Two Seasons – Parshat Shoftim 5783

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Growing up in Michigan I remember (fondly?) people saying, “There are two seasons: winter and road construction.” And the only reason they didn’t overlap was because almost all construction on the roads had to be stopped during the freezing winters, which then made summer travel incredibly frustrating. Perhaps these early experiences in my formative years made me the somewhat grumpy driver I am today. Just to be clear, I’m not an angry driver, I simply get frustrated when the roads are closed for construction, when someone isn’t following the rules of the road, or when something else causes a trip in the car to take much longer than it should for whatever reason. 

What matters in these moments is not that I have feelings of frustration, but what I do with those feelings. Frustration is an acceptable and natural emotion, as long as I’m able to recognize that road construction serves an important purpose. I might have some internal road rage dying to get out, but I also know the importance of keeping our streets safe for everyone. We learn a similar lesson from the Torah portion this week. 

Parshat Shoftim is a section of Torah that completely focuses on the legal system, on justice, and on context. This text includes the commandment to establish judges and officers, as well as a listing of punishments for certain transgressions against mitzvot. We also learn about the laws surrounding false witnesses and murder. 

In chapter 19, verse 10 we read: “Thus the blood of the innocent will not be shed, bringing bloodguilt upon you in the land that the Lord your God is allotting you.” The Talmud derives from this verse that society is responsible for public safety, such as keeping the roads in good repair. In other words, despite the annoyance that comes with road closures and having to go slowly through construction zones, the obligation is upon each individual to create a safer community and while doing so, to respect those around them who do the work. 

As you know, I’m a planner, so when things take longer because we’re creating a safer road, there are two voices battling in my head: one that says “Yay, safety!” and one that screams “NO, I HAVE PLANS!” This week’s Torah portion reminds us that we are to find the balance between the frustrations of changes in plans (or detours, if you will) and the purpose in creating a community that works for everyone. 

Alone Together – Parshat Re’eh 5783

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The last few years have certainly highlighted the differences between communal space and personal space, and community needs versus individual needs. We wore masks at the beginning of COVID19 to protect others, with the understanding that it took partnership in mask-wearing to care for one another. As we moved through the pandemic, with the help of vaccines and ever-growing knowledge about the effects of the virus, we had new decisions to make to maintain the balance between meeting our needs and the needs of the community. 

We read Parshat Re’eh this week, as the Torah races to the finish line of its lessons. In our parshah we learn about the blessings and curses that will come with the observance (or lack thereof) of the mitzvot we’re given. We receive some final warnings about following the laws against idolatry, laws for keeping kosher, and the importance of treating each other as equals. Finally, we receive additional information on our three pilgrimage festivals.

In the midst of this text, we read about a question of centralized sacrifice. Does sacrifice have to happen at an agreed-upon place, or can it be scattered in various places throughout the area? Most of what we learn about sacrifices is tied to the Temple in the post-Torah time. The standard of practice meant coming together for the three pilgrimage festivals, with the assumption that the other sacrifices for well-being, thanksgiving, and more were done in the small cities where everyone lived. This practice was around even before the Temple was built.

In chapter 12, verse 8 we learn that “we should not act as we do now, every man as they please.” The idea is that sacrifice should not be a spur-of-the-moment activity that could be done anywhere. They should be done in the tent of meeting. Yet this cautionary line implies that before this moment, sacrifice perhaps was happening whenever required and inspired around the Israelite encampments. I don’t think Parshat Re’eh is suggesting a prohibition against having private moments of connection; instead, we’re prohibited from having only those moments.

This is the challenge of community time and space. On the one hand, we are often better served coming together, and Judaism dictates moments of togetherness as we mourn, celebrate, and grow. On the other hand, there are also moments that feel personal and sacred, that we don’t want to share with anyone but God. Judaism is a religion of both communal gathering and connection as well as individual prayer. This balance is part of what makes us the people we are. 

To Plant Roots – Parshat Eikev 5783

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The other day I had a conversation with someone about the point at which a person officially becomes a “native” of a place. In the literal sense, the word comes from the same Latin root that means “to be born.” By that definition, I’m a native of Detroit, Michigan; Duncan and Shiri are natives of Dallas, Texas; and Matan is our sole Portland, Oregon native. However, our family has lived in Portland now for nine years, and Shiri only spent the first 10 months of her life in Texas. So is Shiri also native to Portland? And will we ever be? 

For our family, Portland is the place we’ve lived the longest collectively, and we call Portland and CNS home because this is where everything feels familiar and where we’ve built a community. So perhaps, we’re a native family unit? And yet, plenty of Jewish families have been here for generations, so we don’t feel like natives in comparison. So when does that milestone moment occur? The Torah actually anticipates this question as the Israelites continue their journey toward a land they’ve not inhabited in multiple generations. 

Parshat Eikev, which we read this week, explores the notion that God might or might not respond to bargains. We learn of the blessing and reward you receive if you keep the laws of the Torah and of the consequences for those who don’t follow those laws. The Torah recaps the lessons learned from the Golden Calf, the breaking of the first set of tablets, and Moshe’s prayer for the people. We finally receive the second section of the Shema, followed by a clear warning to guard the Torah and its commandments.

In chapter 10, verse 19, the Torah commands us to befriend the stranger because we were strangers in Egypt. The word used in Hebrew for “stranger” is ger. In contemporary Judaism, this word is used for someone who has converted to Judaism, but in everyday modern Hebrew, the verb also means to live somewhere. Why does this word hold both meanings? Because someone who is new to a community should be welcomed as though they’ve lived there forever. To put down roots is to join in the way of life of a place as well as to embrace the traditions and values that sustain that place.

The conversation I described at the beginning lent itself to questions about the different ways in which one can be welcomed into a community and the sense of belonging that comes when you feel accepted and included. Parshat Eikev invites our communities to explore what radical hospitality looks like and how we might make every person in our congregational family feel not as a stranger, but as a native. 

The Blame Game – Parshat Vaetchanan 5783

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“It wasn’t me.” It’s a common phrase among kids when a situation has gone south. However, adults seem to be just as guilty of passing blame when no one wants to take responsibility for what’s gone wrong. Why? Because as humans it’s usually in our nature to do that which is right, and we’ll try to avoid shame at all costs. It can be hard to tell when someone is ashamed because we humans have evolved into amazing actors. A dog puts their tail between their legs, but humans have a range of emotional subtleties and better mechanisms to hide our true feelings. Does that mean there’s some evolutionary reason behind passing the blame?

Avoiding responsibility could have any number of causes. Perhaps it’s the weight of feeling like you’ve let someone down. Perhaps you feel you did your part and it was someone else who didn’t, and there’s no easy way to say that. Whatever the circumstances, sharing blame always feels easier than shouldering that burden on our own. 

The Torah often gives us glimpses into understanding temptation and the motivation that goes with it, and this week’s Torah portion is no exception. Parshat Vaetchanan continues with the retelling of the laws here again in the book of Deuteronomy. We also read about God’s persistent refusal to allow Moses to enter the Land of Israel. The Torah then issues a caution to uphold the mitzvot as the key to building an Israelite society. Moses then sets three cities of refuge, and we receive probably the most well-known instruction in the Torah, the Shema. 

As Moses moves towards the end of his tenure as the leader of the Israelite nation, it’s clear that he is devoted to doing what is right for the people, but after so much time arguing on their behalf and defending them, he’s a little bit worn out. In chapter 4, verse 21 he suddenly changes his language. Instead of arguing for ALL the people, including himself, he argues “the Lord was angry with me on your account.” Such to say, God is mad at me because I am responsible for you. 

One could argue that it was Moses’s missteps as a leader that set him up to take responsibility for the missteps of the people in this text. Another argument could be that Moses did all he could to guide the people, and yet they still made mistakes, they didn’t listen, and they caused harm. But the bigger message here is that leaders, like Moses, do more than inspire or rally or blaze a trail. They are willing to accept responsibility, for better or worse.

Hate is a Strong Word – Parshat Devarim 5783

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As the parent of a 6-year-old and 9-year-old, I think I’m relatively immune to the jabs they throw at me when we set down a boundary. When you’re a child, boundaries feel more like punishments than safety precautions. This, of course, means they’re quick to hurl at us a line like “You’re being unfair!” or “He gets to do this, so why can’t I?” or worst of all, but not unheard of, “I hate you!”

Despite my children’s belief that boundaries make me a terrible parent, setting clear expectations and limits is a critical part of parenting. What’s important isn’t that they like the rules, it’s that they understand them. That’s the thing about setting boundaries: both parties need to understand their purpose. If you set a boundary without explanation, it leads to all sorts of questions and distrust. Instead, establishing clarity in boundaries is how we best move forward. We learn this too in our Torah portion this week. 

Parshat Devarim begins the final book of the Torah, which shows the Israelites totally unmoored by the change in leadership and location ahead of them. Devarim stresses the covenant between God and Israel and looks toward Israel’s future in a new land as they build a society that pursues justice and righteousness. The central theme of this section of text is monotheism, the belief in one God, and building a society around the laws we’ve been given over the course of the four previous books.

As the narrative of this last book continues, we see the Israelites trying to find their place and larger purpose in their post-Egypt society. In the first chapter, they appear flummoxed and exasperated. They say out loud in verse 27, “God hates us.” This reaction is not totally unexpected. After all, they’ve lived through some pretty challenging times in their exile and wandering. Ever since they left Egypt, they feel as if they gained their freedom only to be handed more and more rules and responsibilities. It’s a childlike behavior, in a real way. Young children, and even occasionally tweens and teens as well, tend to forget or ignore all the things they are given, like food, shelter, love, not to mention life itself. They focus only on what they wanted but didn’t receive. And, being the overreactors that they are, the word “hate” might get thrown around.

The Israelite nation is a toddler nation, so to speak. We read this section of text to remind us that while being let down feels terrible, part of maturing is learning the value of hakarot hatov, or “recognizing the good.” With age (of an individual or a society) comes the experience to be able to look at the grand scheme of things.