The Assembly of Masorti Synagogues - Past Reflections 2006

PINCHAS

16th Tammuz 5768 ~ 19th July 2008

By David Kosky

Every Shul (at least those with more than two Sifrei Torah) should keep one sefer permanently rolled at Pinchas. For, tacked on at the end, almost as an afterthought, we find detailed instructions for the sacrifices to be offered by the Israelites "in their appointed times" daily, on Shabbat, on Rosh Chodesh and on each of the Festivals. As the relevant passages are read on Rosh Chodesh and on each day of each of the Festivals we read from Pinchas on no less than 34 occasions during the year-more than from any other Parashah.

Yet for all their frequency, these passages are little studied and generally dismissed as an anachronism, a recollection of something that took place long ago, in different circumstances and almost in a different dimension. Worse still, there are those (particularly within the Masorti movement) who would seek to excise reference to the "korbonoth" from our daily prayers. It has even been given as reason for not repeating the Mussaf Service (containing quotations from Pinchas) as if private reference to the sacrifices were acceptable but their public recitation by way of prayer (rather than as a Torah reading) were somehow distasteful.

I find this approach inconsistent and entirely unsatisfactory. We pray for the coming of the Messiah and restoration of the Temple Service” speedily and in our days" but we refuse to address what this actually entails. Study of Talmud Berachoth demonstrates that the prayers we say today differ little if at all from those said in the Beth Hamikdash and were centred around those very sacrifices we choose to ignore. Study of the laws of the korbonoth themselves demonstrate that the major part of those animals sacrificed were in fact consumed by the Cohanim. No non-vegetarian has any right to complain that animal sacrifice was cruel.

So long as the Temple has not been rebuilt the laws of korbonot remain suspended. These laws are not however optional-the language in which they are couched makes it clear that they are mandatory for all time as indeed they constitute many of the 613 mitzvot. As soon as the Temple is rebuilt they become the imperative duty of every Torah observant Jew. We believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah and hence rebuilding of the Beth Hamikdash but do we really think through what this means or entails?

Until comparatively modern times rebuilding of the Temple and restoration of animal sacrifices was viewed as a very real and immediate consequence of the coming of the Messiah. Our generation prefers not to think about it. The korbonot have become (if you will pardon reference in this context to a non sacrificial animal) the elephant in the room of modern Judaism, both Orthodox and Masorti.

In the days of the Second Temple the sacrifices and their attendant ceremonial attracted visitors (both Jewish and Gentile) from all parts of the known world. The Temple Avodah was the greatest show on Earth performed in one of the most attractive settings on Earth. The nature of that ceremonial may today appal some of us (although detailed study suggests that it may not have been quite as gory as at first sight). Yet it represents part of the essence of our religion without which no proper understanding of Judaism is possible. It deserves better than to be swept under the carpet whenever the opportunity presents.

It may be that with the coming of the Messiah the mandatory sacrifices will be replaced by something else. Until then we must not only read about but properly address the significance of the Temple and its Service, may it be rebuilt speedily and in our days.

David Kosky is a member of EMS

By Rabbi Dr Ismar Schorsch

From the paean of Balaam, we plummet to the apostasy at Shittim. The inconstancy of the real world quickly obscures the glimpse of perfection. The daughters of Moab, a tribe born of incest (Genesis 19:30-38), literally seduces the men of Israel into an orgy of idolatry. Enraged, God orders Moses to slay all those who have worshipped at the shrine of Baal-peor. But before Moses can mobilize his leadership, an Israelite male comes out of nowhere to fuel the rebellion by publicly taking a Medianite consort into a marriage chamber. In a burst of zeal, Pinchas, a young priest and Aaron's grandson, runs them both through with a single thrust of his spear. The vigilante execution ends the plague that had already taken some 24,000 victims.

Subsequently, we are informed by the Torah of the true gravity of the incident: the perpetrators came from the leadership elites of Israel and Midian. Zimri, son of Salu was a leader from the tribe of Simeon. Similarly, his consort, Kozbi, the daughter of Zur, hailed from the household of a tribal chieftain. The intermingling started at the top.

The midrash relates the census that follows to the loss of life that preceded. A shepherd whose flock has been ravaged by wolves will always take account of what's left (Rashi on 21:1). Interestingly, the greatest deviation from the census taken thirty-eight years earlier, at the beginning of the trek into the wilderness, shows up in the numbers for the tribe of Simeon. Its population has decreased by 37,100 souls, a drop that far exceeds that of any other tribe. A midrash found in the Cairo Genizah links this depletion to the fact that Zimri belonged to the tribe of Simeon. It suffered grievously for the heinous sin of one of its top leaders. Indeed, claims the midrash, all but 2,000 of the 24,000 Israelites who perished from the plague were Simeonites.

In an ingenious display of intertextuality, the midrash contrasts the depravity of Zimri with the nobility of his distant ancestor, Simeon, the second son of Jacob, the patriarch. Simeon, along with his brother, Levi, had slaughtered some 22,000 inhabitants of the city-state of Shechem after one of its chieftains had kidnapped and raped and then wished to marry their sister, Dinah (Genesis 34). Yet, the very crime that had repelled them was precisely what tempted Zimri. He had betrayed his patrimony. Promiscuity and harlotry were loathsome whether practiced by a Canaanite or an Israelite. Hence, the toll of 22,000 exacted in retribution from the tribe of Simeon (Torah Shlemah on Numbers 26:14, no.32).

The maths may be a little off, since Simeon's numbers fell by 37,100. Nor does the book of Genesis give any figure for those killed by Simeon and Levi at Schechem. Still, the underlying principle is clear: "Zimri had breached the fence erected by his ancestor. In blemishing himself he brought disgrace on his whole clan," (B'midbar Rabbah 21:3).

By connecting the dots of a fragmented narrative, the midrashic mind raised to consciousness the role of leadership in the fate of a community. The erosion in the status of the tribe of Simeon was not accidental. Those who succumbed to the wiles of the women of Moab and Midian came primarily from Simeon. The tribe suffered from abysmal leadership. The brazen act of defiance by Zimri should not be seen in isolation, but as typical of the leadership elite. His zeal was destructive because it was misguided.

The zeal of Pinchas, however was not. He remained faithful to the values of his ancestor, the progenitor of the tribe of Levi. He refused to countenance what his father abhorred. At Baal-peor the descendants of Simeon and Levi parted company. Their zeal clashed head-on. In consequence, God rewarded Pinchas and his progeny with the privileged status of priest for all time, while dooming the tribe of Simeon to oblivion. In Moses' farewell blessing to Israel, Simeon is the only tribe to go unmentioned (Deuteronomy 33). And, by the partition of Canaan under Joshua, the land apportioned to Simeon is but a part of the domain of Judah (Joshua 19:1).

Against this backdrop of failed leadership, the insistence by Moses before his death that God replace him with a suitable leader "so that the Lord's community may not be like sheep that have no shepherd" resonates with poignancy (27:17). The exchange yields at least a partial vision of what constitutes good leadership. Strikingly, Moses does not ask God to appoint one of his two sons. Perhaps he sensed that neither was qualified (see Judges 18:30, which the Talmud treats as idolatry - Bava Batra 109b). The welfare of Israel takes precedence over the welfare of his family. At this critical juncture, Moses does not allow personal gain to cloud his judgment. Heredity offers no guarantee of competence.

God responds by instructing Moses to install Joshua, "an inspired man" (ish asher ruah bo-27:18). This time, the Hebrew term ruah, is in the singular. The shift adds an important nuance. Leaders must couple spiritual resolve with emotional magnanimity. All will be confronted with crises when they will have to face down and not give in. Sensitivity without conviction is ultimately an abdication of leadership. Zimri, for all his vaunted status, may well have followed rather than led, taking his cue from the direction in which the mob chose to go and then positioning himself at its helm. Bereft of a centre of gravity, a leader will be buffeted by gusts of passion from many quarters. In short, a genuine leader should be both inner- and outer-directed, firm yet responsive, compassionate yet courageous. And, to know when to be which, is the essence of good judgment.

BALAK

9th Tammuz 5768 ~ 12th July 2008

By Alan Orchover

“A people that dwells apart not reckoned among the nations.”

Balak is the strangest Sedra in the Torah. Many rabbis considered it a separate book known as “Sefer Balaam.”

It contains four oracles, a curious narrative and prose and poetry. The story has charm, irony and literary inventiveness. Balak, King of Moab, had heard with dread of Israel’s victory over the Amorites. Instead of going out to war, he sent for Balaam (which may mean “lord of the people”) a sorcerer and prophet, to curse the Israelites. Cursing was believed to have great powers amongst ancient nations. Balaam’s character has given rise over the centuries to diverse views. The general view is that he was evil as he wished to curse Israel but was divinely compelled to bless them. He also prophesied Israel’s future which contains the amazingly accurate description quoted above.

The most astonishing incident is the talking ass which refused to take Balaam on his journey because it sees blocking its way an angel which, at first, Balaam cannot see. He smites the ass three times after which it remonstrates with him. There is no other Biblical example (apart from the serpent in the Garden of Eden) of a speaking animal. Maimonides stated that this was a dream or vision of Balaam and did not actually take place.

This contradicts the Ethics of the Fathers which states that Balaam’s talking ass was one of God’s miracles created in the twilight before Shabbat at the creation of the world.

Luzzatto, the great commentator, takes an intermediate view. He says that, as the text does not specifiy that the ass made human sounds, it only conveyed to Balaam the presence of God in a manner as if it had spoken the words.

There are many opinions of this story in the Talmud and from other Rabbinical sources. It had a profound effect on early Christianity because of its obsession with evil and original sin as well as the Church’s early belief in the power of curses.

The Torah approaches the act of pronouncing fateful words – whether for evil or good – with seriousness. When a man like Balaam, to whom the story ascribes powerful spirituality, prepared to invoke a curse, even God viewed this with alarm and ensured that the curses would be turned into blessings.

This strange “Midrash” illustrates three important lessons. That the God of Israel was universal and could communicate with others, even pagans, as for example Jethro, Job or Melchizedek.

That whether Balaam was a prophet or a malign sorcerer is irrelevant to the fact that he could be an instrument of God’s will. God’s power eached beyond Israel and His servants were Jethro and Balaam as well as Moses and Aaron.

Israel was Master of its own destiny to the extent that it followed or disregarded.

God’s commandments. If it could not be cursed by Balaam it could still “curse itself” as Balaam afterwards appeared to counsel the Israelites (after cursing had failed) to become steeped in immorality at Baal-Peor.

Alan Orchover is a member of EMS

By Rabbi Dr Ismar Schorsch

After two impressive victories against the Canaanites of the Negeb and the Amorites in Transjordan, the looming military might of Israel throws the leaders of Moab into a panic. Only the land of the Moabites separates Israel from the Jordan River and the conquest of Canaan. Balak ben Zippor, King of Moab, knows that he is next. In desperation, he takes recourse in an unconventional pre-emptive measure. He summons Balaam, son of Beor, a sorcerer from Mesopotamia, to curse Israel, making it susceptible to defeat on the battlefield. Though Balaam comes, God frustrates the plan. Within the monotheistic framework of the Torah, Balaam can utter only what God imparts to him. Hence, he ends up in rapturous praise of Israel, to the consternation of Balak.

In an imaginative midrash, the Rabbis expatiate on what brought Balak to seize on this particular tactic. Awestruck by Moses, he inquired of the Midianites, among whom Moses had once found refuge when fleeing Pharaoh's wrath, as to the man's strength. They responded that Moses' strength resided in his mouth; that is, his prayers were able to move God to act in his behalf. To neutralize that weapon, Balak turns to sorcery. Balaam's strength also resides in his mouth. His curse will trump Moses' prayers. Without divine assistance, Israel is eminently beatable (Rashi on 22:4).

As so often, the midrashic genre yields rich insight. Words are weapons when they carry conviction. As long as the prayers of Israel embody deep faith, a sense of chosenness, and real dialogue, they have the capacity to keep chaos at bay. With the information at hand, Balak intuited that the ultimate source of Israel's dominance was spiritual and not military.

The training ground for that resilience of the spirit would eventually become the synagogue, the sacred space that reverberates with the spoken word. How appropriate, then, that the first words we intone upon entering the synagogue in the morning are taken from Balaam's encomium: "How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!" (24:5). While in the Torah these words express Balaam's astonishment at the expanse and quality of Israel's encampment in the wilderness, in the siddur they give voice to our gratitude for the sustenance of the synagogue. Throughout its Diaspora sojourn, Israel finds refuge in the synagogue, where prayer and study spin a web of existential meaning. It is the synagogue which generates the vocabulary that enables us to endure and prevail.

Yet, for all its importance, the ritual of the synagogue is but the means to an end. In Judaism, behaviour takes priority over belief. Faith without deeds will not change the world. And the Rabbis articulate this hierarchy of values in a startling comparison between the figures of Abraham and Balaam.

Whoever possesses these three qualities is numbered among the disciples of our father Abraham, and those who possess the three opposite qualities are found among the disciples of wicked Balaam: A generous spirit, a humble soul, and a modest appetite - such a one is a disciple of our father Abraham. A grudging spirit, an arrogant soul, and an insatiable appetite - such a one is a disciple of wicked Balaam. (Or Hadash, Reuven Hammer, 275-276)

At issue in these conflicting world views is clearly how we live. For the Rabbis, Balaam personified a lifestyle that turns on the self. The other is always secondary. In contrast, Abraham's virtues combine to contract the ego. Compassion, humility, and self-restraint not only privilege the other but also devalue material possessions. Judaism strives for self-control. Nobility of character requires a touch of asceticism. In his commentary to this passage, Judah Goldin posits that such virtue is not a function of biological descent, but persistent effort. Jewishness is defined by what we do with our lives. Like Abraham, we can choose to follow God's voice as refracted in the sacred texts of Judaism.

Incomparably, that same value scale is enunciated by the eighth-century prophet Micha, whose words constitute our haftarah for this week's parashah. The superficial link is his glancing reference to Balak and Balaam. In a deeper vein, he espouses the primacy of ethics over ritual. The goal of genuine religion is not to mollify God with escalating numbers of sacrifices, culminating in the offering of one's own firstborn child. On the contrary, what God has long demanded is "only to do justice and to love goodness and to walk modestly with your God" (6:8). Again, the thrust runs diametrically counter to our penchant for self-absorption. The best way to infuse the world with holiness is by harnessing the self. As long as ritual is tethered to that aspiration, it can provide us with the discipline to move beyond ourselves.

CHUKAT

2nd Tammuz 5768 ~ 5th July 2008

By Eva Frojmovic

The Haftorah for this week is the tragic story of Jephthah (Judges 11:1-33). After illegitimate birth and abused youth, he grows up into a top soldier; the Gileadites swallow their pride to appoint him their leader against the Ammonites. Jephtha’s foolish vow “If you deliver the Ammonites into my hands, then whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me on my safe return from the Ammonites shall be the Lord's and shall be offered by me as a burnt offering”, ultimately leads to the tragic death of his daughter, for perhaps unsurprisingly it is she who hastens to be the first to meet her father. But this tragic ending is not included in the Haftarah, which ends on a triumphant note: “So the children of Ammon were subdued before the children of Israel.”

On the surface, the connection between the Parashah and the Haftorah is about the victorious wars of Israelites against the gentile residents of the region. But it is precisely the excision of Jephthah’s daughter’s tragedy from the Haftarah, it is that false triumphant ending that alerted me to a submerged theme in the Parashah: the potential of women’s relationship to nature to counteract death, a potential often thwarted by militarised masculine behaviour.

It is the ashes of a blood coloured heifer that purify from the ultimate impurity, that of death. Redness, the colour of blood, is emphasised throughout the ritual of the Red Cow: a completely red female cow that has never born the yoke is sacrificed, and its ashes are mixed three further red substances: red cedarwood, the red herb hyssop, and scarlet wool. The resulting mixture is called in the Torah Mey Niddah, “waters of menstruation”, as if the redness of its constitutive substances was symbolic of a special kind of blood, menstrual blood, which stands for the lifegiving capacity of the female body.

Straight after the end of the lengthy description of the Red Cow ritual, Miriam dies. Rashi connects: just as the Red Heifer purifies from death, so the death of the Holy ones saves others. Rashi knew that the Talmud (Baba Batra ch. 1 fol. 17a) had listed Miriam among the six Holy ones who died by the “Kiss of God” and over whom death had no dominion. And promptly the Israelites run out of water. The Talmud (Taanit ch. 1 fol. 19a) concluded from the sequence ‘Miriam’s death – water crisis’ that Miriam had endowed the Israelites with a wandering well, a form of female water magic, and that it dried out at her death – hence the water crisis. Just as the Mey’ niddah, the “waters of menstruation”, cancel the impurity of death, so Miriam’s well kept at bay the death of thirst in the desert. Moses’ own water magic is effective but transgressive, since Moses uses violence not authorised by God – he hits the rock instead of gently speaking to it. Perhaps the Torah can be read here to contrast women’s and men’s relationship with nature?

Eva Frojmovic is co chair of Leeds Masorti

By Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz

In Numbers 20, God tells Moses and Aaron to ascend Mount Hor so that Aaron will die there. Moses obeys. He climbs the mountain with Aaron and Aaron's son, Eleazar, strips Aaron of his priestly garments, and places them on Eleazar. Very matter-of-factly the Torah concludes, "Aaron dies there on the summit of the mountain." Though elegant in its simplicity, the narrative leaves us thirsty for the voices of all those involved in this drama. Midrash, rabbinic commentary sparked by sensitive readings of the text, gives voice to the initial silence. A tender midrash (Yalkut, Hukkat 764) envisions the scenario in which Moses "broke the news" to his brother. In this rabbinic legend, God first tells Moses of Aaron's impending death and asks Moses to inform his brother:

Moses rose early in the morning and went to Aaron. Moses called out, "Aaron my brother." Aaron came down and asked, "What made you come here so early today?" Moses replied, "During the night I studied a passage of Torah which I found troubling, and so I rose early and came to you." "What was the matter?" Aaron asked. "I do not remember, but I know it was in the Book of Genesis. Bring it and we'll read it." Together they read through Genesis and commented on each passage, "The Holy One created well." But when they came to the creation of Adam, Moses asked, "What is one to say of Adam who brought death into the world? And we, who staved off death for the Israelite people, no doubt will face the same end. After all, how many more years have we to live?" "Not many," Aaron answered. Moses continued talking, until finally he mentioned to him the exact day when death would strike. At that moment Aaron's bones felt the imminence of his own demise. So he asked, "Is it because of me that you found the matter so distressing?" Moses answered, "Yes."

What is truly remarkable in this midrash is the way Moses decides to break the news to his brother. Notice Moses does not run straight to Aaron and tell him God's message. He understands the message must be given with care. Moreover, the message is so difficult for Moses that his own voice cannot be the sole carrier of this news. He cannot handle it on his own, and so he turns to the heart of the tradition — to God's word, to God's voice: Moses and Aaron learn Torah together. Moses delicately frames his message in the form of a text-based inquiry. They turn to the beginning, when Adam brings death into the world as a result of transgressing God's commandment. One feels the trembling behind Moses' question: "What is one to say of Adam who brought death into the world? And we, who staved off death for the Israelite people, no doubt will face the same end. After all, how many more years have we to live?" It is not only Aaron's fate that Moses is addressing at this point, but also his own fate — for he too will meet his end. By placing their own lives in the context of a biblical story, their own uniqueness and particular experiences are given a universal dimension. Moses sees himself as a descendent of Adam, reconciling himself to the fate decreed over human destiny. Now he encourages his brother to see the world through the same lens of Torah. Aaron senses what Moses is hinting at, as his bones literally anticipate his own demise. Aaron is also sensitive to his brother Moses' own feelings, questioning if it was because of his own death that Moses' finds the text to be troubling. Thus, the Torah and God's voice, help us give expression to the ineffable and the unknowable. Whereas our silent voices may be appropriate at such a time (see also Aaron's response to the death of his sons (Leviticus 10:3)), we must search deeply to hear God's voice so as to shed light upon our darkest moments.

KORACH

25th Sivan 5768 ~ 28th June 2008

The Korach narrative which is the signature tale of this week's Parshah is marked by a rebellious beginning and a hopeful ending. Korach, the great grandson of Levi, and his cohorts challenge the leadership of Moses and Aaron declaring, "For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord's congregation?"

Moses falls on his face in despair and puts these rebels to the test. After Korach's allies, Dathan and Abiram refuse to appear before Moses, the trial goes forward and ultimately, the earth swallows these evildoers, a fire goes forth from God and consumes the two hundred and fifty men who were offering incense. What is so surprising to us as readers is not the substance of the story but the footnote which follows this dramatic narrative. God commands Moses: "remove the fire pans of those who have sinned . . . and let them be made as hammered sheets as plating for the altar - for once they have been used for offering to the Lord, they have become sacred - and let them serve as a warning to the people of Israel" (Numbers 17:3). Why would objects used for such dubious purposes be incorporated into the sacred altar which brings one closer to God?

Ramban, Rabbi Moshe Ben Nahman (1194-1270), a prolific Spanish bible commentator sheds light on this question. Specifically, Ramban provides two compelling answers. First, he argues that these fire pans were holy by virtue of Moses. It was a human act, that is to say, Moses' command to use these fire pans for holy ends (seeking a divine response) that sanctifies these objects and makes them worthy for incorporation into the altar. Because Moses sought a sign from God, the pans were sanctified and so, needed to be used for another holy purpose.

Ramban's second interpretation is just as fascinating. The fire pans are holy, not because of Moses' human act but rather because God sanctified them. God desired that the pans be employed as a sign to the Israelites - lest they rebel against God's chosen leader. At once, Ramban's two interpretations conflict and dovetail with each other. Whereas his first understanding demonstrates humans (i.e. Moses) wanting a distinct sign from God, the second interpretation argues that God desires to give humans a clear sign - one that will be remembered and learned from throughout the generations.

Korach and his cohorts teach us a powerful lesson. While we seek signs from God, God also gives us tangible signs in our world - signs that challenge us to learn and grow. And more significantly, we are given a lesson in the ability of transforming stumbling blocks into sacred moments. That which was used to distance the Israelites from God becomes the means to bring the Israelites closer - closer to God by learning from their past and moving ahead toward a hopeful future. May we have the capacity to take this Torah teaching to heart - looking for signs of God and elevating troubling moments in our personal lives to profound learning experiences.

The history of Israel in the wilderness is a textbook of religious wisdom. Perhaps the most basic principle it teaches is that miracles don't create believers. We are inclined to think that given what the people had witnessed in Egypt and at the Reed Sea and before Mt. Sinai, they would have acquired an unmovable faith in God. And that is precisely what the Torah asserts after God rescued Israel at the Reed Sea, in a passage that we still recite daily in our morning prayers.

The pattern of miracle and murmuring persists. Revelation at Sinai is soon followed by idolatry in the form of a golden calf. When he tarries atop the mountain, the people become anxious and dispirited, for their faith is as yet wholly child–like. Moses' power over Israel lasts no longer than his presence. The people need a tangible emblem of God's dwelling in their midst.

The book of Numbers adds still more brutal evidence of the short–lived effect of miracles on faith. In last week's parasha we read of Israel's revulsion at its restricted diet of manna. Again the glorification of slavery is strikingly meretricious. How quickly, the rabbis commented, do our recent afflictions erase from memory those that preceded. In this week's parasha God is finally driven to a major mid–course correction. Israel is discovered to be unready to endure the military combat it would take to conquer Canaan, the ultimate goal of the exodus. While miracles had managed to bring Israel this far, the conquest would have to be of their own doing.

God would not simply empty the land of its many inhabitants and turn it over to Israel. Again the prospect of adversity dispels a faith unworked for. The spies sent by Moses to scout out the land acknowledge its bounty, but fixate on the physical prowess of its natives. Pathetically, they conclude their report with a sliver of self–revelation: "We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them (Numbers 13:33)." And yet, how could Israel have anything but a self–image of Lilliputian proportions? It had still not done anything on its own. Self–confidence is, after all, a consequence of achievement. Like an overprotective parent, God had been too solicitous. A steady diet of miracles had crippled Israel's capacity for independent action.

The conquest could not be rushed. For a sense of responsibility, an appreciation of freedom, and an understanding of God's will to ripen, Israel needed time. The wilderness provided a spartan setting without distractions to concentrate on the meaning of Torah. Setbacks and suffering were an indispensable part of the process. In the words of Maimonides: "It is known that but for their misery and weariness in the desert, they would not have been able to conquer the land and to fight.... For prosperity does away with courage, whereas a hard life and fatigue necessarily produce courage..." Raised sternly and simply, the next generation would command the inner resources to conquer the land and create a just society. By choosing to do less for Israel, God enabled it to become an active partner in the covenant.

The end of this week's Parsha (Chapter 12) offers a rare glimpse into Moses' domestic life that has never been fully understood. Miriam and Aaron (Moses’ siblings) voice two complaints about their brother. The first seems to be an ethnic slur "He married a Cushite woman" (12:1).This would seem to coincide with the earlier idea expressed in this Parsha that the rebellion against Moses' leadership was fermented by the foreigners who left Egypt with the Israelites. How can Moses be married to a woman from outside the newly formed nation, especially when these are the ones causing trouble?

The Midrash seems uncomfortable with this prejudice and reads in to the text a defence of Moses' wife by Miriam who has noticed that Moses and Zipporah do not share intimate relations. The Midrash imagines God agreeing to Moses' logic that leading the Israelites and enjoying normal family life are incompatible. Moses endures/enjoys prolonged periods of separation from his family and it is noteworthy how rarely they appear in the text. I once heard a suggestion that Moses’ absence from the Pesach Haggadah can partly be explained by the idea that, at such a family event, attention should not be drawn to this non-family oriented leader.

The second complaint is as follows: “Has the Lord spoken only through Moses? Has He not spoken through us as well?" (12:2). The substance of this grievance seems to be jealousy. If God has seen fit to prophesy through Miriam and Aaron as well, how come it is Moses that holds the position of seniority? The Torah then takes a truly extraordinary turn. It uses an adjective to describe Moses’ character. “Now Moses was a very humble man, more so than any other man on earth.” (12:3). There is no other character/personality description of Moses in Torah by the narrator and so we must treat this remark as particularly significant. It is inserted to demonstrate just how incorrect his siblings were. Moses cannot be regarded as being arrogant for the exact opposite is true.

In God’s rebuke of them he says categorically “With him I speak mouth to mouth, plainly and not in riddles, and he beholds the likeness of the Lord...” (12:8) As Israeli Professor Isaiah Leibowitz pointed out, only someone who has encountered God like Moses can truly appreciate their own smallness and humility.

The conclusion of the story contains an irony that seems to mock the protagonists. Miriam is struck down by snow-white scales and Aaron is forced to plead with Moses who he refers to as “my lord”. Moses rises to the occasion and in the urgency of the moment composes a six word prayer that will allow her to return to the camp - healed - in just one week.

Parashat Beha’alotcha continues the narrative of the Israelite journey through the wilderness of Sinai. More than that, a curious phenomenon occurs at the midpoint of this week's parashah. An inverted Hebrew letter nun appears twice, forming bookends around two verses: Numbers 10:35–36. They read, "When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: Rise up, O Lord! May your enemies be scattered, and your foes flee before You! And when it halted, he would say: Return, O Lord, You who are Israel's myriads of thousands!" While these verses are most recognizable from the opening of the ark during the Torah service, the unusual markings formed by the inverted nuns lead to a fascinating teaching in the Babylonian Talmud: "Rav Shmuel Bar Nahmani said in the name of Rabbi Yonatan: the Book of Numbers is divided into three books, and the books of Torah total seven, as it is written in Proverbs 9:1, 'Wisdom has built her house, she has hewn her seven pillars'" (Shabbat 116a). Why are these two verses so significant as to constitute a book unto themselves? What can be learned both from their content and structure?

Firstly, Rashi, the prolific medieval commentator, addresses Moses' calling God to attention, "rise up" (kumah). How and why would Moses have the gumption to command God? Rashi's response is telling. He comments that, "Since God was leading the people by a distance of three–days journey ahead of them, Moses would say periodically, 'Hold up and wait for us, and don't move too far ahead of the people!'" That in itself is worthy of a separate book of Torah. Leadership, as Moses "teaches" God, is about staying just slightly ahead of one's flock. While one must lead, one cannot make the mistake of leading too quickly so as to leave the followers behind. To do so, results in an isolated and lonely leader, and a group wandering in chaotic directions. Secondly, Sifre Bemidbar offers an important commentary on the meaning of the dispersal of God's enemies. Who are God's enemies? Sifre queries and then responds, "How is it possible for God to have enemies? The verse teaches that if one is an enemy of the righteous, it is as if one is an enemy of God." Thus, the second aspect learned from this brief book is the importance of Godly qualities. The righteous, who act in the true image of God, that is to say with loving kindness and discipline, represent God's presence. To act against these representatives of God, as it were, is acting against God's self. Thirdly, we encounter the command for God to "return" to Israel. Clearly, this notion should be our desire daily; that as we turn to God, God may turn and return to us. This is the idea encapsulated in the very Jewish idea of teshuvah, repentance, but literally meaning to "return."

Leadership, love, and liege are the primary lessons learned from this brief, yet critical book in the life of Israel. These qualities form the foundation of both our relationship with God and our relationship with community.

The book of Leviticus is about the sanctuary in the desert – the Mishkan. Its first chapters describe the ideal flow of life in the sanctuary. Not surprisingly – the ideal is never realised. As we move into the book we encounter real life situations – Nadav and Avihu bring forbidden sacrifices and die. The Mishkan – once a place of purity is filled with impurity. Holiness spreads from the temple into everyday life.

If the book of Leviticus is about the priests - the Book of Numbers is about the people. It starts with a description of the ideal camp –each tribe in its place and with clearly defined relationships. This ideal is also not realised. Soon the book moves from this ideal into real life – it tells stories of people who complain too much, who rebel against God, who refuse to go up to the Promised Land and who are violent Zealots. The temple is the religious realm of the priests – but the world is the religious realm of the people – and living as religious people in the real world is not a simple task.

The reading this week presents two models of religious life – both compelling and both dangerous. The first is the Nazarite. A Nazarite is a person who withdraws from the world in order to further his religious life. He abstains from all alcohol and doesn’t cut his hair. We picture a Nazarite as a monk – or perhaps a figure like Elijah the prophet – living up in the mountain removed from human society and denying himself all pleasure.

The Torah then goes on to describe the Princes of the Tribes and the lavish gifts they bring at the time of the dedication of the temple. The gifts are of silver and gold to emphasize the importance of the givers - each gift described in exquisite repetitive detail.

The religious life of the Prince is the opposite of the religious life of the Nazarite. The Prince lives a life of plenty – the gifts to the temple an exercise in conspicuous consumption. The Nazarite lives a life of self denial. The Prince is at the heart of the political life of the nation – the Nazarite –in his mountain abode – remains distant and removed, a living critique of the failures of society as a whole.

The Torah presents both of these models and modifies each. The period that a person spends as a Nazarite is limited –and when he finishes he brings a sin offering – a sign of Divine disapproval of this lifestyle. The Princes were all forced to bring exactly the same offering denying them the opportunity for one-upmanship that is endemic in this lifestyle. The Torah does not place one of these lifestyles above the other. Each has its faults. There is no ideal religious life. There are different paths to the Divine. Each of us, according to our circumstances and our inclinations follow our own path – seeking to improve ourselves along the way - and seeking to do the best we can with who we are.

This week we read about the disturbing ordeal of the sotah, a woman suspected of adultery by her husband.

Once he has made her drink the water–if she has defiled herself by breaking faith with her husband, the spell-inducing water shall enter into her to bring on bitterness, so that her belly shall distend and her thigh shall sag; and the woman shall become a curse among her people. But if the woman has not defiled herself and is pure, she shall be unharmed and able to retain seed (Numbers 5:27-8).

While it is certainly distressing to imagine biblical women inflicted with this humiliation and physical threat, I like to imagine this ordeal as one of the examples of biblical ingenuity. Let us note that the effects of the bitter waters are somewhat paradoxical. If the woman is guilty of adultery, she will become barren. If she is innocent, she will be fertile. Some interpret this verse to mean that she will get pregnant. In other words, the sotah trial will enable a jealous, suspicious husband to be assured that his wife's pregnancy is a sign of her faithfulness to him. Surely this bit of biblical "magic" was a way of maintaining shalom-bayit (a peaceful home) and a means for ascertaining clear lineage. The woman's pregnancy would be attributed solely to her husband.

The rabbis of the Talmud evoke this ritual in a midrash about a clever and demanding woman, Hannah. The rabbis imagined the biblical Hannah, who prayed fervently for a child in the book of Samuel, as a powerful role model for our prayers. In one of the midrashim about Hannah, the sotah ritual becomes a tool for obtaining her goal:

Said Rabbi Elazar: Hannah said before the Holy One, "Master of the Universe, if You take note of my suffering and grant me a child, great. But if not, then You will see! I will go and seclude myself with another man in front of my husband Elkanah. And when I seclude myself, they will give me to drink the water of the sotah. And You will not belie Your Torah, for it is stated [with regard to an innocent woman who drinks the sotah waters]: then she shall be proven innocent and she shall bear seed" (Num. 5:28) [Berachot 31b].

Here is a wonderful example of an aggressive and shrewd woman who uses the sotah ritual, a ritual often associated with women's subjugation, as a means for taking control of her own destiny. Hannah forces God's hand though a clever application of God's own words. According to the Torah, a woman suspected but innocent of adultery will become pregnant upon drinking the bitter waters. The barren Hannah threatens God with a fail-safe plan. She will arouse jealousy in her husband by secluding herself with another man. However, she will not actually commit adultery. She will then be subject to the sotah ordeal with an outcome predetermined by God's own laws. She will become pregnant.

This midrash is a fascinating example of rabbinic creativity. In addition to the portrayal of a strong and resourceful woman who is not afraid to challenge God, the midrash may reflect a rabbinic attempt to redeem the sotah ritual. Rather than an ordeal for controlling and punishing women, the sotah ritual becomes an opportunity for barren women to achieve fertility!

The fourth Book of the Torah, Bamidbar, commences with the God's instruction to Moses to hold a census amongst the Israelites. They have now reached the borders of the Promised Land and need to prepare themselves to cross the river Jordan and enter that land. Moses and the Israelites expect fierce opposition to their arrival from the indigenous populations living across the Jordan. This motivated the mediaeval commentator Ramban to write that "Since the people were about to go directly into Eretz Israel...a census was needed to prepare the military campaign and to know how many people were eligible to receive portions in the land".

The 19th century Italian commentator Luzzato puts a different twist on this census to be held of the Israelites. He comments that "The march towards Canaan was to be that of a disciplined nation and not a rabble of runaway slaves...". The entry into Canaan was to be more than a military campaign. The Israelites were to fulfill their special destiny to establish themselves as a newly revived nation, to build a community and to live a life based on the teachings of the holy Torah.

The commentator Rashi states that since it is forbidden to count the people literally by the head the practice was observed to donate a half shekel per head to the Tabernacle. The coins were then counted. Even today it is not considered correct to count people in a Jewish group directly. If you were counting people in the shul to see if there were enough persons present for a minyan, the tradition is to count "Not one, not two, not three" etc.

Why is the counting of people viewed with such discomfort in the Jewish community? Ramban offers a quote from Exodus chapter 30 verse 12 which offers an answer "Everyone should give the half shekel ransom for his soul when you [Moses] count them so that no plague will smite them". The fear was that counting the people would bring on the plague.

From that we have a clue to the deeply ingrained unease at directly counting people within the Jewish community As early as the descriptions in Exodus, counting people has seemed like putting the spotlight on them. It appears to make them vulnerable to evil forces like the Evil Eye. This fear of counting people may be based on superstition; but it is generally agreed that the fear of the "Ayin Ha-Rah" [the Evil Eye] is well established .

Should we shift our perspective on the counting of people? Could we say that to count someone in a group points to the person's uniqueness and importance? If Luzzato was right, that counting of the Israelites in Sinai shifted the Israelites from being a rabble of runaway slaves to a people, then counting people directly as members of a congregation suggests are not just an anonymous mass of people but a gathering of unique individuals which make them living, vibrant communities.

Order is the essence of Torah. In Genesis, God creates the world by imposing order on chaos; and in Exodus, God imposes order on a people shattered by 400 years of servitude. The transition is especially dramatic for the Israelites — their change in orientation must be two-fold, physical and spiritual. Far from travelling and encamping in a haphazard, chaotic fashion, the Israelites are given a deliberate plan: "they will encamp around the Tabernacle" (Numbers 1:50). Additionally, the parashah describes the detailed positioning of the tribes: What can be learned from this meticulous order and in particular, from the focal point of the encampment?

Foremost, above all concerns of the spatial order is the shared focus. As the tabernacle represented the dwelling of God's presence amidst the Israelites, it is no surprise that all eyes would be rooted on this sacred space. Such positioning offered the Israelites a tangible mission statement for their journey toward the land of Israel. They marched not solely for themselves or for the community about them, but more significantly as sacred witnesses to the presence of God. Ideally, their focus and journey was l'shem shmayim, "for the sake of the Heavens, for the sake of God."

More significantly, Numbers 2:2 declares, "The Israelites shall camp each with his standard, under the banners of their ancestral house; they will camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance." Rashi, the medieval commentator writes, "Each banner shall have a different sign — a piece of coloured cloth hanging on it, the colour of the one not being the same as the colour of another, but the colour of each tribe shall be like that of the stone that is fixed in the breastplate [of the High Priest]." Each "ancestral house" then, has its own distinct banner. And presumably, the differing banners represent not only a difference in colour but more deeply, a difference in familial cultures. The beauty, encapsulated in the Midrash quoted by Rashi, is symbolized by the breastplate of the priest. As the high priest performs his duties, he adorns a plate of twelve precious stones — each stone representing one of the tribes. Symbolically then, he is engaged in the work of God — cognizant of the diversity that exists in the Israelites. This balance is further reflected in the encampment: while the people face a common focal point, their diversity around that space is recognized and nurtured.

(v. 3-4) “If you walk in My statutes and keep My commandments and do them; I will give you rain in due season and the land shall yield its increase…”

(v. 14-16) “But if you will not hearken to Me, and will not do all these commands: and if you shall despise My statutes… I will also do this to you; I will even appoint over you terror consumption and fever…”

(v.27-9) “ And if you will not, after all this, hearken to Me, but walk with Me B’Keri, then I will walk with you in furious Keri; and will chastise you seven times for your sins. And you shall eat the flesh of your sons…”Leviticus Ch. 26

The message in Leviticus Chapter 26 up to verse 26 is clear. God says that if you follow the commandments then God will ensure that things are good for you. And if you do not follow the commandments then you will be punished.

From verse 27 onwards spells out what will happen after you have been punished for not following the commandments: “after all this” – after all the punishments and the suffering, now will you listen to Me? If “after all this” you decide to “walk with Me B’Keri” then I “will walk with you in furious Keri” and things will get really bad.

That is a hard question. This is the only place in the Tanach where this exact phrase appears so we have nothing to refer it to. “Walking B’keri” is normally translated as “walking contrary to Me” or “walking in opposition to Me” or “remaining hostile to Me”. In other words, if after you have received your punishment and you still want to fight, then I will take My gloves off and really lay into you.

Maimonides reads B’keri differently, linking it to the idea of Mikreh – chance or accident. He reads verse 27 as saying (Guide III 36) “And if you walk with Me in the way of chance.” Maimonides explains as follows: “If you consider that the calamites with which I cause to you to be stricken are to be borne as a mere chance, I shall add for you to this supposed chance its most grievous and cruel portion… For their belief that this is chance contributes to necessitating their persistence in their corrupt opinions and unrighteous actions.”

When bad things happen to us, as individuals, as a nation or as the human race, we generally do not assume a causal link between our actions and our suffering. It is not usually in the spirit of rebellion that we persist in our old behaviours. Our instinct is to assume that the suffering in our lives is independent of any actions on our part and that we were just “unlucky”. Under the influence of this assumption we need not explore and reflect upon our actions too deeply nor change our ways of behaving.

Maimonides knows perfectly well that in the real world terrible things do seem to happen to lovely people. Indeed he is prepared to say that it is rational to relate to the world as if it is governed by random forces since this is, in his words (III 17), “What is manifest in the nature of that which exists”. But if we choose to go down that path then no stratagem remains at our disposal to remedy our behaviour and this will entail (Ibid) “the ruin of order in human existence and the obliteration of all good qualities of man…”

In other words, Parshat Bechukkotai offers us a harsh, religiously-inspired heuristic to enable us to take full responsibility for our world.

By Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz Fertility of humans and of the land is the essence of divine blessing. It is the theme of the first commandment of Torah - to be fruitful and multiply - the sacred wish of each ancestral pair in their desire to see the next generation, and the divine promise for the loyal observance of mitzvot. Parashat B'hukkotai opens in this vein, with a condition and the promise of God's blessing. The two opening verses of our parashah speak of the harmony between heaven and earth, the bridges between the two, and the necessity for each of us to view ourselves as a sacred link:

"If you follow My ordinances, observe My commandments and do them, then I will give rain at their proper season and the land will give its produce and the tree will yield its fruit."

As one reads these verses, one is struck by the harmony of its content and the symmetry of its language. Note well that observance of the mitzvot is connected to the well being of not only ourselves but also the Land of Israel. Our environment responds to our spiritual behaviour. If our spiritual lives are lived in accordance with the essence of Torah - according to the order of Torah - then the natural environment will reflect that same sense of order.

Even more striking is the spatial description in each verse connecting heaven and earth. Rashi, the great medieval commentator, points out a possible difficulty in the first verse: you might think that the verse in its entirety is speaking of the observance of mitzvot, but when it states, "im b'hukotai telekhu" (If you follow My ordinances.) Torah wishes to send the message, "she teyu amelim ba-Torah" - that you shall be immersed in Torah. Accordingly, in the first verse, we have references to Torah, Divine Revelation, to the Commandments (human), and to action, or movement from God to humans connected by the doing. Action becomes the bridge between God and man. Similarly, we find this harmonious structure in the second verse, the rains from the heavens, the land, and the trees of the field. Again, think spatially, the rains from heavens, the produce sprouting from the land, and the tree that connects heaven and earth.

Just as action is the bridge between Torah and mitzvot, and the tree is the bridge between heaven and earth, so, too, does man represent a link between heaven and earth. In so many verses throughout Tanakh, human being is compared to a tree. Even in the haftarah of B'hukkotai, from the prophet Jeremiah, "barukh hagever asher yivtakh b'Adonai v'hayah Adonai mivtakho v'hayah k'etz shatul al mayim" Blessed is the one who trusts in God, whose trust is the Lord alone, he shall be as a tree planted by the waters." So what do we have in common with a tree? A tree derives its energy from a distant source, it needs water from heaven and earth, it needs nutrients, and it aspires heavenward. So, too, do we. We derive our lives from God, we need the water of Torah, we need nourishment, and we aspire heavenward.

May each of us become a bridge between heaven and earth. May we learn Torah and mitzvot, and follow them; and may we continually reap the earth's bounty. May we always be "k'etz shatul al mayim, " a tree nourished by bountiful waters.

For the land is Mine [says God] and you are strangers and sojourners with me. (Lev 25:23)

The great temptation of human existence is to consider that which we hold in our hands is our own, to do with as we would wish.

Thinking about the food we shovel into our bellies is instructive. Many of the texts about kashrut are to be found in a tractate of the Talmud called Hullin (a cognate of the Islamic term Halal). The word means ‘profane things.’ Food is considered untouchable, beyond; kodesh in its truest sense of being un-graspable, it is only by entering into the a world of blessing and responding appropriately to the gift of sustenance, that we can bring such kodshim down to a level where we are able to consume them.

Rav Yehudah in the name of Samuel said, ‘Taking enjoyment of anything in this world without a blessing is like taking personal use from something consecrated to God, as it says The earth is to God, as is its fullness (Psalm 24)

Rabbi Levi said, ‘but what of the verse The heavens are the heavens of the Lord, but the earth has been given to humanity?’ (Psalms 115) There is no contradiction, in the first case it is before a blessing has been said, in the second it is after a blessing has been said. Rabbi Chanina bar Papa said, ‘Taking enjoyment of anything in this world without a blessing is like stealing from God and the community of Israel.’ (Brachot 35 a-b)

It is, of course, a radically different version of spirituality than that which one might expect. I was once asked, at Christian-Jewish interfaith gathering to ‘bless the Holy bread.’ It was a little embarrassing; I bless God in order to make the holy into the edible, I don’t bless bread for being Holy. The spirituality of ‘it’s not yours’ is, perhaps, the best shot we have at saving the limited resources of this planet from being entirely denuded. We treat the fish in the sea as ours. We treat the clothes in the shops as ours. We treat the chocolate and the coffee and all the rest of it as ours and it’s not. It is ours on sufferance. It is only permitted to us if we approach the materiality of the planet, and its creator, appropriately; with with blessing and an understanding that we need to show respect for the world and all that is in it.

Coercion is part of the essence of Judaism. Indeed, a well known midrash describes God coercing the Israelites into the acceptance of Torah. Sparked by the Hebrew phrase "the Israelites were rooted under the mountain" (Exodus 19:17), (most translations read "the Israelites were at the foot of the mountain"), the rabbinic imagination conjures up a threatening portrait of God holding Mt. Sinai over the heads of the those assembled, declaring, "if you accept the Torah, well and good; but if not, this shall be your resting place" (BT Shabbat 88a). Coercion is indeed at the heart of this teaching and potentially at the heart of Judaism. Most observant Jews feel a sense of external motivation — observance is not simply a matter of personal choice, but a response to a God who has expectations.

In teaching this midrash and the principle learned from it, I encountered a student justifiably troubled by this notion. So disturbed was this thoughtful, loyal Shabbat attending synagogue—goer that he woke up this past Shabbat morning, thought about the midrash we had learned, and decided that he would not be coerced into going to synagogue that Shabbat morning. How could I respond meaningfully to this student's spiritual and intellectual challenge?

This week's parashah, Parashat Be—har, wrestles with this same tension. In the end, however, I believe our Torah reading does provide us with an answer. In Leviticus 25:55, God declares, "The children of Israel are servants to Me; they are My servants that I brought out of the Land of Egypt, for I am the Lord Your God." This verse continues in the vein of our somewhat unflattering portrait of God. God took us out of Egypt and now, we owe a debt of gratitude toward God. That debt is reflected in our servitude to God. Yet, the servitude of which the Torah speaks culminates in meaningful relationship. Note well the latter part of the verse: 'for I am the Lord Your God.' God is not merely a communal, impersonal God. God becomes the God of each and every one of us. God becomes personal through our individual embrace of commandedness.

Our freedom, then, is found in relationship. I would suggest that in every relationship there is some element of coercion. In particular, the parent—child relationship comes to mind. Coercion is elemental to raising disciplined children. And although each of us may go through a stage of rebellion in our teenage years or beyond, we realize quickly we have a lot more to gain from the blessing of being in relationship — from the predictability, the structure, the rules. Opting out leads us to a point of emptiness and rootlessness; but reflection can lead us back to the Source.

Yehudah HaLevi, a prolific poet of the Golden Age of Spain writes, "The slaves of time — slaves of slaves are they; the servant of God — that individual alone is free, And so when every human seeks his portion — my soul says, 'My portion is the Lord's."

May each of us have the insight and gumption of Yehudah HaLevi — understanding that our freedom derives from the precious and treasured boundaries with which God has circumscribed us. From within the confines of Torah, life is always the richer.

5th Iyar 5768 ~ 10th May 2008 Shabbat begins in London at 20.22 and ends at 21.34

In the 13th century, Rabbi Joseph Gikatilla wrote a book entitled Sha’arei Orah, or “Gates of Light.” It is an introduction to Kabbalah. In it, he deals in turn with each of the sefirot, aspects of the Kabbalistic tree of life paradigm, providing insights and proof texts from Tanakh in order to discuss how they work in the universe.

While addressing the sefirah called malkhut – the lowest on the sefirotic tree and consequently the closest to human experience – he points out that throughout Torah, we find the formula, daber el benei Yisrael lemor – “speak to the children of Israel and say.” He observes that the use of the two Hebrew roots, dbr and amr, has a concealed message for us – that dbr – “speak” – refers to the Written Torah (which he understands as being, roughly, the essence of life and meaning in all times and all places), while amr – “say” – refers to Torah she’be’al peh – the Oral Torah, which is the Torah as filtered through, and interpreted by, the human experience.

Given this, what can we make of the opening words of this week’s parashah: “Adonai said to Moses, ‘Say to the priests, the sons of Aaron, and say…’” The threefold occurrence of amr – “say” – does not feel like coincidence. What does this have to teach us about the interpretation of Torah?

One of the great challenges of teaching any kind of Jewish material is what to do with text. It is pretty much a basic that if we want to learn about our tradition, we need to see (and, ideally, understand) what was recorded for us by our predecessors. But perhaps the lesson for us to take from the triple repetition in today’s parashah is that “talking Torah” is just as valid a way to engage with our tradition. The serious discussions which are being conducted today – discussions about our differing understandings of Torah, arguments about which teshuvot we agree and do not agree with, debates about our place in the Jewish world and the world at large – are not just dinner table talk. Rather, they represent our engagement with our tradition, our human place in an ongoing conversation.

And, as Rabbi Gikatilla observes, the written and the oral belong together. One cannot exist without the other. A Torah which exists purely as words on parchment is not fully Torah. If, then, we are to maintain our precious connection with our tradition – it is our job to talk about it. And, ideally, to listen.

Deborah Silver is a rabbinic student at the University of Judaism LA and a member of Assif

Have you ever wondered about this mysterious time in the Jewish calendar called the sefirah, in which we count the omer? In particular, why do we mourn as a people? Traditionally, there are no weddings or haircuts until Lag Ba'omer (the thirty–third day of the omer). The word omer, meaning "sheaf", is a dry measurement of grain which was originally brought as an offering to God in anticipation of the new barley harvest. In this week's parshah, the Torah teaches: "And from the day on which you bring the sheaf of elevation (omer) — the day after the Sabbath — you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week — fifty days" (Leviticus 23:15–16).

This commandment seems fairly innocuous. Why then is this traditionally a period of mourning? In fact, the case could be made that this time was not only an agriculturally exciting one for our ancestors, but also a spiritually uplifting one as we moved from our liberation from Egypt to the foot of Mt. Sinai, counting down (or up) to receive the Torah.

One story in our history radically changed the nature of the counting of the omer from a joyous anticipation of a prosperous harvest and the yearly re–enactment of revelation at Mt. Sinai, to a time in which we mourn. In the Talmud we are taught that during the period of counting the omer, the 12,000 pairs of students of Rabbi Akiva perished on one day (Yevamot 61b). The initial reason the Gemara gives is that they did not have kavod (honour or respect) for one another. The Gemara then presents the opinion that they were struck down by a mysterious plague. I believe that both reasons for the death of Rabbi Akiva's students can be read harmoniously. It was precisely because of the breakdown of civil discourse and respect for one another that they were afflicted with the plague and died. It is not difficult to imagine th