Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

When one takes a gaze at the Jewish horizon, one gets the distinct impression that many synagogues find themselves confronted by a spiritual problem they can scarcely understand—much less articulate: Irrelevance. Judaism may someday die—not by genocides—but by apathy. Yes, as rabbis we love to sermonize about Israel, political concerns, and a host of other miscellaneous topics ad nauseam, but we feel too embarrassed to talk, or engage one another about one of the most important issues of our time: recovering Jewish spirituality.

The obstacles are daunting.

For one thing, talking about God exposes our prepubescence. Can a sophisticated and educated person who is schooled in science still believe in God? Some of us also feel awkward about our ambivalence. Didn’t Feuerbach, Freud, and Marx convince us that God is nothing more but a human projection? Didn’t Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan tell us that God is anything but “personal”? Yes, history also gives us pause to wonder. God poses a mighty problem for those of us who remember Auschwitz and Rwanda, or the legion of Jihadists, who delight in destroying innocent lives in the name of Allah. Although we speak about the great miracles of the biblical past, e.g., the splitting of the Red Sea, we find ourselves cynically asking, “What have you done for us lately, God?” Maybe as a result of our collective suffering as a people, it is too hard for us to imagine God as “personal.”

Any close brush with evil makes it exceedingly difficult to talk about faith. Martin Buber asked poignantly:

• In this our time, one asks again and again: how is a Jewish life still possible after Auschwitz? I would like to frame this question more correctly: how is a life with God still possible in a time in which there is an Auschwitz? The estrangement has become too cruel, the hiddenness too deep. One can still “believe” in a God who allowed those things to happen, but how can one still speak to Him? Can one still hear His word? Can one still, as an individual and a people, enter at all in a dialogical relationship with Him? Can one still call on Him? Dare we recommend to the survivors of Auschwitz, the Jobs of the gas chambers: “Call on Him, for He is kind, for His mercy endureth forever?”[1]

Jewish tradition teaches us that anyone who lives in a cemetery could be considered insane according to mishnaic law.[2] I often wonder whether we have lost our sanity since Auschwitz. Nevertheless, the rabbinic proscription against sleeping in a cemetery ought to make us wonder: Is it possible that our concepts of God and the Bible might have been flawed to begin with? A friend of mine who is a large publisher of Jewish books confided with me, “Michael Leo, I cannot believe in a rabbi who does not believe in miracles.” In my usual Socratic style, I asked him, “Will you define for me, what you mean by ‘miracle’?”

We are so used to Hollywood defining what “miracles” are supposed to be–supernatural violations of natural law; as a result, we fail to consider the obvious. Miracle comes from the Latin miraculum “object of wonder,” and when we see something that awakens within us a sense of wonder, we experience the miraculous. From the religious perspective, the continuous survival of the Jewish people continues to surprise the world. When you consider the enemies that we have faced and out-survived, that too is a miracle. When one considers that the Jewish people bear witness to the reality of ethical monotheism despite the countless attempts of our enemies to destroy us, I am dwarfed by miracles.

There are no easy answers as to why bad things happen to good people, yet the continued existence of the Jewish people seems to point to something very majestic and profound—the God of history. Miracles are subtle. If a miracle can be subtle, I believe God is also subtle. Our childish images of Big Daddy God doing it all for us helpless fools, is passé—God is, for me, the Power that is giving shape to a good world. However, we are also God’s co-partners in Creation. Human generated evil would never be possible if we didn’t allow it to happen.  In my opinion, before we start pointing fingers at God, we need to start taking a sober look at our abdication as God’s shepherds and rescuers.

Lastly, when discussing spirituality, it is important to understand its Hebraic usage in the Torah and Tanakh. To be begin with, the “Spirit of God” רוּחַ אֱלֹהִים  (rûah ´élöhîm) mentioned in Genesis 1:2 describes  רוּחַ as the life-breath and life-principle that transforms the chaos of creation into a cosmos. In theological terms, רוּחַ alludes to the most profound dimension that converts, liberates, and sublimates human existence. In practical terms, when we embrace this aspect of spirit within our being—we can transform even the darkest forces of chaos into an orderly cosmos that exist in our world. This has been our task as God’s witness in history. Isn’t about time we start learning to get in touch with this profound dimension of our life that can improve and transform our earthly and spiritual existence?

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According to French philosopher and theologian Paul Ricoeur, a text is any kind of discourse that is fixed to writing, but its origins are frequently oral in nature, as in the art of storytelling and myth.  Ricoeur explains, “Fixation by writing takes the very place of speech, occurring at the site where speech could have emerged.”[1] The text however, is not a static entity that is hermeneutically fixed or reified—texts invite encounter, discovery, dialogue, and interaction. In most instances, the reader cannot question what the author had in mind when penning his words and neither can the writer respond to the queries of the reader.

Ricoeur terms this formation as a “double eclipse”[2] for in a sense, both writer and reader escape the notice of the Other; this absence of presence also creates an interpretive tension between reader and text. On one level, a text presents a trace of the writer’s imagination and experience of the world. Once this experience is transcribed, the writer loses complete control of how his work will be interpreted, as Ricoeur and M. Bakhtin so note.[3] Left to its own, the written word remains in a dormant state until a reader enlivens the text’s capacity to challenge and transform his   personal worldview. Each instance of engaging the text becomes an event where the minds of the past and present meld together and become one.

The etymological meaning of “text” bears this point out. The English word “text” comes from the Latin textus “woven material,” which in turn derives from the root texere “to weave.” It is still fairly common to speak about “spinning a tale” or “spinning a yarn,” or “weaving a tale,”[4] or “weaving a theme.”[5] While a text may be described as a “literary composition,” when it comes to its readers and interpreters it ought to be viewed perhaps more accurately as a “literary tapestry.”

The imagery of a literary tapestry is intriguing with respect to the Torah since each generation’s interpretations and commentaries continue to add new strands of thought that keep the text pertinent and contemporaneous. As a divine tapestry, Jewish tradition has always understood that each new generation re-weaves the sacred tradition, and in doing so, contributes toward its beauty and deeper understanding. The threads of interpretation may be different in their texture, quality, and color; nevertheless, each strand of interpretive insight adds, enhances, and preserves the ancestral tradition for future generations.

Theologian R. David R. Blumenthal also touches on the theme of text as a woven fabric that continues to be rewoven by each new generation: “The text is a fabric, woven (Latin texere/textus) from many threads. One thread is the received text—signs scratched, erased, and re-inscribed in eternity by many hands. One thread is the tradition— many conflicting voices echoing in the same eternity. One thread is the interpreter—gathering in, com-prehending, the threads into one fabric; but differently at different times. And one thread is the reader—calling and called to. All text-fabrics are created from other text—fabrics. Every reading is a gathering-in of older threads into a new tissue; an interweaving of the particular life of the reader with the tissue of the tradition. The text-fabric is never finished.“[6] (Emphasis added.)

Briefly defined, the process of making an intelligible analysis of a given text is what scholars commonly refer to as “hermeneutics,” a word deriving from the Greek ἑρμηνεύω (hermēneuō) to “interpret,” or “translate.” This method aims to make intelligible one’s own thoughts or the thoughts of others, whether oral or written.[7] Hermeneutics is the critical reflection of the interpretive process, especially with respect to biblical texts, with a goal to understanding its deeper meaning. Aside from ascertaining the straightforward meaning of the text, the study of hermeneutics is also concerned with the various influences that impact a reader’s subjectivity and interpretation, such as beliefs, personal history, traditions, and so on.

The polyvalence of scriptural interpretation was well known in ancient times. The Academy of Rabbi Ishmael (ca. 2^nd century) taught, “My word is like a fire that purges dross! It is like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces!” (Jer. 23:29), i.e., “Just as a hammer can produce many sparks when it hits a flint,  so too every single word that goes forth from the Holy Blessed One, splits up into seventy languages.”[8] Such interpretive diffusion creates the possibility of diverse and contrarian viewpoints—all of which have a degree of legitimacy.[9] To the religious imagination of the rabbis, the process of revelation continues to unfold in new and unpredictable ways whenever two people or more have a thoughtful exchange of wisdom and scripture. Just as God’s Oneness is inclusive of the many, so too does the Torah embrace infinite facets of meaning.

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People often ask: Why do Jews not practice cremation? Why did the ancient Israelites not cremate the remains like other cultures in the ancient world?

Cremation is mentioned as one of four forms of capital punishment for a variety of religious and social offenses, e.g., Gen. 19:24; Lev. 20:14, 21:9; Num. 16:35; cf. Josh. 7:15, 25. There is an interesting passage in 2 Chronicles 16:13-14 that reads:

• Then in the forty-first year of his reign Asa died and rested with his fathers. They buried him in the tomb that he had cut out for himself in the City of David. They laid him on a bier covered with spices and various blended perfumes, and they made a huge fire in his honor.

This passage does not refer to cremation, because cremation was reserved only for villainous people, but it was customary to make a large bonfire in honor of the ancient kings of Israel. There is no indication that corpses were cremated in ancient Israel, except in days long before the Israelites’ arrival to Canaan, or among groups of foreigners; the Israelites never practiced it. [1]

In the spirit of speculation, cremation might have been frowned upon because of its association with Molech-worship. The book of Deuteronomy refers to, “passing a son or a daughter pass through the fire” (Deut. 12:31). Scholars since the time of Abraham Geiger (1810–1874), argue that some ancient Israelites clans believed YHWH worship involved some form of human sacrifice (cf. Isa. 30:33).[2] The prophets condemned the practice (cf. Gen. 22:1–14; Exod. 13:2, 12–13, 15; Mic. 6:6–7) precisely because of the syncretism between paganism and the worship of YHWH.

Some theorists take a different position because the lack of archaeological evidence suggests that the Canaanites of Phoenicia did not practice human sacrifice.  It has been argued that the Deuteronomy passages represent a rhetorical polemic intended to “Canaanize” what was originally an Israelite practice of human sacrifice.

It is interesting to note that the Phoenicians introduced cremation to the ANE (Ancient Near East). The Israelites, much like the other indigenous peoples of the ANE, e.g., the Amorites, Egyptians, and Assyrians, buried their dead in caves, or in bench tombs. One might wonder whether the Canaanite practice of cremation gave rise to the biblical polemic that the Canaanites cremated their children as a funerary rite. In other words, the Canaanites cremated their children—but only after they were already dead!

One could reply, “Not necessarily!” As with any scholarly debate within the archaeological community, there are counter-arguments. For example, in the ancient Phoenician city of Carthage, thousands of urns have been found that bear witness to the ubiquity of child sacrifice. Cremated bones of young children ranging between 2 and 12 show how common this pagan rite once was. Other Phoenician sanctuaries or sacrificial precincts discovered on Sicily and Sardinia also bear witness to this practice.[3]

In any event, the practice probably horrified Israelites so intensely, they decided to not to have anything to do with even the appearance of this dreadful pagan custom. In his commentary to Jeremiah 7:31, Rashi describes what he believed the resembled the ancient Molech ritual. Although his perspective may be somewhat Midrashic in tone, he captures the essence of the ritual, “Tophet is Moloch, was made of brass; and they heated him from his lower parts; and his outstretched hands were made red hot. The priests would place the child between his hands, and it was burnt; when it vehemently cried out; but the priests loudly beat a drum, that his father might not hear his son’s cries, and so that  his heart might not be moved . . .” Incidentally, Rashi’s exposition comes indirectly from ancient Greek traditions.

In the Punic city of Carthage, a Phoenician colony, Cleitarchus, Diodorus Siculus and Plutarch all mention burning of children as an offering to Cronus or Saturn, known also as Ba‘al Hammon, the chief god of Carthage. However, a number of scholars think the Romans demonized the people of Carthrage, and exaggerated cruel and barbaric customs. Paul G. Mosca, for example, in his thesis described below, translates Cleitarchus’ paraphrase of a scholium to Plato’s Republic as:

• There stands in their midst a bronze statue of Kronos, its hands extended over a bronze brazier, the flames of which engulf the child. When the flames fall upon the body, the limbs contract and the open mouth seems almost to be laughing until the contracted body slips quietly into the brazier. Thus it is that the ‘grin’ is known as ‘sardonic laughter,’ since they die laughing.

• Diodorus Siculus (20.14) wrote: “There was in their city a bronze image of Kronos extending its hands, palms up and sloping toward the ground, so that each of the children when placed thereon rolled down and fell into a sort of gaping pit filled with fire.”[5]

* Back to the Present

The crematoria of the Nazis has left a similar feeling of disgust among most traditional Jews, and for this reason, cremation has still never found acceptance among Jews as a burial rite. In a sardonic sense, the Nazis were much like Molech worshipers of old in their contempt of human life–much like the Islamic suicide bombers epitomize the Molech archetype today.

To this day, most Orthodox rabbis refuse to bury the ashes of someone who opted for cremation; moreover, anyone who has his body cremated is not mourned for by the next of kin. According to The Compendium on Medical Ethics, summarizes the Jewish view of procedures after death:

• The inviolate right of a person to life, which differentiates mankind from all other animal species, extends an aura of holiness over the body even after the Divine soul leaves it. The body, like the soul, is the property of the One who created it. It is therefore not permitted to injure or mutilate the body except when overriding consideration for the preservation of life and health make such action necessary…. Reverent treatment of the body and speedy interment are biblically-ordained precepts. Cremation, freeze-storage of the body, and above-ground burial crypts, are all in violation of Jewish law and practice. The duty to bury in the ground applies to all parts of the body and is the obligation of the next of kin. Even where testamentary direction to be cremated has been given, Jewish law requires that it be ignored as an unwarranted desecration of the body.[4]

However, Chief Rabbi Marcus Nathan Adler of Britain, though opposed to cremation, permitted the ashes of a person who had been cremated to be interred in a Jewish cemetery in 1887. The decision was sustained by his successor, Herman Adler (1891), who quoted the authority of Rabbi Isaac Elhanan Spector. It was also the attitude of Chief Rabbi Zadoc Kahn of France. (EJ 2010 ed.). Conservative and Reform rabbis generally take a more lenient position on this issue.

* One Famous Cremation in the Bible

Yet, there is one well-known biblical exception to this rule–King Saul. After the citizens of Jabesh-gilead retrieved the bodies Saul and Jonathan, we read that “they cremated their remains” (1 Sam. 31:12). Why was it practiced with respect to Saul? Among the Aegean and Anatolians, cremations were used especially to honor fallen warriors and royalty ( reminiscent of Mel Gibson’s film, Braveheart). It seems that the townsfolk wanted to show respect to the first king in a comparable like manner. It is also possible the townspeople feared that the more powerful Philistine townspeople would return and look to further inflict further desecration.

Some scholars think that the burning of the bodies of Saul and his sons by the inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead (1 Sam. 31:12-13) may have been to prevent further desecration by the Philistines. On the other hand, this practice occurred when the bodies were in a mutilated state.

It is interesting to note that in Israel and Judah, it was the custom to light a large bonfire as a tribute to a dead king (cf. 2 Chron. 16:14; 21:19). This fire does not refer to cremation because Israel and Judah buried dead bodies rather than cremating them. Talmudic tradition says that the kings of Israel used to have their bed and other personal items burnt together with them (BT Avodah Zara 11a).

* Comparative Religious Perspectives

When one examines the Judaic view of cremation, it is interesting to contrast it with other perspectives, particularly with the Hindu tradition, which takes an altogether different approach to cremation.

For example, in ancient India, Hindu and Buddhist faiths thought that cremation provided the transition to immortality. The earthly fire symbolizes the celestial fire, which purges the earthly shell of the body, releasing the soul to achieve an immortal existence, conferring upon it a celestial identity. The sacred fire sublimates and extracts the soul, leaving it as a distilled spiritual essence, ready for the next incarnation into this world at some future time.

However, in Hindu and Buddhist cultures, ascetics and quite often—widows—will subject their bodies to the fire to achieve a higher incarnation in the next life time. Muslim suicide bombers likewise regard their deaths as a symbolic sacrifice to Allah, who will in turn grant them seventy virgins in Paradise.

On account of Judaism’s belief in the inherent sanctity of life, our ancestors rejected cremation as a Judaic form of mourning. Into your hands I entrust my spirit; you will redeem me, LORD,  faithful God” (Psa. 31:6).

The accidental burning of the Quran in Afghanistan raises some important questions: How does one dispose of religious literature?

The 18^th century Muslim scholar Allamah Haskafi, author jurisprudence text Durr-Mukhtar, wrote of the disposal of the no-longer wanted Qurans: “If one decides to get rid of religious literature, the right thing would be to bury them by wrapping them in something pure first, in a place where people would rarely traffic. Similarly, it would be permitted to tie the books and papers with something heavy and cast them into a flowing river. You may also burn [texts other than the Quran], but in this case, only after erasing the names of Allah, his Angels and his Messengers…”

Religious traditions vary considerably—even within a given faith. Some Muslim traditions require that the Quran be wrapped in a linen cloth, to protect it from the impure soil. Some scholars recommend that the Muslims place the book in a niche dug along the side of a grave, pointing in the direction of Mecca.

Historically, some early Muslim scholars recommended burning the Quran—but only as a last resort to prevent the book from being defiled. Afterwards, the ashes should be buried or scattered over water. The place where the Quran is burnt is also important and should be ritually performed over the property of a mosque. One Muslim scholar informed me that burning individual Quranic verses represents a type of symbolic sacrifice.

Among the oriental faiths, Hindus immerse their holy writings in clean water, burial or burning, according to the Hari Bhakti Vilasa, a Hindu book of rituals and conduct. If still usable, the items can be sent to the next of kin or cremated with a deceased owner. Buddhist ritual is less defined. However, normally a Buddhist should recite a Buddhist scripture in front of the items to be disposed of, if such a person is present. The material can then be burned and its ashes buried. It is permitted to place the text in a bag and leave it for recycling.[1]

Medieval Christian history regarded the disposal of the Bible as a serious sin. Only recently have Christians adopted the Jewish and Muslim tradition of burying the Bible and other sacred writings, while others recommend one ought to simply fix the Bible so that it will be reusable. According to the Wikihow.com, Christian scholars recommend:

• Consider the intent of your disposal method. If you respect the Holy Bible as a sacred text, you should choose a method which is not deliberately defiling or irreverent. Burying or burning, would not mix the pages of your Bible with common household refuse and cause it to be subjected to objectionably gross conditions. Burying the Bible. Wrapping the Bible in a clean, plain white cloth, or building a small wooden casket would give the Holy Book a reverent final resting place. The Jews have a tradition of burying defiled or damaged copies of their sacred texts in a cemetery, usually with a body, after performing liturgical rites over them.

•  Burning the Bible. This should be done in a reverent, somber fashion. Building a small bonfire and placing the Book in the flames to ensure that it burns completely, and nature will scatter the ashes.  Show respect due, in accordance to your faith, the book which you are disposing of. Think of its history, value, and enduring quality. If you feel compelled, during the process of disposal, say a prayer, or repeat a selected verse or passage from the Book.[2]

Jewish tradition traditionally buries their holy books at the local Jewish cemetery. Unlike the Muslim faith, it is forbidden to erase or burn God’s Name to facilitate its burial.  Burning siddurim or old Torah scrolls is expressly forbidden—probably because of the violent abuse Jewish communities experienced in Christian and Muslim lands. [3]Unfortunately, not every religion shows its respect toward the faith of the Other. I would add that all religions are guilty of this type of sacrilege to a greater or lesser degree.

Erasing God’s Name is a complicated issue in Halachic literature. Many Orthodox Jews will write God’s Name as “G-d” to get around the issue. By doing so, since God’s Name is not really being written down, newspapers or articles with G-d’s Name may be discarded. This is somewhat of a legal fiction that probably makes little algebraic sense. Nowadays even our currency reads “In God we trust,” and some Halachic scholars would argue that one should not count money while in a bathroom, since God's Name needs to be associated with a clean place. On the other hand, one may justifiably wonder: How appropriate is it to have God's Name embossed on money in the first place? Some critics occasionally muse, "Does 'In God we trust' signify a faith in God? Or does it signify a faith in the god of mammon?" These are valid theological and practical questions that we might explore at a future time.

Several medieval rabbinic scholars contend that if the Divine Name was not meant for holy usage, it may be erased and discarded.[4] Other rabbinical scholars contend that the Hebrew Name only has holiness in Hebrew and that all secular names for God have no holiness whatsoever.[5]

The only exception to destroying God’s Name is when it involves the ritual of the Sotah (a woman accused of adultery). According to the Torah, the name of God had to be erased and used for a special ceremony (Numbers 5:11-31). The ritual involved seven steps performed by the priest: 1) putting sacral water into an earthen vessel; 2) throwing some earth from the floor of the Sanctuary into the water; 3) standing the woman on trial before the Lord, baring her head and placing her meal offering upon her hands; 4) adjuring the woman by solemn oath to which she answers, "Amen, amen"; 5) putting this oath down (which contained God’s Name)  in writing and rubbing off the ink in the water that is in the earthenware bowl; 6) elevating the meal offering, presenting it on the altar, and turning a token part of it into smoke on the altar; 7) making the woman drink the spell-inducing water of bitterness.

Burning God’s Name was considered one of the worse acts of sacrilege. According to the Talmud, Apostomos, captain of the occupation forces, publicly burned the Torah - both acts considered open blasphemy and desecration and became one of the principle reasons why the Sages created a Jewish fast day for the 17^th of Tammuz. [6]

In many synagogues, old Siddurim (prayer books), Torah mantels, teffilon (phylacteries), tallit, and mezuzoth, are placed in the synagogue genizah (hidden places). Traditionally, such places were often situated under the bimah (where the Torah is read), behind the ark in a small adjacent room, or in a cellar—as was the case with the Bokhara synagogue in Tehran. When the geniza became full, they would take the items to be buried at the synagogue once every ten years. The burial was believed to help induce a healthy rainy season. The manner in which this was carried out was with solemnity, followed afterward by a special banquet.

As you can see, the religious faiths of the world share many attitudes and customs regarding their sacred literature. In short, I think all religions can and ought to learn some practical lessons from one another. Let such a venture mark the beginning of our collective and personal spiritual healing.

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

Shepherding is inextricably related to the wilderness. In its broadest sense, the wilderness represents a realm of chaos that threatens human civilization and consciousness. In psychological terms, the wilderness may be found in the depths of the unconscious; it is a region that leaves one feeling helpless, alone, and out of control, which threatens all orderly existence. This pattern occurs again and again throughout the Tanakh. Yet, despite the dangers one faces in the wilderness, it is always the place of revelation and transformation. As a result, the wilderness frequently functions as a vehicle for conversion.

Since wilderness imagery figures prominently in the narratives of the Israelites found in the Pentateuch and later in the life experiences of King David, it is important to examine why the wilderness metaphor became one of the enduring root metaphors of ancient Israel, as well as in numerous prophetical passages. One might further assert that wilderness and shepherding connote a spiritual and psychological nexus that is often ignored by biblical theologians. Five general themes emerge out the wilderness imagery: abandonment, revelation, covenant, miraculous provision, and judgment.

To begin with, the Hebrew word מִדְבַּר (midbar) is usually rendered as either “wilderness”[1] or “desert.” Several translations render מִדְבַּר as “wilderness,” while other translations prefer “desert.”[2] Although both terms are similar, there are some distinctive connotative differences. Among the definitions of the word “wilderness,” the American Heritage Dictionary states:

1. An unsettled, uncultivated region left in its natural condition, especially:

a. A large wild tract of land covered with dense vegetation or forests.

b. An extensive area, such as a desert or ocean that is barren or empty; a waste.

c. A piece of land set aside to grow wild.

2. Something characterized by bewildering vastness, perilousness, or unchecked profusion: the wilderness of the city; the wilderness of counterespionage; a wilderness of voices.

In contrast, “desert” means:

1. A barren or desolate area, especially:

a. A dry, often sandy region of little rainfall, extreme temperatures, and sparse vegetation.

b. A region of permanent cold that is largely or entirely devoid of life.

c. An apparently lifeless area of water.

2. An empty or forsaken place; a wasteland: a cultural desert.

3. Archaic A wild, uncultivated, and uninhabited region.

[ME , OFr. < LL. desertum, neut. p. part of deserete, to desert.

In Hebrew, the noun   מִדְבַּר includes both definitions. According to a number of modern scholars, the Sinai technically is not a desert. Professor Jacob Milgrom notes, “Although its scant rainfall cannot support cultivation, it can provide adequate pasturage for the flock.”[3] While the term מִדְבַּר can mean a wilderness, uninhabited land[4], pastureland[5], and sometimes it can denote a desert. When used as a geographical term, the מִדְבַּר is the opposite of the settled life characterized by urban or semi-urban existence.

One modern Biblical Hebrew lexicon explains, “The wilderness is often described negatively as without grapes, fountains, pools of water, rivers, pleasant places—or as in a notable statement: ‘Can God furnish a table in the wilderness?’” (Ps 78:19).[6] Regardless which definition one prefers, the wilderness, as its English etymology indicates, is a place of bewilderment, peril, isolation, detachment, wandering, desolation, and homelessness.  In the מִדְבַּר we feel cut off from the world; it is a place of loneliness and desertion. For the Israelites the wilderness is the place where they discover God’s capacity to support and sustain amidst harsh living conditions. For the Israelites, foraging through the wilderness involved making a journey into the unknown.

Elsewhere in the Tanakh, the wilderness metaphor is sometimes used to connote the realm of chaos and nothingness (cf. Deut. 32:10, Job 6:18). Understandably, the ancients regarded it as a place of demons, confusion, and wild creatures that prey on its helpless victims.

For the unwary traveler, danger lurked whenever one may passage through the wilderness—especially since there are no short-cuts and ready-made paths. Earlier, one of the definitions for wilderness was “profusion,” since it was commonly feared that the wilderness might invade and threaten their ancestral land.

No wonder it was regarded as a symbol of chaos and disorder! It is easy to lose a sense of time in the wilderness. Yet, in terms of shepherding, shepherding is inseparably related to the wilderness. In a spiritual and metaphorical sense, the wilderness represents the feeling of homelessness and confusion.

Throughout the Tanakh, the Torah narratives dealing with the wilderness are often contrasted with the memories of life in Egypt. Surprisingly, the members of the Israelite nation often preferred the fleshpots, the free fish, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic to the manna of the wilderness. Being a slave in meant that Egypt would guarantee the Israelite three meals a day but only at the cost of their human dignity and their spiritual well-being.

For many, security—even if it meant living a life of bondage— seemed more  preferable to the insecurity of freedom. Confronted with a choice, the Israelites could either accept their special destiny as God’s people, or bravely face whatever challenges this would entail, or else they could forfeit their spiritual destiny by submitting to a totalitarian regime that guarantees food.

The wilderness experience serves as a paradigm for all subsequent experiences dealing with the trauma of destruction and exile. The imagery of the Exodus served as a symbol that out of the ashes of  destruction, God will orchestrate a new future that would restore the Jewish people back to their ancestral home—despite the prevailing political conditions and realities.

Over three thousand years later, the images of the wilderness still remain vivid and real. In today’s terms, the wilderness can serve as a metaphor for those who have experience loss, sickness, homelessness, loneliness, divorce, transition, substance abuse, and especially of life of meaninglessness.

Viktor Frankl, the founder of logotherapy, believes that the central human need, more basic than the drive for pleasure, food, or power, is the need for meaning. Human beings require a pattern and purpose that will make sense of our experiences and of the world around us. Meaninglessness threatens not only the inner world of the individual, but also threatens the identity of a society.

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?

According to Jewish tradition, God’s Presence in the phenomenal world is calibrated to our actions. Indeed, actions speak louder than words, and are especially more effective than espousing the typical platitudes of faith that we are so bored hearing in the media, or for that matter—at the synagogue! With the holiday of Tisha B’Av, we read in the Talmud why God withdrew His Divine Presence from the world. The warning for future generations is all too clear: We must choose to manifest healthy images of God that bring healing to ourselves and our world.

History has shown us time and time again how God-images impact the way a religious culture treats its female members. Cultures ruled by a misogynistic conception of the Divine cannot help but treat its women in a barbarous manner. Indeed, a society that hates its women is incapable of loving anything else. Conversely, a religious culture that respects the maternal aspects of the Divine Feminine produces a community of believers where life becomes sacred and holy. The reverence for life—across the ideological spectrum—becomes the basis for all societal evolution and development. Contrary to the fundamentalist way of seeing the world, maleness is not the closest thing to godliness.

In Jewish tradition, the metaphor of this aspect of the Divine Feminine is better known as the שְׁכִינָה, (“Shekhinah), signifying, “that which dwells,” deriving from the verb [שָׁכֵן, shakhen], or [שָׁכַן, shakhan], “to dwell,” “reside” see Isaiah 60:2).

In this week’s parsha, the wording states   וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם   “They shall make a sanctuary for me, that I may dwell in their midst” (Exod. 25:8). The  verse brilliantly captures the subtle nuances that tend go get glossed over by most translations. The verse actually says, “They shall make a sanctuary for me, that  I shall dwell in them.” The more literal reading of the text  suggests that God dwells not outside the human heart, but within the human heart. This interpretation explains the idea of the “Divine Indwelling,” better known as the “Shekhinah.”

As I prepared the Torah reading today, I decided to spend a few minutes and take poetic license with the Midrash.  The thought occurred to me that I should write about a subject that is dear to my heart—romantic theology, also known as the “theology of love.” The topic today is:  the soulful wanderings of the Shekhinah.

The language you will read is shamelessly anthropomorphic–and from a Maimonidean perspective, what I am writing is probably quite offensive. However, I do believe this interpretive midrash captures the spirit of the text. If nothing else, it is an interesting deconstruction of midrashic thought.

Abraham Joshua Heschel often observed, “God is in search of man.” In other words, our own quest for love and intimacy comes to us quite naturally, for our beloved Creator also has a similar quest. Paradoxically, our love for the Divine gives something to our Maker something that S/he does not possess. In a mystical sense, we make God’s Presence whole in the world through our acts of love and compassion. I hope you enjoy the material as much as I did writing it.

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I come to my garden, my sister, my bride;

I gather my myrrh with my spice,

I eat my honeycomb with my honey,

I drink my wine with my milk.

Eat, friends, drink, and be drunk with love.

Song of Songs 1:1

The Midrash views all of Song of Songs as an extended metaphor about God’s love for Israel. The word “my garden” has Edenic overtones and significance.

The term “gani” (“My garden,”) implies not just any “garden,” but specifically to “My garden,” i.e., the bridal chamber where a bride and groom consummate their love for one another. By saying “My bridal chamber,” the text mystically suggests a return to a time when God’s Being was originally present and revealed.

The Midrash teaches that  when Moses built the Tabernacle, the Shekhinah returned to co-inhabit the earth just as She did in the days of Eden before the primal couple’s great fall. In Eden, God could be seen “walking” alongside mortals (Gen 3:8). However, after  the primal couple sinned, the Shekhinah began retreating Her Presence from the earthly realm. Bereft of Her divine intimacy, Adam and his wife hid themselves because they felt alienated from the deepest dimension of their souls.  Adam’s spiritual stature underwent a radical reduction.

However, the Shekhinah’s mystical ascent was far from finished, for when Cain murdered his brother Abel, the Feminine Presence felt disgusted with human violence and retreated unto the second level of Heaven in a panic.

Alas, Her ascent away from the earth still continued for when Enosh forgot his Creator when he worshiped idols, so the Shekhinah retreated to the third level; after watching more of man’s inhumanity to man, a flood occurs, and the saddened Shekhinah retreats because She could not watch Her children perish. With the passage of time, the Shekhinah develops a revulsion for violence. Once again, human cruelty chased Her one more degree away from the earth.

After the Tower Builders announced their designs to conquer the heavens, the Shekhinah retreated yet another degree because she found human arrogance repugnant. The violence of the Sodomites upset Her even more, as she wanted nothing to do with men because of their barbarism and sadism. The Shekhinah’s withdrawal from the world reached Her zenith after the Egyptians mistreated their fellow earthly brothers and sisters, by enslaving the Israelites to a life of suffering and pain. She could not bear to watch. She wondered, “Could the rift with humanity get any worst than this?”

However, the Shekhinah could not remain in a permanent state of estrangement from humanity—despite its errant ways. Abraham was the first to recognize the Shekhinah’s Reality and he sought to make her more intimate with mortals once more. Isaac’s willingness to die for Her, as a show of his love and devotion, made the Shekhinah yearn yet more for intimacy with mortals.

Through his many struggles within himself, Jacob comes to discover the Shekhinah’s luminosity and beauty and finally understands the true meaning of blessing.  In an effort to purge himself from the violence that defiled his life after he and his brother Simeon massacred the inhabitants of Shechem (Gen. 34-31), Levi sought to renew his relationship with Her. The Shekhinah  pitied this pathetic excuse for a human being and granted him a peacefulness of mind. She was determined to make Levi’s descendants do penance for their forefather’s crimes against humanity  by making them serve as priests to their Maker. She mused, “Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future–this applies even to Levi!”

The Shekhinah brought Yochebed and Amram together, and they became the parents of Moses—the liberator of Israel.  Mysteriously, She finds herself drawn back to the earth. With Moses, the Shekhinah found a lover who decided to build a new home for the Divine—The Tabernacle–a place that would permanently restore Her Presence to our world, where She would walk once more with humankind. [1]

(To be continued . . .) Continue Reading

You’ve heard of mind reading, but how about mind listening?

Most rabbinical students attribute omnipresence and omniscience as qualities befitting a Creator. Only God is called, “The Knower of Thoughts,” and “The Searcher of the human heart.” Rabbinical wisdom has long taught, “Always keep in mind these three things, and you will never come to the brink of sin: know what is above you—a watchful Eye, an attentive Ear, and all your deeds are recorded in a book.”[1]

But what if God wasn’t the only one monitoring human thoughts and inspecting hearts? What if the State possessed this kind of God-like power? What if the “watchful eye” observing our behavior happens to be a mind-reading machine, or a drone flying above our cities, silently watching our every move? What if the “attentive ear” listening to us happens to be some government agency monitoring our telephone conversations? What if somebody—other than God—is recording our deeds in a special book? Worse still, what if the State had the power to monitor your thoughts?

Are we slowly becoming an Orwellian society?

The jury is out . . .

It is amazing how in some places where the traffic is relatively sparse, you—the driver—can see the presence of a camera monitoring you as you drive along the road. When these cameras first came out, a Russian friend of mine commented, “Not even in the old Soviet Union did we possess such advanced technology for spying.” Obviously, had the technology been available, they certainly would have used it.

Today’s world is very different from the one I remember growing up in.

About a year ago, I decided to rejoin the ACLU.  It wasn’t because I agree with their political issues; many of their cases seem like a waste of time and effort. However, the ACLU is very strong about privacy rights, which I believe is one of the most important issues of our time.

The erosion of democratic values is a slow process. Autocratic forces within the government realize that micromanaging and watching over the affairs of Americans is not something most citizens will approve. Undeterred, our autocrats have found new ways to achieve their objective in creating a modern day Orwellian society. Since the 9/11 attack upon our nation, most Americans feel more “insecure” than past generations about their safety and security. The specter of terrorism has exposed our Achilles heel as a society. Yes, many of us feel we would rather give up some of our freedoms for the sake of feeling secure.

Several new scientific advances now available pose some interesting legal challenges to our concept of privacy. Technological breakthroughs in neuroscience have now demonstrated that it is scientifically possible to read people’s minds. “In fact, some researchers have found that it is monitoring voters’ brains, pupils and pulses, and may be more effective than listening to what they have to say.”[2] The technology is not necessarily evil per se, for many researchers at Berkeley have found that this technology has the potential to restore speech (via prosthesis) to people who have lost their ability to speak, as a result of a traumatic brain injury or stroke. But what about its military applications?

Whether it is electricity or nuclear energy, its moral value is determined by how it is used. Electricity gives light to our homes, but it can also be used to electrocute prisoners. However, given the inevitable military or political use of this technology, it is important that the courts protect our rights and freedoms.

Every person has the right to privacy—which includes the freedom from unlawful intrusion into one’s home, from unreasonable searches of person or property, from eavesdropping on people’s confidential conversations, and from unauthorized reading of personal documents.

Jewish tradition is very sensitive to the issues of privacy rights and there are many Scriptural passages that support everyone’s inalienable right for privacy. For example, “A  scandalmonger reveals secrets, but a trustworthy man keeps a confidence” (Prov 11:13). The ancient Jewish philosopher Ben Sira said, “The foot of a fool rushes into a house, while a well-bred person remains outside.” Over 2100 years later, Alexander Pope expressed a similar thought, “Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread.” Ben Sira continues,   “A fool peeps into the house from the door, but a cultured person keeps his glance cast down. It is inappropriate for a person to overhear a private conversation through the door; a considerate person would be upset by the disgrace of it” (Ben Sira 21:22-24).

The Sages prohibited revealing confidences,[3] which gave rise to the ruling, “Let no man search out the secrets of his fellow”[4] In the 10^th century, Rabbi Gershom threatened to put any person under the ban anyone who illicitly read another person’s mail.[5] Nevertheless, there are exceptions depending upon the severity of a crime.[6]

One of the more fascinating concepts of privacy rights in the Talmud deals with properties facing one another in a joint courtyard.” “One may not open in a jointly owned courtyard an entrance facing an entrance or a window facing a window. If it was small, he may not make it large. One, he may not make it two. But he may open to a public thoroughfare a door opposite an entrance and a window opposite a window.”[7] Maimonides thus rules,

• If one of the partners in a courtyard desires to open up a new window from his house overlooking the courtyard, his colleague may prevent him from doing so, for this allows him the possibility of looking at him at all times. If he opens such a window, he must close it. By the same token, partners in a courtyard should not open the entrance of a house opposite the entrance of a neighbor’s house, or a window opposite a neighbor’s window. In the public domain, by contrast, a person may open an entrance opposite a colleague’s entrance and a window opposite a neighbor’s window. For if the neighbor demurred, he could tell him: “Why is my seeing you considered worse than any other passerby, who can also see you?”[8]

In short, the privacy laws pose a slippery slope and in this case, to be forewarned is to be forearmed. It is important that organizations like the ACLU continue their vigilance in safeguarding our civil liberties. Letting your local politician know about your concerns is another way of doing something to ensure the freedoms we all enjoy.

Question: Why do we say “baruch dayan ha’emet” when someone dies?

Answer: Since the days of the Mishnah, Jewish tradition prescribes a special blessing for nearly all aspects of Jewish life. There are blessings said over new fruits; there are blessings said before the performance of a religious precept; there are blessings even for when you see the President or the Czar! Every aspect of life is bound up with the theme of blessing. In fact, the fundamental meaning of the word, “Jew” means in Hebrew, “to give thanks.”

With this thought in mind, the Sages teach there are blessings for happy occasions, and there are blessings for sad occasions. The exact nature of a sad occasion is a matter of discussion. According to the Talmud, when hearing bad news one must acknowledge God as the “Just Judge,” (Dyyan HaEmeth—literally, “the Judge of Truth”). Originally, this blessing was not limited to death per se, but applied to any kind of tragic news, e.g., the loss of one’s home due to a natural disaster or fire, the loss of the Temple, or the loss of a friend or valued family member who has died, and so on . . . [1]

The specific time to say this blessing is at the time of death itself. In practice, it is traditionally said before performing the kri’ah (the rending of the garment for an immediate family member or a spouse).[2] Note that there is no blessing ever said for tearing a garment since blessings are never said for acts of destruction. Some authorities hold that the kri’ah should be done in public—which is when the feelings of grief are strongest and most visceral.[3] The blessing should be said with God’s Name, i.e., Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech HaOlam Dyyan HaEmet.

The Talmud teaches in the name of Rabbi Akiba, “A person should always accustom himself to saying, “Whatever the All-Merciful does, is for the ultimate good.” To illustrate the truth of this principle, the Talmud tells an anecdote about Rabbi Akiba. Once he arrived at a village and looked for a local hotel. To his dismay, there were no vacancies to be found. So, Rabbi Akiba decided to camp out in a quiet field; he brought with him a rooster, an ass, and a lamp for the evening. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew out the lamp! Then a weasel suddenly attacked and ate the rooster. A lion appeared and ate the ass! In every instance, Rabbi Akiba affirmed, “Whatever the All-Merciful does is for the good!” Later next day, Rabbi Akiba discovered that some robbers attacked and kidnapped several of the townspeople![4]

As mentioned above, in Jewish tradition, upon hearing about the death of a loved one, it is customary to say this blessing. Obviously, it is not easy to acknowledge God in a time of death; in fact, it’s probably much more natural to feel resentment toward God for taking a loved one away–especially when the person who just died happens to be a young child or adult. Nevertheless,  the blessing teaches us on some psychological level to acknowledge that the binary opposites of Creation, e.g., light and darkness, good and evil, suffering and prosperity—all serve a higher purpose and contribute toward the overall welfare of the world. Were it not for death, the world could not contain or sustain all of the world’s inhabitants; there would be food shortages, war, and countless other social evils. Death is what we share with all that has ever lived.

When consoling someone, it is important to acknowledge their pain and loss. Mouthing platitudes about “God is just,” or telling someone, “I know how you feel,” are inappropriate ways to express condolence. The simple truth is, you don’t know what the mourner is experiencing. One might ask, “How appropriate is it to tell the mourner to say something he or she might not be willing to acknowledge?” Perhaps it is best to follow the sensible advice of R. Simeon b. Eleazar  who says, “Do not try to comfort our fellow when the corpse of his beloved is lying before him . . .”[5] Ecclesiastes also offers some practical advice as well: “A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak” (Eccl. 3:7). In the beginning of the Jobian story, Job’s friends “offered sympathy and comfort” (Job 2:11). They expressed no verbal criticism of him. Sometimes we have to simply “let it be.”

When we lose someone to an illness, it is worth remembering that it is better to live a good life than to live a long and meaningless life. Death is sometimes preferable to a life of pain and incessant suffering. From this perspective, death is a release. Although none of us know the amount of time we have, we must make the most of the precious gift of time that God has allotted us. The blessing teaches us to be grateful for the gift we were entrusted with, but no gift of life can last forever. Sooner or later, we will lose what we have loved until we meet again with our loved one in the world of Eternity. Continue Reading