Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Whenever I read the Lubavitcher website, it seems as if we are reliving history.  The Lubavitcher character assassination of Shmuley Boteach reminds me of how the 17th century Dutch Jewish community treated one of its heretical spirits and his name was Uriel da Costa (1585-1640).

Uriel was born in Portugal to a family of converses (people who were forcibly converted to Catholicism) in the 16th century. After studying at Coimbra, he became interested in Judaism. His family fled Portugal and settled in Amsterdam, where he had hoped the Jewish community would welcome his return.

Or, so he thought . . .

Uriel found the practices of rabbinic Judaism at odds with the ethical message of Tanakh, which he felt were too rigid and mechanical. In 1624, he published one of his controversial books, “Examination of the Traditions of the Pharisees Compared with the Written Law,” which created shockwaves throughout the Amsterdam Jewish and Christian community. The Dutch officials burned Uriel’s controversial book, and he was fined for undermining the foundations of religious faith. Although the Dutch people were reasonably tolerant toward the Jews, the Jewish community feared Uriel might endanger their welfare, so the Jewish community decided to excommunicate Uriel da Costa. Using him as a scapegoat meant the Jews of Amsterdam could remain in safety.

Uriel was expendable.

Although Uriel felt strong about his religious principles, he finally decided to acquiesce to the Orthodox Jewish authorities of his time. If his readmission meant that he would, “become an ape, to live among apes,” he would do so, “Monkey see, monkey do.”

However, Uriel soon became disillusioned with Mosaic Law altogether, and felt that all religions were “human inventions.” By 1640, the Jewish community decided to discipline Uriel. They gave him 39 lashes in the synagogue. They placed a large door over him, and the Jewish community literally walked over him, treating him as though he was dead.

But he soon would be.

After when he returned home, he wrote his autobiography and committed suicide.

Uriel da Costa is a tragic story about how the Jewish community alienated one of its rebellious spirits. Young Benedict de Spinoza made sure that when he wrote his famous works, he instructed his followers to publish them posthumously. Had there been a JTS or a Hebrew Union College in Amsterdam, both of these men would have found a home for their idiosyncratic ideas of theology. Unfortunately, they lived in a rather draconian period of Jewish history, a time when people preferred to burn books and ideas, rather than confront them with better ideas.

When I read about the Chabad reactions to Shmuley Boteach’s controversial, “Kosher Jesus,” I shudder to think what the Jews of Crown Heights would do if they were living in the 17th century. Although they cannot “walk over him,” as they literally did with Uriel da Costa, they are verbally dismembering him before the entire Jewish and Christian world to watch in disbelief.

Check out some of the comments any of you can find on:

http://collive.com/show_news.rtx?id=18125&alias=shmuley-boteach-blasts-collive [1]

Anyone peering from the outside might think Shmuley Boteach is a modern-day “heretic.” The term “heresy,” derives from the Greek αἵρεσις (heresis), which originally meant “choice.” In other words, heresy is another way of saying, “freedom of thought.” Religious communities typically chastise these rebellious spirits in their effort to censor ideas they find potentially “subversive” and  “dangerous.” Continue Reading

Jonathan Edwards (1703-1758) was a brilliant theologian, philosopher, as well as a fiery preacher (I could hardly resist the pun!). One of his most famous sermons was “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” which he delivered in 1741; in this revival sermon he used the metaphors of hellfire and brimstone to inspire his followers to repent before it was too late. One his most picturesque portions of his sermon went something like this:

• The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten I thousand times more abominable in his eyes than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. You have offended him infinitely more than ever a stubborn rebel did his prince; and yet it is nothing but his hand that holds you from falling into the fire every moment. It is to be ascribed to nothing else that you did not go to hell the last night; that you suffered to awake again in this world, after you closed your eyes to sleep. And there is no other reason to be given, why you have not dropped into hell since you arose in the morning, but that God’s hand has held you up. There is no other reason to be given why you have not gone to hell, since you have sat here in the house of God, provoking his pure eyes by your sinful wicked manner of attending his solemn worship. Yea, there is nothing else that is to be given as a reason why you do not this very moment drop down into hell.”

Gulp!

Now, let us turn to the present. Anyone reading Edwards’ speech probably must wonder, “What kind of God image is Edwards conveying?” Obviously he seems to relish depicting a deity who definitely hates sin. But if God takes sadistic pleasure in eradicating sinners and sin, how could anyone feel comfortable worshiping such a blood-thirsty deity?

One imaginative and creative American Jewish thinker, Rabbi David Blumenthal, in his book, Facing the Abusing God, claims that abusiveness is one of the fundamental attributes of the Divine personality.[1] Not only has the shepherd image been discarded by Blumenthal and many modern Jews, the dangerous image of God as an “Abuser” has taken its place in light of the Holocaust experiences and centuries of continuous Christian/Muslim oppression. [2]

Out of fairness to Blumenthal, we must be honest: Blumenthal merely states what many thoughtful Jews have long suspected about their God—but were afraid to candidly admit—God is abusive. Is it not any wonder why Blumenthal’s theology strikes a visceral note with so many voices of the modern Jewish experience? Unfortunately, his book characterizes the severity of how dysfunctional and destructive God-images can be when God is portrayed as the Abuser Supreme.[3]

Historically, rabbis since the days of the biblical writers generally associate Israel’s collective suffering as an expression of retribution, for failing to follow God’s holy commandments. The “wrath of God” theology, though ancient, is still very much alive regardless of religious ideation. After WWII, the Satmar Rebbe, Yoel Teitelbaum (1888-1979) insisted that the Holocaust occurred because the Jews adopted Zionism instead of the Messiah. By insisting on a secular redemption, Israel became “prey” to their Nazi tormentors.[4] Teitelbaum’s reasoning is classically simple and clear:  If Jews suffer; it is because of their sinful ways and attitudes. This idea finds numerous examples in the Bible[5] and especially in daily liturgy, “On account of our sins we were exiled from our land, and far removed from our soil.”[6]

Rabbi Mordechai Gifter (1915-2001), a prominent 20^th century Orthodox leader, argues that the Holocaust should “become a source of inspiration and encouragement for us. We are assured that we do have a Father in Heaven Who cares for us and is concerned enough with our spiritual status to demonstrate His disfavor.”[7] Though many Orthodox and Hasidic Jews portray great courage in affirming their faith during the Holocaust, nevertheless, many regard the Holocaust as a punishment for not observing Torah study and mitzvot (precepts). Consider Rabbi Mordechai Gifter’s quotation from the Telshe Rav (rabbi):

At the time when the Nazis took the Telshe community to their intended slaughter at the lake nearby, the Telshe Rav said in a drasha (homiletic commentary): ‘If we will be scrupulous in kashrus, in Shabbos (the Sabbath), in taharos hamishpacha (laws of family purity), the enemy will have no dominion over us.’ And from that day on plans were changed; they were taken away from Telz and were confined in a ghetto. The entire community suffered no harm until the first breach in kashrus (kosher observance).[8]

Here is a personal anecdote to illustrate. Once at a Jewish singles event I attended at Congregation Beth Jacob in Beverly Hills, California, I heard a rabbi from the Jewish Learning Exchange speak about God and the Holocaust shortly after the Jewish holiday commemorating the destruction of the ancient Temple known as Tisha ‘b Av. One person asked the rabbi about something he heard from an Orthodox Rabbi:

• I heard that the reason the Holocaust occurred was because married Jewish women failed to cover their hair, and the Jews were consequently punished for that infraction. Is that really true?  I really must know! The Rabbi thought for a moment and answered, “You can’t say that is true, yet you can’t say that it isn’t true either!”

Most of the Orthodox Jewish singles present did not find anything objectionable to this particular theological view. Those, like myself, who found this answer offensive, were ignored and later silenced by the speaker. The theology of retribution continues to be popular in many of the ultra-right Orthodox and Hassidic seminaries in Israel and abroad. But is it only an “Orthodox” problem?

In another recent interview, the Sephardic Chief Rabbi Ovadia Yosef has frequently proclaimed that according to the Kabbalah, the Holocaust came to purge Jews of their generation’s sinful ways and attitudes.

• After all, people are upset and ask, “Why was there a Holocaust?” Woe to us, for we have sinned. “Woe to us, for there is nothing we can say to justify it,” he said. “It goes without saying that we believe in reincarnation,” continued Yosef. “It is a reincarnation of those souls. Our teacher The Ari said that there are no new souls in our generation…all the souls were once in the world and have returned. “All those poor people in the Holocaust. . . .” We wonder why it was done? There were righteous people among them. Still, they were punished because of sins of past generations.”

My Aunt Miriam is a remarkable woman; she is the sole Holocaust survivor remaining in our family. She was my father’s first cousin, who later married my father’s brother, Bernard. She attends the Beth Jacob Synagogue in Oakland. On one occasion a young rabbi came and spoke about the Holocaust to the Shul. He made it a point to criticize the Jews in Europe for not observing the mitzvoth (religious traditions) of our people. Aunt Miriam stood on her walker and asked the speaker, “Were you there in Auschwitz? What did small children do to deserve such a terrible death with their parents? I cannot believe in your kind of God.” The whole Shul stood up and applauded her, while the young Haredi rabbi “looked for a little “rabbi” hole in the ground to hide himself under,” so I was told.

Is such a belief limited to people who identify as “Orthodox”?  Not necessarily. Across all religious denominations, whenever tragedy occurs to a person or a family, a common response is “Why pick on me, God?” or “What did I do wrong to deserve this?” Statistics have shown that religious victims of domestic violence often feel that God is punishing them through their husbands for some past sin. Rape victims are often made to believe (especially in court cases) that they did something to lure the offender into attacking them. This attitude is even reflected in the etymology of the English word pain which comes from the Greek word poine which signifies penalty. In other words, if there is pain, then it must serve as a penalty for doing a misdeed.

Obviously the God imagery invoked by Edwards and the Haredi/Hassidic rabbis certainly inspires a God of retribution and fear, but they cannot inspire a sense of love, security and healthy relatedness. Consider what Michael Shevack and Rabbi Jack Bemporad cleverly and comically dubbed this theological view of God as the “Marquis de God.”

• Wanted: Dominant deity for submissive person—must be into pain and bondage. Willing to inflict human suffering in pursuit of satisfaction—humiliation technique is a plus. Sense of humor not required. Inquire P.O. Box G.O.D . . . Get out the whips, the chains, the earthquakes and pestilence. It’s time for some good old-fashioned fun with a good old-fashioned God. Yes, this is the proverbial God of wrath—the Marquis de God—ready to show you how much he cares by punishing you, for the Marquis de God is simply a god who hates. This is a deity who despises sins and sinners with such a passion that he’ll murder in order to exterminate them. He forces his noblest creation to dance like a trained poodle on the brink of annihilation.[9]

In summary, metaphors of God may inspire relatedness and love of God; or they may cripple or even destroy a life of faith. Indeed, the metaphors we use to illustrate our relationship with God are of crucial importance. Continue Reading

* Pardon the font problems; WP does not handle certain kinds of transliterated fonts.

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The question has been asked countless times: Why is God’s name in Genesis 1:1 אֱלֹהִים (´élöhîm) written in the plural?

Many Christian readers presume there are intimations of the Trinity, but this view has been rejected not only by rabbinic scholars, but by Christian exegetes as well[1] as having no linguistic basis whatsoever in the Scriptures. In Biblical Hebrew, as in other Semitic languages, an inferior speaks to a superior in the plural. Such a form of address is commonly referred to as “plural of majesty” (a pluralis excellentis). This custom still persists even in modern countries like Britain, where the “royal we” is still commonly used.

The significance of the plural form in the Hebrew usage suggests a plentitude of power and majesty or of intensification, i.e., the superlative “God of gods,” “the absolute highest God,” “the quintessence of all divine powers,” and the “fullness of being.”

Put in different terms, Biblical Hebrew often uses the plural form of a word when expressing an abstract noun.[2] As such, they tend to be more often masculine, but feminine nouns can also be expressed in the plural.[3] Biblical Hebrew does, however, have a singular form for God אֱלוֹהַ (´élôªh) that is employed in the poetical passages of the Tanakh (appearing 59 times)[4], albeit the plural of majesty is more often generally used.

Alternatively, the etymology of אֱלֹהִים (´élöhîm) most likely derives from אֵל (´ël), meaning “strength,” or “power”[5] as inיֶשׁ־לְאֵל יָדִי  (yeš-lü´ël yädî la`ásôt) “it is within my power” (Gen. 31:29)[6] and is a common Semitic word. A derived meaning from אֵל is אֵלוֹן (´ëlôn = “oak tree”) since its wood is extremely strong and the אֵלָה (ä´ëlâ = “the pasticcio tree”) which is also known for its hard wood.

It is no linguistic accident that one Hebrew name for God, אֱלֹהִים, also means “Judge.” The connection between these two meanings is obvious: the judges of primitive and early societies were their most powerful warriors; at their command, their foot-soldiers carried out their will. The Creator of natural law is also the Giver of the moral law. God defines the moral order that serves as the basis for ethical values and for self-discipline. Indeed it is God to whom all inhabitants of the world are ultimately accountable.[7]

Paul Tillich’s theological insights are especially relevant here. Tillich considers God the creative “ground of all being” that underlies all of nature and beyond. “He stands against the world, in so far as the world stands against him, and He stands for the world, thereby causing it to stand for Him. This mutual freedom from each other and for each other is the only meaningful sense in which ‘supra’ in supra-naturalism can be used. Only in this sense can we speak of ‘transcendent’ with respect to the relation of God and world. To call God transcendent in this sense does not mean that one must establish a ‘superworld’ of divine objects. It does mean that, within itself, the finite world points beyond itself.”[8]

[1]  John Calvin observes: “Moses has it Elohim, a noun of the plural number. Whence the inference is drawn, that the three Persons of the Godhead are here noted; but since, as a proof of so great a matter, it appears to me to have little solidity, I will not insist upon the word; but rather caution readers to beware of violent glosses of this kind . . . (Commentaries on the First Book of Moses, Called Genesis, trans. John King [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1948], 70–71).  Continue Reading

This selection is from Vol 2 of my new commentary on Genesis, “Birth and Rebirth through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation (Vol 2. Genesis 4-11), which hopefully (!) will be released sometime in 2012.

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 6:2 וַיִּרְאוּ בְנֵי־הָאֱלֹהִים – the sons of God saw—The expression בְנֵי־הָאֱלֹהִים (běnê hā’ělōhîm), the “sons of God” (more precisely, “sons of the gods”), does not refer to the actual progeny of God, but reflects the common Semitic use of “son,” בֵּן (bēn), to signify members of the divine household (i.e., a collectivity of gods) or God’s ministers, more particularly to the lowest orders among them (Cassuto).[1] “Sons of the gods,” then, designates beings belonging to the heavenly or divine sphere. A.B. Davidson defines the difference as follows:

The angels are not called “sons of God” as if they actually derived their nature from Him as a child from its father; nor in a less exact way, because though created they have received a nature similar to God’s being, being spirits; nor yet as if on account of their steadfast holiness they had been adopted into the family of God. These ideas are not found here. The name Elohim is a name given directly to angels in contrast with men…the name is given to God and angels in common; He is Elohim pre-eminently, they are Elohim in an inferior sense.^[2]

Following this ancient tradition, the njps translates this expression as “divine beings” who left their spiritual position in the heavenly realm and assumed mortal form in the days leading to the Flood; hence they became known as “fallen angels.”^[3] It was the union between the good and evil forces that angered God enough to want to destroy the world.^[4] Hertz, in his commentary, criticized those scholars who attributed more of a mythological dimension to this story. He argued that such a view must be regarded as the product of the Hellenistic Jewish imagination, but Hertz’s assessment seems overly apologetic and inaccurate. Aside from the ancient Hellenistic Jewish sources, there are numerous Midrashic accounts,^[5] led even by Rashi himself, who maintained that the בְנֵי־הָאֱלֹהִים (běnê hā’ělōhîm) were indeed angels who cohabited with mortal women. Interestingly enough, the njps follows the same ancient Jewish tradition which translated this verse to mean “the divine beings saw how beautiful the daughters of men were and took wives from among those that pleased them.”

Demythologizing the Text

Exegetes who generally opt to demythologize the biblical text interpret the fall of the Nephilim in much more terrestrial terms. These scholars reject the “fallen angels” rendering for the following reasons:

• If the angels were the guilty parties, why should God punish humankind? Surely the angels should bear the onus of the blame, and not nascent humanity.^[6]

• The Torah is clear that what led to the disaster of the Flood was the senseless violence perpetrated by men (cf. vv. 3, 5–7), and not angels.

• If they were indeed angels, why didn’t the Torah refer to them as מַלְאֲכֵי אֱלֹהִים (mal’ăkê ’ělōhîm = “angels of God”)?

• The Torah has, on other occasions, systematically opposed mythology; therefore, how could it use a narrative that is associated with a mythological legend?

For these reasons, most traditional rabbinic exegetes suggest that the בְנֵי־הָאֱלֹהִים. (běnê hā’ělōhîm) were the sons of princes and judges, powerful men who wielded authority over the masses. Instead of defending the weak and oppressed, these men were responsible for committing acts of violence against the innocent. Early interpretive traditions reflecting this non-mythic view of the peshat can be found in Targum Onkelos, who renders the text as בְנֵי רַברְבַיָא (běnê rabrebaya = “sons of lords”) and גִבְּרַיָא  (gibbārayā’) signifying either “giants” or “mighty ones.” Targum Neofiti renders the verse as: “these are the warriors that were there from the beginning of the world, warriors of wondrous renown.” (For a further discussion, see Excursus 22 at the end of chapter 7).  Continue Reading

• “No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses”–Herman Melville

Father always used to say, “Never say anything or do anything in private that you would be ashamed to do in public.” Dad always was a wise man; a philosopher who was much in the mold of an Eric Hoffer, one of San Francisco’s great heroes. President Obama’s decision to permit domestic consumption of horse meat is alarming to say the least. Many of these animals are old retired race horses, who over the span of their brief lives have developed a profound sentient relationship with their owners. The fact that President Obama did not go public with this announcement is indicative that he knew such a decision would not be appreciated by over 70% of all Americans who oppose using horses for their meat. On the other hand, countries like Japan, Belgium, and France view horse meat as a delicacy and look forward to the exportation of American horse meat. Maybe  dog meat is next for consideration.

Obama’s behavior is all the more perplexing —especially since in 2008, Obama pledged, “Federal policy towards animals should respect the dignity of animals and their rightful place as cohabitants of our environment. We should strive to protect animals and their habitats and prevent animal cruelty, exploitation and neglect…. (Excellent! -MLS)  I have consistently been a champion of animal-friendly legislation and policy and would continue to be so once elected.” During the campaign Obama co-signed a bill banning horse slaughter in the US and was asked, “Will you support legislation …to institute a permanent ban on horse slaughter and exports of horses for human consumption“? He answered in the affirmative.

This article is not meant to be political in nature, but this writer feels that the President is making a very poor ethical decision—one which he ought to seriously reconsider before the Congressional bill becomes law. As someone who is politically independent, I would be upset regardless who signed the bill!

Jewish tradition has much to say about humanity’s profound relationships with the animal world. In the ancient Perek Shirah, which is a tract dedicated to exploring the spiritual song of Creation which reports that after King David  finished writing  the book of Psalms, he felt boastful, saying to “The Holy Blessed One and  Master of the Universe: Is there any [other] creature You created in Your world that utters more songs and paeans of praise than I? In that instant a frog happened to meet him and said: David, don’t be so boastful. I utter more songs and paeans of praise than you.” This ancient tract seems to imply that animals have some conscious awareness of their Maker.

Our relationships with horses in particular is attested in Jewish texts going back to the first century Jewish philosopher—Philo of Alexandria, who writes:

• As, therefore, when the charioteer has his horses under command and guides the animals with the rein—the chariot is guided wherever he pleases; but if they become stiff, and get the better of the charioteer, he is often dragged out of his road, and sometimes it even happens that the beasts themselves are borne by the impetuosity of their course into a pit, and everything is carried away in a ruinous manner.[1]

According to Philo, there is a remarkable union of consciousness when the skilled charioteer and the mind of his horses merge as it were, into a single being. This is a distinction that is probably more unique with horses than other animals.

Most people who are familiar with Martin Buber’s seminal concept of the “I and Thou” are undoubtedly aware of how God is triangulated in every human relationship. Buber stresses that each person must come to see the Divine Presence that is manifest in all interpersonal relationships.

But can a person have an “I and Thou” relationship with something Other than human? Although ecology as a philosophical discipline was in its infancy for most of Buber’s life, Buber had a great love of nature; for him the “I and Thou” had a profound ecological dimension as well. Ecological themes appear throughout much of Buber’s writings. In his famous, “I and Thou,” Buber tells us a story that most pet owners can easily relate to:

• The eyes of an animal have the capacity of a great language. Independent, without any need of the assistance of sounds and gestures, most eloquent when they rest entirely in their glance; they express the mystery in its natural captivity, that is, in the anxiety of becoming.  This state of the mystery is known only to the animal, which alone can open it up to us – for this state can only be opened up and not revealed.”[2]

Cats in particular are interesting. Buber admits that the I and Thou relationship can quickly turn into an I and It relationship rather quickly–a fact that never ceases to amaze cat owners. Cats almost at times seem indifferent to our presence; other times, they seem to peer into the depths of our souls. But one could even have an I and Thou relationship with a tree.

• I can look on (a tree) as a picture: stiff column in a shock of light, or splash of green shot with the delicate blue and silver of the background. I can perceive it as movement: flowing veins on clinging, pressing pith, suck of the roots, breathing of the leaves, ceaseless commerce with earth and air – and the obscure growth itself. I can classify it in a species and study it as a type in its structure and mode of life. I can subdue its actual presence and form so sternly that I recognize it only as an expression of law… I can dissipate it and perpetuate it in number… In all this the tree remains my object, occupies space and time, and has its nature and constitution. It can, however, also come about, if I have both will and grace, that in considering the tree I become bound up in relation to it. The tree is no longer It. I have been seized by the power of exclusiveness.

Buber discovered within the Hasidic tradition a great spirituality that nature can teach us, provided we are attentive. In one of his favorite anecdotes, Buber tells a lovely story about the great Maggid, Dov Baer of Metzitch, who had just died. The students gathered around to talk about the greatness of their master. He writes:

• After the Maggid’s death, his disciples came together and talked about the things he had done. When it was Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s turn, he asked them: “Do you know why our master went to the pond every day at dawn and stayed there for a while before coming home again?” They did not know why. Rabbi Zalman continued: “He was learning the song with which the frogs praise God. It takes a very long time to learn that song.”[4]

Yes, the eyes of an animal express unconditional love—an experience that dog and horse owners can easily attest to. As sentient and intelligent beings, their face commands that we act ethically toward them—as much as is humanly possible. As we have mentioned in other blog postings, animals are not mere automatons as Aristotle, Descartes and modern-day vivisectionists tend to believe. When we name our animals, we enter into a moral relationship. Moral relationships are bilateral in nature. We cannot treat them as though they are mere commodities; their eyes speak volumes about their love and trust of their owners. Buber’s love of horses helped provide him with the profound insights that would later from expression in his ethical theology of the “I and Thou.”

• When I was eleven years of age, spending the summer on my grandparents’ estate, I used, as often as I could do it unobserved, to steal into the stable and gently stroke the neck of my darling, a broad dapplegray horse. It was not a casual delight but a great, certainly friendly, but also deeply stirring happening. If I am to explain it now, beginning from the still very fresh memory of my hand, I must say that what I experienced in touch with the animal was the Other, the immense otherness of the Other, which, however, did not remain strange like the otherness of the ox and the ram, but rather let me draw near and touch it.

• When I stroked the mighty mane, sometimes marvelously smooth-combed, at other times just as astonishingly wild, and felt the life beneath my hand, it was as though the element of vitality itself bordered on my skin, something that was not I, was certainly not akin to me, palpably the other, not just another, really the Other itself; and yet it let me approach, confided itself to me, placed itself elementally in the relation of Thou and Thou with me. The horse, even when I had not begun by pouring oats for him into the manger, very gently raised his massive head, ears flicking, then snorted quietly, as a conspirator gives a signal meant to be recognizable only by his fellow-conspirator; and I was approved. But once—I do not know what came over the child, at any rate it was childlike enough—it struck me about the stroking, what fun it gave me, and suddenly I became conscious of my hand. The game went on as before, but something changed, it was no longer the same thing. And the next day, after giving him a rich feed, when I stroked my friend’s head he did not raise his head. A few years later, when I thought back to the incident, I no longer supposed that the animal had noticed my defection. But at the time I considered myself judged.[5]

In short, each of us has a responsibility to act with compassion toward all animals, but especially the higher animals that have long enjoyed the companionship of human beings. Continue Reading

People often ask: “Was David gay?” The question is simple, but the answer is unfortunately complex.

Before examining this question, I wish to make some preliminary remarks about the nature of hermeneutic interpretation as an enterprise of human thought. The comments below are selected from my new book, “Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation (Genesis 1-3).” The issues we shall soon examine have great relevance for how we approach any biblical passage. In the interest of brevity, I have left out some of the longer footnotes so we can focus primarily on the text that is before us.

• With all the literature that has been written on Genesis, this commentary was written utilizing two fundamental interpretive sets of guidelines: exegesis and eisegesis.[1] Exegesis involves a process by which one draws out a meaning or meanings from a text. In contrast to exegesis, the process of eisegesis is a way of reading or imposing a pre-existing interpretation onto the text, especially whenever it supports a predetermined position,[2] custom, or conclusion.[3] To borrow a famous analogy from R. Yaakob Kranz[4] (1741-1804), the process of eisegesis is analogous to a person shooting a bull’s-eye. One way involves using skill to hit the center of the target. The other method involves shooting at a random target and then painting concentric circles around wherever the arrow lands. For this reason, eisegetes are often criticized because they sacrifice objectivity for the sake of subjectivity. One could argue that if there is such a thing as an “objective truth” and an objective standard of right and wrong given by the Tanakh, then eisegesis and subjectivism must be marginalized in favor of exegesis.

• Although eisegesis may seem arbitrary because of its inherent subjectivity, it does permit readers to situate themselves within the text, allowing for certain moral and practical lessons to be deduced and applied. No sermon would ever have the power to inspire a faith community if it did not convey a strong eisegetic message. Eisegesis allows for the text to remain practical and relevant.[5] If the Torah is truly as its name implies—a book of spiritual “instruction”—then its message must transcend the original context of its historicity to reveal a pathway for readers of every generation to experience the Divine. Unlike an exegetical approach, eisegesis allows the text to speak to new situations, thus acknowledging that the sacred text is polyvalent. It behooves a modern interpreter to integrate both exegetic and eisegetic approaches. Any new conceptual applications ought to find its grounding in an exegetical way within the text, i.e., its historical context, language and cultural background, rabbinic models of interpretation, and so on. Albeit such a concept may not be explicitly expressed, nevertheless, its meaning is certainly intimated by the text’s more subtle nuances.

• One might well argue that the distinction between these two categories is not as great as it may seem, since texts are inevitably read in the light of the reader’s beliefs system. Indeed all exegesis involves a certain degree of eisegesis, then paradoxically—exegesis is eisegesis . . .  [6]

Thus far, we have tried to demonstrate the importance of reading the Scriptures through our unique interpretive lenses. The dialogical relationship each of us has with the Bible will yield different results and will produce a different kind of interpretive understanding of a text. In simple terms, we all want someone in the Bible we can identify with.

Our original question about David and Jonathan’s love has intrigued me ever since I taught the book of Samuel in the yeshiva. There is a famous quote from Oscar Wilde, who describes David’s love for Jonathan as, “the love that dare not speak its name.” This phrase comes actually from Lord Alfred Douglas in his poem, “Two Loaves.”

To begin with, it is impossible for a contemporary reader to logically answer this question. The reader inevitably cannot be completely impartial because each individual approaches a text with a certain bias and predisposition to begin with. Those individuals who view homosexuality as an “abomination,” would never think to impute such behavior to someone as beloved as David. Gay theologians and interpreters approach the same biblical text with a special “hermeneutic of suspicion.” For them, there is a possible hidden message that must be extracted from the biblical narratives.

Some scriptural support for this theory derives from a number of passages pertaining to David’s great love of Jonathan. Part of this theory is also based on the idea that soldiers in times of war often developed erotic love for one another, which was especially the case in Greek society, where homosexual love was openly accepted. However in ancient Israel, homosexual love was never something Israelites would openly talk about because of the traditional stigmas associated with homosexuality. In light of this, the biblical narrators were careful to suppress the details of their relationship.

Given what we now understand about psychology, there seems to be a credible case for suggesting that David may have been bisexual in nature.

Consider the verses in question:

I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan;

greatly beloved were you to me;

your love to me was wonderful,

surpassing the love of women.

2        Sam. 1:26

Centuries before the term “homosexuality” even existed in the ancient lexicons of Israel, the phrase “surpassing the love of women,” could easily be understood euphemistically as a love between men. Another biblical passage might also be a source for this conjecture:

• Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. ⁴ Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that he was wearing, and gave it to David, and his armor, and even his sword and his bow and his belt (1 Sam. 18:3-4).

Saul’s  violent behavior toward his son Jonathan is reminiscent of how “straight” fathers react when they discover that their sons are “gay.” When I was working on my doctorate, many of the gay participants in our collegiate group related similar experiences once they told their fathers that they were homosexual. After Saul learns that Jonathan acquiesced to David’s request to excuse himself from the New Moon meal, Saul explodes with anger:

• Then Saul’s anger was kindled against Jonathan. He said to him, “You son of a perverse, rebellious woman! Do I not know that you have chosen the son of Jesse to your own shame, and to the shame of your mother’s nakedness? ³¹ For as long as the son of Jesse lives upon the earth, neither you nor your kingdom shall be established. Now send and bring him to me, for he shall surely die.”  (1 Samuel 20:30-31).

The perspective of the gay theologians and other advocates of this position can yield this type of understanding, but the reader should be aware that eisegetical readings offer merely one way of looking at the text. Evangelical and Orthodox approaches have every right to view the text differently—ultimately, the interpretive process says more about us than it does about the scriptural text. Continue Reading

When we think about animal rights, we tend to identify this movement with Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA), which in turn was modeled after the British Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA), was set up in Victoria in 1871. Yet, the spiritual roots of animal rights derive from the Bible itself.  Here is a brief story that I think pet-owners will enjoy, which points out how sentient and spiritually aware animals may actually be. For those of us who enjoy pets, this is no great secret  . . .

Actually, the Bible is one of the great works of antiquity that first proclaimed the rights of animals in its Sabbath legislation of the Ten Commandments: “But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates” (Exod. 20:11). Animals are sentient beings, endowed with moral standing–they too, are entitled to the wonders of the Sabbath rest!

There is the story of a certain pious man who owned a plowing heifer. In the course of time, his wealth slipped out of his hand, and he had to sell her to a heathen. The new master plowed with her during the six [working] days of the week. On the Sabbath, he brought her out again to plow for him, but she lay down under the yoke and would not work. Though he kept beating her, she would not budge from her place. Seeing this, the heathen went to the pious man and said to him, “Come, take back your heifer. Six days I worked her, but when I took her out on the Sabbath, she lay down under the yoke and would do no work whatever. And though I beat her again and again, she would not budge from her place.”

After the heathen spoke, the pious man understood why the heifer would do no work–it was because she had become accustomed to rest on the Sabbath. So he said to the heathen, “Come along, and I will get her up and make her plow.” When he came to the heifer, he whispered into her ear “O heifer, heifer, you know that when you were in my domain, you were allowed to rest on the Sabbath. But since my sins brought it about that I had to sell you to this heathen, I beg of you, stand up and do the will of your [new] master.”

At once the heifer stood up and was ready to work. The heathen then said to the pious man, “I won’t let you go until you tell me what you did to her and what you whispered in her ear. Perhaps you bewitched her.” The pious man replied, “I put it to her thus and so.”

Upon hearing these words the heathen, shaken and amazed, reasoned with himself: If a heifer, which has neither speech nor knowledge nor understanding, could acknowledge her Creator, shall not I, whose Maker made me in His own image and likeness, and put knowledge and At once the heifer stood up and was ready to work. The heathen then said to the pious man, “I won’t let you go until you tell me what you did to her and what you whispered in her ear. Perhaps you bewitched her.”

The pious man replied, “I put it to her thus and so.” Upon hearing these words the heathen, shaken and amazed, reasoned with himself: If a heifer, which has neither speech nor knowledge nor understanding, could acknowledge her Creator, shall not I, whose Maker made me in His own image and likeness, and put knowledge and understanding into me–shall not I acknowledge my Creator? At once he went off, became a proselyte, and was privileged to acquire so much Torah that he came to be called R. Yohanan ben Torta (“son of a heifer”). [1] Continue Reading

•  The just man knows the soul of his beast, but the heart of the wicked is merciless.                                            

—Proverbs 12:10

The author of Proverbs stresses an important ethical lesson: a humane person considers the needs of his animals and acts kindly towards them.^[1] The world of Creation is full of sentient beings, which also experience many of the joys and blessings that people commonly enjoy: like humankind, these creatures also experience pain. Suffering is a common language that links humanity with other species of animal life. Therefore, Jewish ethics take sharp issue with French philosopher Rene Descartes (ca. 1596–1650), who compares animals to machines that service people, stating that their suffering “means nothing more than the creaking of a wheel.”[2] In physiological terms, according to Descartes, what human beings and animals share is that their bodies function by the laws of mechanics. One might respond: How then do human beings differ from animals? Descartes argues that the Creator endows human beings with a divine soul and a moral conscience—qualities that are lacking in animals. In addition, unlike animals, human beings possess the ability to conceptualize and verbalize ideas. Most importantly, only human beings are capable of conscious and rational thought since they are uniquely endowed with the ability to be self-reflective. Only a human being is capable of exclaiming, “Cogito ergo sum.”

Philo of Alexandria explains that the Mosaic proscription prohibiting the boiling of a kid in its mother’s milk aims to teach Israel that mercy and self-restraint should govern people’s relations with animals no less than with each other.[3] According to biblical law, a person may not satisfy his or her appetite disregarding the feelings of animals, especially where mothers and their young are concerned. A worshipper in ancient times, for example, is barred from sacrificing a newborn animal until it is at least eight days old (Exod. 22:28–29; Lev 22:27). “Nothing could be more brutal,” writes Philo, “than to add to the mother’s birth pangs the pain of being separated from her young immediately after giving birth, for it is at this time that her maternal instincts are strongest.” In other respects, too, the Law calls for self-restraint. Thus, it would be an act of unnatural excess, Philo argues, to cook a young animal in the very substance with which nature intended it to be sustained. In a similar vein, the Law prohibits one from sacrificing an animal together with its young (Lev 22:28), since this would again involve an unnatural combination of that which gives life and that which receives it.[4]

Pursuing a similar approach found in Philo, Maimonides comments on a number of biblical precepts dealing with preventing cruelty towards animals in his Guide:

• It is also prohibited to kill an animal with its young on the same day (Lev. 22:28), the reason being, is so that people should be restrained and prevented from killing the two together in such a manner that the young is slain in plain sight of the mother; the pain of the animals under such circumstances is very great. There can be no difference in this case between the pain of man and the pain of other sentient beings, since the love and tenderness of the mother for her young ones is not produced by reasoning, but is a matter determined by instinct and this faculty exists not only in man but in most living beings. This law applies only to ox and lamb, because of the domestic animals used as food these alone are permitted to us, and in these cases the mother recognizes her young. . . . If the Torah provides that such grief should not be caused to cattle or birds, how much more careful must we be that we should not cause grief to our fellow human beings![5]

According to Maimonides, an animal’s ability to feel emotional pain gives it moral standing; it is for this reason that the Torah prohibits these acts. Not all Jewish thinkers concur with Maimonides. Ramban claims that the prohibitions against cruelty to animals are not so much for the animal’s benefit, but for the sole moral development of humankind. Cruelty towards animals is desensitizing (commenting on Deuteronomy 22:6 and Leviticus 22:28), which will eventually produce brutality and insensitivity to the pain and suffering of others.

• The ruling on the mother bird is not predicated upon the Almighty’s “pity” for the animal. Otherwise, God would have forbidden their slaughter altogether! The reason, however, for the prohibition is to instill within us compassion and the avoidance of cruelty; butchers and slaughterers often become insensitive to the suffering on account of their occupation. Therefore, to avoid engendering these negative traits, the Torah proscribed precepts that a person should not slaughter the mother and its young on the same day (Lev. 22:28) and sending away the mother bird (Deut. 22:6). Such laws are not inspired by feelings of consideration for their suffering but are decrees to inculcate humanity in us. [6]

One of Erich Fromm’s most penetrating insights pertains to his distinction between authoritarian vs. humanistic religion.  Fromm’s “You Shall Be as Gods: A Radical Interpretation of the Old Testament and Its Tradition” is one of the most remarkable books I have ever read on the early chapters of Genesis. This book is a personal favorite. Although Fromm wrote this book back in 1966, much of the book has great applications for today’s troubled times.

In the first stage of human development, Fromm contends that the primitive origins of religion in the Bible began with a rudimentary understanding of the gods. Ancient biblical writers conceived of God as an authoritarian power. In the early chapters of Genesis, God (upon a whim)—decides to terminate His own Creation! (See Gen. 6:7; 8:21).

However, as humankind evolves, the early biblical theology of God undergoes a metamorphic change. After the Flood, God promises humankind that He will no longer act like an authoritarian dictator, decreeing death upon everyone and everything. Human courts now must bear the onus of carrying out God’s justice (Gen 8:16; 9:5-6; Exod. 21-23ff.).

Fromm argues that the covenant represents one of the most important developments in the history of Judaism—and religion. God now becomes a constitutional monarch who respects human freedom, and partakes in a freedom that God Himself actually shares. Both parties must treat life with respect and honor sentience. As God’s co-partner, Abraham holds God morally accountable; Abraham demands that even the wretched Sodomites receive a fair hearing and acts as their defense attorney!  No longer are human beings at the mercy of a capricious God, fearful of God’s penchant for random acts of violence. Even the most awful citizen is entitled to a trial and has a presumption of innocence until the court arrives at its decision.

In the biblical consciousness, the Bible refines the idea of the covenant, and eventually God makes a covenant with Israel to embody the principles of justice and equity that now characterize ethical monotheism. Israel’s task is to model and bear witness to this radical new message of faith to a cynical world. The ethos of the Exodus and its vision of liberation must pertain to all of society’s indignant and marginalized people. [1]

The biblical drama is replete with stories where mere mortals contend with God, challenging the limits of divine forgiveness and tolerance.  There is a reason why Abraham or Moses and numerous other biblical heroes and prophets challenge God’s tendency to relapse and assume authoritarian power once again.[3]

After everything has been said and done, ancient Israel gradually came to a new understanding of Divine power, one that is ethically engaged with the welfare of Creation. Thus, the second stage of human evolution is the notion of the covenant, which binds God and humans alike to a moral code.

Of course this has important social implications for human beings.  For one thing, no authority—human or Divine—can break the power and purity of human conscience. Although YHWH makes a wager with Satan to test the moral strength of Job, Job forces God to stand trial. Not even God can escape the moral arena of justice. Although Fromm does not refer to the binding of Isaac, Fromm would undoubtedly have viewed the narrative in Kantian terms, where God expects Abraham to simply say “No . . .” to the Divine behest ordering him to offer his son as a sacrifice. More importantly, Fromm asserts the entire ethos of biblical and rabbinical literature[3]weighs decidedly against God’s occasional use of autocratic power.

Fromm then develops what he calls, the third stage of religious evolution—the notion of a Nameless God, Who is man’s eternal dialogical partner. The Bible’s war against idolatry is predicated on the belief that man cannot merely talk about God, but must talk to God. Human constructs of God, as Maimonides writes in his Guide to the Perplexed, end up in creating an idolatrous image of God—and cognitive images of God’s Reality are potentially more damaging than the graven kind, and much harder to eradicate because they reify the Divine! The God image of the Bible evolves as people come to understand the moral implications of ethical monotheism. From this perspective, the God-human relationship is no longer confrontational; rather, each party is bound to the eternal principles of truth and justice. God is no longer viewed as an extrinsic force to human history, but instead moves within history—not as a coercive force, but as a persuasive force commanding humanity to honor the moral voice of conscience. Up to a point Fromm agrees with Maimonides, but he goes somewhat beyond Maimonides and asserts that humanity’s spiritual evolution depends upon letting go of its pagan concepts of a capricious and authoritarian God.

The early 20^th century Jewish mystic and scholar Abraham Isaac Kook offers words that fit well with the sentiment expressed in Maimonides and Fromm:

• The greatest impediment to the human spirit, upon reaching maturity, results from the fact that the conception of God is crystallized among people in a particular form, which goes back to childish habit and imagination. This is an aspect of making a “graven image” or a “likeness of God,” against which we must always beware, particularly in an epoch of greater intellectual enlightenment.[4]

Kook is correct. Sometimes people never outgrow the childish perceptions they have of God. Faith demands wrestling with our beliefs, testing them, and purifying them from their conceptual dross.  Kook adds further:

• All the ideological arguments among people and all the inner conflicts that every individual suffers in his own world outlook are caused by a confused conception of God . . . .One must always cleanse one’s thoughts about God to make sure they are free of the dross of deceptive fantasies, of groundless fear, of evil inclinations, of wants and inadequacies. Faith in God must enhance human happiness . . . . When the duty to honor God is conceived of in an enlightened manner, it raises human worth and the worth of all creatures, filling them with largeness of spirit, combined with genuine humility. But a crude conception of God tends toward the idolatrous, and degrades the dignity of man and of other beings  . . . [5]

Historically, every Western religion has at different times of its history, embraced attitudes toward the Other that may justifiably be called “anti-life.” It behooves the children of all the Abrahamic faiths to find a way to spiritually sublimate the texts of terror. The true “holy war” is the war against one’s own darker impulses; recognizing the human penchant for violence and taking steps to control these urges is the only way to ensure the survival of the human species. Humanistic religion, as understood and developed by Fromm and Kook, offer a powerful path to transform the darkness of today’s religious societies into communities that honor life with reverence and respect.

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• The fact that evil confronts good, gives man the possibility of victory. —R. YECHIEL MICHAEL OF ZLOTSHOV, Hassidic Aphorism

Let us assume for a moment that the rabbis and the allegorical school are correct in identifying the serpent as a metaphor for the evil inclination. But why did God create the impulse for evil? Would humankind have been better off not having to deal with such an urge? The Zohar raises this question, and offers the reader a most intriguing thought-provoking response with respect to the phenomena of moral evil:[1]

• Should it be asked, “How can a man love Him with the evil inclination? Is not the evil inclination the seducer, preventing man from approaching the Blessed Holy One to serve him? How, then, can man use the evil inclination as an instrument of love for God?” The answer lies in this, that there can be no greater service done to the Holy One than to bring into subjection the “evil inclination” by the power of love to the Holy One, blessed be He. For, when it is subdued and its power broken by man in this way, then he becomes a true lover of the Holy One, since he has learned how to make the “evil inclination” itself serve the Holy One. Here is a mystery entrusted to the masters of esoteric lore. All that the Holy One has made, both above and below, is for the purpose of manifesting His Glory and to make all things serve Him. Now, would a master permit his servant to work against him, and to continually lay plans to counteract his will? It is the will of the Holy One that men should worship Him and walk in the way of truth that they may be rewarded with many benefits. How, then, can an evil servant come and counteract the will of his Master by tempting man to walk in an evil way, seducing him from the good way and causing him to disobey the will of his Lord? But, indeed, the “evil inclination” also does through this the will of its Lord.

• It is as if a king had an only son whom he dearly loved, and just for that cause he warned him not to be enticed by bad women, saying that anyone defiled might not enter his palace. The son promised his father to do his will in love. Outside the palace, however, there lived a beautiful harlot. After a while the King thought: “I will see how far my son is devoted to me.” So he sent to the woman and commanded her, saying: “Entice my son, for I wish to test his obedience to my will.” So she used every trick in her book to lure him into her embraces. But the son, being good, obeyed the commandment of his father. He refused her allurements and thrust her from him. Then did the father rejoice exceedingly, and, bringing him in to the innermost chamber of the palace, bestowed upon him gifts from his best treasures, and showed him every honor. And who was the cause of all this joy? The harlot! Is she to be praised or blamed for it? To be praised, surely, on all accounts, for on the one hand she fulfilled the king’s command and carried out his plans for him, and on the other hand she caused the son to receive all the good gifts and deepened the king’s love to his son.[2] Continue Reading