Morethodoxy: Exploring the Breadth, Depth and Passion of Orthodox Judaism

Mahara”t Sara Hurwitz

This past week I spoke and participated in a rally in vicinity of the UN.  The purpose of the rally was to protest the recent decision by Scottish justice officials to release the terrorist responsible for the bombing of PanAm Flight 103 in 1988 over Lockerbie, Abdel Baset al-Megrahi.  The bombing killed all 259 passengers on board and 11 residents of Lockerbie.  The rally was emotional and moving; a number of the victim’s relatives joined us in raising a powerful and tender voice in condemnation of this decision.

This decision by Scottish official to release al-Megrahi is troubling on a number of levels.  In today’s post, however, I wanted to explore briefly the official predicate for al-Megrahi’s release and to cite a Jewish source that perhaps places the rally I attended in proper context.  Al-Megrahi was reportedly released on compassionate grounds: he is suffering from late-term cancer is expected to live only a few more months.  This reasoning – showing compassion on a hardened and unrepentant killer – calls to mind a comment made by Rashi in last week’s parsha, parshat Shoftim.  The Torah, in teaching some of the laws relating to warfare, begins this section with the introductory statement, “When you go out to battle against your enemies ….”  (Devarim 20:1). The words “your enemies” are superfluous.  When one declares and goes out to war, it is by definition a war against one’s enemies.  Rashi, remarking on this apparent superfluity, derives the following teaching from the words “your enemies.” Rashi states, “they shall be in your eyes like enemies; do not show compassion on them for they will not show mercy on you.”

This sentiment is a bit jarring to modern ears, and our tradition’s attitudes towards our enemies are certainly more complex than this.  But Rashi – who witnessed the first crusade in 1096 – is right in this essential point.  It hardly serves the goals of justice to show compassion on a true enemy of civil society.  The families of al-Magrahi’s victims are the ones deserving our compassion.  And when we gathered in protest, we also gathered to show compassion to Babette Hollister, whose daughter Katherine, would have celebrated her 41^st birthday this week.  Compassion for Hope Asrelsky who is certain that her daughter Rachel, who was just 21 when she died, would have been in Washington today, advocating for a better more just world.  It is cruel to betray these families on a fleeting and groundless gesture of mercy.  Al-Megrahi and his Libyian enablers would certainly not have done the same.

Mahara”t Sara Hurwitz

There have already been a few entries in this space discussing the efficacy of prayer, and what we, Morethodox Jews can learn from others about tefilah.  I’d like to add to this theme in my post today.

I believe that one of the foundations of prayer is the ability to intertwine fixed/set prayer with spontaneous prayer.  Chana, who according to the Talmud (Brachot 31a) was the progenitor of prayer, prayed twice when she beseeched God for a child as recounted in Samuel 1, chapter one and two. Her first prayer was wordless (“And it came to pass, as she continued praying before God…Now Chana spoke in her heart.”

יב וְהָיָה כִּי הִרְבְּתָה לְהִתְפַּלֵּל לִפְנֵי יְהֹ וְעֵלִי שֹׁמֵר אֶת־פִּֽיהָ: יג וְחַנָּה הִיא מְדַבֶּרֶת עַל־לִבָּהּ

 (Samuel 1:12-12)   This prayer was spontaneous, filled with visceral emotion.   In Chana’s second prayer, however, one has the sense that she sat with her quill and parchment for days, composing carefully her words of gratitude and praise to God.  Her second prayer was deliberate and formal.  In fact the Yalkut Shemoni Shmuel 1 says that it is this second prayer that became the blueprint of the shmonei esrei. 

Our challenge is to follow Chana and find ways to combine both set (keva) prayer as well as spontaneous prayer into a meaningful and godly experience.  I spent this past week at a Jewish retreat center where I encountered the difficulty of this challenge. At one point on the retreat I stepped into a Jewish renewal style Shabbat morning service, and found that there was very little traditional liturgy weaved into the davening.  This type of formless prayer did not appeal to me.  On the other hand, I had the opportunity to “daven mincha through Yoga,” as the program advertised it.  To my surprise, I found that embodying, literally, the words of the mincha prayer to be an extremely uplifting experience.  (The Yoga Mincha did not, of course, replace my regular traditional davening).  We threw our hands up in the air in joy as we recited the word “ashrei.’ Then we went into a sitting pose at the word “yoshvei.”  And then dropped our hands down, in a cave like manner, to create a home as we said the word “Vaytecha” (Ashrei Yoshvei Vaytecha—How happy or praiseworthy are those who dwell in Your house).  Imbuing traditional liturgy with an entirely new element forced me to think about the words in a different way. I found myself reaching out to God “with all my heart, with all my soul and with all my might.”  I was reminded of the experience Yitzchak might have had as he mediated in the field at evening time (Bereishit 24:63).  Or the uplifting prayer of the Levites, who according to Psalms (150:3) praised God with the harp, lyre, and through dance. Spirituality takes on many forms.  Tapping into ones spiritual self is the challenge.  

Meaningful prayer is something that many strive to attain and maintain.   I learned this week to step out of my prayer comfort zone, just a little, even if to experience a taste of how others achieve spiritual moments.  As we enter the month of Elul, a month where we focus more than ever on our prayerful selves, let’s keep striving to bring ourselves closer to God.

Mahara”t Sara Hurwitz

I recently got a taste of what it would be like to have my own pulpit, to be the rabbi of my own shul.  My esteemed colleagues Rabbis Avi Weiss and Steven Exler were on vacation, which left me in charge.  Alone.  In a 850-family shul.   

Of course, as soon as everyone left, there was suddenly a funeral to officiate, a shiva to run, a bris to lead, and Shabbat services to orchestrate.  I did it all, and the craziest thing is that no one batted an eyelid.  It just seemed natural. 

From this whirlwind experience I gained an even fuller appreciation of the deep and far-reaching modes of activity that constitute the rabbinate.  And if I could distill the one common ingredient in these tasks it would be presence.  Showing up.  Reaching out and making personal connections with individuals. 

This point was driven home to me in two distinct ways.  When an adult son of one of our members died, they called the shul asking to speak to one of the rabbis. So I dropped everything and went to sit with them, navigating the family through the complicated hospital bureaucracy and funeral arrangements. Towards the end of the day, as I broached the topic of who would be officiating at the funeral, explaining that I could find a male, more traditional looking rabbi, she looked at me as if I was crazy.  Of course you should do it, she said.  By the end of the week, she was telling anyone who would listen (between her moments of grief) that I was a rabbi.

And on the other end of the life cycle, I was asked to advise on and coordinate a bris. I showed up at the couples’ home, explained the bris ceremony, and envisioned with them how the service would be run. By the end of the conversation, it was hard to imagine the day without my participation.

You see, until recently, I assumed that lifecycle events were closed off to me as a woman in a rabbinic position.  People associate these events with male rabbis.  But as I officiate at more and more of these ceremonies — in sadness and gladness — I realize that gender is less important to members of my community than simply being present, engaged and  building a relationship.

That is what being a rabbis is about.  That is the rabbinate 101.

(Since I wrote this post, two additional members of our community have passed on.  It’s been a busy couple of days).

Mahara”t Sara Hurwitz

On Tisha b’Av, we are given permission to ask Eicha—How.  Or why.  How could you do this to us, God. How could you allow so much destruction and tragedy to enter our lives.  Although Jeremiah himself challenged God, these questions feel quite blasphemous.  We are not supposed to ask such questions when we suffer a personal loss.  So on this national day, how can we possibly question God and boldly ask Eicha? 

And yet as I sit writing this, I cannot help but ask God, Eicha? Why? Today, I sat with two Holocaust survivors, as they were trying to come to terms with and understand the   sudden and tragic loss of their son.  As I sat with the mother, and then later sat to write a eulogy, her question kept floating up to me: Why do bad things happen to good people? 

I am not sure that we will ever reach a comforting explanation to this deeply theological question.  But at least for this one day of the year, on Tisha b’Av, asking eicha is entirely acceptable.  And, despite the pervading, even accusing question, that Yirmiyahu asks, even the Book of Eicha ends on an optimist note, as does almost every kinnah that we read on Tisha B’Av morning.

In life tragedy sneaks up on us.   But in every tragedy, we must learn how to turn eicha into the question of ayekkah.  It is the question God asked of Adam and Eve in sefer Bereishit.  Where are you? How can you live life as a truly good person, and contribute to making this world a better place.

You see, questions and questioning is part of being Morethodox.  We challenge, seek, and then challenge again. But within every question, we must look deep within ourselves and challenge ourselves with the very same questions that we ask of God.

At the end of last week, Rabbi Hyim Shafner addressed the question of ta’amei hamitzvot,. I too have the question of the efficacy of discovering the reason behind performing mitzvot on my mind. 

I work with a lot of people going through the conversion process, as well as Jews who are exploring observant Judaism.  In our learning together, the inevitable question of “why” comes up.  Why do Jews keep kosher? Why can’t Jews and Non-Jews drink wine together?  Now some laws have logical explanations for why we do them—mishpatim, for example are mitzvot that are universal, ethical laws (Thou shalt not murder).  However, chukim, has no logical explanation. 

Rashi (Vayikra 18:4) explains that chukim are unfathomable by human intelligence, and because these laws are beyond human logic, the Torah tells us “I am the Lord your God.”  We are compelled to perform the mitzvah because God told us to.

I always wonder whether I would be doing a service or a disservice to people new to Judaism by giving them this explanation. On one hand, the explanation that we do them because God told us to should be enough of a reason. After all, often the reasons that some people come up with for motivations behind mitzvot are often lacking. One convert explained that she didn’t mind the prohibition of eating shell fish, because they are “bottom-feeders” and God in God’s wisdom clearly didn’t want Jews to be eating the dregs of the earth.  This may be a reasonable explanation, but what if shell fish were suddenly determined to be the healthiest food in the world?  Now her logical argument has disappeared.

On the other hand, doing things simply because “God says so” is also a difficult concept.  After all, we live in an era of information. Learning facts about any topic, delving into reasons behind anything tends to be our modus operandi.   

So how are we meant to react when we are told to do a mitzvah, a command without any logical reason?  Is it actually necessary to determine reasons and motivations behind mitzvot? Or is it more commendable to accept God’s word as it is?

Read the rest of this entry »

There is a fascinating Midrash, one of many attempts by chazal to try to understand Korach’s critique of Moses’ style of leadership, and the arguments Korach uses to incite others to join his rebellion. 

Korach, the compassionate storyteller, describes a widow who must support her two daughters.  She owned one field, and when she was about to plow, Moses said to her, “Thou shalt not plow an ox and an ass together” (Deuteronomy 22:10).  When she was about to sow, Moses quoted the pasuk,  “Thou shalt not sow thy field with two kinds of seed” (Leviticus 19:19).  When she was about to bring her harvest to the granary, Moses was there saying, “Give the first tithe and the second tithe offering.”  She submitted to the law, thereby forcing her to sell her property in exchange for two sheep. However, at every step Aaron was there to take the first males (Deuteronomy 15:19) or the first portion of shearing (Deuteronomy 18:4), until she had to give up her sheep, as well, to the Beit Hamikdash, leaving her weeping, destitute with nothing.  Korach ends his argument with the cry, “All such evil things Moses and Aaron do on their own; but they hang the blame on the Holy One!”  (Midrash Tehillim/Shoher Tov 1:15)

Put this way, it is difficult to see the Torah as a compassionate code of laws, intended to protect those in need.  According to Korach, the Torah, and those who embrace Torah precepts are nothing more than narcissistic individuals, with little regard for the welfare of others.  Halakha is not designed to enhance our lives, but rather to bring about our demise.   Read the rest of this entry »