is a system of laws to try to uncover the truth of the matter. In the meantime, we must reaffirm our commitment to never profane the awesome power of our fire.

Cruel Intentions

"Whoever is made compassionate to the cruel will ultimately be made cruel to the compassionate" is a refrain so often voiced by hardliners, you might think it's a verse in the Torah. Not quite.

Rabbi Elazar said: Whoever is made compassionate to the cruel will ultimately be made cruel to the compassionate, as it is written, “And Saul and the nation spared Agag and the best sheep and cattle” (I Sam. 15:9), and it is written (Ibid. 22:19) “And Nob, the city of priests, he smote with the edge of a sword.” (Midrash Tanhuma, Metzora 1)

Jews worldwide will read the story this weekend. King Saul is commanded by the Prophet Samuel to eradicate the nation of Amalek, as you may have seen horribly portrayed in Of Kings and Prophets. (They missed this part, 14:48: "And he gathered an army and attacked the Amalekites, and delivered Israel from the hands of those who plundered them.")
Regardless, people seem to forget that this line is a criticism of Saul's decision not to execute Agag, king of Amalek, whose crimes are many and, of course, cruel -- as Samuel declares, “As your sword has made women childless, so shall your mother be childless among women” (15:33). Indeed, some versions of the Tanhuma make this even clearer by speaking of "the cruel one," putting it in singular, unlike the plural "compassionate ones," a reference to the people of the priestly city of Nob, wiped out decades later for aiding David in his flight from the by-then mad king.

So was Saul bothered by the initial command? The Talmud (Yoma 22b) explains that Saul was bothered by the fact that the Torah requires that in the case of a unsolved murder, a heifer must be taken to make atonement for the nearest city:

And he strove in the valley” (I Sam. 15:5)--R. Mani said: Because of what happens ‘in the valley’: When the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Saul: Now go and smite Amalek, he said: If on account of one person the Torah said: Perform the ceremony of the heifer whose neck is to be broken, how much more so for all these persons! And if humans sinned, what has the cattle committed; and if the adults have sinned, what have the little ones done? A divine voice came forth and said: Be not righteous overmuch. And when Saul said to Doeg: Turn you and fall upon the priests, a heavenly voice came forth to say: Be not overmuch wicked.

Now, this is a bit perplexing. If Saul is such a bleeding heart, we would expect him to spare the innocents; instead he (and the people) spare the finest of the animals and the cruelest of the men!
Rabbeinu Hananel (ad loc.) offers an explanation:

This means that the decree of heaven bore heavily upon him, as he said, "A corpse found in the camp requires a broken heifer--all of these souls we kill, all the more so we must bring offerings to atone for ourselves!" That is why he left the finest animals.

In other words, Saul was not troubled by the bloodshed, but by the bloodguilt. It may seem strange to us, but tribal societies in the Middle East have for millennia believed in this concept. Even the Torah speaks of the blood-redeemer. Saul is clearly adopting a mechanistic view of sacrifices: it's fine to spill the blood of Amalek, but atonement must be made, by offering the finest animals. But more than that, there needs to be a party to whom this blood-ransom is paid--and none is more fitting for this role than King Agag himself. This is why Samuel, to whom altars are not exactly foreign, denounces the choice of sacrifice over justice in the strongest terms (Ibid. 22): "Has the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, to heed than the fat of rams."

Saul is an intriguing figure: powerful enough to unite the tribes of Israel, but constantly beset by depression and doubt. On the one hand, he carefully tells the Kenites to evacuate before waging war against their Amalekite neighbors. On the other hand, his genocide of the Gibeonites -- collateral damage of the Nob massacre according to Talmud Yevamot 78b -- leads to a devastating three-year famine "because of Saul and the House of Blood, because he killed the Gibeonites.” Indeed, the awkward phrasing "made compassionate" and "made cruel" may indicate that Saul himself was not motivated by these emotions, but by the need to appear empathetic or emphatic in the eyes of the people.

Israel cannot afford to be motivated by insecurity and crises of confidence. The stakes are too high to sacrifice justice on the altar of avarice and tribalism.

In self-defense of Purim

I eagerly dread this time of year.
On the one hand, Purim, now just two weeks away, is a carnival of costumes, comedy and conviviality. Oh, and cocktails. So, fun for kids and adults.
On the other hand, its central text becomes more troubling the more you hear it. And we read Esther a lot: two times, four times, infinite times if your son happens to celebrate his bar mitzva on Purim.
Now, I hear you shaking your head (yes, I bugged your house). After all, isn't the story of Esther one of of self-defense? Haman's decree allows Jews to be attacked; Mordecai's decree allows them to defend themselves, right? We assume so, but even at its inception the second decree seems a little ominous, echoing Haman's language of killing, annihilating and destroying, including women and children. Does this sound like self-defense? "A copy of the text of the edict was to be issued as law in every province and made known to the people of every nationality so that the Jews would be ready on that day to avenge themselves on their enemies" (Book of Esther, 8:13).
Perhaps it's all just a scare tactic? If so, it works:

And many people of other nationalities became Jews because fear of the Jews had seized them. (8:17)
No one could stand against them, because the people of all the other nationalities were afraid of them. And all the nobles of the provinces, the satraps, the governors and the king’s administrators helped the Jews, because fear of Mordecai had seized them. Mordecai was prominent in the palace; his reputation spread throughout the provinces, and he became more and more powerful. (9:2-4)

Aye, there's the rub. If it was all about self-defense, and everyone was terrified of them, all those "other nationalities" needed to do was NOT stride into the Jewish Quarter brandishing axes on the 13th of Adar. Just go to work or school or the movies (Iranian cinema is delightful) on that day! Instead, they circumcised themselves and jumped in the mikveh?
Now, let's turn to Shushan, center of the action. On the 13th of Adar, 500 people are killed in the citadel, as well as Haman's ten sons (75,000 empire-wide), without any mention of self-defense. And then (9:13):

“If it pleases the king,” Esther answered, “give the Jews in Shushan permission to carry out this day’s edict tomorrow also, and let Haman’s ten sons be impaled on poles.”

That would be the 14th of Adar. A day on which no one is allowed to attack Jews. And, as per another decree from Xerxes, "The Jews in Shushan came together on the fourteenth day of the month of Adar, and they put to death in Shushan three hundred people" (9:15). And that is why we have Shushan Purim.
So if it wasn't self-defense, what makes these people the enemies, haters, ill-wishers and adversaries of the Jews? It's not like they were writing nasty posts in which they spun conspiracy theories of Jews bent on taking over the Holy Land, inducing government officials to adopt antisemitic policies!
Actually, it's exactly that, as we learn from The Book of Ezra, which is set during the return to Zion following the horrors of Babylonian captivity:

Then the peoples around them set out to discourage the people of Judah and make them afraid to go on building. They bribed officials to work against them and frustrate their plans during the entire reign of Cyrus king of Persia and down to the reign of Darius king of Persia. At the beginning of the reign of Xerxes, they lodged an accusation against the people of Judah and Jerusalem. And in the days of Artaxerxes... wrote a letter to Artaxerxes... "The king should know that the people who came up to us from you have gone to Jerusalem and are rebuilding that rebellious and wicked city." (4:4-7, 12)

Esther is, essentially, a revenge epic. It's a story of the powerless Jews in exile finally getting a chance to turn the tables on their tormentors. It is the Persian version of Inglourious Basterds.
There seems to be quite a hunger in the Jewish community for that sort of material right now. After all, we do face legions of haters and ill-wishers. But the question we have to ask is whether we think transferring this revenge epic from parchment to pavement is really the way to go. This time, there are actual attackers with blades in their hands. Isn't it time we focus on that reality, not the fantasy of eradicating all the haters?
At the very least, it's a sobering thought for Purim.

Parashat Trump

Truth be told, we didn't read Parashat Trump, but rather Parashat Truma, though only an errant pen-stroke separates them. The term parasha can mean passage, but it can also mean issue, affair, even scandal.
Truma and Trump share more than a nominal connection; both have a penchant for making things out of and covering things with gold or bronze. But it's not the aurumphilia of Trump that is so concerning, but rather his veriphobia -- not his love of gold, but his antipathy towards truth.
Now, the concept of the lying poltiican is hardly novel; indeed, some may consider it a fundamental job requirement. But pre-Trump, the life-cycle of a politician's lie followed a predictable pattern:

1. Politician lies.
2. Opponents and/ or the media present evidence of the truth.
3. Politician faces the music.

Now, depending on the nature and degree of the lie, the politician might be embarrassed, deposed or prosecuted. But at least he or she had to admit the truth.
Not anymore. Let us recall that Trump's political career (at least the current act) began with his declaration that he was getting to the bottom of President Obama's birth certificate. The news would be earth-shattering, he promised us, praising the investigative team he'd sent to Hawaii to uncover the truth. Which turned out to be... nothing at all.
You might have expected Trump to retreat from the public spotlight, or at least the political arena, but no--he doubled down. After all, he is a reality-television star, a genre wholly built on the lie that viewers are watching "real life," as opposed to footage which is scripted, manipulated and edited to tell a specific story.
And so, Trump, fueled by egocentrism and casual misogyny/ racism/ antisemitism/ Islamophobia, has built his political persona on "telling it like it is," which in this case means constructing his own reality. The hard truth that he tells his cheering crowds? That they are right and everyone else is wrong. And in the week of Parashat Truma, Parashat Trump stopped being a theoretical exercise as the Donald won the first Republican primary in New Hampshire, allegedly one of the last bastions of Northeastern moderation.
Why is his brand so attractive? Because he speaks to the reality that his supporters perceive, of an America flooded with criminal illegals, a floundering economy and a spineless foreign policy. You may try to bring facts into the conversation, but that doesn't change what the Trumpeters feel, what they know in their bones to be true. Being accurate or considerate has been redefined as political correctness, and we know whom to blame for that. Everyone knows the facts are biased.
But why is this an issue for the Jews, beyond the fact that America hosts the largest Diaspora community? The problem is that the Dawn of the Donald is not an isolated phenomenon; it has spread far and wide, and now it seems to be taking over mainstream American Orthodoxy.
I hail from the world of American Orthodox Judaism, and its direction concerns me. For decades, OJ prided itself on its scholarship, subjecting all manner of modern dilemmas to the classical sources of Halakha (Jewish law): Talmud, Codes, Responsa. However, over the past few years, as its has grappled with contemporary issues, mainstream Orthodox Judaism has eschewed halakhic reasoning for appeals to Authority, Tradition and old-fashioned Yiddishkeit (whatever that means). From marriage equality to nuclear diplomacy, from halakhic prenups to conversion courts, from women's public prayer and ordination to biblical criticism, it is shockingly rare to see sources actually cited in the articles, essays and blogs coming from the right. On those rare occasions when classical sources are cited, follow-up questions are a sure way to get yourself censored, blocked or ignored.
At this very moment, more Jews are sitting in yeshiva than ever before. You might think that this would lead to a higher level of scholarship and erudition, but I've yet to see the evidence for that. The paucity of source-based halakhic reasoning shows us that this generation is getting a pretty pathetic return on investment. Any businessman could tell you that's unacceptable. Especially a yoogel-ly successful one like Donald Trump.

On Wings of Camels

So, how long till the heresy-hunters come for my rebbe?
The controversy over Open Orthodoxy; its flagship institution, Yeshivat Chovevei Torah; and its most controversial graduate, Rabbi Dr. Zev Farber has not yielded much in the arena of Jewish law. Opponents to its right continue to push OO out of the observant community, but the halakhic arguments always seem to fall short. That's why the strategy of hashkafic (philosophical) attack has been embraced. Forget orthopraxy, the correct practice; it's called orthodoxy, right thinking! (You know, by 19th-century Germans, the arbiters of all things Jewish.)
The play goes like this:

1. Maimonides' Thirteen Principles are universally and axiomatically accepted. There is no need to prove this, because, y'know, axiomatic. (But the text most people refer to is a poem written three centuries later--SHH!)
2. Anyone who challenges one of these principles in any way is, by definition, a heretic and to be banished from the observant community. There is no need to prove this, because, y'know, by definition. (But many medieval authorities, including Maimonides himself--SHA!)
3. Any institution whose graduates or movement whose adherents express such challenges without being immediately defrocked and disowned by said body is therefore itself heretical. There is no need to prove this, because, y' know, therefore. (But every yeshiva has had graduates who--ZAY SHTIL!)

You might think that my rebbe, HaRav Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein of blessed memory, who passed away less than ten months ago, would be safe from such accusations, but consider what was published 15 years ago by one of his foremost students, Rav Haim Navon:

According to the position presented here, there is no conflict between Torah and science, for the Torah does not pretend to provide us with scientific information. This position is relevant not only to the apparent contradictions between the Torah and the natural sciences, but also to the contradictions between the plain sense of Scripture and our knowledge of history, in the spirit of what Chazal said: "Iyyov never existed and had never been created." Much ink has been spilled over the camels that are mentioned in Scripture. The book of Bereshit describes our patriarchs riding camels. Scholars and Rabbis have been arguing for decades whether or not camels had already been domesticated in the patriarchal period. According to the position presented here, the question is totally irrelevant. Perhaps the patriarchs never really rode on camels, but on donkeys or on oxen or on winged horses, or perhaps they traveled on foot. Who cares? God, for various reasons connected to the Torah's influence upon the generation in which it had been given and upon later generations, preferred to write that the patriarchs rode on camels. Within Scripture's internal historical system, this is not an anachronistic failing. The comparison with real history is out of place, for we are talking about two entirely different systems, which do not presume to parallel each other.

That's the English version of the article which he published in the Summer 2001 edition of Alon Shevut (159). http://etzion.org.il/…/en…/archive/bereishit/03bereishit.htm
Now consider this line from the Hebrew original (http://asif.co.il/?wpfb_dl=1316):

It is clear that we, as believing Jews, must stake out some boundaries for this position. As servants of God, our faith demands that we believe in certain historical events. The most minimalistic definition would include the Convocation at Mt. Sinai, which is a concrete historical event, without which our bedrock faith in Torah from heaven has no standing. But aside from a few critical junctures such as this, there is no great significance to the question of historical details in Scripture. This approach has tremendously significant ramifications for the study of Scripture.

Rav Navon was not banned, banished or excommunicated. He co-edited many of Rav Aharon's books. He remains one of Yeshivat Har Etzion's most prominent graduates and continues to teach there. Yes, there was a furor in the yeshiva when it was published; Rav Yaakov Medan wrote a fiery response. But that was the end of it.
What got everyone mad at Rabbi Dr. Farber was saying “Abraham and Sarah are folkloristic characters; factually speaking, they are not my ancestors or anyone else’s” in a passage entitled "Avraham Avinu Is My Father," which they attack because it undermines "a letter in the Torah." So what's the difference? Believing the camels are folkloristic, not the the people? Even if Rabbi Navon were saying that, it would not resolve their objections--that is, assuming they are principled objections.
So what is the distinction here? Hate the camel, not the rider? Because if we apply the YCT/ OO standard as conceived by so many of its critics, I know who's next.

In Praise of Extremism

Playtime is over.
The first seventy-four chapters of the Torah are quite theatrical. The origin story of the Jewish people is a compelling tale, all the way from Creation to the Giving of the Torah. While some passages of lineage or law do appear, the majority of the text is a dramatic narrative.
Until this week, when we arrive at the end of Exodus 24. From that point forward, the Torah is primarily composed of laws and lists, particularly those touching on ritual. There are narrative interludes, but the overwhelming majority of the text seems more like a technical manual.
That's why it's so important to find meaning in even the driest passages-- even the upcoming portions which focus on the Tabernacle. While the sacrificial law in the first half of Leviticus may no longer be practical, the concept of rebuilding the Temple is still a potent one in Judaism. The Mishkan (Tabernacle), on the other hand, is a historical artifact. How is its architecture still relevant three millennia after its destruction?

Well, let's take the synecdoche: the part of the Tabernacle which gives the entire Mishkan its name.

Make the tabernacle with ten curtains of finely twisted linen and blue, purple and scarlet yarn, with cherubim woven into them by a skilled worker. All the curtains are to be the same size—twenty-eight cubits long and four cubits wide. Join five of the curtains, each to her sister; and five curtains join, each to her sister. Make loops of blue material along the edge of the curtain at the end of a set, and do the same with the furthest curtain in the other set. Make fifty loops on one curtain and fifty loops on the end curtain of the other set, with the loops corresponding each to her sister. Then make fifty gold clasps and use them to fasten the curtains, each to her sister, so that the tabernacle is a unit. (Exodus 26:1-6)

Yeah, I know. But if you hear it in the original Hebrew, a word sticks out: outermost, or kitzona. A kitzoni, in modern Hebrew, is an extremist, one on the fringes of society. The sole source for this word in the Bible is the Tabernacle.
However, the nature of this kitzoniyut (extremism) is somewhat tricky. Basically, the furthest left in the right-hand group is being joined to the furthest right in the left-hand group, like so:
So how should we translate kitzona? It really depends on your perspective. Two of the most prominent Jewish translations of the Bible take diametrically opposed positions: JPS renders it "outmost," while Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan's The Living Torah renders it "innermost." They're both right. The kitzona is the furthest away from its companions, but the closest to the other side.
This may seem like a minor detail, but the fact is that the average Israelite encamped in the desert did not see the Holy Ark, Candelabrum or Table. They saw the ten-cubit high walls of the Mishkan and the Ohel (Tent), the former woven and the latter of goatskin, but each composed of two sets of curtains, joined at the kitzona. The furthest, the extreme, the bleeding edge of each is the key to making a unit of two disparate groups.
We desperately need this sort of kitzoniyut. It's easy enough to prove your bona fides within your group by going ever further away from the center, but that is a recipe for societal disaster. On the other hand, going up to the very edge allows you to reach out to someone from the other side--and hold on tight. That's a blueprint you can use for a tabernacle or a world.

The Lone Avenger

Khatam an-Nabiyyin is a title we might give, in a Jewish context, to the last of the biblical prophets, Malachi. He is the final seer of Israel, and his short but powerful book ends with a message familiar to many, read annually on the Sabbath before Passover:

Behold, I will send you Elijah the Prophet before the coming of the great and terrible day of the Lord. He will turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the hearts of the children to their parents; or else I will come and strike the land with total destruction. (Malachi 3:23-24)

Interestingly, the Midrash (Gen. Rabba 99:10) cites this verse in order to explain the blessings that Jacob gives to two of his sons, as we read just a few days ago. Between the blessings of Dan and Gad, Jacob abruptly makes a desperate plea to God.

When Jacob saw [Samson], he exclaimed, "I wait for your salvation, O Lord" (Gen. 49:17)--not he will bring the redemption, but [one descended] from Gad, as it says, "Gad, a troop shall troop upon him, but he shall troop upon the heel," which alludes to him who will come at the end [lit. 'heel']: "Behold, I will send you Elijah the Prophet before the coming of the great and terrible day of the Lord" (Mal. 3:23). He was of the Tribe of Gad, for that reason it says, "but he shall troop upon the heel."

Samson, the most prominent descendant of Dan, is likened to a viper, and the Midrash offers two explanation: either this refers to his solitariness or his vengefulness, as expressed in his suicidal zealotry (Jud. 16:28): "O Lord God, remember me, I pray you, and strengthen me, I pray you, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes."
Thus, we see Jacob evaluate two potential saviors from among his offspring: Samson the Danite, the serpentine lone avenger, is rejected, his place to be taken by Elijah the Gaddite. However, this does not seem to match up with Elijah as we encounter him in the Book of Kings. He does indeed embrace both solitude and vengeance (I Kings 19:10):

With zeal have I been zealous for the Lord God of hosts: for the children of Israel have forsaken your covenant: they have thrown down your altars, they have slain your prophets with the sword, and I alone am left, and they seek my life to take it away.

Nor is this a simple declaration. Immediately before this, Elijah ventures into the desert for a Moses-like journey to Sinai--but without the people! And this comes immediately after he encourages them to slay hundreds of priests of Baal.
Perhaps we should consider God's response to Elijah. Elijah sees a tempest, an earthquake and an inferno, but none of these represent the word of God. Instead, it is "a still, small voice." Unmoved, Elijah restates his bona-fides of viperous vengeance and isolation. And then God immediately tells him that the time has come for him to appoint a successor. Elijah's tenure is at an end.
Traditionally, of course, this is not the end of Elijah's mission. He who claimed that Israel abandoned the covenant of God bears witness at every circumcision and every Passover that he was wrong. His role in life pales in comparison to his role beyond it.
This is what Malachi alludes to: the role of Elijah in restoring unity and teaching the people to forgive each other. Samson never redeems himself, but Elijah does, realizing as he trains his replacement Elisha that vengeance and isolation are not the path to redemption. Elijah of Melakhim (the Book of Kings) becomes Elijah of Malakhi (the Book of Malachi).
However, this is no softening or weakening of the divine imperative; the last words of Malachi, the final line of prophecy in Israel, is "or else I will come and strike the land with total destruction." The stakes are unimaginably high. Elijah's mission of renouncing vengefulness and isolation is a powerful calling, upon which the fate of the world hangs, and the commitment to it must be as serious as his former dedication to zealotry. His campaign of love and reconciliation must be bold, uncompromising and compelling.
This week my wife and I had the privilege of welcoming a new child, a ray of light for us in a world which seems so consumed by darkness. We named him Malachi Elijah with the hope that he will do his part, through compassion and comity, to bring that redemption closer. Indeed, it is the ultimate mission incumbent upon all of us.