Parshat Naso contains one of the Torah’s more disturbing passages – the laws relating to an ishah sotah or ‘wayward woman’ (5:11-31). A man becomes jealous of his wife and suspects her of adultery; there is no evidence against her and she may or may not be guilty. He brings her to the Tabernacle and presents a meal offering on her behalf. The priest rips the woman’s clothing, dishevels her hair and makes her swear an oath, declaring that if she has indeed defiled herself, the subsequent ceremony will cause her thigh to fall away and her belly to swell and she will become a curse among her people. The priest now takes a jug of water into which dirt from the Tabernacle floor has been mixed, blots the inky words of the curse - written on a scroll - into the water, and makes the woman drink it. If she is guilty, the predetermined results ensue.

The Mishnah modifies this procedure in several important ways. Before a woman can be subjected to the ordeal, she must have been warned by her husband against secluding herself with a named individual. Both the warning and the seclusion itself must be attested to by witnesses. If such evidence exists, the woman is brought to the high court in Jerusalem where the judges implore her to confess her sins. If she does so at any point before the curse is blotted into the water, her guilt is assumed and her husband may divorce her, but she avoids the ordeal. And even if a truly adulterous woman goes through with the ceremony, the effects of the bitter water will be delayed by up to three years by any other good deeds she may have done.

The contrast between the biblical and rabbinic accounts is striking. As in other cases (laws relating to the death penalty, the execution of rebellious children, punishments of an eye for an eye) the rabbis, it seems, could not stomach some of the Torah’s more barbarous prescriptions. Thus, while notionally respecting the sanctity and integrity of the text, they introduced so many procedural safeguards that in effect they reversed the Torah’s intention. It’s reasonably clear that to the rabbis, the bitter water had no physical effect. Rabbi Shimon hints at this in the Mishnah, arguing that if merit is understood to delay the punishment, guilty women will cease to fear the water and the reputation of innocent women, ostensibly cleared by the ceremony, may be called into question. None of this would be the case if the bitter water worked, even occasionally. Rather than a true trial by ordeal, the rabbis have rewritten the ceremony so as to protect women from arbitrary accusations and as a judicial – not magical - disincentive to adultery.

But this kind of revolutionary reinterpretation goes back further than the Mishnah – right into the text of the Torah itself. Academic Bible scholars have noted that the ritual of the sotah bears the marks of an earlier, pagan ceremony, which served as the vehicle for a new, monotheistic religious message. The text itself appears to be fragmented: read chapter 5 verses 24-26 and decide whether the woman drank the water before the priest offered the sacrifice or vice versa. This kind of repetition and inconsistency indicates to some scholars an evolution and editing together of older traditions into a new text. Where once the bitter water was considered to have magical powers of its own, the Torah makes clear that its function is symbolic - any harm inflicted comes from God. And while the procedure reflects patriarchal, sexist assumptions, it’s possible to read the biblical text as an attempt to alleviate some of the worst misogynistic excesses, providing a public, judicial alternative to the private and arbitrary punishment of wives by jealous husbands.

Matt Plen is Chief Executive of Masorti Judaism and a member of Assif at New North London Synagogue

Women & Tefillin and the first 3 Days of Shiva

By Rabbi Monique Susskind Goldberg z’l

Question: I am writing a paper on Women and Tefillin. What is the Conservative Movement's outlook on this issue?

Answer: Jewish law considers tefillin to be a time bound positive commandment. Women are exempt from such commandments (Mishna Berakhot 3:3; Shulhan Arukh Orah Hayim 38, 3). Nonetheless, Halakha (Jewish Law) does not forbid women from putting , on tefillin. They can decide to take this commandment upon themselves. The Conservative Movement tends to encourage women to put on tefillin, especially as Rabbis, but this remains an individual choice. At the Jewish Theological Seminary, putting on tefillin is mandatory for Rabbinical students, but not in the Rabbinical Seminary of the Schechter Institute in Jerusalem where the decision is left to each woman. On the issue of tefillin as in many issues, the Conservative Movement is pluralistic in their application of Jewish Law.

FIRST THREE DAYS OF SHIVA

Question: A friend of mine brought up a question about the first three days of shiva, to which I cannot find any answer in any of my texts. My friend heard that during the first three days, a mourner is allowed to 'curse' (for the lack of better words) G-d for allowing the death, or something to that effect. All my resources mention the first three days and that you should not visit the mourners during that time in order that they be allowed to express their grief, sorrow, depression, and the like. I also found that during these three days, a mourner is exempt from obeying the positive commandments ('thou shalts') without committing sin. What does Jewish law and/or tradition say about this? I am conservative myself, and know that there are differences between Orthodox and Reform views on mourning. If possible, may I have both views. Thank you very much.

Answer: Thank you for your question about shiva. I do not know the source of your friend's idea, neither your source, but both are incorrect from a halakhic point of view. About visiting the mourner, it is a mitzva to visit the mourner every day of the seven days of the shiva, and there should be at least ten people present at the time of prayer so the mourner can say kadkish (here the Orthodox would oblige ten men and the conservative would allow ten men and/or women) The only period the mourner is exempted from the positive commandments is the period between the death and the burial. Originally, this exemption was to allow the mourner time to take care of the practical problems of burial. However, the Talmud does make a diference between the first three days and the rest of the shiva. The rabbis considered the first three days as the most intense, declaring, "Three days for weeping and seven for lamenting" (Babylonian Talmud, Moed Katan 27b).

During the first three days of the shiva, the prohibitions imposed on the mourner are stricter: The mourner is absolutely forbidden to leave his house, to work, even if he is very poor (other people must feed him). After the third day, normally the mourner should not work, but if he is very poor he is allowed to do so. The other aspect that differentiates the first three days from the remaining four days of shiva is that during the first three days, the mourner does not greet people, and people do not greet him. If people greet him he does not answer. After three days of mourning until the end of the shiva, the mourner does not greet visitors, but he or she can answer.

By Rabbi Monique Susskind Goldberg z’l Rabbi Susskind worked at the Center for Women in Jewish Law at the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies since its inception in 1999. She was a native of Belgium and had degrees in Biology and Bible and was ordained at the Schechter Rabbinical Seminary in 1999. She very sadly passed away in 2012.

Source: http://www.schechter.edu/.

Established in 1984 with a student body of five students, The Schechter Institutes has grown into a major Israeli educational organization devoted to the broad dissemination of Jewish studies for ALL Israelis, serving some 45,000 adults and children each year in Israel and Eastern Europe. Our goal is to offer pluralistic Jewish education to diverse populations, promoting a democratic society secure in its Jewish roots. At Schechter, we believe that offering Jewish study in an environment that is both academically critical and committed to tradition provides a vital, and hitherto missing dimension to Israeli education.

Bamidbar
2nd Sivan 5773 ~ 11th May 2013
By Melanie Kelly
We are taught that each time God counts us it is an act of love. This week, in Bamidbar, we are being counted for the third time since our departure from Egypt. The first time we are counted as we depart is to show the Israelites that they have been blessed. The second time we are counted is after the incident with the Golden Calf to determine the number of survivors. Why then are we being counted at the beginning of this new book of Bamidbar? We are in the wilderness, and we know it, and yet nothing seems to have happened for us to be counted.

In order to understand this census and its purpose, we need to understand the chronology of the story of the Israelites up to this point and the fact that the chronology is not always according to the linear reading of the Torah. The Parasha opens with the announcement that it is 1st day of the 2nd month of the 2nd year since the Exodus. If we recall Parasha Pikudei (Shemot 38:21 - 40) we are told that the Mishkan was set up a month previously on the 1st day of the 1st month of the 2nd year. Therefore the whole of Leviticus (apart from Behar and Bechukotai, which refer back to the time on Mount Sinai), with all its laws and procedures for the workings of the tabernacle occurred during this first month of Nisan. We also read that in the month of Nisan the offerings were made by each of the chieftains of the tribes as described in Naso - which we read next week. Consequently the start of this new book with its call for a census is chronologically in the wrong order.

There is a Rabbinic concept known as “Eim mukdam u’muchar ba-Torah” – ‘there is no before or after in the Torah’,Pesakim 6b, Rashi and others. This idea suggests that the order in which we read Torah is not necessarily the order in which the events occurred. However that does not mean order without reason; there must be a reason that this census was placed at the beginning of this book with such a specific reference to the date at which it commenced. If we return to Pekudei, we learn that having established the Tabernacle, God’s presence, in the form of a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night, descended into it and God dwelt amongst the Children of Israel. In fact when God originally gives the commands for a Mishkan (in Terumah) he asks for it to be built, not so that God can dwell in it, but so that it can be used as a conduit for God to dwell among the people as an ultimate act of love. Seen in this light the purpose of the census is therefore another act of love by God of the people; it marks each person as someone God will live with.

Melanie Kelly is a member of Kol Nefesh Masorti Syangogue

Pronouncing God’s name
by Rabbi Chaim Weiner

Question: Is it permissible to pronounce God's Name when recording prayers or Shabbat songs for educational purposes?

Responsum: At the outset, it should be remembered that even when we recite "Adonai" in the prayers, we are not pronouncing God's Name as it is written, but rather a substitute. But according to halakhah, even this substitute should be used with caution. That is why there is a custom among observant Jews to use Adonai only in religious contexts such as in prayer, blessings and Torah study. There is, however, one exception: one is allowed to pronounce Adonai if it is for educational purposes. Thus it is permitted to record Adonai in Shabbat prayers and songs for two reasons: prayers and Shabbat songs are a religious context, and the aim of the recording is education.

It is also permissible to play these tapes, because the prohibition of pronouncing Adonai is related to people, not to machines. Furthermore, if it is permissible for people to pronounce Adonai for educational purposes, then it is certainly permissible to do so via a machine.

There is also no prohibition of erasing the recording in question, for the following reasons: a recording cannot be considered as something written because it is invisible; what was recorded is not really God's Name, but a substitute, and many authorities allow the erasure of substitute names, at least in an indirect way (gerama); the prohibition of erasing God's Name pertains only to Hebrew letters; there is no act of contempt in the erasing, because one cannot see that the tape contains God's Name.

Nevertheless, there is an old custom of recycling tashmishei mitzvah such as tzitzit or aravot and using them to fulfill other mitzvot. Though a cassette does not have the same halakhic status, if it is necessary to erase a cassette, it is still preferable to reuse it for other prayers or sacred songs. Finally, if the tape tears, one should discard it in a respectful fashion (e.g. in a bag) in order to avoid the appearance of impropiety (mar'it ayin).

Rabbi Chaim Weiner

Rabbi Chaim Weiner is a graduate of the Schechter Institute in Jerusalem where he received his rabbinical Ordination. He was National Director of Noam in Israel before coming to England to become the first permanent Rabbi at Edgware Masorti Synagogue. As a member of the Va'ad Halacha [Law Committee] of the Masorti Movement in Israel, he published several Teshuvot [Legal Responses]. He followed Dr. Louis Jacobs as the Rabbi of the New London Synagogue, in London, England. Rabbi Weiner has played a prominent role in the development of the Masorti Movement in UK. He was instrumental in the establishment of the Masorti Bet Din in the United Kingdom, and in its development into the European Masorti Bet Din. Since January 2005, Rabbi Weiner has served at the Av Bet Din of the European Masorti Bet Din with responsibility for advanced rabbinic services across Europe.

Source www.responsafortoday.com  Please note that we aim to provide articles of interest and that you should consult your local rabbi if any there are any issues raised that need clarification or further explanation.

Behar-Bechukotai

24th Iyyar 5773 ~ 4th May 2013
By Chazan Jacky Chernett

“For unto Me the children of Israel are servants; they are My servants whom I brought forth out of the land of Egypt; I am the Lord your God.” (Lev.25:55)

The Torah acknowledges that people employ other people to work for them. Most of us couldn’t do our work without help. And our sedra includes ancient rules that protect the employed worker. I doubt if any of us is comfortable with the word servant or slave but aved infers avodah which is work as well as service in a practical sense – but in a religious sense too.

Hence our opening quotation above which comes at the end of B’har. After all the laws of how we treat our avadim, who is the aved? It is you and it is me. We Jews are a people who are servants – servants of God in His constant service. Here we are, still in the aftermath of Pesach, and this is an echo of our core purpose, the ultimate message of freedom.

Recently a young Philippina lady came to visit me. She had been a carer for an elderly Jewish lady with whom she had had a mutually caring, respectful and beautiful relationship until the older lady passed away. There is nothing unusual in that, we might think… until the young woman described her experiences of having worked for other Jewish people in the past. The worst thing about this conversation is that she thought the kind lady was unusual because ALL her previous Jewish employers had been unkind, uncaring and impolite.

I remember employing a series of au pairs over a number of years to help me with my young family as I struggled with the work/ family issues. I always imagined that if my daughters wanted to live abroad for a while to learn another language it would be helpful for them to live with a family and have a caring home and some money in return for family duties. I welcomed all my au pair girls into my family thus. I recoiled in horror at stories that some of their friends came to the house and told me. They were not permitted to eat with the family, nor to use the telephone (some had installed locks on them), and much more. They felt demeaned and frightened through the lack of trust.

The terrible thing was that these employers were all Jewish. I still shudder when I hear au pairs, domestic helpers, etc. referred to as “the girl”, “the cleaner” or worse, as if they don’t have a name.

Rabbi David Hartman, of blessed memory, wrote about Pesach preparation: “Everyone talks about cleaning, recipes and kashut”. Of course he lived by halachic observance but needed to emphasise that “Passover is a holiday that inculcates the belief that man will overcome oppression…”

None of us Jews should forget that we are the ones who are servants of God. This is our purpose. Only then do we come near to being worthy of being Jewish.

Chazan Jacky Chernett is a member of Kol Nefesh Masorti Synagogue and a Vice President of Masorti Judaism.

Masorti Judaism: between mitzvah and autonomy
By Matt Plen, Chief Executive of Masorti Judaism

Perhaps the most difficult issue for Masorti Jews is the tension between two core values: mitzvah (which I translate here not as an individual commandment but as the concept of commandedness) and autonomy. Mitzvah is the most important principle of halachic Judaism while autonomy is the indispensable grounding idea of modern ethics. I want to explain more clearly what these two values mean and why the contradiction between them is inescapable.

Commandedness is perhaps the most important principle of rabbinic Judaism. For the rabbis, the value of performing a mitzvah is not only inherent in the act itself (and sometimes, as in the case of sha’atnez or tefillin for example, the act might have no intrinsic value other than the fact it is commanded). A mitzvah is important simply because it is commanded and because we are under an obligation to perform it. The Talmud (Kiddushin 31a) illustrates this idea with the story of a non-Jew, Dama ben Natinah, who was seen to have honoured his parents even at great cost to himself, and was subsequently rewarded by God. Rabbi Hanina comments that if this happened to someone who honoured his parents despite having no obligation to do so, how much more would a Jew in a similar position be rewarded, as (this is the punchline) it is greater to be commanded and act than to act without being commanded.

Why might it be the case? The Tosafot (medieval Talmudic commentators) offer several explanations. The pragmatic view is that a person who is obligated to do a good deed is more likely to act than a person for whom the deed is voluntary (on Kiddushin 31a). A more principled explanation – and one that in my view goes to the heart of rabbinic Judaism – is that the value of performing a mitzvah is that in so doing a person negates her own desires submits herself to the will of God (Avodah Zarah 3a). If so, demonstrating obedience rather than the content of the act itself is the vital component in any mitzvah.

In complete contrast, modern ethics is based on the value of autonomy, which literally means self-rule. The eighteenth-century philosopher Immanuel Kant argued that any act which is impelled by a heteronomous (external) source of authority can never be described as moral. The reason for this is that obedience can only be induced by fear of punishment or hope of reward: we pay tax to avoid being fined, we stop at red lights to avoid being injured or arrested and so on. Because morality is defined in terms of duty while heteronomous action is always a matter of self-interest, heteronomy can never be the basis for morality. Moral agents are always by definition autonomous in that they make free, rational decisions as to how to behave, based on their sense of duty to others.

The clash between mitzvah and autonomy should now be clear. Autonomy is about obeying our own, rational, self-imposed moral principles, whereas mitzvah means putting these to one side in order to obey God or submit ourselves to Jewish tradition. Incidentally, this holds true regardless of whether or not we consider the Torah to be of divine origin: obeying God contradicts the principles of autonomy no less than obeying the rabbis. Sometimes the practical results of these two principles coincide: either could lead a person to give tzedakah for example. Less often they clash: when my son was born, I was acutely aware of my halachic obligation to perform a brit milah, whereas my moral sense was outraged by the thought of intentionally injuring a new baby. But if intentions are what is important, then the contradiction is always there.

I cannot act in order to realise my own autonomy and simultaneously aspire to overcome my desires so as to obey God or the rabbis, both heteronomous sources of authority. Progressive movements (for example, the Liberal and some Reform Jews) and ultra- Orthodox Jews resolve this tension by prioritising one of the two principles. For ultra-Orthodoxy, commandedness always holds sway and personal values and desires are to be abandoned when they clash with halachah; Progressive Judaism privileges autonomy and empowers the individual to selectively filter the mitzvot in light of modern, rational principles. The challenge is most squarely faced by the centrist movements in Judaism, modern Orthodoxy and Masorti: neither are prepared to jettison their halachic commitment or sacrifice their modern, liberal principles.

What might be a Masorti response to this dilemma? How can we be true to ourselves, our passionately held values, and our sense of personal freedom, while at the same time upholding our commitment to Torah and mitzvot in the framework of halachah? For my answer, I want to draw on the work of one of the most important of all modern Jewish thinkers, Franz Rosenzweig. While Rosenzweig is not usually identified with Masorti Judaism, I believe that his commitment to liberal philosophical principles together with his profound commitment to the tradition makes him a particularly suitable role model for us.

Rosenzweig returned to Judaism after a period of assimilation but felt unable to submit himself to Jewish law as this would have compromised his freedom as an individual. The solution lay in a distinction he drew between Law and Commandment. Whereas Law is an objective set of rules whose imposition clearly compromises personal autonomy, Commandment is a personal directive issued in the context of a committed, loving relationship, where the power of the relationship enables us to hear and freely obey.

EMOR

Tazria-Metzora

3rd Iyyar 5773 ~ 13th April 2013

By Roni Tabick

A patient once went to see the doctor, complaining that she hadn’t been feeling well for several days. The doctor examined her, went away and came back with three large jars of pills.

"Take the green pill with a big glass of water first thing in the morning,” the doctor said. “Then the blue pill with a big glass of water after lunch. Just before bed, take the red pill with another big glass of water."

The patient was upset that she had to take so many pills, and nervously she asked “Doctor, what’s my problem?”

The doctor replied, "You're not drinking enough water."

In this week’s double parasha we learn about how to deal with the condition known as tzara’at, often translated as leprosy. While we may think of illnesses as needing physical cures, the torah considers such a condition to require a spiritual solution:

“The priest shall command that two living clean birds and cedarwood and crimson yarn and hyssop be brought for the one who is to be cleansed.” (Lev 14:4).

Like the nervous patient, Rashi, the classic 11th century commentator, wants to know why there are so many parts of this sacrifice, and what each part signifies for the spiritual and psychological health of the afflicted person.

Rashi explains (based on the Talmud in Arachin 16a-b) that cedarwood, coming from the loftiest of trees, must be brought as a sign of haughtiness, while the hyssop is a lowly plant, and the crimson wool is called tola’at, named after a worm, both symbols of humility.

Just as in ancient thought the illness of tzara’at required a spiritual cure, so too it was considered to have a moral cause, and arrogance was considered a likely candidate (see the story of King Uzziah in 2 Chronicles 26 for an example). The haughty person had to bring both cedarwood to represent their former state, and crimson yarn and hyssop as a sign of the need for humility about their place in the universe.

Today, we don’t expect our physical conditions to be cured exclusively by prayer and sacrifice but the torah still has much to tell us about arrogance and overconfidence. While the sickness may be a result of hubris, there is still cedarwood included in the offering. The arrogance is not given up, but is tempered by other ingredients, balanced out with the right amount of modesty.

Arrogance has a place in our lives - we need to think well of ourselves, to be confident in our own abilities, to think that we matter to God and the universe. Yet this perspective must be balanced by its opposite - that we are simply one of billions of human beings, that all we have is dependent on God, that we are here to make the world better for everyone, and not just ourselves.

The patient saw the pills and thought that they were meant to effect the cure. Similarly, we may look at the sacrifice offered for tzara’at and think that there was something magical involved, yet if we adopt a position of humility, and recognise that the torah contains wisdom we may not comprehend, we can learn an important lesson:

For every one dose of arrogance, take two doses of humility.

Roni Tabick is a third year rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. On completion of his studies, he hopes to return to work in the Masorti community.

The Abbreviated Repetition of the Amidah

By Rabbi David Golinkin

Question: There are a number of different customs regarding the abbreviated repetition of the Amidah. What is the origin of these different customs and what is the correct practice?

Responsum: The sages of the Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 4:9 and parallels) ruled that the main purpose of the loud repetition of the Amidah was to allow a person who did not know how to recite the Amidah to fulfill his obligation. However, once written prayer books developed in the geonic period, the original reason diminished in importance and the main purpose of the loud repetition became to enable the congregation to recite the kedushah (Tur Orah Haim 124).

With this information in mind, we can understand the seven different methods of abbreviating the Amidah, which developed throughout the generations:

1) The congregation recites the entire Amidah silently, after which the cantor repeats the Amidah aloud until "ha-el hakadosh" and stops. This custom is mentioned by Rav Sherira and Rav Hai Gaon and was practiced at minchah when time was short.

2) The congregation does not recite the silent Amidah at all, but rather the cantor recites the Amidah aloud at the outset. This custom was instituted by Maimonides in Egypt and survived for hundreds of years until it was abolished by the Radbaz. It was practiced at minchah when time was short and at shaharit and musaf on Shabbat and festivals all year long.

3) The cantor recites the Amidah aloud until "hael hakadosh" with the congregation reciting along. The middle blessings are recited silently. The cantor then recites the final three blessings aloud including birkat kohanim (in Shaharit). This custom is mentioned by many Sephardic authorities beginning in the sixteenth century and was practiced at minchah all year long "lekhatehilah" and on other occasions when time was short.

4) The cantor recites the Amidah aloud until "hael hakadosh", with the congregation reciting along. The rest of the blessings are recited silently. This custom is also mentioned by many Sephardic authorities beginning in the sixteenth century and was practiced at minchah all year long "lekhathila".

5) This custom is identical to No. 4 except that one member of the congregation is appointed to answer "Amen" after the first three blessings. This custom is mentioned by Rabbi Jacob Moellin (Ashkenaz, d. 1427) and was practiced at minchah when time was short.

6) The cantor recites the Amidah aloud until "Modim" with the congregation reciting along. The rest of the blessings are recited silently. This custom is mentioned by Rabbi Yosef Teomim (d. 1792) and others and was practiced at minchah when time was short.

7) This custom is similar to No. 4 except that instead of reciting the first three blessings along with the cantor, the congregation answers "Amen" and Kedushah and then recites the entire Amidah silently. This custom is mentioned by Rabbi Yomtov Lipmann Heller (d. 1654) and others and was practiced at minchah when time was short.

Now let us analyze these customs and determine which are appropriate for today. The first custom, of the Geonim, is not aesthetic and that is probably why it died out. The fifth custom, of Rabbi Jacob Moellin, was never really accepted by "kelal yisrael" and does not hold up to careful scrutiny. The sixth custom, of Rabbi Yosef Teomim, is also difficult to fathom. Therefore, the other four customs can be used where appropriate.

Custom No. 2 is appropriate for beginners who do not know how to pray alone. Custom No. 3 is appropriate when there is a desire to shorten the repetition, but it is not a true "she'at hadehak". Custom No. 4 is appropriate for minchah when people are in a big hurry or the hour is late. Custom No. 7 is appropriate for minchah, but it should be stressed that it is forbidden during shaharit because one must adjoin "geulah" (the blessing for redemption) to the Amidah.

Custom No. 4 is the most popular custom. However, it is not recommended to follow this custom at every service all year long because this gives the congregation the feeling of rushing through the prayers.

In any case, we have seen that there are four recommended methods of abbreviating the Amidah. Every local rabbi may use one or more methods when needed according

Source: www.responsafortoday.com

Shemini

26th Nissan 5773 ~ 6th April 2013
 

By Michael Gluckman
 

The Sidrah of Shemini departs from the details of sacrifices to describe the tragic death of Nadav and Abihu, sons of Aaron who die during the inauguration of the Mishkan. Although written in the typical brevity of Torah narrative this was a major disaster roughly equivalent to two of the Deputy Prime Minister's children dying on the day of the state opening of parliament! Not only is there no obvious reason given but moreover, the Torah tells us, that in response to Moses’ explanation of the tragedy “Aaron was silent.” He and his other sons were forbidden to mourn.

So what was the transgression that led to such a severe punishment? Rashi offers us two explanations:

“Rabbi Eliezer says; ‘The sons of Aaron died only because they decided a law in the presence of Moses their teacher.’

Rabbi Ishmael says: ‘Intoxicated with wine they entered the sanctuary’. This is supported in the text that follows which states that priests were forbidden to enter the sanctuary intoxicated with wine.

In trying to fathom the story it is important to understand that although in the Chumash it starts at Chapter 10 the chapter division is artificial and does not follow in any way the lineage and spacing of the actual Torah text. Thus this story is not to be taken in isolation but must be read in conjunction with the whole of the previous chapter. In particular the preceding three verses describe the joy on the peoples’ faces following the blessing by Moshe and Aaron and acceptance by God of the inaugural offering.

Were Nadav and Abihu trying to promote a similar reaction, in effect saying that it was now the turn of the younger generation to the lead the community? Was this their sin? If so when is it right for the new generation to take over? If we do not allow succession our communities stagnate by turning our backs on change that will revitalise them.

According to the interpretation of Samson Raphael Hirsch it was because they “each took his pan” acting without consultation with each other or Moses and Aaron. We cannot work effectively unless we communicate well with each other across the generations. This need to work together must underpin what we do.

I have tried to understand the severe punishment for the transgression. Was it on the basis that the higher one’s status the greater the punishment? Is the performance of the correct ritual so critical or was it because their intentions were self-glory rather than the glory of God?

I think that we are looking here at an even wider tragedy than the personal. Without a succession that is respectful and consultative a community actually dies. When we seek glory only for ourselves a community dies. To be strong the community must be prepared to allow the new blood to move us into the new era whilst understanding that it is also our roots that anchor us.

Michael Gluckman is a member of New North London Synagogue

Tzav is one of the most difficult portions of the Torah for the modern reader: not only because the sacrificial cult is alien to contemporary religiosity, but because the general principles of sacrifice have already been laid out in the preceding parsha, Vayikra. Tzav merely supplements the general commandments to the Israelite nation with more detailed instructions for the priests. These regulations focus exclusively on ritual minutiae and show no concern whatsoever for theological or ethical matters.

This kind of obsession with ritual detail has a long history in Judaism. Shabbat Hagadol was historically one of two annual Shabbatot on which rabbis would address their congregations (the other occasion was Shabbat Shuva before Yom Kippur). Rabbis traditionally used their talk to deal with the intricacies of the Pesach dietary laws; it has been humorously suggested that the name "Shabbat Hagadol" – the great or big Shabbat – was connected with the length of the rabbi’s speech. The prophet Malachi – the author of today’s haftara – was similarly concerned with punctilious obedience to the law, sarcastically condemning those with lower standards: "When you present a blind animal for sacrifice – it doesn’t matter! When you present a lame or sick one – it doesn’t matter! ... This is what you have done – will [God] accept any of you?" (1:8-9). Unlike the author of Tzav, Malachi had ethical concerns too (see 3:5), but his ultimate concern was for faithfulness to God, expressed through adherence to both ritual and ethical laws.

Is service in Zahal today an obligation for every Jew in Israel, or may one engaged in sacred studies request an exemption in order to devote all his time to such studies? In the State of Israel today, despite our difficult security situation many, many thousands of young men and older men have done no military or paramilitary service whatever. The number increases from year to year. Among them are those who do not recognize the State, some who are newly religious, and others who recognize the State but feel themselves totally exempt on account of religious studies. The government permits and supports this arrangement. Our question: Does the halakhah justify this?

As a general principle, the Torah commands the responsibility of military service to every Israelite. There are temporary exceptions forthose who are at a particular point in their lives and have not had the opportunity to savor specified major personal developments. And the one who is fearful - who is psychologically unfit - is exempt. The Rabbis tended to nullify the exemptions. Thus they saw the exemptions as temporarily waiving frontline duty only; there remained the obligation to perform auxiliary support services. They further nullified the exemption as applying only in the instance of an optional war. The commanded war, the necessary war, voids all exemptions. Surely pikuah nefesh - the saving of a life - is a commandment of the highest priority. In today's world, service in Zahal, the Army of Israel, is an act of pikuah nefesh. It is at the same time a concretization of the commandment "Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor". During the Biblical period one may understand that Levites and Priests as ritual functionaries and teachers were exempt from normal military duties. But even if there were such a broad exemption, it does not appear to have extended to a period of warfare. Among the commentators, some reject this approach to blanket exemption altogether. Others would apply it only to rare outstanding individuals - not as a basis for general exemption of large numbers. There is a Talmudic approach, which would exempt "rabbis" from some kinds of routine obligation. We surely do not see this as a basis for exempting large numbers of students from the commandment of saving Israel from its enemies.

There has been much publicity in the press emanating from the Chief Rabbinate of Israel to the effect that, according to the halakhah, it is forbidden to cede even a footstep of any part of the whole Land of Israel. What is the position of our Va'ad Halakhah?

Our basic sources, Biblical and Rabbinic, do not mention the concept of "the Whole Land of Israel" as a sacred place defined by rigidly fixed borders. The reason is obvious. Throughout all periods of our history, the borders of the land expanded or narrowed for political reasons. The theoretical idealized borders were vague. Thus, major Rabbinical authorities in the Middle Ages disagreed as to the location of the "River of Egypt". Some understood this indicator of Israel's southwest border as Wadi El Arish in the Eastern Sinai, whereas others understood it to be the Nile River some 100 kilometers further west. Under King David, Israel's empire was considerably larger than the area promised to Abraham; and when Solomon ceded "twenty cities in the land of the Galilee" to Hiram of Tyre there seems to have been no sense that any sacred territorial commitment was being violated.

After the destruction of the Second Temple, we find the Rabbis shrinking the territory to be defined as the Holy Land. There are voices arguing for the exclusion even of Acre and Beit She'an. The major factor in their reasoning may well have been economic: Those deemed to live outside of the Holy Land of Israel were exempt from observing the (seventh) Shmitah year as well as tithing and similar internal Jewish taxes. Whatever the totality of the reasons, this approach certainly demonstrates a great deal of flexibility with reference to borders. There is also the example of two neighboring 'heartland' port cities, Caesarea and Dor, roughly midway between Haifa and Jaffa. The Rabbis variously considered each as within or outside the Land of Israel, depending on the Jewish or non-Jewish nature of its population. The status of the city of Ashkelon was complex. In some respects it was deemed to be in the Land and in some respects it was considered as outside the Land. Similarly, certain Jewish cities on the far side of the Jordan were considered as part of the Land in some respects and outside it in other halakhic respects. Close to the year 100 c.e., Rabban Gamliel of Yavneh published a list of locations considered part of the Land of Israel. About a century later, Rabbi Yehudah Hanassi issued a similar list, which differed in a number of details to reflect changes in Jewish population patterns.

By definition, the Land of Israel is Holy (holiness being defined in part by special obligations) yet the boundaries of the Holy Land were never fixed and rigid, but the opposite: flexible in accordance with the pragmatic reality of the time. To claim that the concept "the Whole Land of Israel" forbids us from conceding any part of the geographic land that happens to be under Jewish sovereignty has no support in the halakhah. The disagreement relative to the "Whole Land of Israel" concept is strictly a political dispute with no halakhic relevance whatever.

Can God really be angry? Moses appears to think so in this week’s sedra when he tells God, “Let not your anger blaze forth against your people whom you delivered from the Land of Egypt with great power and a mighty hand”.

According to Maimonides, God can’t be angry because anger is a human attribute and anyone who thinks God can be angry could not have arrived at this conclusion by “intellectual speculation; he merely followed the external sense of the texts of the Scriptures” (Guide of the Perplexed. Cap 53).

But weren’t humans created in the image of God, so whatever traits we display must be present in the Divine personality?

Maimonides does acknowledge this in his next chapter, when he admits that, if you perceive one of God’s actions, for example, forgiving people, you can apply to it the name of the characteristic from which that action is derived – in this case, compassion. When this happens, God is mirroring a human attribute. An example which Maimonides brings from Scripture is as follows:

Just as a father is merciful to his children [Psalm 103] so I will pity them as a man pities his own son [Malachi 3, 17]

The way Moses persuades God to cool his anger is by reminding Him to mirror a human attribute – our concern about what people might think of us. In this scenario, God is a personal God who empathizes with our concern and worries about what non-believers think of Him.

There are many examples in Scripture of God changing his mind – sometimes this results in people being reprieved. In the book of Samuel, God regrets that He made Saul king after seeing how Saul failed to carry out His commandment to kill the Amalekites. In the book of Jonah, God decided not to destroy the people of Nineveh after they repent. This upsets Jonah, who had expected to be the instrument of their destruction. In this week’s sedra, God decides not to destroy the Israelites after the sin of the Golden Calf.

In the case of Saul, it is not immediately apparent that God did anything in pursuance of His regret, although it could be that God drove Saul into bitter opposition against David, which caused Saul’s downfall and death. In the cases of Nineveh and the Golden Calf, did God know from the outset that He would refrain from punishing the people?

In the end, God remains an enigma. We don’t know what was in His mind (or even whether He had one!). Perhaps we can learn something by understanding the attributes which He cloned within us.
 

Allan Myers is a member of Kol Nefesh Masorti Synagogue

How should an adopted child of Jewish extraction be called to the Torah - as the son or daughter of the natural parents or of the adoptive parents?
 

In general, it is permissible to call him or her up using the names of the adoptive parents and, indeed, this has been the ruling of most modern authorities. They derive this ruling from a number of aggadic or non-legal sources:
 

1) The Talmud (Sanhedrin 19b = Megillah 13a) deduces from a number of biblical stories that "whoever raises an orphan in his home is considered by Scripture to have given birth to him".
 

2) Similarly, we learn in the midrash (Shemot Rabbah 46:5) "a person who raises a child is called the father and not the person who gives birth".
 

3) Lastly, we learn in the Talmud (Sanhedrin 21a) that Ma'akhah the mother of Tamar was a "yefat to'ar" who was captured in battle and then married by King David. Tosafot (ibid.) suggest that Tamar was not really David's daughter since Ma'akhah was already pregnant when she was captured. If so, why was Tamar called a daughter of kings (II Samuel 13:18)? They reply: "Because she grew up in the bosom of King David, she was called 'the daughter of kings'".
 

In addition to these aggadic sources, we know that the Amora Abbaye was an orphan who used to call the woman who raised him "eim" (mother - Kiddushin 31b and frequently). Finally, we have the halakhic ruling of Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg (Responsa Maharam, ed. Lemberg, No. 242) who was asked about Reuven and his wife who wrote a legal document to her son and nonetheless wrote "and give to our son". He replied: "And it seems that this is fine terminology because whoever raises an orphan is considered as if he gave birth to it... so an orphan may call the person who raised him 'my father' and for a woman 'my mother'". This ruling of the Maharam was later codified by the Rema in the Shulhan Arukh (Hoshen Mishpat 42:15).
 

In conclusion, almost all the early sources until Rabbi Moshe Isserles assumed or ruled that a step-son or orphan who was raised by adoptive parents is allowed to call them father and mother in everyday life, in marriage contracts and in other contracts. Therefore it is perfectly permissible to  do so when calling an adopted child to the Torah.
 

The only problematic cases would involve a child who is a Cohen or Levi when the adoptive father is an Israelite or vice versa. In such a case, some rabbis recommend calling him to the Torah as "so-and-so the Cohen son of the adoptive father" and the like in order to avoid confusion regarding Aliyot, birkat cohanim and pidyon haben. Yet it is difficult to set hard and fast rules because such a practice may cause psychological damage to the child or to the adoptive parents. Therefore, in such delicate cases, the local rabbi must rule according to the circumstances and the people involved.

Nahum Gordon leyns, davens and gives divrei Torah at Kol Nefesh Masorti Synagogue; he also teaches at New North London.

The word mitzvah can mean good deed, but, technically, it refers to one of the 613 mitzvot or commandments in the Torah. This number was originally stated by Rabbi Simlai in the third century (Makkot 23b);² since then dozens of rabbis have enumerated the 613 commandments.³

As I have explained elsewhere,  Eretz Yisrael holds a unique place in Jewish tradition and history. As a result, we would expect our tradition to unanimously require aliyah. Yet, in fact, rabbinic literature contains at least five different approaches towards aliyah:

1. The early midrash of Sifrei Devarim (paragraph 80) relates that Rabbi Elazar ben Shamua and Rabbi Yohanan ha-Sandlar (ca. 150 c.e.) were on their way to study Torah outside of Eretz Yisrael. When they reached Sidon in Lebanon, they remembered Eretz Yisrael. They began to cry and they rent their garments and they recited the verse (Deuteronomy 11:31-32): "When you have occupied it and are settled in it, take care to observe all of the laws. . . " Said they: `Dwelling in Eretz Yisrael is equal to all of the other commandments in the Torah'. Whereupon they turned around and went back to Eretz Yisrael.

Nahmanides (1194-1270) followed their approach by ruling that it is a positive commandment to inherit the land and dwell therein.  Furthermore, he practiced what he preached, arriving in Jerusalem from Spain in 1267 and settling in Acre. 6 His opinion was accepted by a number of prominent medieval rabbis and is very popular among Israeli rabbis today. 

2. On the other hand, the above-mentioned Rabbi Simlai did not view aliyah as a mitzvah in and of itself but rather as a makhshir mitzvah or preparatory act which enables one to perform the mitzvot which can only be performed in Israel such as tithing and the Sabbatical and Jubilee years. 

3. Other talmudic sages did not rule explicitly on whether aliyah is a mitzvah, but tried to encourage aliyah and discourage emigration via specific legislation: 10 "Both husbands and wives may force their spouses to make aliyah (Mishna Ketubot13:11). If a Jew wants to buy land in Israel, he may tell the non-Jewish owner to draw up the contract even on Shabbat (Gittin 8b and Bava Kamma 80b). "It is forbidden to leave Eretz Yisrael unless twose'ah (26.4 liters) of wheat sell for one selah. Rabbi Shimon said. . . if one can find any wheat at all, even if one se'ah costs a selah, he should not emigrate" (Bava Batra 91a).

There is much detail but little explanation for the purpose of the sanctuary. The only explanation occurs in Exodus 25:8 "And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them." The meaning may have been evident to the Children of Israel but to later generations, the intention and objective of building a dedicated sanctuary to God remains an enigma. Why does God, who is incorporeal and transcendent, need a sacred dwelling place? The verse raises more questions than it answers.

Rashi teaches that God is transcendent, wholly other from human activities, but the Mikdash is a House of Holiness meant to carry people to emulate God’s ways. At their best our synagogues, as in the days of the Mishkan, inspire us to find and live God’s ways of holiness.

Question: Why do Jews sway when they pray?

Responsum: Like many Jewish customs, the origins of shucklen- a common Yiddish word which means to shake or rock - are shrouded in mystery.1 We can say when it was done and where but not why. This is because many customs were instituted by the Jewish people as a spontaneous expression of their Jewishness; the learned explanations came later.

Shucklen is not explicitly mentioned in the Talmud.2 Interestingly enough, it is first mentioned in a number of Islamic sources. Mohammed is supposed to have said: "Be not like the Jews who whenever they read the Torah publicly move to and fro". His contemporary, the poet Labid (d. 660), writes of a person who gropes for an object, moving his hand to and fro "like a praying Jew". 3

Jewish sources also mention shucklen in the context of Torah study and prayer. Rabbi Samuel Hanaggid of Granada (d. 1056) is the first to mention swaying during Torah study in one of his poems:

And we came angry into the House of God and would that we had taken a wrong turn, for behold the rabbi and the students were swaying their heads like a tamarisk in the wilderness.4

Various reasons have been given for this practice throughout the ages.

Rabbi Judah Halevi of Spain (d. 1141) gives two explanations in his book, The Kuzari, an imaginary

dialogue between the king of the Khazars and a rabbi. The king asks why Jews move to and fro when they read the Bible. The rabbi replies:

It is said that it is done in order to arouse natural heat [i.e., to warm up]. My personal belief [is as follows:]... As it often happened that many persons read at the same time, it was possible that ten or more read from one volume. Each of them was obliged to bend down in his turn in order to read a passage, and to turn back again. This resulted in a continual bending and sitting up, the book lying on the ground. This was one reason. Then it became a habit through constant seeing, observing and imitating, which is in man's nature.5

Rabbi Simhah of Vitry (France, d. 1105) gives a third explanation. He says that young children are taught to sway when they study the Torah, "for thus we find at the giving of the Torah 'And the people saw and they trembled' (Exodus 20:15)".6

Lastly, the Zohar, which was written in thirteenth-century Spain, asks: Why is it that all the peoples of the world do not sway, but Jews alone do so when they study Torah? The souls of Israel are derived from the Holy Lamp [of God] ...when a Jew utters one word of Torah, the light [in his soul] is kindled...and he sways to and fro like the flame of a candle.7

On the other hand, there was a common custom of swaying during prayer. This custom was explained in at least three different ways.

Rabbi Abraham of Lunel (Toledo, d. 1215) and many others quote an unknown midrash:

A person is required to sway during prayer, as it is written: "all my bones shall proclaim: O God, who is like You!" (Psalms 35:10)...And this is the custom of the Rabbis of France and her pious ones.8

The testament attributed to R. Israel Ba'al Shem Tov (d. 1760) gives a different explanation for shucklen:

When a person is drowning in a river and he makes movements in order to extricate himself from the water, those who see him will no doubt laugh at him and at his motions. Thus, when a person prays and makes motions, one should not laugh at him because he is saving himself from the malicious waters which are the. . . foreign thoughts which come to distract him during prayer.9

In other words, shucklen helps one concentrate on the prayers and say them with kavanah [proper intent].

Lastly, two nineteenth-century authors came up with a truly original explanation for shucklen: Jewish students and rabbis don't get enough exercise. Therefore, they shuckle when they study and pray in order to get some badly needed exercise!10

Surprisingly, a number of prominent rabbis opposed shucklen during prayer. They claimed that it was disrespectful11 or that it prevents the properkavanah required for the Amidah [the silent devotion].12

In conclusion, Jews have shuckled during prayer and study for at least 1,400 years. While the original reason is not known, most Jews seem to feel that it helps one concentrate during prayer and study. On the other hand, there is certainly no obligation to shuckle. The best rule of thumb is probably that stated by R. Yehiel Michal Epstein (d. 1908):

And during the Amidah there are some who sway and some who don't and it depends on the person's nature. If by swaying, his kavanah improves, then he should sway; and a person whose kavanah is clearer when he stands perfectly still should not sway - and [either option] should be done for the sake of heaven...13

by Rabbi David Golinkin

Responsum: There is no mention of any separation in the Temple in Jerusalem throughout the period of the First Temple or most of the period of the Second Temple. Towards the end of the Second Temple period the Sages directed that a women's gallery be constructed in the Women's Court to keep the sexes separated during the somewhat light-headed celebration of the water festival during Succot. During the balance of the year men and women mingled freely in the Women's Court. (It appears that this was so named because it marked the limit of approach by women who were not bringing sacrifices, to the inner courts of the Temple). There is no literary or archaeological basis for assuming the existence of a synagogue separation during the period of the Mishnah and the Talmud. The first mention is towards the end of the period of the Geonim (around the eleventh century). From then on, such separation is occasionally mentioned in passing. Not until the end of the nineteenth century do we have a halakhic source requiring separation in the synagogue.

Many Orthodox rabbis maintain that the women's gallery in the synagogue has the status of pentateuchal law (meed'oraita). This is not borne out by the Talmudic sources. The Mishnah, Tosefta, and Babylonian Talmud clearly state that the erection of the temporary separating balcony towards the end of the Second Temple period was a rabbinic enactment (tikun gadol) enacted by the Sages. In any case the existence of a temporary separation in the Temple tells us absolutely nothing about the pattern in the ancient synagogue; the synagogue differs in hundreds of details from the Temple. While the medieval commentators mention separation in the synagogue as a fact, not one demands it or forbids mixed seating. The ironclad institutionalizing of separate seating came about only towards the end of the nineteenth century as an Orthodox strategem directed against the non-Orthodox trends. There is considerable evidence of mixed prayer in the Bible and in the Apocrypha. With reference to the Second Temple period many sources indicate that mixing was the norm in the Women's Court.

Some argue that the reason no physical divider has been found in any ancient synagogue is that women simply did not attend. However, many sources do testify to the regular attendance of women in the synagogue during the period of the Talmud. The archaeological evidence also supports the literary evidence we have collected. Since the beginning of this century, over one hundred ancient synagogues have been unearthed in Eretz Yisrael, the Golan and Trans-Jordan and another ten in the diaspora. Evidence of a gallery has been found in only five of the Palestinian synagogues and in none of the diaspora synagogues. Furthermore, there is no archaeological proof whatsoever that the five galleries discovered were used by women.

Thus, the separate women's' section apparently is a minhag (custom) that developed during the period of the Geonim. May one change a custom, which is perhaps a thousand years old? Many argue that one must always follow customs that were handed down. However, in our history great numbers of customs have been changed: organically by the people and formally by their Rabbis. The mores and habits of society in general are major factors affecting halakhah and minhag. It happens that in our society mixed seating is the norm. Therefore we can use the halakhic principle of haidana (=now) to justify this change in custom. This principle has been used by poskim hundreds of times since Talmudic times. In addition, we can utilize the halakhic concept of regilut (=habit), which was used by medieval poskim such as the Ra'aviyah and the Levush and even by proponents of the mehitzah such as R. Moshe Feinstein. This concept states that men are not sexually aroused by things they are accustomed to seeing and doing. Therefore, since men and women today are accustomed to sitting together at all times, mixed seating no longer has any effect on a man's ability to concentrate on his prayers. Of course there are still some congregations where mixed seating would be disturbing to the participants. It is entirely proper for them to continue with separate seating. But this is not true of our Movement's constituency for whom mixed seating is routine. For us, mixed seating is halakhically and instinctively correct.
 

Rabbi David Golinkin
http://www.responsafortoday.com   

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