Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Picture: Rabbi  Yona Metzger

A question came up recently in my congregation regarding the use of music at a Jewish funeral. The Reform Movement has long permitted the use of music at a Jewish funeral—provided the music does not derive from the Christian liturgy, e.g., Amazing Grace. Most Conservative and all Orthodox synagogues frown upon the use of music at a funeral because they feel it distracts the mourners from mourning. R. Isaac Klein’s book on A Guide to Jewish Practices, says nothing about it, one way or other. However, an argument ex silencio suggests that Rabbi Klein frowned upon this particular practice.

The question is not by any means a new Halachic issue.

About a year ago the Israeli Knesset member Rabbi Hanan Porat died; he was one of the founding members of the Gush Emunim, a religious Zionist organization that is very visible in settling the West Bank. At the rabbi’s funeral, his children sang and played some songs with a guitar that upset Rabbi Yona Metzger, the Chief Rabbi of Israel.  Rabbi Metzger made his opinion known, and is quoted as saying:

• Rabbi Shlomo Amar and I stared at each other and neither one of us knew what was going on –a band, guitars, children singing … One might think that the people came to attend a wedding! But this was a funeral! I have never heard of this kind of ‘mourning’ before–not in Israel, not in Europe, and I am sure not in Yemen. We have never heard of and never saw such a thing like this.[1]

Actually, I applaud the family’s innovative spirit—and I am sure the spirit of their father did not mind either.

The tradition of music in funerals is well attested in biblical, post-biblical texts, Mishnahic and medieval sources.

In biblical sources, the Hebrew term qînâ (qînôt), is an oral poetic music used for times of national calamity and mourning. The best known example of this kind of singing can be seen in the acrostic style of writing found in Lamentations. Indeed, one of the more extraordinary images of God in the Bible is that of a musician and composer. The prophet Jeremiah depicts God as mourning for Moab, “Hence the wail of flutes for Moab is in my heart; for the men of Kir-heres the wail of flutes is in my heart: the wealth they acquired has perished” (Jer. 48:36 NAB).

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus arrives at the ruler’s home and saw the flute players and a crowd making a tumult, he said, “Depart; for the girl is not dead but sleeping ” (Mt 9:23, 24; Mk 5:38, 39). The NT passage suggests that the flute players went to work immediately at the time of death, as well as the time leading to the internment.

Josephus writes that when the news reached Jerusalem of the fall of Jotapata to the Roman armies in 67 C.E., “Most people engaged flute-players to lead their lamentations.” This style of mourning was common throughout the ancient world; Greece, Rome, Phoenicia, Assyria all utilized the flute in times of loss. Roman funeral processions were especially known for being very noisy. Musicians used to lead the way blowing their trumpets, horns and flutes announcing the presence of the corpse.[2]

The wailing of the flute players, the cries of the mourners, the sound of torn garments, was unmistakably common in the cities of ancient Israel. Note that the Jewish mourners had no afterthoughts whether they were emulating the pagan gentiles or not.

In the Mishnah, we also find: רַבִּי יְהוּדָה אוֹמֵר, אֲפִלּוּ עָנִי שֶׁבְּיִשְׂרָאֵל, לֹא יִפְחוֹת מִשְּׁנֵי חֲלִילִים וּמְקוֹנֶנֶת R. Judah says, “Even the poorest man in Israel should not hire fewer than two flutes and one professional wailing woman [for a funeral]” (Ketubbot 4:4). Other Mishnaic sources speak about the use of pipes or flutes as a normal part of the Jewish funerals.[3] The rabbis lifted their prohibitions against women’s voices being heard in public were relaxed for funerary rituals.[4]

Maimonides similarly ruled  almost 1200 years later,”  When a man’s wife dies, he is obligated to bury her and to have eulogies and lamentations performed as is the local custom. Even a poor Jewish man should provide at least two flutes and one woman to lament.“[5]

Why is the music of the flute so special? Maimonides explains that the plaintive melody moves a person to tears at a funeral.[6] The Halachic Codes all acknowledge this custom.[7]

One 14^th century classical work on mourning, Kol Bo al Hilchot Aveilut  admits that during the Talmudic period music was part of the funeral, but rejects its reintroduction because it would be as a result of non-Jewish influence—undoubtedly referring to the Christians, who used music in their mourning rites. Some Halachic authorities had no problem with music being played at a funeral–so long as the musicians happened to be Jewish. It is interesting to note that this custom continued in Egypt during the early 19th century.

A very dear friend of the TBS synagogue died this past week. His name was Kurt Sax, and this Viennese Jew loved the Spanish guitar. In honor of his memory, two of his good friends played a couple selections  that Kurt really loved.  I can personally attest that the music was very  meaningful and moving for the family and their friends.

Was it traditional?

Maybe not by Rabbi Yona Metzger’s standards.

However, I will say Rabbi Metzger is right on one point. If a rabbi chooses to pursue such a path, it is important that he remind the people not to applaud, after all–it is a funeral and not a concert.

However, history has allowed this type of musical innovation. I think Jewish law and tradition needs to be less austere and  become innovative, as it once was before.  If Judaism is to be healthy, we must find a way to make our faith more appealing and less hung up on the external forms of Jewish piety.

In other words, it’s time to allow music to liberate the heart that inspires and experiences prayer—in good times and in bad times. Continue Reading

As we open our door to welcome Elijah, some of us probably snicker and say “Yeah, right…” The cynicism of our age makes us doubt whether the Messiah will ever really arrive.

People often wonder who the Messiah is going to be. Many faith communities believe it will be Jesus; Chabad Hasidim believe that Rabbi Schnersohn will arise from the dead and save humankind. Personally, when asked, I often like to tell my students, “Here’s the bad news: The Messiah is more metaphor than it is a historical reality–at least with respect to the present or future generations.  Antecedents for this belief appear in BT Sanhedrin 99a:

• Rabbi Hillel said: There is no messiah for Israel, seeing that they already had him in the time of King Hezekiah. Rav Yosef said: May Rabbi Hillel’s Master forgive him. Hezekiah lived during the First Temple while Zechariah prophesied during the Second Temple.

Rashi notes in his commentary that R. Hillel accepted the concept of a future redemption but merely held that there will be no individual who will bring that redemption. Rather, God will do it without a human messenger. In other words, the human aspect of the Messiah is not that important; what matters is that it is God Who will bring about the final redemption. The 15th century Jewish philosopher, Joseph Albo, contends that the belief in a personal messiah is not essential to Judaism. There is also nothing indicative that R. Hillel rejected the futuristic concept of a messianic age—just a human messiah.

In the Tanakh itself, the term Messiah, simply means, “the anointed one,” originally referred any individual consecrated with sacred oil such as the king of Israel and the high priest. But it  the was also applied to any person for whom God had a special purpose – Cyrus of Persia, for example (Isa. 45:1). This passage in particular is especially intriguing, because the prophet suggests that God can designate anyone–even a gentile–to function in an anointed capacity. One could further suggest that in modern times, President Truman was King Cyrus redux, for he alone made it possible for Israel to be recognized as a Jewish state.

One could even argue that the idea of a Messianic age is another metaphor for Utopia.

But then I tell my students: “Now here’s the good news: You’re it! You must act like a Messiah in redeeming the world around you.” To create the Messianic world, each of us must actualize the goodness p that we possess. Nobody is going to do this task for you. Here is a remarkable Talmudic story that speaks about the importance of getting in touch with the kind of redemptive lives each of us must live–if we are to ultimately midwife the Messianic Era that was envisioned by the prophets.

The Sages often wondered when and where the Messiah would appear, and frequently criticized individuals who claimed or believed in a messiah, e.g., Jesus and Bar Kochba.  Despite their reticence to make messianic predictions, the rabbis nevertheless believed that his coming remains an eternal possibility. As for the time when this consummation was to take place, it was generally held to depend on the degree of progress men will have achieved in their moral development.

This point is well illustrated in the well-known Talmudic parable:

• Rabbi Joshua ben Levi met Elijah standing at the entrance of Rabbi Simeon ben Yohai’s tomb.… He then said to him, “When will the Messiah come?” “Go and ask him” was the reply. “Where is he sitting?”—”At the entrance of the city.” And how shall I recognize him? — “He is sitting among the poor lepers, untying and re-bandaging their wounds, while thinking, “Should I be needed, I must not delay.” …[1] So he went to him and greeted him, saying, “Peace be upon you, Master and Teacher.” “Peace be upon you, O son of Levi,” he replied. ‘When will you come, Master?’ asked he. “Today” was his answer.” When the Messiah failed to appear that day, a deeply disappointed Rabbi Joshua returned to Elijah with the complaint: “He lied to me, stating that he would come today, but has not!” Elijah then enlightened him that the Messiah had really quoted Scripture (Ps. 95:7): “Today, if ye hearken to His voice” (Sanhedrin 98a).

One might wonder: Why wasn’t the Messiah worried about ritual impurity? One exposition found in the commentaries suggests that the Messiah is among those afflicted with leprosy (cf. Isa. 53:4); while this is a plausible exposition, I prefer the image of the Messiah ministering to the lepers. The answer to the question is even more remarkable when considering how the ancients marginalized the lepers.

In the days of the Temple, lepers lived outside the cities in special huts, where they all congregated for support. People feared any kind of physical contact with them for fear of contagion, or because of the possibility they might become ritually contaminated.

It was not uncommon for children and adults to throw stones at the lepers because they were the outcasts of ancient society.[2] Anytime a person merely approached a leper, the leper had to say, “Unclean!” in order to avoid contact. One could only imagine the havoc this caused in the leper’s family. The mere appearance of a leper on the street or in a neighborhood meant that everyone had to avoid him.[3] No one could even salute him; his bed was to be low, inclining towards the ground.[4] If he even put his head into a home, that home or building became ritually contaminated. No less a distance than four cubits (six feet) must be kept from a leper; or, if the wind came from that direction, a hundred were scarcely sufficient. For all practical purposes, a leper was like a walking dead man.

Yet, the Messiah of our story seems as though he could care less about ritual impurity; for him, caring for the lepers is a supreme ethical demand that transcends ritual laws.

Learning to heal the lepers—just like the Messiah

The Messiah’s response is intriguing. Redemption will not occur tomorrow, but today when we emulate his acts of selfless love; messianic redemption comes when we bandage the wounds of those suffering in the world around us. It seems as though the Talmud is suggesting, we have a personal role to play in redeeming the human condition. Redemption comes by living a redemptive life.

Bandaging the open wounds of the lepers, one open sore at a time, is the only viable human response to preparing the world for ultimate redemption. This process begins with treating the forlorn and abandoned members such as the lepers, or the AIDS victims, or anyone with a terrible disease with prayer, consideration, kindness and compassion— regardless of the disease.

The Talmud relates a story that is consistent with the ethos of the Messiah passage mentioned above. “R. Helbo was once sick. But none visited him. The Sage rebuked the scholars, saying, ‘Did it not once happen that one of R. Akiba’s disciples fell sick and the Sages did not visit him? So R. Akiba personally entered his student’s house to visit him, and upon finding the chamber neglected, Rabbi Akiba instructed his students to clean up the home and the sick student soon recovered. Thankfully, the student exclaimed, ‘My master—you have revived me!’ R. Akiba began his very next lecture with the statement, ‘Anyone who fails to visit the sick is like a shedder of blood’” (Nedarim 40a). The moral of the story stresses the importance of mutual-aid and responsibility. Simply put, we are our “brother’s keeper.

The French Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Lévinas stresses how God’s face is mirrored in the face of the ordinary people we encounter; when we see the beggar on the street asking for us to help, God’s face is present in the face of those struggling just to survive–one day at a time. Kabbalists sometimes describe the Shekhinah (the maternal aspect of the Divine) as always present among those who experience pain and loss. Jewish tradition teaches us that we become most God-like when we outflow compassion to a suffering world.

According to Levinas, God participates in a “divine comedy” in which God makes himself both “knowable” and “unknowable” in the shape of the Other—neighbor, stranger. The way we care for the Other speaks volumes about our faith in God. Isaiah 58 contains a powerful message that still speaks across the chasm of time:

You fast, but at the same time you bicker and fight.

You fast, but you swing a mean fist.

The kind of fasting you do

won’t get your prayers off the ground.

Do you think this is the kind of fast day I’m after:

a day to show off humility?

To put on a pious long face

and parade around solemnly in black?

Do you call that fasting,

a fast day that I, God, would like?

“This is the kind of fast day I’m after:

to break the chains of injustice,

get rid of exploitation in the workplace,

free the oppressed,

cancel debts.

What I’m interested in seeing you do is:

sharing your food with the hungry,

inviting the homeless poor into your homes,

putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad,

being available to your own families.

Do this and the lights will turn on,

and your lives will turn around at once.

Your righteousness will pave your way.

The God of glory will secure your passage.

Then when you pray, God will answer.

You’ll call out for help and I’ll say, ‘Here I am”

(Isaiah 58:5-11).

Continue Reading

Oscar Wilde once said: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it… I can resist everything but temptation.”

There’s a lot of truth to Wilde’s temptation. As human beings we often give in to many temptations without thinking about the consequences of our actions.

Lest we start feeling self-righteous and smug, there is hardly a person who cannot be compromised or broken down, provided one is confronted by the right kind of temptation.

An expose appeared in the Ma’ariv newspaper about a man named Yehuda Meshi-Zahav, Eidah Charedis’ former chief operations officer. Meshi-Zahav left his anti-Zionist roots after witnessing the aftermath of a terror attack, and founded ZAKA, the disaster response organization that has rescued countless lives in Israel and elsewhere in the world, whenever a tragedy occurred.

ZAKA’s painstaking attention to gathering all the limbs and organs of terrorist attacks is nothing less than inspiring.

ZAKA provided assistance in Thailand, Sri Lanka, India and Indonesia in the aftermath of the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake. Their teams of forensic experts were sometimes nicknamed, “the team that sleeps with the dead” because they toiled around the clock, ministering to those who died in the tsunami. The experience of ZAKA members, who reportedly see 38 bodies a week on average in Israel, helped the Israeli forensic team to identify corpses faster than many of the other forensic teams that operated in Thailand in the aftermath of the disaster, which placed them in high demand with grieving families.

The Israeli government bestowed Meshiv-Zahav with the honor of lighting an honorary beacon on Israel’s 55th Independence Day official ceremonies on Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, the revered burial spot of modern Zionism’s founder Theodor Herzl.

So what happened? Although few of know or understand the politics of ZAKA, evidently Meshi-Zahav left the organization and started his own ZAKA organization.

Sounds pretty confusing, no?

And confusing it was. Most people did not realize there were two ZAKA organizations. He and his family raised money for the “new” ZAKA but neglected to tell his donors that his organization was different. In good faith, people all over the world sent considerable sums of money to purchase ambulances and EMT vehicles.

The Ma’ariv report alleges that Meshi-Zahav never bought any of these vehicles. It suggested that he used the money for other personal purposes. These are only allegations, and so far we have not seen a response from Meshi-Zahav. One assumes the case will be litigated in Israeli courts and we’ll learn whether Ma’ariv got its facts right.

In its account, Ma’ariv reported that the original ZAKA did not receive the donors’ money. Yet, Meshi-Zahav used the original ZAKA’s tax I.D. number. Meshi-Zahav’s ZAKA allegedly has an agreement with the original ZAKA that allows this, but Meshi-Zahav is supposed to give 40% of what his ZAKA raises after expenses to the original ZAKA. However, no money has been given to it by Meshi-Zahav’s ZAKA, according to Ma’ariv.

ZAKA is in dire financial straits. The Israeli government is trying to understand why the original ZAKA collapsed, and why millions of dollars are missing from its accounts, Ma’ariv reported. The newspaper said that Meshi-Zahav used ZAKA as a personal account for purchasing groceries and vacation trips.

A religious person in particular ought to know that the Torah teaches that freedom is not the license to do whatever one wants. In a God-centered world, it is God Who determines the boundaries between right and wrong; in a human-centered world, humans define values, and in a sense act like God.

We all face temptation. Oscar Wilde is correct to some degree. However, the solution is not to give in to caprice, but to sublimate these urges by simply saying, “No thank you . . .” Continue Reading

At our downtown TBS Jewish business ethics class, we discussed an interesting subject dealing with the problem of suspicion. The beginning of Parshat Pikudei (Vyakhale-Pikudei), Moses presents a complete inventory of what all the items that he and the priests collected for the Tabernacle (Exod. 38:21ff. Moses gives a precise accounting of the raw material brought to the Sanctuary: gold (29 talents, 730 shekels), silver (100 talents, 1,757 shekels), copper (70 talents, 2,400 shekels), and so on . . . One might wonder:  If we can’t trust Moses, who could the Israelites trust? If Moses is not above suspicion, then who is?  Why encumber Moses with a ledger?

Rabbinic tradition observes that Moses had more than his fair share of critics. People would look at Moses and say, “Look at his neck, look at his thighs – he is obviously eating and drinking from the property we have donated to the Tabernacle!” Moses’ healthy, strong appearance provided a basis for the cynical charge that he was pilfering. To ensure that the job would be carried out with fairness, Moses delegated the accounting to Itamar, the son of Aaron (Midrash HaGadol, Parshat Pikudei).

Accordingly, Moses responded to his critics by giving a precise accounting for every single coin and article contributed to the Sanctuary. The ethos of the Torah portion stresses the importance of maintaining honest records. Leadership–whether it be spiritual or political—demands transparency and accountability.

Rabbinical literature contains numerous discussions about this particular theme. In one ancient text, the Sages discuss the meaning of a passage, “Be sure to keep the commandments, decrees, and laws that the LORD your God has enjoined upon you. Do what is right and good in the sight of the LORD, that it may go well with you and that you may be able to possess the good land that the LORD your God promised on oath to your fathers.”[1]

The rabbis wondered: What do the words “Do what is right and good” mean? What are its practical implications? They discussed a practical problem that the priests used o encounter in the days of the Second Temple:

The Tosefta records the following law:[2] Whenever someone went in to take the terumah offering from the Shekel-chamber, they would search him before he entered the chamber—and after he exited the chamber.[3] They made it a point to engage him in conversation the entire time he would enter and come out. Why was this procedure so necessary? They went through this procedure in order to fulfill the biblical imperative, “You shall be clear before the LORD and before Israel.”[4]

The Tosefta implies that when dealing with public monies, the priests of the Temple must keep a watchful eye upon anyone who enters the shekel (money) room at all times. The Sages feared that the access to Temple funds might prove to be a temptation for greedy individuals.  Ergo, the Sages decided to create safeguards to prevent theft or the accidental co-mingling of personal monies with the Temple monies. To ensure honesty, they conducted a body search of the officer’s  body and clothing. This view was championed by Rabbi Ishmael.

The Tosefta in Shekalim 3:2 continues exploring the theme of “being clear before the LORD” and what that practically means:

However, according to a different rabbinical view that the Tosefta attributes to R. Akiba:

• The collector may not enter dressed in a loose-hanging garment [with sleeves in which money can be concealed—so that he would not be suspected of stealing from the Temple office] nor wearing boots or sandals or phylacteries or an amulet [in which money can be hidden], lest he become impoverished and people will say that he became impoverished because of his transgression in the Temple office [i.e., stealing its money], or lest he become rich and people will say that he enriched himself from the money in the Temple office. For a person must be as blameless before his fellow man as before God, as Scripture states: “You shall be clear before the LORD and before Israel,” and “You will find favor and approbation in the eyes of God and humankind” (Deut. 6:18).[5]

Based upon this opinion, the Temple officials did not subject a person to demeaning searches of his clothing and body; it is adequate if he takes care not to enter the office wearing clothing and objects that could possibly make him suspect. The Halacha follows Rabbi Akiba.

The moral of the rabbinical discussion boils down to one simple principle: Leadership–in all its guises–needs to be beyond suspicion.

Classes in Jewish law and Talmud often lead to some interesting digressions. In one discussion, the lawyers of the class raised the question about the TSA body searches. One of my students observed that in her opinion, the Mishnah seems to also suggest that body searches conducted by the TSA in many of our airports violate both common sense and human dignity.

Her point was well taken.

Performing a body search on a six-year little girl, or a 93 year old woman often involve the kind of groping that authorities would identify with child-molesting, or sexually exploitation. After considerable complaining, it seems that the TSA is beginning to look at other methods that have been used in Israel for years with great success. As mentioned earlier, body searches are not necessary for cases that are obvious to the naked eye. They are necessary only if there appears to be an element of impropriety and suspicion (e.g., wearing loose fitting clothing). All other things being equal, we do not subject people to a body search because it demeans the individual, and for that reason it is also considered to be demeaning to God.

A more practical and prudent approach involves talking to passengers, observe their body language, watching their eyes as they respond to basic questions. Such methods do not diminish the value of a human being–and this method works quite brilliantly for the Israelis. It is amazing to see how some of the Mishnaic methods of antiquity offer practical guidelines that can help us preserve human dignity while working to solve the problem of terrorism. Continue Reading

Who says  that a picture is not worth more than a 1000 words?

Purim has a “carnivalesque”  quality both in terms of its original narrative, as well as how the holiday is celebrated. Despite its joyous display of festivities and mardi gras, the holiday masks a very serious reality—the precarious nature of Jewish survival.

One of my favorite literary critics, the 20th century Russian literary critic Mikhail Bakhtin, defined the carnivalesque as a literary mode that subverts and liberates the  assumptions of the dominant style or atmosphere through humor, chaos, and paradox.

The carnivalesque vision is utopian in that it exposes the hierarchical distinctions of our social order as arbitrary, relative–a matter of social convention.  Hans Christian Andersen’s famous short story, The Emperor’s New Clothes, illustrates the carnivalesque spirit that ridicules monarchs who believe that their social position makes them inherently superior to the common person is altogether ridiculous–even illusory.

The experience of the carnival–with all the social niceties, hierarchies within a given social order, perceptions of truth, the concepts of reverence or piety and etiquettes–are profaned and overturned by normally suppressed voices and energies. A fool may suddenly appear wise, kings may transform into beggars, worlds of opposites co-mingle as if reality itself has turned upside down upon its head.

Many of Bahktin’s ideas can be seen in the story of how Esther and Mordechai thwarted a genocide that was being planned against the Jewish people.

In the book of Esther, the King’s penchant for partying, immediately displays to the reader a surreal world where the beautiful Queen Vashti is suddenly treated as  though she were a common stripper at a bachelor party.

Vashti’s transformation as a well-respected woman to someone who is banished from the kingdom is contrasted by an equally far-fetched scenario–Esther’s ascent to the royal throne. No sooner does Esther become queen, a deadly threat  emerges that threatens the people of Esther–Haman.

Haman’s rise to power is mysterious and rapid. No sooner had the Jews started to feel comfortable in their new Persian home, then suddenly–they are about to be annihilated by a foe who hates them for merely being religiously different.

As with Vashti and Esther, Haman’s ending is equally unpredictable as it is topsy-turvy. The man who obviously aspires to become King, ends up getting hung or impaled because of his hubris. Normalcy returns to the kingdom and the Jews live to see another day–and then some.

Even God undergoes a carnivalesque transformation in Esther. Far from being the revealed Deity of the Exodus, God is invisible throughout the Esther narrative. Yet, it is when God is most hidden, His Presence can still be felt through the downfall of the Jews’ archetypal enemy–Haman. Continue Reading

See also: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/02/26/rick-santorum-quran-burning_n_1302219.html

The German Jewish poet Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) once wrote, “Those who begin by burning books will end by burning people.” Heine’s admonition certainly became a prophetic portend in the days of the Holocaust. However, his words are no less an admonition for the future we are now—once again—creating.

More than 30 people have been killed after American soldiers accidentally burned copies of the Quran along with other religious materials had been thrown into a fire pit used to burn garbage at Bagram Air Field, a large U.S. base north of Kabul. The incident prompted apologies from the Secretary of State, a leading brigadier general, and an American President—all who expressed sadness about the act of sacrilege.

Adding more fuel to the fire (pardon the pun), Rick Santorum criticized Obama for having dared to apologize to the Muslim international community for burning their sacred literature.  Santorum would be wise to follow the advice of Ecclesiastes, “A time for silence and a time for speaking” (Eccl. 3:7). This is clearly not the time to politicize the loss of human life for pecuniary political gain in the polls. Despite apologies from the President and other U.S. officials for what they said was a mistake, their regrets have not quelled the anger of Afghans, who viewed the Quran burnings as an illustration of what they perceive as foreign disrespect for their culture and religion. One would think after ten years of fighting, the military would have decided to error on the side of caution with respect to this issue.

The loss of life and animus that the Afghanis are exhibiting make it clear that our past policy of waging war to achieve our goals was—and still—is  a misguided policy. It is this writer’s opinion that the United States needs to think more cautiously in the future about fighting ground wars in countries, whose culture and religion it does not really understand. War is not always the best or only solution to global conflicts.

In short, human tragedy and error can cause considerable trouble. Although the Muslim reaction is understandable, it is important for all religious leaders of all faiths to acknowledge that showing disrespect toward any religious faith is inappropriate behavior.

With this thought in mind, it is important for all of us to be introspective and reflective about our own religions. Have we honored the finest teachings of our faith? Muslims cannot ignore the importance and relevance of this question either. Let’s be honest and candid. Muslims are not the only “victims,” not by a long shot. The Islamic international community did not complain much when the Afghani Taliban government destroyed the ancient statues of Buddha on March 1, 2001.

In 1993, the Oslo Accords put Joseph’s Tomb under Israeli jurisdiction, but on Oct. 7, 2000, then-Prime Minister Ehud Barak ordered a unilateral retreat, based on a Palestinian agreement to protect the site. Well, this proved to be a terrible mistake when the Palestinians stormed into the Joseph’s Tomb and destroyed the site believed to be the burial place of the biblical patriarch Joseph––the son of Jacob––who was sold by his brothers into slavery and later became the viceroy of Egypt. Joseph is a hero who is enshrined in Muslim literature. How could they allow the desecration of a hero’s memory who was loved by their own scriptural tradition? The international Muslim community not only refused to condemn the violence, but in many places, they actually applauded and celebrated the desecration.

How many times have we seen Muslim Sunnis blow up the holy places of Muslim Shi’ites, or Sufi shrines?  What about all the Qurans and other sacred items that one has destroyed–all in the name of Allah? What about last week’s news about how Assad of Syria defiled a mosque and used it as a military barracks? Why are we not hearing any fatwas from world respected Muslim leaders on the BBC or on Al-Jazeera, or the American news stations directed against those members of the Muslim community who endorse and perpetuate a relentless philosophy of violence directed at the Other?

When I hear Muslim intellectuals and religious leaders take this matter seriously, then I will know we are taking a meaningful step forward. Unfortunately, when violence turns against the “insider” of a given faith, it is inevitable the rage of violence will turn to the Outsider as well.

Respect is a two-way street. Before there can be any hope of peace, religious leaders of all faiths need to make the respect of all faiths a nonnegotiable item and prerequisite. People who live in glass homes should not throw stones. There must be no double-standard when it comes to the religious desecration of any faith. Continue Reading

For Jewish Values Online:

Are Haredim changing the face of Traditional Judaism? Is the divide between the ultra-Orthodox and other denominations (Modern Orthodox, Conservative and Reform) too great to promote a better understanding and respect between each other?

Question: We are told in the Torah that certain actions will cause “karet,” i.e., that the person will be cut off from the nation. What about those Haredi fanatics who are harassing people and vandalizing property? Shouldn’t that earn them “karet” as well? Why should they continue to be part of our nation?

Answer: The question is an interesting one, but before answering, I think it is important to define our terms before we venture forward. Once we define the terms, we will then examine whether or not karet is really applicable with respect to the Haredi behavior.The term karet literally means, “extirpation,” “cut off,” or “cut down,” and is related to the Assyrian word, karâtu, which conveys the same idea of “cutting.” The notion of karet implies being “cut off” from the community of Israel.

As to the nature of being “cut off,” this is  a matter of discussion.

Rabbinical tradition lists 36 types of transgressions that effectively “cut off” the soul from its spiritual root—God. Some early rabbinical texts view the act of excision meant that the sinner would not live to see his 60th birthday, but others think the offender may live up to 70[1]. Should a sinner not die in the assumed time periods mentioned above, the fear of an imminent death probably exerted a frightening effect on the offender’s psyche.

The rabbinical perspective on karet resembles the type of punishments described in Greek mythology. Notions of eternal damnation as championed by Nachmanides, who believes the soul is cut off from God even in the world of Eternity, strikes a modern person as excessive. [2]  Maimonides believes that God denies the wicked sinner’s soul in the hereafter. [3] However, the Talmud does say the power of repentance and the Day of Atonement can suspend the heavenly punishment, and erase all vestige of sin. [4] Support for this perspective may be found in the Tanakh itself, “Cast away from you all the crimes you have committed, and make for yourselves a new heart and a new spirit. Why should you die, O house of Israel?For I have no pleasure in the death of anyone who dies, says the Lord GOD. Return and live!” (Eze.18:31-32).

There is another way of viewing karet that the Talmud and the medievalists did not consider. Karet has nothing to do with being “cut off” in the eternal sense from God.  Rather, it is a form of ostracizing. In a culture where individual identity was defined in terms primarily of the household group to which the individual be longed, karet may have originally meant social ostracizing from all aspects of community life. In pre-modern societies, being a member of the community strengthened both the individual and society as a whole.

Ostracizing meant the offender would have no social relations with his family, friends, business relations, and social network.  Such a penalty must have seemed like death itself. Apart from the community meant being cut off from the deeper reality of life that connects the soul to God. Being cut off had practical consequences, e.g., the loss of status and social privileges. The Christian and Jewish practice of excommunication may well have been inspired by the karet concept. The underlying theme in karet seems to focus on the maintenance of certain religious boundaries that have an important impact on the corporate character of the nation. The social implications of someone who did not practice ritual circumcision meant the family would not have anything to do with the son who separated himself from the religious and spiritual traditions of his family. It is no accident that karet is sometimes used as a metaphor for divorce (See Deut. 24:3).

With these thoughts in mind, let us return to the your original question regarding the Haredi community. Notions of karet as defined by the early rabbinic standards do not apply to the Haredim. Today’s Haredi separatism derives from  personal choice; they do not wish to have any contact with the non-Haredi Jewish community. They alone have cut the ties that bind them to the Jewish people.

This attitude can be seen in many ways, for example: Their leaders encourage them to destroy all their home-computers, as well as all phones that have wireless connections to the Internet.  Others believe that the pursuit of a secular education is sinful, since it comes at the expense of  giving up Torah study. They also believe that the Rebbe or Rav’s authority is infallible.

Although Haredim receive billions of dollars for their institutions, their separatist theology keeps their followers impoverished. On the one hand, they hate the State of Israel, but on the other hand they demand that the State continue supporting their lifestyle! To use another analogy, Haredim often behave like a spoiled adolescent girl who says, “I hate you Mom! Now, will you please drive me to the Mall?” The Israeli government needs to practice some “tough love” with the Haredim. The American Jewish community must make its financial support for Israel contingent upon Israel protecting the rights of all of its citizens. Continue Reading