Drashot

What is fanaticism? When does passion cross the line into fanaticism? What are we willing to live for and what are we willing to die for? These are questions humans have struggled with throughout time. In this week’s Torah portion we read the story of Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s sons, who bring an unwanted offering into the Tabernacle and are killed on the spot, “Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before ADONAI alien fire, which had not been enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from ADONAI and consumed them; thus they died” Our sages have explored this story over the centuries. Rashi (12th C. Germany) citing an earlier midrash says they were killed because they were drunk when they entered the sanctuary. The Ohr haChaim (18th C. Morocco) wrote that Nadav and Avihu approached the sanctuary out of their great love for God which blinded them to their sin. The Sfat Emet (19th C. Ukraine) seems to reconcile the two opposing positions by suggesting that Nadav and Avihu were intoxicated by their love of God and the Torah. Both the Or haChaim and the Sfat Emet seem to be saying that if we are not careful our passions and our commitments can lead us into danger. Jewish religious practice has always tried to put fences around human passions and behaviors with sometimes contradictory rulings. Murder is a crime, but killing in self-defense is not. Wars started for the glory of a king are a great sin, but wars of self-defense must be fought. Our rabbis understood that human beings have an incredible ability to rationalize any behavior and that untamed passions can lead to tragedy. So they tried to temper human passions with a system of law and commanded behavior to cultivate our better selves. We might all be well advised to apply that same logic to our own lives lest we end up like Nadav and Avihu, consumed in fire

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

Lord Acton (19th C. England) said, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” It is too tempting for leaders, whether elected or appointed, to be carried away by the power and majesty of their office and to forget that a leader is supposed to serve their people, not be served by them. Over the past three weeks we have seen the pain and suffering that is unleashed when a leader puts their grandiose dreams into action. The pain and suffering in the Ukraine will not heal quickly, if ever. Our Torah portion this week teaches an interesting lesson about leadership. “The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar. He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a pure place.” (Leviticus 6:3-4) Commenting on this verse, Nachmanides (14th C. Spain) wrote, “the priests should have more expensive garments for performing the acts of offering, and ones of inferior quality for removing the ashes [to a place outside the camp.]” When the Priests carried out their sacred sacrificial duties, they had to dress in beautiful linen garments. But when their service was over at the end of the day they had to change into “work clothes” and dispose of the piles of ash created by the sacrificial pyre that burned all day long. Not a servant or an inferior, but the priest themselves. Perhaps this lowly act, after a day spent in elevated service, reminded the priests that they were not above manual labor or superior in any way to any other Israelite. Perhaps this changing of clothes and janitorial work cultivated humility in the priests and kept them grounded. Perhaps we would all be better off if our leaders could find concrete ways to cultivate their humility as the priests did so long ago.

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

The Book of Vayikra is a detailed account of the sacrifices performed in the Mishkan, the Tabernacle and later in the Temple. For more than a thousand years, perhaps longer the Israelites worshiped God through sacrifice, of cattle, sheep, kosher birds, grain and oil. Today we worship in a completely different way, through words. It is an easy conceit to think that we are more advanced than our ancient ancestors, that prayer is a better form of worship than animal sacrifice, but perhaps that isn’t the case. Sacrificial animals had to be the best of the herd, “If your offering is a burnt offering from the herd, you shall make your offering a male without blemish.” (Leviticus 1:3). Sacrificial grain also had to be the best quality, “When a person presents an offering of meal to יהוה: The offering shall be of choice flour;” (Leviticus 2:1). Rashi notes that the grain offering was usually brought by the poor, while it was the wealthy herder who brought an animal. Whether rich or poor, the person had to bring their best property for sacrificial service. What do we bring to our worship? Do we sacrifice something of value? Do we bring the best of ourselves? Do we give a significant amount of time or money to the synagogue or to help those who are in need? The sacrificial service may seem crude or even barbaric to our eyes, but it taught our ancient ancestors to give the best of what they had in service to God. We should demand no less from ourselves than the Torah asked of them. What are we willing to give?

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

One of the primary tensions in religious life is the balance between tradition and change. What truths or values are eternal and do not change, what parts of a religious tradition can change or adapt to changing times and how do we know? The Jewish religion has been deeply engaged in this process since the late 18th Century when Jews first received citizenship in America, France and then most of Western Europe. The Reform, Conservative and Modern Orthodox Jewish movements are all adaptations to modernity. The arguments between these movements are debates about change, what can change and how quickly. Even Ultra-Orthodoxy is a modern movement, in the sense that it was established as a reaction to Reform and Modern Orthodoxy. This week’s Torah portion, Pekudei, brings the Book of Exodus to a close with the inauguration of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, where God’s presence dwelled and the Ark held the two tablets of the law. The Mishkan is a good metaphor for the tension between tradition and change. When the Jews wandered in the wilderness and when they first settled in the Land of Israel, the Mishkan was the center of their worship, the place where God’s presence dwelled. After the Israelites settled the land they built the First Temple in Jerusalem and God’s presence dwelled there. That temple was destroyed by the Babylonians and the Jewish people went into exile for 40 years. When they returned in 446 BCE they rebuilt the Temple and God’s presence dwelled there until the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in 70 CE and Jewish religion adapted again. We changed from a religion of animal sacrifice to one based on study, prayer, and acts of loving kindness. Now God dwells among us, in our house of study, in our prayer services, and whenever we act in the world to make things better and more just. The one thing that has remained constant is our people’s covenant with God to be partners in bringing about God’s vision of a world of justice and dignity. This week’s Torah portion reminds us that the forms can change but our values are constant. 

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

What gives a person character? How can we define integrity? We live in a time when many of our leaders claim these qualities but often don’t live by them. Hypocrisy is all around us. Elected officials who claim the last presidential election was fraudulent, but not their own election. Religious leaders who criticize others for immorality and hide the horrible behavior among their own clergy. Or business leaders who violate their own human relations policies.

This week’s Torah portion gives us two examples of what character and integrity look like. “And Moses said to the Israelites: See, God has singled out by name Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah endowing him with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge in every kind of craft,” (Exodus 35:30-31) Bezalel is chosen by God to build the Mishkan, the tabernacle in which God’s presence would dwell. What is noteworthy about this verse is that Hebrew names are always Ploni ben Almoni, that is someone the son (or daughter) of someone.

So why is Bezalel’s grandfather mentioned? In the Midrash Tanchuma we read that Bezalel’s grandfather Hur is mentioned because he was murdered while trying to stop the Israelites from making the Golden Calf. Bezalel could have refused, after all the people had killed his grandfather. But he doesn’t. He puts aside his personal grief, and his anger, for the sake of his people… for the common good. This shows that one sign of character is putting other people’s needs before our own. The other example comes later in our Torah portion. Regarding the construction of the Ark we read, “He overlaid it with pure gold, inside and out;” Again, the Midrash Tanhuma we read,  “From here we learn that a scholar’s “inside” should be as his exterior (i.e., he should not be a hypocrite)”

In other words, our actions should be an external reflection of our values. We should behave in a manner that is consistent with what we say we believe. This is integrity. Human beings are flawed, we fail frequently, but we can still try to be our best selves, to live by Torah values and be our best selves.  

My father, like many European Jews of his time, growing up in the 1930’s, was a Zionist. He wanted to see a Jewish state reestablished in the Land of Israel, so he joined one of the many Zionist parties of that time and he participated in Macabee, the Jewish sports league. I remember him showing me his little paper Zionist party membership card, which was dutifully stamped with a record of his dues payments of machazit ha shekel, a half-shekel. Of course, in Slovakia the Shekel was not a real currency; the national currency was the Czechoslovakian Crown. So why did they use this term? 

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tisa, begins with a census, “This is what everyone who is entered in the records shall pay: a half-shekel by the sanctuary weight” (Exodus 30:12-13). Jewish history echoes back and forth across time. Twentieth Century Zionists used the religious/historical memory of our sacred texts to build a modern Jewish/Zionist, political identity. If the enrollment tax for the Israelites who had just left Egypt on their journey to the Land of Israel was a half-shekel, so then for European Jews who saw themselves engaged in a political struggle to reestablish Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel, their enrollment dues would also be a half-shekel, thus linking the two struggles. 

Even though most Zionists were not religious. and in fact many rejected Jewish religious life as too passive, they were still grounded in Jewish history and Jewish sacred texts. I knew that little membership book was important to my father because through all his wanderings, he somehow preserved it. It was a part of who he was and a memory of the world he had come from that was gone after World War Two. Our history and our sacred texts make us who we are as individuals and as Jews, without them we are adrift. With them, like with the half-shekel, we are grounded and strong.

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

Mark Twain is attributed to have said, “Clothes make a man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” What we wear has an impact on how other people see us and how we see ourselves. That is one of the reasons we have dress codes for professional attire and a different set of expectations for casual clothing. 

I remember as a boy, when my family went to San Francisco, my father and I would wear jackets and ties and my mother wore a dress and gloves. It was a special occasion and one of the ways we marked it was our clothing. These standards have all but collapsed today, with most people wearing sweatshirts and jeans all the time, and I don’t know if that is for good or ill. 

But I do know that when I put on a suit I feel different then when I wear sweats. I dress in the business-casual style when I teach, to show respect to my students and to my subject. I always put on something special on Shabbat, a beautiful shirt, slacks, and nice shoes. This is my way of showing respect for Shabbat and marking it as something special. 

One of our congregants tells me that when he comes to synagogue he dresses at least as nicely as when he dresses for court. There is even a term for this, hiddur mitzvah, beautifying a commandment. 

This week’s Torah portion describes the vestments of the High Priest, the Kohen Gadol. Before it describes them in great detail, we read this, “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment.” (Exodus 28:2). Commenting on this verse, Sforno (15th C. Italy) wrote, “dignity means to render honor and glory to the Almighty, and adornment means the Priest should inspire awe among the Israelites.” 

Thus the sacred garments of the priest both reminded them of their service as intermediaries between God and Israel while at the same time serving as a visual reminder to the people of the priest’s elevated task. It impacted how they saw themselves and how others saw them. 

How do you want to be seen? How do you want others to see you? Think about it next time you are standing in front of your closet or picking the clothes you will wear to synagogue. 

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

I was talking to a friend last Shabbat and he told me that after his divorce, when he was really down he couldn’t just sit in his sadness and sought out something to do with his new free time. By chance, he decided to volunteer at a local soup kitchen. “You know, people say that when you are really feeling bad, serving others will make you feel better. That was true for me.” 

This week’s Torah portion is called Terumah, which means gift in biblical Hebrew and donation in modern Hebrew. We read, “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.” (Exodus 25:2) Note here that these gifts are to be given willingly, as each person is moved to do so. 

For the purpose of these donations is to create the Mishkan, a dwelling place for God, as we read, “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8) God commands Moses and the Israelites to create a structure for God’s presence, but the Hebrew is interesting here. One would think that God would say, “let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell in it,” not “that I may dwell among them.” 

Commenting on this verse, the Midrash Tanchumah, a collection of rabbinic legends from the early middle ages, says, “for the Mishkan testifies to the fact that the Shekhinah is with Israel.” The Shekhinah is the feminine aspect of God that dwells among us. 

This request for gifts given by free will and the idea that God dwells among us, teaches us that our actions are what brings God’s presence into the world. God can only act in the world through us. When we reach out to those in need, God is also reaching out. When we treat others kindly, then God treats them kindly. When we act justly then God acts justly. We are God’s agents; our actions and the gifts and talents we share are what make God manifest. 

What have we each done today to bring God’s presence into the world? And if the answer is nothing today, we should remember there is still time for us to do something so that we can build a world that is God’s sanctuary.

~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

As the status of a woman’s right to abortion hangs in the balance before the Supreme Court, this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, forms the foundation of the Jewish view on abortion, which stands in stark contrast to anti-abortion absolutists.
“When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning.” (Exodus 20:22) Our rabbis derived from this verse that if the man who causes a woman to miscarry can not be put to death (life for life) but must pay a fine, then the death of the fetus is not the same as the death of a human being.
Further, a fetus is not equivalent to a human being. A fetus retains this status of less-than-human, until its head emerges from the birth canal (Sanhedrin 72b). Until this time the fetus is considered part of the mother (Gittin 23b) and if the fetus could harm the mothers life, even on the day of birth, it is considered a “rodef” (one who pursues another to kill them) and can be aborted, even if full term, to save the mother’s life (Mishnah Ohalot 7:6).
Until the head of the fetus emerges, the top priority is saving the life of the mother. Once the baby’s head emerges, then both must be saved or the one with the best chance of survival.
It is important to note that this is not abortion on demand. But rabbinic authorities have provided great latitude in defining what constitutes a mortal threat. Rabbi Jacob Emden (18th C. Germany) allowed abortion to save the mother from great pain. Rabbi Ben Zion Uziel, Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Palestine in the 1930’s and Chief Rabbi of Israel until 1955, allowed abortion if going forward with the pregnancy would cause the mother to go deaf. Rabbi Eliezer Waldenberg, Uncle of our former rabbi Shelly Waldenberg, and the leading rabbinic authority on medicine and Jewish law in the 20th century, permitted abortion if the fetus had Tay-Sachs disease and by extension other fatal conditions.
All these rulings, by revered Orthodox rabbinic authorities, show that the Jewish tradition understands that a fetus is not a “baby” and its status is less than human; thus, the life and health of the mother, both physical and mental, take precedence over the potential life of an unborn fetus.
Like many things in Judaism, it is a thoughtful and careful balancing of needs, rather than the embrace of absolutes.
~Rabbi Dean Kertesz

The revelation at Sinai is the central event in Jewish religious belief. The Exodus from Egypt was the physical liberation of the Jewish people, but God giving the Torah to the Jewish people established our spiritual purpose, our reason for being freed. It was a special moment of direct, unmediated contact between God and the Jewish people and the rest of Jewish history has been trying to figure out what happened in that moment. 

Our sages teach that God revealed the entire Torah Sinai, both the written Torah (Torah shebichtav) and the oral Torah (Torah she b’al peh) meaning all the interpretations of the Torah that will ever be created, both legal and homiletic. (Rambam, Mishneh Torah Introduction) 

Our rabbis also taught that when God spoke at Mt. Sinai, God’s voice divided itself into 70 human languages, so that everyone might understand it, according to their ability. (Exodus Rabbah 5:9) 

The 19th Century Hasidic Master, Rabbi Naftali Tzi Horowitz taught, in his Zera HaKodesh, that all God said at Sinai was the letter Aleph, the first letter of the first word God uttered (אנוכי) Anochi, and the letter Aleph has no sound. 

These three very different explanations of what happened at Sinai have three things in common. First, that the Revelation was beyond normal speech and normal understanding. It contained all speech and all understanding simultaneously. 

Further that what happened at Sinai was not a one-time event, but rather that the process of Divine revelation is ongoing. 

Finally, the Revelation is part of the partnership, the covenant, between God and the Jewish people. 

For it is through our understanding of Torah, our ongoing effort to interpret Torah and make it relevant to our time, and through our actions to make its values live that God’s message and God’s sacred plan become real in the world. ~Rabbi Dean Kertesz