Matot-Masei

The thirst for justice that blinds

Thoughts on parashat Masei

Menachem Mirski

Masei (“Travels”), typically read together with the preceding parasha ‘Matot’, is the final Torah portion in the Book of Numbers. It opens with a recollection of the places where the Israelites encamped in the desert; later God commands the Israelites to abide by the laws of the Torah upon conquering the promised land and to destroy idolatry in the Land of Israel. This week’s parasha also outlines Israel’s boundaries and presents detailed laws regarding the cities of refuge for accidental killers:

Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When you cross the Jordan into the land of Canaan, you shall provide yourselves with places to serve you as cities of refuge to which [a man] who has killed someone — who has slain a person unintentionally — may flee. The cities shall serve you as a refuge from the avenger, so that the killer may not die unless he has stood trial before the assembly. The towns that you thus assign shall be six cities of refuge in all. Three cities shall be designated beyond the Jordan, and the other three shall be designated in the land of Canaan: they shall serve as cities of refuge. These six cities shall serve the Israelites and the resident aliens among them for refuge, so that any man who slays a person unintentionally may flee there. (Numbers 35:10-15)

The rest of the laws on this issue clarify some important details like the distinction between unintentional killing and murder, as well as the role of the avenger.

The 19th century American clergyman and writer Henry Clay Trumbull argued that the avenger (hebr. goel ha’dam) was responsible for securing for the victim’s family an equivalent of their loss of blood — the loss of life — by other blood, or by an agreed-upon payment for its value: „His mission was not vengeance, but equity. He was not an avenger, but a redeemer, a restorer, a balancer”. This explanation is in line with the meaning of the Hebrew word goel, which means redeemer. In addition, the law enforcement of the early Biblical times was usually private in its character: typically the local patriarch was both the family/tribe leader as well as the prosecutor and the judge, thus being the one who administered and enforced justice. The biblical law reckoned with both of these traditions and at the same time pushed for their modification. Therefore, the Torah has always insisted that only the person involved in the killing was to be held responsible, as well as on putting the enforcement of the law into the public domain. The privileges of the goel were so firmly rooted among the people that the provisions for the cities of refuge should be looked upon as a gradual shift from private to public law enforcement. In fact, the Torah still granted the avenger the right to kill when his victim left the city of refuge (Numbers 35:27).

The slaying of a human being, even if it occurs without evil intent, is always an injury, a wound to the community. The institution of sanctuary cities (hebr. arei miklat) had three basic purposes: it was a protective measure, to give everyone the opportunity to cool down their emotions. It also served as punishment for the accidental killer, because exile constituted a form of social death. The third but not less important purpose was to contain and isolate the sin that had been committed, for killing was understood to contaminate both the community and the Land (Numbers 35:32-34).

The accidental killers could leave their refugee cities only after the death of the high priest. This procedure had both a practical meaning – as a rule, it set a sufficiently long period of social isolation (though obviously not always), as well as a theological one – ultimately only (someone’s) death could redeem this sin and here the death of the high priest served as expiation:

For the high priest atones on behalf of Israel, and this incident happened during his lifetime. (Ibn Ezra on Numbers 35:25)

Similarly, Talmud argues that the death of the high priest formed an atonement (Makkot 11a) as the death of all pious individuals counted as an atonement (Yoma 38b; Moed Katan 28a). Maimonides argued that the death of the high priest was simply an event so shockingly upsetting to the Israelites that they dropped all thoughts of vengeance (The Guide for the Perplexed III:40). When it comes to the blood avenger, later rabbinic tradition ascribed to him role performed in modern times by a prosecuting attorney, who pleads on behalf of the victim the case against the criminal and therefore is responsible for bringing the offender to court, finding evidence against him, presenting the case to the court, and collecting damages from the offender.

One of the lessons we can draw from these considerations may be that we should keep a proper balance regarding various injustices done in the past, to us, to our people or country. Time is a measure of the variability of all things; reality is constantly renewing itself, bringing new things, both good and bad, both justice and injustice. However legitimate it is to demand justice, we should be careful not to fixate on issues that were once important, but became not so important with time. This kind of fixation can obscure the current problems facing the world, rendering us incapable of properly perceiving the reality around us, including new problems and injustices. Any anger, even the justified and well-founded one, can cloud our senses and our reason. Peace of mind seems to always be the right answer; it is always better to perceive and react to the world with a calm mind than through the prism of various emotions over which we often have no complete control.

Shabbat shalom

Menachem Mirski- student rabinacki w Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, American Jewish University, Los Angeles, USA.
Menachem Mirski is a Polish born philosopher, musician, scholar and international speaker. He earned his Ph.D. in Philosophy and is currently studying to become a Rabbi at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies. His current area of interests focus on freedom of expression and thought as well as the laws of logic as it pertains to the discourse of ideology and social and political issues. Dr. Mirski has been a leader in Polish klezmer music scene for well over a decade and his LA based band is called Waking Jericho.

Matot-Masei

Pragnienie sprawiedliwości, które oślepia

Refleksja nad paraszą Matot-Masei

Menachem Mirski

Masei („Podróże”), czytana zazwyczaj razem z poprzednią paraszą Matot, to ostatnia porcja Tory w Księdze Liczb. Rozpoczyna się wspomnieniem miejsc, w których Izraelici obozowali na pustyni; Bóg nakazuje Izraelitom przestrzeganie praw Tory wobec zdobycia Ziemi obiecanej oraz zniszczenie bałwochwalstwa w Ziemi Izraela. Parasza z tego tygodnia precyzuje również granice Izraela, a także przedstawia szczegółowe przepisy dotyczące miast schronienia dla ludzi, którzy przypadkiem, nieumyślnie doprowadzili do czyjejś śmierci:

Powiedz Izraelitom, co następuje: Gdy wejdziecie przez Jordan do ziemi Kanaan, wybierzcie sobie miasta, którzy służyć wam będą za miasta schronienia; tam będzie mógł się schronić zabójca, który zabił drugiego nieumyślnie. Miasta te będą dla was schronieniem przed mścicielem krwi by zabójca nie poniósł śmierci, zanim nie stanie przed sądem społeczności. Co do miast, które macie ustanowić, to powinniście mieć sześć miast schronienia. Trzy miasta za Jordanem i trzy w ziemi Kanaan będą służyć za miasta schronienia. Owe sześć miast winny służyć za schronienie zarówno Izraelitom, jak i obcym, oraz tym, którzy osiedlili się pośród was; tam może uciekać każdy, kto zabił drugiego nieumyślnie. (Liczb 35:10-15)

Pozostałe przepisy dotyczące tej kwestii wyjaśniają szczegóły, takie jak rozróżnienie między nieumyślnym zabójstwem a morderstwem oraz rolę mściciela krwi.

XIX-wieczny amerykański duchowny i pisarz Henry Clay Trumbull twierdził, że ów mściciel krwi (hebr. goel ha’dam) odpowiedzialny za przywrócenie rodzinie ofiary równowartości utraconej przez nią krwi — utraty życia — albo przez inną krew lub albo przez uzgodniona zapłatą za wartość owej krwi: „Jego misją nie była zemsta, lecz sprawiedliwość. Nie był on mścicielem, ale odkupicielem, odnowicielem, równoważącym”. Wyjaśnienie Trumbulla jest zgodne ze znaczeniem hebrajskiego słowa goel, oznaczającego odkupiciela. Ponadto, egzekwowanie prawa we wczesnych czasach biblijnych miało zwykle charakter prywatny: zajmował się nim lokalny patriarcha, który był zarówno przywódcą rodziny/plemienia, jak i prokuratorem i zarazem sędzią, a zatem był tym, który wymierzał i egzekwował sprawiedliwość. Prawo biblijne liczyło się z obiema tymi tradycjami i jednocześnie naciskało na ich modyfikację. Dlatego też Tora często podkreśla, że jedynie osoba bezpośrednio zaangażowana w zabójstwo może być pociągnięta do odpowiedzialności za nie, jak również akcentuje konieczność przeniesienia egzekwowania prawa do domeny publicznej. Przywileje goela były tak mocno zakorzenione wśród ludu, także przepisy dotyczące miast schronienia należy postrzegać jako stopniowe przejście od prywatnego egzekwowania prawa prywatnego w kierunku publicznego jego egzekwowania. W istocie, Tora np. nadal przyznawała mścicielowi krwi prawo do zabicia osoby, która dokonała nieumyślnego zabójstwa, gdy tylko opuściła ona miasto schronienia (Liczb 35:27).

Zabicie człowieka, nawet jeśli dokonane przypadkiem, bez obecności złych zamiarów, zawsze jest krzywdą, raną dla społeczności. Instytucji miast schronienia (hebr. arei miklat) przyświecały trzy podstawowe cele: była środkiem ochronnym, mającym dać każdemu możliwość ochłodzenia emocji; służyła także jako kara dla przypadkowego zabójcy, ponieważ wygnanie stanowiło formę śmierci społecznej. Trzecim, ale nie mniej ważnym celem było powstrzymanie i odizolowanie popełnionego grzechu, akt zabójstwa postrzegany był bowiem jako skażenie zarówno społeczności, jak i Ziemi (Lb 35:32-34).

Owi przypadkowi zabójcy mogli opuścić swoje miasta schronienia dopiero po śmierci arcykapłana. Procedura ta miała zarówno znaczenie praktyczne – z reguły wyznaczała dostatecznie długi okres izolacji społecznej (choć oczywiście nie zawsze), jak i teologiczne – ostatecznie tylko (czyjaś) śmierć mogła ten grzech odkupić i śmierć arcykapłana służyła tu jako ekspiacja:

Arcykapłan odpokutowuje za grzechy Izraela, a ta rzecz wydarzyła się za jego życia. (Ibn Ezra o Księdze Liczb 35:25)

Również Talmud twierdzi, że śmierć arcykapłana stanowiła zadośćuczynienie (Makot 11a), ponieważ generalnie śmierć wszystkich pobożnych osób ma moc sprowadzania zadośćuczynienia (Joma 38b; Moed Katan 28a). Majmonides argumentował, że śmierć arcykapłana była dla Izraelitów wydarzeniem tak wstrząsającym, że porzucali oni wszelkie myśli o zemście (Przewodnik dla błądzących III:40). Jeśli chodzi zaś o mściciela krwi, późniejsza tradycja rabiniczna przypisywała mu rolę podobną do tej pełnionej w czasach nowożytnych przez prokuratora, który występuje w imieniu ofiary w sprawie przeciwko przestępcy, w związku z czym odpowiedzialny jest za doprowadzenie sprawcy do sądu, zebranie przeciwko niemu dowodów, przedstawienie sprawy sądowi i wyegzekwowanie od sprawcy odszkodowania.

Jedną z lekcji, jaką możemy wyciągnąć z tych rozważań, jest być to, że powinniśmy zawsze zachowywać odpowiednią równowagę oraz dystans w odniesieniu do różnych niesprawiedliwości wyrządzonych w przeszłości nam, naszemu narodowi lub krajowi. Czas jest miarą zmienności wszechrzeczy; rzeczywistość stale się odnawia, przynosząc nowe, zarówno dobre, jak i złe, zarówno sprawiedliwość jak i nową niesprawiedliwość. Jakkolwiek słuszne jest domaganie się sprawiedliwości, powinniśmy uważać by nie zafiksować się na kwestiach niegdyś ważnych, lecz z biegiem czasu już nie tak ważnych. Fiksacja tego rodzaju może nam przysłonić bieżące problemy z którymi boryka się świat, czyniąc nas niezdolnym do właściwej percepcji otaczającej nas rzeczywistości, w tym nowych problemów i niesprawiedliwości. Gniew, także ten usprawiedliwiony i uzasadniony, może przyćmić nam zmysły i rozum. Spokój umysłu wydaje się więc zawsze być odpowiedzią właściwą; zawsze jest bowiem lepiej postrzegać i reagować na świat ze spokojnym umysłem aniżeli przez pryzmat różnych emocji, nad którymi często nie mamy pełnej kontroli.

Szabat szalom!

Pinchas

Mati Kirschenbaum

Alfred Hitchcock, zapytany jak przyciągnąć uwagę widzów, powiedział: „film powinien zacząć się od trzęsienia ziemi, a potem napięcie ma tylko rosnąć.” Czytana przez nas w tym tygodniu parsza Pinchas kontynuuje historię przyciągającą naszą uwagę poprzez ciągłe budowanie napięcia. Zachęcamy was do wyobrażenia sobie, że oglądacie film na jej podstawie. Jego pierwsze minuty przedstawiają Izraelitów dopuszczających się nierządu z Moabitkami. W następnej scenie Moabitki nakłaniają Izraelitów do składania ofiar moabickim bożkom. W kolejnych kadrach widzimy wybuch epidemii zesłanej przez Wiekuistego jako kara za ich występki. Zaraz potem Mojżesz rozkazuje starszyźnie Izraela ukaranie Izraelitów dopuszczających się nierządu i bałwochwalstwa. Słowa Mojżesza trafiają w próżnię – widzimy jak bogato odziany Izraelita – Zimri – prowadzi do swojego namiotu Midianitkę – Kozbi. Mojżesz i starszyzna Izraela patrzą na to bezradnie. Gdy Zimri znika w namiocie, widzimy Izraelitów opłakujących zmarłych – epidemia trwa w najlepsze. Nagle widzimy jak młody kapłan – Pinchas – opuszcza zgromadzenie starszyzny. To co dzieje się później nasz scenariusz (Tora) opisuje w pierwszych słowach naszej parszy:

„Pinchas, syn Eleazara, syna Aarona, chwycił w rękę włócznię, opuścił zgromadzenie, poszedł za Izraelitą do komory namiotu i przebił ich obydwoje, mężczyznę Izraelitę i kobietę – przez jej łono. I ustała plaga wśród Izraelitów. Zginęło ich wtedy dwadzieścia cztery tysiące. Mówił znowu Wiekuisty do Mojżesza: Pinchas, syn Eleazara, syna kapłana Aarona, odwrócił mój gniew od Izraelitów, gdyż zapłonął pośród nich zazdrością. Dlatego nie wytraciłem zupełnie Izraelitów w mojej zazdrości. Oznajmij więc: Oto Ja zawieram z nim przymierze pokoju. Będzie to dla niego i dla jego potomstwa po nim przymierze, które mu zapewni kapłaństwo na wieki, ponieważ okazał się zazdrosnym o swego Boga i dokonał przebłagania w imieniu Izraelitów.” (Lb 25,10-13)

Zabójstwo jako sposób na wyjście z ciężkiego położenia może nie razić nas w filmach. Jednak z całą pewnością nie chcielibyśmy rozwiązywać w ten sposób problemów w prawdziwym życiu. Nic zatem dziwnego, że historia Pinchasa budzi nasz wewnętrzny sprzeciw. Nasze obiekcje rodzi zwłaszcza reakcja Wiekuistego na postępowanie Pinchasa. Obraz Wiekuistego nagradzajacego przemocowe zachowanie nie jest zgodny z teologią współczesnego judaizmu postępowego.

Dlatego na pierwszy rzut oka ciężko nam znaleźć współczesne przesłanie parszy Pinchas. Lliteratatura rabiniczna nie pomaga nam w znalezieniu odpowiedzi na to pytanie. Znajdujemy w niej wiele wypowiedzi gloryfikujących postępowanie Pinchasa. W traktacie Sanhedryn Talmudu Babilońskiego czytamy, że Wiekuisty pomógł Pinchasowi w zabójstwie na sześć sposobów! Lektura tych interpretacji pogłębia poczucie obcości, które odczuwamy czytając o Wiekuistym zawierającym z Pinchasem „przymierze pokoju”.

Z pomocą przychodzi nam sposób w jaki słowa „przymierze pokoju” zapisane jest w zwoju Tory. W słowie szalom (pokój) w literze waw, zapisywanej zazwyczaj za pomocą nieprzerwanej pionowej linii, znajduje się wyrwa. Nasza tradycja uczy nas, że sposób w jaki słowa a nawet litery zostały zapisane w Torze może pomóc nam rozszyfrować ich znaczenie. Przerwa w słowie „pokój” zdaje się sugerować, że pokój nktóry przyniosł Pinchas był niepełny, wybrakowany. Masoreci – średniowiczni kodyfikatorzy tekstu Tory – znaleźli sposób na wierne przekazanie Jej słów opatrzonych ich krytycznym komentarzem.

Co istotne, krytyka Masoretów nie dotyczyła zwotu „okazał się zazdrosnym”, opisującym żarliwą religijność Pinchasa i jego sprzeciw wobec bałwochwalstwa Izraelitów. Ich wizualny komentarz odnosił się do brit szalom, „przymierza pokoju”, będącego nagrodą za spontaniczne postępowanie Pinchasa. Masoretów niepokoiła aprobata Tory dla wymierzania sprawiedliwości „gdyż Bóg tak chce”, bez odniesienia do wcześniej istniejącego prawodawstwa. Obawiali się oni, że pochwała takiego postępowania może doprowadzić do anarchii i upadku autorytetów, do zakłócenia szalom, „pokoju”. Luka w słowie „pokój” była masorecką krytyką osób podejmujących działania w przekonaniu, że z Bogiem łączy je szczególne przymierze, uświęcające ich cele i środki. Masoreci krytykowali zatem przejawy religijnego fundamentalizmu. Jestem gotów zaryzykować tezę, że w wyrażeniu brit szalom masoreci położyliby oni nacisk na wypełnianie przykazań wynikających z brit, przymierza Izraela z Bogiem. Byliby przekonani, że wierne wypełnianie przykazań, a nie gorliwość fanatyków, zapewniłaby ludowi Izraela szalom.

Myślę, że współczesny judaizm postępowy interpretuje brit szalom szerzej niż czynili to masoreci. Z naszego zrozumienia przymierza – brit – Ludu Izraela z Bogiem wynika obowiązek nie tylko przestrzegania przykazań, ale i aktywnego działania na rzecz pokoju w naszym społeczeństwie oraz w społeczności żydowskiej. Rosnąca polaryzacja poglądów w naszym kraju sprawia, że działanie to wiąże się z koniecznością współpracy z osobami z których punktem widzenia absolutnie się nie zgadzamy. Takie kontakty nie zawsze są przyjemne, mogą rodzić w nas apetyt na zamknięcie się w kręgu osób o zbliżonym do nas światopoglądzie. W takim towarzystwie możemy cieszyć się pokojem w poczuciu moralnej wyższości.

Haftara do parszy Pinchas (1 Księga Królewska 18,46-19,21) ostrzega nas, że taka izolacja nie przyniesie pokoju ani nam ani innym. Opisuje ona proroka Eliasza, który, doprowadziwszy do śmierci czterystu proroków Baala, musi uciekać przed zemstą jego wyznawców poza granice Izraela. Po długiej podróży chroni się on w grocie na górze Synaj. Eliasz czuje się wtedy tak wyobcowany, że traci chęć do życia. W odpowiedzi Wiekuisty rozkazuje mu wyjść z groty. Tam prorok obserwuje silny wiatr, wielki ogień i trzęsienie ziemi, ale w żadnym z nich nie jest w stanie doświadczyć Bożej obecności. Wiekuisty objawia mu się jako cichy szept. Doświadczenie to uczy Eliasza, że Wiekuisty nie zawsze objawia się w spektakularny, przemawiający do mas sposób. Często jego głos to szept, którego przesłanie możemy tylko z trudem przekazać innym. Z tą świadomością Eliasza wraca do Izraela. Tam znajduje sobie pomocnika, Eliszę, który pomaga mu wypełnić jego posłannictwo.

Historia Eliasza przestrzega nas, że przemoc rodzi przemoc, nawet jeśli wydaje się nam, że walczymy o słuszną sprawę. Dzisiejsza Haftara uświadamia nam także, że alternatywą do narastającego fundamentalizmu nie jest szukanie nisz, w których możemy odizolować się od świata. Naszym wyzwaniem jest dążenie do pokojowych zmian w świecie rosnących społecznych, politycznych i ekologicznych napięć. Nie jest to łatwe zadanie w świecie pełnym Pinchasów przekonanych o swoim prawie do używania siły. Nie możemy jednak utracić nadziei, że przez nasze działania uda się nam pomóc innym usłyszeć cichy szept Wiekuistego, głos zachęcający nas do otwarcia na innych. W okresie poprzedzającym Tisza b’Aw zachęcam Was do wsłuchiwania się w wewnętrzny głos. Kto wie, może i Wam też uda się usłyszeć cichy głos Wiekuistego?

Szabat Szalom!

Mati Kirschenbaum

Pinchas

Parashat Pinchas

Rabbi Alan Iser

If I were to ask the average Jew, anywhere in the world , what is the most important verse in the Torah, they would probably answer “Shema Yisrael” or maybe one of the Ten Commandments or “Love Your Neighbor as Yourself” from Leviticus. All are good choices. In fact, there is a rabbinic passage that asks and discusses this very same question. Several rabbis offer their opinions. One selects “Shema Yisrael”, another “Love Your Neighbor”. However, the verse which is chosen as the most important and most inclusive verse in the Torah is a seemingly insignificant verse in this week’s Torah portion. Rabbi Shimon ben Pazzi says the most inclusive verse is: “The first lamb you shall sacrifice in the morning and the second lamb you shall sacrifice in the evening.” (Numbers 28:4) (Introduction to Ein Yaakov).

What is this verse about? It is simply the commandment to bring two daily sacrifices to the Temple. Now, of course, the Temple sacrifices have been gone for almost two thousand years. Even in Rabbi Shimon ben Pazzi’s time, it had already been gone for two hundred years. So why did he choose this verse?

This verse is about the importance of constancy, consistency and devotion in religious life. Religious life and our relationship with God isn’t just about the high points in Jewish life, like Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur or Passover. It is about how we lead our lives every day. Do we show gratitude to God? Are we respectful to the elderly? Do we give charity? Are we kind to the people in our daily interactions, especially to the people we don’t know? If we are committed to God and Judaism, it is woven into the fabric of our daily existence. It is not just about the high points, it is about the mundane, simple aspects of our lives, applying Jewish values and principles to how we live.

What is true for our relationship with God and Judaism, is also true in all our relationships. We have ups and downs. We have electric moments of passion and joy, but those cannot be sustained. Truly committed relationships involve consistency and often the willingness to do the same thing, over and over, even if it is not exciting. Anyone who has small children, grandchildren or young nieces and nephews, knows what I am talking about. A sustained relationship means saying I will always be there for you, through the good and the bad.
In Judaism, the highest form of commitment to God was shown through the ages by Jews willing to die for their faith. Unfortunately, history has provided all-too-many examples of this. In Hebrew this is called Kiddush Hashem, sanctifying God’s name. However, we don’t have to pay this ultimate price to show our devotion to our religion. If, as a minority religion, our neighbors see that we are kind and charitable people who fulfill the biblical commandment of welcoming the stranger, and we are consistent and constant in our behavior, and they know we are doing this because we are Jews, then that, too, is a form of Kiddush Hashem.

One lamb in the morning, and one lamb in the evening really is a formula for an ideal Jewish life.

Rabin Alan Iser

The ritual of accepting uncertainty

Rabbi Mati Kirschenbaum

This week’s Parashat Chukat starts with a description of a ceremony called Para Aduma, the ritual of offering a red heifer. This ritual was supposed to enable people who touched a corpse or stayed with it in one room to purify themselves from ritual impurity. This purification took place through the use of ashes obtained in the process of burning the heifer. Here is how the Torah describes the process of preparing these ashes:

“Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid. You shall give it to Eleazar the priest. It shall be taken outside the camp and slaughtered in his presence. Eleazar the priest shall take some of its blood with his finger and sprinkle it seven times toward the front of the Tent of Meeting. The cow shall be burned in his sight—its hide, flesh, and blood shall be burned, its dung included— and the priest shall take cedar wood, hyssop, and crimson stuff, and throw them into the fire consuming the cow. The priest shall wash his garments and bathe his body in water; after that the priest may reenter the camp, but he shall be impure until evening. The one who performed the burning shall also wash those garments in water, bathe in water, and be impure until evening. Another party who is pure shall gather up the ashes of the cow and deposit them outside the camp in a pure place, to be kept for water of lustration for the Israelite community. It is for purgation.” (Numbers 19:2-9)

Why did the process of purification from ritual impurity require precisely the ashes left after the offering of Para Aduma, the red heifer?

Our sages have been pondering this question since time immemorial. They viewed the Para Aduma ceremony as a typical example of “chok”, a commandment for which it’s impossible to find a rational explanation. In tractate Yoma of the Babylonian Talmud Rabbi Akiva claimed that verse 7:23 in the Book of Kohelet (“I thought I could fathom it, but it eludes me”) in fact refers to the commandment of Para Aduma. The author of the Book of Kohelet is traditionally believed to be king Solomon. Rabbi Akiva seems to suggest that even King Solomon – the symbol of wisdom – was not able to grasp the logic behind this commandment.

It’s hard to disagree with Rabbi Akiva. There is no way of guessing why the Para Aduma ritual required the offering of a red – and not for example yellow – heifer. In the Torah we also don’t find an answer to the question why before being offered it could not have carried a yoke. What’s more, the procedures of the Para Aduma ritual seem to escape the laws of logic. After all, throughout its course the priests who engaged in the process of obtaining the ashes required for ritual purification are themselves becoming ritually impure!

So the Para Aduma ritual is not only enigmatic, but also inherently contradictory. This makes it an especially hard nut to crack for progressive Judaism, which is based on a rational and scientific approach to religion. The sense of its strangeness is magnified by the fact that progressive Judaism doesn’t recognize the concept of ritual impurity; instead, we focus on “purity” in an ethical sense. But it seems to me that both the procedures and the mysterious character of the Para Aduma ceremony are supposed to help us accept the nature of our existence, which is full of uncertainties.

A lack of a rational explanation for the procedures of the Para Aduma ceremony reminds us that often we are not able to fully explain the reality which surrounds us. The fact that during the Para Aduma ceremony those who are ritually unclean regain purity, but the priest who takes part in it becomes impure reminds us that actions which are beneficial for us in the long term can entail some inconveniences. We are not sure if the benefits stemming from future actions will outweigh the potential losses.

Unsure if we understand correctly the world which surrounds us, unsure if our actions will yield the intended results, we yearn for certainty. The answer to this desire are ideologies and religions which offer us answers to all the questions.

The red heifer offering ceremony teaches us that Judaism doesn’t focus on looking for answers to questions about the essence of what happened or what can happen. Our tradition is interested predominantly in the actions that we can undertake today, here and now, and the readiness to take responsibility for their consequences.

While describing the process of bringing up the priests participating in the Para Aduma ritual the Mishna reminds us that taking responsibility for the fate of the world is not easy and it requires preparations. The priests who were supposed to conduct this ritual in the future were brought up in isolation from the rest of the world. This isolation was supposed to protect the young priests from ritual impurity linked to the contact with that which was dead. I think that the priests participating in the Para Aduma ritual became ritually impure because they had to confront death – the great, uncertainty-provoking unknown. Their ritual impurity lasting until the evening gave them a chance to understand the fate of the rest of the people of Israel whom they were supposed to serve. By spending time outside of the camp they experienced the uncertainty which came with the status of the ritually impure Israelites. Thanks to this experience the priests did not live in an elitist, ritually pure “soap bubble”. On the contrary, they were aware that undertaking actions aimed at changing the world for the better requires sacrifices. They knew that uncertainty and inconveniences are the price worth paying to secure a better tomorrow for their community.

Progressive Judaism has abolished the division between the priests and the rest of the People of Israel. We believe that Jews as a collective are obligated to become “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19:6). This means that each individual is obligated to undertake actions drawing Jews as a collective closer to holiness.

The ritual of Para Aduma reminds us that our individual and collective path to a better world entails undertaking actions in spite of uncertainty. I wish you that this Shabbat Chukat you can find your red heifers – the sources of courage and inspiration to take action.

Shabbat Shalom!

Translated from Polish by: Marzena Szymańska-Błotnicka

Mati Kirschenbaum

Sh’lach

Be careful what you wish for, it might come true

Thoughts on parashat Sh’lach

Menachem Mirski

Our Torah portion for this week tells us a story of 12 spies sent by Moses to investigate the Promised land before conquering it. They return forty days later, carrying a huge cluster of grapes, a pomegranate and a fig, to report on a lush and bountiful land. But ten of the spies warn that the inhabitants of the land are giants and warriors “more powerful than we”; only Caleb and Joshua insist that the land can be conquered, as it was commanded by God.

Our rabbis analyzed this story from many perspectives. One of the issues they were particularly focused on can be expressed in the following questions: What was the sin of the spies who were sent to investigate the promised land? What did the spies do so dreadfully wrong that it brought the punishment of additional forty years of life on the desert for all the Israelites, making many of them never see the Promised land? One of the answers suggested by our rabbis is that they presented their biased opinion about the land and the possibility of conquering it instead of giving a relatively unbiased factual account on what the Promised land was like. According to Ramban, their goal was to gather the information about the land mainly for logistic purposes, to be able to develop a good strategy to conquer it; this, according to Rashi, is expressed in the name of the parasha shelach lecha – “send out (the spies) for yourself”. But none of that happened and it even seems that these ten spies were on the side of all the complainers among the Israelites who constantly murmured against Moses and God and wanted to come back to Egypt. They did not really go to investigate the land; they went there to collect the information that would prove their narrative, to use contemporary language.

What can we learn from it? The ten Israelite spies who lacked faith in God deemed the Promised land impossible to conquer. The remaining two, Joshua and Caleb, who had faith in God help were way more positive about the land and the ability to conquer it, although they admitted that the Divine help is necessary:

And Joshua son of Nun and Caleb son of Jephunneh, of those who had scouted the land, rent their clothes and exhorted the whole Israelite community: “The land that we traversed and scouted is an exceedingly good land. If pleased with us, יהוה will bring us into that land, a land that flows with milk and honey, and give it to us; only you must not rebel against יהוה. Have no fear then of the people of the country, for they are our prey: their protection has departed from them, but יהוה is with us. Have no fear of them! (Numbers 14:6-9)

The entire story can serve as an illustration of the 20th century proven epistemological view that our perception of the world (and ourselves) is dependent on our previously acquired knowledge about the world. In other words, we perceive and interpret everything that is around us (and within us, like our identity) in terms of what we have already learned, what we already believe about reality, through the entire cognitive apparatus that is the core structure of our knowledge and our belief system. This cognitive apparatus might be an adequate tool with an adequate language to describe reality; it might be a less adequate or completely inadequate tool for comprehending reality, and therefore a serious obstacle to our perception and ability to process information. It’s not a new concept. The idea that the human subject plays an active role in comprehending reality, was already developed in the writings of philosophers such as David Hume, Immanuel Kant, and some versions of it can already be found in the writings of ancient Greek philosophers. However, this knowledge/belief based determination of our perception and cognitive abilities, contrary to the opinions of some postmodern thinkers, does not create an absolute obstacle in our cognition would make it impossible for us to know the objective truths of the universe. We have already learned how to overcome these obstacles; much of what we call the methodology of science is about overcoming various cognitive limitations, including these ones. Generally speaking, scientific methodology has been very successful in this matter and it is important to mention this because some postmodern concepts completely blurred the distinctions between science and pseudoscience, opening a path to the reign of ignorance, cognitive nihilism, bringing and perpetuating a variety of cognitive delusions.

Our perception is then determined by our knowledge and beliefs. All of that, in turn, influences our actions. What we believe to be true can have a tremendous impact on our actions and therefore on our fate. But fortunately our beliefs can usually be verified in practical life; therefore, whatever we do we should reflect on (practical) consequences of our beliefs and constantly ask ourselves questions like these: what my beliefs led me to? Do they make me happy? How do they influence my relationships with other people, including my loved ones? How do they influence my career? Are they helpful in achieving my life goals? Is there something I need to correct in my belief system? How, in fact, did I get to believe this and that? An so on.

Getting things wrong can have a bad impact on us; some consequences of our beliefs might be terrible for us, equally bad to those the Israelities faced in our biblical story. The only remedy for that is a prudent, reflective life in which we are able to critically look at our beliefs, even the most fundamental ones, and subject them to re-evaluation. Only this can ultimately save us from many things we never want to experience.

Shabbat shalom!

Judaism and booze

Thoughts on parashat Nasso

Menachem Mirski

One of the fundamental philosophical and at the same time practical problems underlying all religions is how to control things that are beyond our control. Therefore, throughout history intoxicants received religious, and often legal attention. One of the ways in which our religion responded to the challenge posed by these cheering substances was through the ancient institution of Nazirite, which is quite extensively discussed in our Torah portion for this week – almost the entire chapter 6 of the Book of Numbers covers this topic:

God spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelites and say to them: If any men or women explicitly utter a nazirite’s vow, to set themselves apart for יהוה, they shall abstain from wine and any other intoxicant; they shall not drink vinegar of wine or of any other intoxicant, neither shall they drink anything in which grapes have been steeped, nor eat grapes fresh or dried. Throughout their term as nazirite, they may not eat anything that is obtained from the grapevine, even seeds or skin.

Throughout the term of their vow as nazirite, no razor shall touch their head; it shall remain consecrated until the completion of their term as nazirite of יהוה, the hair of their head being left to grow untrimmed. Throughout the term that they have set apart for יהוה, they shall not go in where there is a dead person. (Numbers 6:1-6)

As mentioned in the paragraph above, the basic rules of naziriteship consisted not only of the abstinence from alcohol; nazirites were also not allowed to cut their hair or to defile their special status of holiness by contact with the dead. But let’s focus here exclusively on alcohol and let’s briefly discuss its role in our tradition and history.

The negative effects of alcohol were well known already in the very old days for wine was in universal use in the Near East and the Mediterranean basin. However, what was not fully understood, was the physiological mechanism that caused the irrational behavior of the drinker. It is likely that alcohol was originally deemed to contain some supernatural powers that were in competition with the gods. The English word „spirits” for alcohol, or Polish “spirytus”, testifies to this ancient belief.

The Torah places the use and abuse of wine at the beginning of human history (Noah getting drunk after the flood, Gen. 9:21), and the Tanakh makes repeated references to the effects of drinking. But aside from the special case of nazirites, the drinking of wine was considered normal and proper – wine „cheers human hearts” (Ps. 104:15; Judges 9:13). Excessive drinking was considered degrading and a kind of foolish behavior that may easily lead to impropriety or immorality (Gen. 9:20; Prov. 20:1, 23:29. Eccles. 10:17). The only explicit prohibition of drinking alcohol was for priests on duty, that they may not die during the Divine service (Lev. 10:9) Otherwise the priests, like other Israelites, were free to make use of wine, which was integrated into the Jewish ritual already in the ancient times. Even the Dead Sea brotherhoods, with all their strict rules of conduct, made no mention in their scriptures of nazirite abstention.

Later Jewish tradition, too, counseled moderation but never total abstinence, and this moderation became an aspect of Jewish social mores. We drink alcohol regularly on Shabbat and other Jewish holidays – obligatory four cups of wine on Pesach, the common minhag of intoxication on Purim aimed at not being able to tell the difference between Baruch Mordechai from Arur Haman.. Sefer ha-tikun, a late 19th-century commentary on the Shulkhan Aruch contains a mind-boggling enumeration of our many obligations to toast:

One is required to make a toast when he builds a house, sells a house, and when his house burns down. One must make a toast when he gets married. If the groom is a widow, he must drink for each wife; an elderly man who marries a virgin must drink forty-nine toasts. If the father of the bride refuses to drink a toast the couple must divorce; and the Polish Hasidim are accustomed to beating the recalcitrant father with his own slipper.

Sefer ha-tikun isn’t actually a real commentary; it’s a piece of anonymous satire on the supposed excesses of Hasidic drinking culture in Poland at that time. The title is a pun on the kabalistic notion of tikkun or cosmic repair and the Yiddish term trinkn tikn, that is, the custom of making toasts in honor of a yahrzeit.

History also brought us a different image – the image of the bad, sober Jew deliberately making „poor Christians” drunk. For various socioeconomic reasons, Jews were vastly overrepresented in tavern-keeping and alcohol distribution. Jews tended not to do the greater part of their drinking at taverns, reinforcing the nefarious image of the Jew profiting off, but not participating in, a culture of drinking. The problem was that liquor was big business in Poland (and it is still a big business today), and Polish nobility profited enormously off its production and distribution. But the Jews were the public face of that industry, leading antisemites to argue that the “peasants only drank excessively … because these bad, sober Jews enticed them into drunkenness in order to dupe them more easily.”

Alcohol has been “culturally integrated” into Judaism since its early days. This might be the reason that among religious Jews alcoholism is a relatively rare problem despite the culture that “expects us” to drink alcohol quite often. The philosophy underlying our culture claims that in order to be able to control something you have to experience it and really know it in the first place. It seems that this approach is working on a more general, societal level. Of course, this philosophy won’t work in cases of alcohol addiction – it is helpless in the face of brain damage which is the core reason for alcoholism. Complete abstinence is also a way of controlling things we cannot control, sometimes the only efficient one. Thus, according to our religion it is ok to drink and it is also ok not to drink if that’s the necessity. A huge part of our religious tradition is 'case based’ and exceptions from the general rules are not completely uncommon, which is a blessing for many of us.

Shabbat shalom

Matot-Massei

Finish What You Start

Thoughts on Parashat Matot-Massei

Menachem Mirski

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe,” Albert Einstein reportedly said. He also said that “Nothing happens until something moves.” Indeed, constant movement seems to be the essence of everything. This is one of the few empirical truths we should also consider as normative. To stop, to do nothing, is a fundamental violation of the principle that governs the entire universe. If you violate this principle, if you stop, you won’t have to wait long for the consequences.

In the story from this week’s parasha, two of the Israelite tribes did, in fact, try to stop short. After settling in the favorable piece of land on the eastern side of the Jordan River, Reubenites and Gadites decided that they didn’t have to conquer the Promised Land, that they could just stay where they were – it was good enough:

The Reubenites and the Gadites owned cattle in very great numbers. Noting that the lands of Jazer and Gilead were a region suitable for cattle, the Gadites and the Reubenites came to Moses, Eleazar the priest, and the chieftains of the community, and said, “Ataroth, Dibon, Jazer, Nimrah, Heshbon, Elealeh, Sebam, Nebo, and Beon— the land that the LORD has conquered for the community of Israel is cattle country, and your servants have cattle. It would be a favor to us,” they continued, “if this land were given to your servants as a holding; do not move us across the Jordan.” (Num 32:1-5)

Upon hearing their plea, Moses rebukes them saying that they were committing the same sin as the Isrealites when they took the advice of the spies who, after exploring the Promised Land, discouraged all the people of Israel from conquering it, which resulted in God punishing them with an additional 40 years of wandering in the desert.

After Moses reminded them of this punishment (Num 32:10-14), the Gadites and Reubenites humble themselves under the Divine “threat”. They assure both Moses and God that although they will secure the well-being of their families and flocks in territories already conquered on the eastern side of the Jordan river, they will join their brethren in the conquest of “the core part” of the Promised Land, located on the west side of the river. The promise they make ultimately dismisses the Divine wrath.

This Divine anger is a punishment that happens when we withdraw from an effort, and this is how the story can be understood today. The principle of the story being: never stop halfway along the path you have taken, even if what you have achieved is satisfying enough. Be true to your original goals and intentions and follow through. Do not be fooled by temporary prosperity and stability, because what you already perceive as your reward may, in the near future, in fact, become a punishment. At best, you will plunge into boredom. Then you will regret not taking the next step. You will regret that you lacked the courage and wonder what you could have achieved, especially if the opportunity disappears. Also, never set a goal of just being happy, because that doesn’t really mean anything and what is worse is you can be sure that you are unaware of what will actually make you happy unless you continue to make, work toward and achieve your goals. Happiness is a feeling that accompanies our achievements. We achieve happiness when we achieve the goals we have set ourselves and even if you are unable to ever “feel” happy you will have a sense of accomplishment, of making a difference in the world. We are fundamentally narrative creatures; the essence of our existence is to constantly move forward. The only end point is death. Even if we are very successful and achieve all our goals, the moment we achieve them, we envision the next ones (if we don’t we must envision them). In all you do, reach for the Promised Land and don’t stop… ever, reaching… because none of our goals are, in fact, final.

Shabbat shalom

The Roving Eye and the Wandering Heart

Thoughts on parashat Shelach

Menachem Mirski

Reason, feelings, senses… Since antiquity philosophers, thinkers and writers have wandered about these notions relating to intellectual and spiritual phenomena. What should we follow and when? Are there any general rules in this matter or does everything depend on the situation?

Opinions on this matter were divided. This week’s Torah portion also raises this point:

[…] And it shall be to you as a fringe, that you may look upon it, and remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them; and that you seek not after your own heart and your own eyes, after which you go astray. (Numbers 15:39)

These words are the words of the third paragraph of our daily Shema: ve’lo taturu akharei levavchem ve’acharei eineichem asher atem zonim achareihem. The Hebrew verb taturu used here to express ‘you shall not seek after’ is the same as the verb (latur) used to describe spying that was to be done by the spies exploring the Promised Land at the very beginning of our parasha (Number 13:2, 13:16) As Rashi explains it further by quoting other sources:

The heart and the eyes are the “spies” of the body — they act as its agents for sinning: the eye sees, the heart covets and the body commits the sin (Midrash Tanchuma, Sh’lach 15; cf. Talmud Yerushalmi Berakhot 1:8).

Indeed, our hearts and senses provoke us to sin and this claim can be found in many religious traditions. But what does this ‘not following’ or ‘not exploring/seeking after’ our hearts and eyes really mean? How can we define it? When our feelings/sensory impressions are kosher and when they are not?

The verse itself gives us a hint: you should have tzitzit and look at them (they remind you of the commandments) so that you do not follow your heart or eyes (or other senses). But should we follow the commandments exclusively and completely reject our feelings and testimony of the senses? Some philosophical traditions have taught that but the Torah would have never suggested it. On the contrary, it is precisely a drinking in of the beauty and wonder of the universe that is likely to draw us closer to God and to love and fear Him. This is what Rabbi Bahya Ibn Pakuda observed in his Duties of the Heart:

Are we obliged to contemplate all created things or not? Both Reason and Tradition (written and oral) oblige us to contemplate creation and learn from it the wisdom of the Creator…
With respect to written tradition it is stated in the Bible: “Lift high your eyes and see: Who created these?” (Isaiah 40:26) and “When I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and stars that You set in place, what is man that You have been mindful of him, mortal man that You have taken note of him.” (Psalm 8:4-5)

Thus by loving the Creation we reach the Creator. In the rabbinic literature we can find even stronger expressions of love towards surrounding reality:

“A person will have to answer for everything that his eye beheld and he did not consume” (Talmud Yerushalmi, Kiddushin 4:12).

Rav Yehuda said: One who goes out during Nisan and sees trees that are blossoming recites: Blessed…who has withheld nothing from His world, and has created in it beautiful creatures and trees for human beings to enjoy. (Talmud Bavli, Berakhot 43b)

The Rabbis also introduced multiple blessings with which we should bless God for creating the entire variety of natural phenomena: sea, sun, thunder, rainbow, an unusual creature or even something as abstract as beauty itself:

Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha’olam shekahcha lo baolamo.
Blessed are you, our God, King of the Universe, who has [brought] such [beautiful things] in His universe.

Obviously we also have numerous blessings for various kinds of food, for which we bless the Creator everyday. Thus, how should we understand the commandment that tells us not to follow our hearts and our senses?

I believe that the proper, modern understanding of this commandment should be the following: We need to be constantly able to discern the connection between the phenomena we experience and the Creator. As long as we see this connection, are connected with the Creator ourselves and are grateful for everything that happens to us, we can do quite a lot, without a risk of being led astray by our feelings or senses. This is all on the spiritual level. On the practical level, it all means – metaphorically speaking – never taking your eyes off the tzitzit – off the commandments. In other words, we need to see (or at least be able to see) all reality in the context of the Divine law.

What are the further, practical consequences of what I just suggested here? I believe that we shall never base our (ethical) judgments exclusively on what our heart tells us – exclusively on empathy, exclusively on compassion. These judgements will never be just. Compassion, empathy should be a component of our judgments but only within the wider context of the Divine law that distinguishes what is good and evil, right and wrong. Only when we are able to situate a human being or an action we judge in this context, then we can let our heart speak. In other words – we need to know who the person morally is or know the exact details of the actions we are talking about. Similarly we should never base our judgments exclusively on what we saw or experienced. It is always limited. There is always a lot more that we did not see nor experience. Here again, we should constantly look at our tzitzit – Divine commandments and judge the reality within this framework. The Divine law, spirit and wisdom helps us to constantly overcome our human limitations: subjectivity of our feelings, perception and our views. It also expands our great, but still limited, imagination.

Shabbat shalom!

Menachem Mirski- student rabinacki w Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, American Jewish University, Los Angeles, USA

To Share the Sparks of Divine Wisdom

Thoughts on Parashat Beha’alotecha

Menachem Mirski

When we look around at the life of our society, we often wonder why these or those problems and injustices take place. We find answers here and there, in the media, in the scientific literature, or in the opinions of other people. These answers are true to varying degrees. There are those that include deep and complicated analyses – they are usually presented by scientists, philosophers etc. There are plenty of simple or superficial answers to these problems – these are usually presented by politicians. The criterion of their truthfulness, however, is basically one: their practical effectiveness – whether they help to remove the problems they speak about or not.

This week’s Torah portion speaks about this kind of social problem: we have a story of Israelites complaining that they have no meat to eat. (Numbers 11:4-15) This complaint causes the Divine wrath, which is, however, stopped (temporarily) by Moses. But let’s pause here and analyze this part of the story in a bit greater depth. Midrash Sifre explains that the demand for meat could be a cause for God’s vexation, however, not for the fact that the Israelities indeed lacked meat, but for the fact they did not lack it while wandering through the desert. The Torah tells us that they left Egypt with great flocks of sheep and herds of cattle:

…A mixed multitude went up with them, and very much livestock, both flocks and herds.
(Exodus 12:38).

They had not consumed them all in the desert. Surely they ate some, but the herds increased during 40 years of wandering – when they were about to enter the land we are told that:

The Reubenites and the Gadites owned cattle in very great numbers.
(Numbers 32:1)

Thus, it was not the complete lack of meat that made the Israelities complaining. But it is possible that these two tribes – Reubenites and Gadites – had more, or even much more livestock than the 10 remaining tribes. If that was the case, then it would mean that only some of the Israelites lacked meat to eat and only some of them complained. There are two other hints regarding this matter in our parasha. First, Moses, when speaking with God, confirms, that they indeed had livestock:

Could enough flocks and herds be slaughtered to suffice them? Or could all the fish of the sea be gathered for them to suffice them?” (Numbers 11:22)

But at the same time the way Moses speaks about it suggests that there was some gluttonous desire an insatiability involved here, which is completely in line with what we find in the verse 11:4:

The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, If only we had meat to eat! (Numbers 11:4).

Thus, what is really going on here is that the group of people called in Hebrew ha’aspesuf, which can be translated as the riffraff, rabble or mob is frustrated and expresses a gluttonous craving: the Hebrew hit’avu ta’ava can be translated as they coveted with lust. Why did they desire the meat so lustfully? Because they were hungry? Not necessarily. It’s possible that they complained because others had meat and they didn’t. This reading is confirmed by Ramban, who says that the wealthier ones had meat in the desert all the time. Some people tend to view the Israelites wandering through the desert as some sort of “equally disadvantaged” group of people who just left the country where they were all “equally oppressed.” In fact, there is neither textual, nor common-sense evidence that this view is correct. It seems that even in Egypt there was disparity between the Israelites, both in the matter of wealth and social status – if they even existed in Auschwitz (as described in P. Levi or J. Amery writings for example), why should they not exist in Egypt, in place where, despite slavery and the terrible living conditions, our ancestors could survive, had families and were able to meet their needs. They all left Egypt with what they had, some had more and some had less. Then, while encamping in the desert, some were frugal and resourceful, and some others were lazy or wasteful, as people normally are.

Therefore, it seems that the Divine wrath that followed their complaints was not an irritation of a Deity who has anger management issues and finds pleasure in torturing the poor, disadvantaged people. It seems that this Divine anger was a common form of spiritual unrest that stemmed from more complex social phenomena: frustration, gluttony, greed, lack of spiritual discipline and perhaps some general, unjust social divisions among the Israelite tribes.

Poverty isn’t good but it is not poverty itself that causes unrest, hatred and violence. There are plenty of poor and disadvantaged societies in the world where the crime rate is not higher than in our affluent, Western societies. It is the relative poverty that causes all of that; it is the situation in which some people lack perspectives to grow, to obtain better social status, while seeing others doing well and constantly moving up in the social hierarchy. This happens, on a smaller or larger scale, in every human society. But the reasons it happens are not purely ‘systemic’; it is not only due to the fact how the society is organized. There are plenty of equally valid reasons for which unrest and injustices happen: educational, cultural and spiritual. It really matters what people are being taught in our societies: whether they are taught frugality and (spiritual) discipline, or entitlement, wastefulness and balagan are being tolerated or even rewarded. It really matters whether we really teach social solidarity and sensitivity towards the needs of others, or these are all just phony upper class gestures made to feel morally better and to appease ‘the mob’.

Therefore, given the complexity of the problem, ein la’davar sof – there is no end in the strivings for justice in our societies. We all should be actively involved in it. God, in His response to Moses’ intercession for the Israelites singles out seventy elders whom He bestows with His Divine spirit. It was all done to heal the Israelite community and to teach them self-control, mindfulness and to fill them with spiritual strength, joy and hope. All these things matter enormously and they cannot be brought or changed ‘systemically’. It is a spiritual duty of every human individual: everyone of us should share the spark of the Divine wisdom he or she obtained. The work towards justice and peace is to a large extent on us, common people: we have to teach each other and learn from each other as much as we can.

Shabbat shalom!

Menachem Mirski- student rabinacki w Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, American Jewish University, Los Angeles, USA