1. The lowest priority is giving to a needy gentile.
2. Higher than this is one who gives to a fellow Jew from another town.
3. Higher than this is one who gives to a fellow Jew from his own town,
4. Still higher than this is one who gives to his needy relative,
5. Still higher is one who supports his young children.
6. Even higher than this is one who supports his aging parents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While Judaism offers a great deal of latitude for the freedom of expression, I do not think it would be correct to characterize freedom of speech as a 'Torah value' or a 'Jewish value,' at least in the sense that we define freedom of speech in the contemporary world. 

 

When we speak of freedom of speech, we think of the American Bill of Rights. In Jewish law and in Scripture, Judaism is defined not so much by individual freedom as it is by communal responsibilities and obligations. American law is structured to protect the individual from governmental controls.  The primary purpose of Jewish law is to create a 'nation of priests and a holy people.' It is more concerned with promoting righteous living than it is with celebrating the autonomy or the rights of the individual.

 

There are limits, then, placed on self-expression particularly when it comes to words that could harm others. This goes far beyond laws against slander in our society. Gossip, even when it is not malicious, is prohibited by Jewish law and is considered a sin from a Jewish standpoint. In addition, limits were often placed on the community when it came to the expression of ideas outside the accepted norms of Judaism. The rabbis could resort to ex-communication to place controls on self-expression within the context of community as we see in the case of Benedict Spinoza.

 

That being said, there is a great deal of room in Jewish discourse for the expression of dissenting points of view. Talmudic law is not as concerned with presenting the official point of view as it is with arguing the pro and con of each issue. Minority opinions are included in the Mishnah and the Talmud even when they are not the accepted point of view, as we see in the cases of Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel. Even though the School of Hillel is almost always the accepted point of view in matters of Jewish law, the rabbis took the opinions of the School of Shammai seriously. At the end of the day, however, the official point of view must be accepted as the law no matter what the theoretical arguments for the other point of view may be.  

One of the best known examples of this conflict between individual expression and communal norms is the story of the aknai oven (Bava Metzia 59a-b). In this famous case Rabbi Eliezer took exception with his colleagues regarding the ritual purity of a certain type of oven. Rabbi Eliezer offers a series of 'proofs' for his point of view which are entirely circumstantial; he says that if he is correct then, a carob tree will uproot itself and move to another spot; the river will flow backwards; that the walls of the academy will fall. In each case the sages reject his 'supernatural' proofs. In the end Rabbi Eliezer says, "If the halachah agrees with me, let it be proved from Heaven!’ Whereupon a Heavenly Voice cried out: ‘Why do you dispute with Rabbi Eliezer, seeing that in all matters the halachah agrees with him!’" Despite the voice of God taking sides the rabbis again reject Rabbi Eliezer's point of view by saying: "The Torah is not in heaven! …the Torah had already been given at Mount Sinai; we pay no attention to a Heavenly Voice, since it is written in the Torah, 'After the majority must one incline.'"  Less well known is the end of this story: the rabbis excommunicated Rabbi Eliezer because he was unwilling to accept the majority opinion.

Whatever the classical point of view may be, I would have to say that we value freedom of speech today as if it were a "Torah value." Living in a world in which self expression is deeply important and in which pluralism is part of the vitality of the contemporary Jewish community, we recognize that we gain a great deal by encouraging freedom of expression in the Jewish community. Like the sages of Talmud, we affirm the teaching Lo bashamayim hee, "the Torah is no longer in heaven, and there are many different ways of reading Torah today. As Jews we have often been the victims of political and moral oppression. There is much more to be gained by being advocates of freedom then there is by curtailing the freedom of the individual.

Generally, chayav is used today to speak about religious obligations. One is ‘obligated’ or not regarding the observance of certain mitzvot, commandments. The opposite of chayav is patur, exempt, as in the statement, “women are exempt from time bound commandments.” For contemporary Jews this is a difficult idea with which we are constantly wrestling. What does it mean to be ‘obligated?’ Who ‘obligates’ us? For traditional Jews obligation grows out of a concept of revelation; we all stood at Sinai and received the Torah from God along with the 613 commandments and the various explanations and elaborations of these commandments. Conservative Jews understand chiyuv, obligation, in a variety of different ways. For some, the Torah is a human response to revelation and not literally, ‘the word of God.’ Either through divine inspiration or human contemplation, our ancestors tried to write down what they experienced at Sinai. The obligatory aspect of Jewish law grows out of a sense that we discover God through the commandments and a sense of commitment to Jewish peoplehood. For some liberal Jews ‘obligation’ is a personal choice; we choose to obligate us but are not obligated by some transcendent power. This is obviously an over-simplification of a much more complicated issue, but the point is to say that we all understand what it means to be bound or obligated by Jewish law and tradition in different ways.

 

In rabbinic literature the issue is straight forward: one is either obligated or exempt, and the sages spent a great deal of time trying to ascertain the answer to this question for each individual mitzvah, commandment.

 

It might be help for us to think of chayav in its original meaning: an obligation is a pledge that was made by our ancestors and which we continue to carry with us. It is a sacred pledge which enriches and deepens our life rather than a debt, though we might think of it that way too. We are told, for instance, in the Haggadah, “Each person is obligated (chayav) to see himself/herself as if he/she personally went forth from Egypt.” That obligation/pledge creates a moral compass by which we try to live both spiritually and morally. The same might be said for every chiyuv, or obligation.

 

There is nothing inherently wrong with draping a casket with an American flag prior to and during a funeral service from a Jewish perspective. While there are rules about how the type of materials used for the casket (preferably, a plain pine box), I would say that the practice of covering the casket falls into the category of minhag, custom. Customs differ from place to place and often depend on context. In some Jewish communities a plain material cover is placed on the casket. This cover will have verses from the Bible or Jewish symbols on it such as a Magen David. While such a cover was not required, it is permissible to use such a cover.

Military funerals have taken place in a Jewish setting for decades and the practice of draping an American flag on the casket is a common practice, today among rabbis of all movements. While some rabbis discourage burying Jewish service members in military cemeteries, and some may refuse to officiate at a funeral that takes place in a non-Jewish cemetery because there are many Jewish laws and customs governing the burial of Jews separately from non-Jew, burying someone in a Jewish cemetery with military honors is different.

In correspondence, the chair of the Conservative Movement’s Committee on Jewish Law and Standards has suggested that rabbis ask that the military elements of the funeral be separate from the Jewish elements because “we do not combine war and religion,” but again, this is a suggestion and not a law. (1997) Rabbi Harold L. Robin, director of the Jewish Chaplains Council about all of these issues and he said, "In short there is no aspect of a veteran’s funeral that would [necessarily] conflict with Jewish rites or halakhah and no need for compromises." (www. myjewishlearning.com/ask_the_expert/at/Ask_the_Expert_Military_Funerals.shtml)

It is interesting to note that military honors were accepted by all the clergy of all denominations during the Second World War, when Reform, Orthodox and Conservative military chaplains worked together to address issues about how such funerals were to be conducted as well as other questions of religious concern. Apparently, a generation or two ago there still was an understanding among American Jews that there is room for diversity and respect regarding different practices in our community.

From my perspective, those who have served our nation deserve to be recognized and honored as part of their funeral service if they so wish or if their families express a desire for such a ceremony. The flag, simply draped over a casket, and its presentation, to the next of kin with the playing of taps is a deeply moving ceremony that does not subtract from the ‘religious service.” I have found that the military personnel who show up for this ceremony are always flexible and respectful of our traditions and are willing to do whatever the rabbi or family aspects of them.  As my colleagues have written, we believe that dina d’malkhuta dina, that “the law of the land is the law for all citizens,” is very much in in keeping with Jewish ethical and spiritual values.

First, let me begin by offering my deepest sympathies at this difficult time in your life. I can only imagine how painful it must be to be so far from your brother at a time like this.

One of the most moving prayers of Yom Kippur is “Kol Nidre.” Yet it’s a rather boring description of how we are nullifying our vows from the past year. Shouldn’t the highlight of the Yom Kippur eve service be something more along the lines of repentance, forgiveness, or supplication? How did vow nullification get such prominent status?

 

Kol Nidre is one of the strangest passages in our liturgy. It is often pointed out that it is not a prayer but a statement in which we renounce all vows and promises which we might make during the coming year (not the past year, as stated in the question). You correctly point out that Kol Nidre does not appear to relate directly to the major themes of Yom Kippur such as repentance or atonement. Kol Nidre is especially troubling because we ask to be let off the hook for future vows rather than the ones we have already made during the past year. Even if we assume that Kol Nidre only applies to promises made to God (and not to our fellow human beings) this is still troubling. How can we be forgiven before we perform an act or make a statement which we can't live up to? What does that say about the reliability of anything we say? In effect, we are  saying, "If I make any promises during the coming year, God, just ignore them!"

We don’t know much about the origins of Kol Nidre. It has been around at least since the Gaonic period (the eighth or ninth century C.E.) and most likely it was composed even earlier. Rabbis have wrestled with this passage for centuries.  Amram Gaon, one of the first editors of the Jewish prayer book, called the custom of reciting Kol Nidre a foolish custom.  In the nineteenth century, there were rabbis who advocated removing it from the liturgy. Originally it was written in the past tense, for vows we have already made, but in the eleventh century Rabbi Meir ben Shmuel, grandson of the famed commentator Rashi, changed the language from the past tense to future tense. There might be two reasons for this change of tense. First, Rabbi Meir may have felt that a vow once stated is irrevocable; therefore you cannot ask to be 'forgiven for vows already made; only for those not yet stated.  By changing the tense of the statement, one begins the year by asking God to excuse us from any rash vows we might make in the year ahead. Second, Rabbi Meir ben Shmuel lived during the aftermath of the Crusades. It is possible that he changed the tense in consideration of people who were forced by the Church to declare their allegiance to Christianity. Kol Nidre might have become a way of assuaging the guilt of those who now returned to the synagogue but felt guilty about having made a false oath to God or fearful of being coerced to make such a statement in the year ahead. That might explain why Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg added the introduction statement: "In the tribunal of Heaven and the tribunal of earth, by the permission of God and by the permission of this holy congregation, we hold it lawful to pray with transgressors."

Whatever the reason for this passage might have originally been, Kol Nidre took on a life of its own. It remained a beloved liturgical statement in the minds of the Jewish people.  It wasn’t so much the content of Kol Nidre as it was the melody and the mood that are created by this declaration that made it an important part of the liturgy.  It also focuses on one of our chief weaknesses: the misuse of language. This is a leitmotif of the Yom Kippur liturgy. A significant percentage of the transgressions we confess in the Vidui, the confessional prayer, have to do with sins of the tongue. What is more, we are about to spend an entire day in prayer and supplication. We might make rash promises to God over the course of the day to which we cannot live up. Therefore, we begin with a nullification of promises as a not so veiled warning against making such promises.

There is a passage in the Harlow Machzor of the Conservative Movement which captures and the real intention of Kol Nidre. It was written by a Hebrew poet,  Zeev Falk, and it begins by echoing the language of Kol Nidre. I include this lovely  translation of the poem by Rabbi Stanley Schachter here:

All vows on our lips

burdens in our hearts

pent-up regrets about

which we brooded and spoke

through prayers without end

on last Atonement Day

did not change our way of life

did not bring deliverance

in the year that has gone.

From the mountain peaks of fervor

We fell to common ways

At the close of the fast.

Will You hear our regret?

Will You open our prison,

release us from shackles of habit?

Will You accept our prayers,

forgive our wrongs,

though we sin again and again?

 

In moments of weakness

we do not remember

promises of Atonement Day.

Recall that we easily forget,

take only our heart's intent.

Forgive us, pardon us.

 

We pray daily for the rebuilding of the Temple. But when it is rebuilt, will Korbanot be reinstituted as well? It seems like a custom that is not really in tune with our modern ideas and sensitivities.

 

The issue that you raise in your question is one with which many Jews continue to wrestle. As a Conservative Jew I am committed to making prayer part of my daily life. But there are portions of the liturgy that continue to trouble me. Rather than leaving them out of the liturgy, I continue to search for new ways to understand the prayer book. In some cases changes are made to reflect our changing understanding of our responsibilities and obligations to God.

In the early part of the twentieth century, small but significant changes were introduced into the traditional liturgy to reflect our changing attitudes toward sacrifice and the temple service. In the traditional prayer book it is customary to say: “Accept the prayer of your people …Restore the service and the fire offerings of Israel to Your sanctuary and accept their prayers lovingly… ” By leaving out the words “the fire offerings of Israel”, the meaning of this prayer changed. It became, “Restore the service to Your sanctuary and accept their prayer lovingly.” In other words, the emphasis was placed on worship instead of sacrifice.  Similarly, references to the sacrifices in the Musaf service were restated in the past tense as a historical memory rather than as a hope for the future.  The Musaf service is based on the special sacrifices that were offered on Shabbat and holidays so it is hard to avoid the subject of Korbanot, sacrifices, altogether. Instead of praying that we be given the opportunity to offer sacrifices, we ask for the temple to be restored so that we can worship God just as our ancestors worshipped God long ago. The temple, I would suggest was a metaphor, a place through which we can come closer to God through the service of the heart. We do not hope for a return to the sacrifices as much as we pray for the opportunity to worship with as much fervor and passion as our ancestors did.

Conservative Jews are not alone in their ambivalence about sacrifices. Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, the chief Rabbi of the land of Israel in the first half of the twentieth century, was a vegetarian. I have no doubt that he continued to pray  for the rebuilding of the temple and the reinstitution of the Temple service but he believed that in the Messianic era, only meal offerings would be made in the Temple and there would no longer be animal sacrifices. His vision of a Messianic era of vegetarianism was based on the prophecy of Isaiah said that in the end of time, “And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, And the leopard shall lie down with the kid; And the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; And a little child shall lead them And the cow and the bear shall feed; Their young ones shall lie down together, And the lion shall eat straw like the ox....They shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain. (Isaiah. 11:6-9)

It should be pointed out that Moses Maimonides also seemed to be somewhat circumspect about animal sacrifice. He suggests in his great work, The Guide for the Perplexed, that the sacrifices were part of an effort by the Torah to wean the Jewish people away from pagan forms of sacrifice such as animal sacrifice. We were allowed to continue offering sacrifices but only in limited ways, in particular places and at special times. While Maimonides never reveals the full implications of this statement, his statement can be taken to mean that we have grown beyond the ancient practice of animal sacrifice!

In the end, I don’t think it is necessary to change the language of the prayer book when it comes to sacrifice. Korbanot are a symbol, not a reality.  Prayer is poetry and it is not necessary to read the language of prayer literally in order to find meaning in it. For me, the references to sacrifice are a powerful way to think about how we come closer to God. The Hebrew word, Korban, comes from the Hebrew root kareiv, to come close. For our ancestors, sacrifice was that which helped them to come closer to God. We speak of sacrifice not because we wish to offer them again but because we want to discover ways through worship li-kareiv, to come close to God.

 

Rabbi Mark Greenspan

By the same token the possibility of repentance always exists for an individual. Once a person has ‘paid the price’ for their wrong doings, they must also be reintegrated into society assuming there are remorseful and have made amends for their crimes. Judah ben Tabbai, one of the great sages of the Mishnah, used to offer the following advice to fellow judges: “(In the judges office), do not act the lawyer’s part; when the parties to a suit are standing before you, let them both be regarded as guilty, but when they depart from your presence, regard them both as innocent, having received the proper judgment.” (Pirke Avot 1:10) In other words, each person must bear the consequences of their actions no matter who they are. The judge must question the litigants’ motivations and presume ulterior motives until the case is resolved. Having done so and having paid the penalty, they are considered ‘innocent’ and given the opportunity to start over again.

 

Of course, society is not as forgiving as the Jewish tradition. Sometimes it is hard for others to let go of the pain and suffering that the guilty party has caused them. That is why punishment is not enough; the guilty party must also seek to redress the wrongs he committed particularly to the parties who where harmed. Repentance, we are taught, is made up of several parts. The guilty party must acknowledge his or her wrong and then publicly admit it. He must feel sincere remorse and seek forgiveness from the harmed parties. He must also make reparations for any monetary or physical harm he has caused. Only then can he seek forgiveness from God.

 

My heart goes out to you and your young cousin who is now facing the consequences of his actions. Now, more than ever, he needs your understand and help in rebuilding his life. It is your job to affirm his basic dignity as a human being but also help him come to terms with the acts of which he is guilty. Assuming that he understands and accepts his guilt, he should be given the opportunity to start over and rebuild his life. This is the real meaning of Teshuvah, repentance.

Giving is a necessity of congregational life, but we must beware that our giving doesn't demean the very purpose of our existence. Synagogues may be a business but they are in the business of creating Jewish souls and building a holy community for ourselves and for others. Congregational giving must reflect the loftiness of its mission. Recently I developed a system of ‘rules’ for fund raising in the synagogue. I can’t tell you that we have implemented them all but they have inspired a great deal of discussion in our synagogue:

 

First Commandment: Thou shalt give! Supporting a congregation is not charity any more than providing for your household is charity. Charity is what we do for others; we contribute to synagogues because it is important to us to have a religious institution to which we belong and which we can attend. Therefore, synagogue membership is an obligation for anyone who values Jewish communal religious  life.

 

Second Commandment: Synagogue members should support their own congregation. Synagogue leaders are often frantic about finding new sources of revenue. But raising money outside the synagogue cheapens the value of the synagogue for the people who belong. Bingo, for instance, helps congregations raise money from the people who least can afford it. I am not opposed to bingo, in principle - but I am opposed to getting people outside the synagogue to support the institutions that are important to us. Rabbi Larry Kushner, in his article "The Tent Peg Business: Some Truths about Congregational Life," writes: "The way a congregation gets its money may be more important than how much it gets.”

 

Third Commandment: Thou shall collect congregational funds with equity. This may be the most challenging commandment of all. How do we balance the ability to contribute with the basic equality of Jewish life?  In ancient times everyone was obligated to pay the half shekel; it didn't matter whether one was rich or poor. There was a minimum tax everyone had to pay. Congregations need to find a way to make sure everyone can contribute comfortably to the synagogue. That is what members of family do. Congregations need to develop a fair system of taxation.

 

Fourth Commandment: You shall meet your obligation; beyond that everything else is discretionary. We find two kinds of giving in the Torah: the obligatory half-shekel to the temple and terumah which was voluntary gift. When Moses set out to build the Tabernacle he invited the people to contribute to this project by saying “Let each person whose heart is so moved contribute.” This was not an obligation. Congregations need to think in terms of priorities; what are the necessary funds for maintaining the congregation and what should be considered discretionary giving?

 

Fifth Commandment: Fundraising shall be driven by vision, not by need. Dues should be a tax placed on every person - it's how we keep the synagogue going. Each synagogue finds its own way to spread this tax fairly among the members. Beyond dues however, there is not a synagogue in the world that does not need to do extra fundraising. This is not so much a commandment as it is logic. Congregational leaders go to their members and ask them to pay dues. One presumes that dues will cover the expenses of the congregation. How can we then go back to the same members and ask them to pay more money toward the up keeping of the congregation? For fundraising to work, then, it must be driven by something more than bottom line. Members need to feel that there is vision and purpose in giving beyond basic necessities. They should ask: what am I giving for? How will this extra money in some way make this a better congregation and a better world? A corollary of this is that gimmicks will not raise funds for a congregation. After collecting dues there is the hard work of going to members and convincing them to support activities, programs and goals that the dues cannot bear.

 

Sixth Commandment: Thou shalt not demand recognition. No one who contributed to the building of the Tabernacle received public recognition. There were no plaques in the Tabernacle or in the Temple. In fact, I would argue that plagues are detrimental to the wellbeing of the congregation. In his article, Rabbi Kushner writes: "If people selfishly seek their own Jewish growth (in synagogue) and do what they do because they want to, then there is no longer any need for the ritualized public displays of gratitude which threaten to suffocate virtually every arena of congregational life. Such obeisance at services and banquets, in print and on the walls, invariably degenerates into a system in which people give gifts of time, money, and skill to the congregation not for the joy of giving but for the communal recognition. If everyone is thanked, the only noteworthy events are the invariable omissions.

 

Seventh Commandment: There shall be no strings attached to the funds that are donated. Synagogue leaders need to think carefully about the gifts they receive. The synagogue belongs to all of us, not just to the person who gives the largest gift. That means that there should not be any conditions or demands attached to the gifts we receive. People have a right to ask that their financial resources be used in a particular area of synagogue life; they have no right to have personal conditions placed on their giving.

 

Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt contribute honestly. The money which comes to a synagogue must meet the highest ethical and legal standards. Buying scrip, for instance, doesn't mean that the entire amount can be taken as a tax write-off because the check was addressed to the synagogue. We, of course, don't have control over what people choose to do once they contribute to the synagogue. But I would argue that we must not be enablers either. We need to remind people that the check they wrote to the synagogue may or may not be tax deductible.

 

Ninth Commandment: Synagogues Boards shall conduct financial matters with transparency. Because they are dealing in public funds, a board has an obligation to make sure its dealings are not only honest but open to the community. Moses may have been the overseer of the Tabernacle but he still had an obligation to give a full accounting of every resource he received for this project.

 

Tenth Commandment: Volunteering is as important as giving but it doesn't pay the bills! Finally, we need to acknowledge that not everyone can afford to give as much as they would like. We need to honor those who give other resources: time, talent, and skills. Remember that the only people who are acknowledged by names in the building of the Tabernacle are Betzalel and Ohaliab, the master craftsmen. Rabbi Kushner writes:  "In order to maintain their congregations, Jews must do many other things which are not inherently Jewish. These secondary acts include building, raising money, and perhaps forming a board of directors.  Congregations, unfortunately, often get so caught up in doing secondary acts that they actually begin to think that the building, raising money, or the board of directors is the reason for the existence of the congregation. Their members are busy at work, but because they have forgotten why they are at work, their efforts are hollow and come to naught."

 

 

 

The fact that the Jewish tradition provides a way of getting out of an oath reflects the seriousness with which they considered statements. Promises once made could not be ignored. There had to be a legal means through which such a statement could be broken. Some scholars think that Kol Nidre may have been composed at a time in Jewish history when Jews were forced to make promises to other faiths that they were not prepared to keep – such as the promise to enter another religion. In such cases there was a deep sense of guilt about such promises. Even though these pledges were were made under duress, people felt the need for a ‘legal’ way of releasing themselves of such pledges.

 

Virtually all statements can be considered promises. In the book of Numbers, chapter 30, we find the following statement: “One must carry out anything that crosses his lips.” There are people who take this statement literally. Any statement of intent is a potential promise, so some people will preface or follow their statements by saying, “b’lee neder,” which literally means, “without an oath.” For instance, a person might say: “Let’s plan to meet tomorrow at Starbucks, b’lee neder.” This may seem a bit extreme but it reflects the idea that as Jews we take our words seriously. We should always say what we mean and mean what we say. This is especially true when the promises or pledges we make are in the name of God.

 

So the short answer to this question, then, is yes – there are most definitely religious implications if you break your word or breach an oath, whether it is a promise to a friend or a pledge we make to God. Of course we make promises all the time with little thought – we are therefore challenged to think carefully about our words. Sometimes making promises is helpful in terms of living up to our own expectations or the expectations that others have of us. We need to think carefully about such statements when we make them.

 

 

 

The issue you are raising is one of ‘intellectual property.’ In American civil law, this is a serious area of concern that has its own set of rules and definitions. Under intellectual property law, “owners are granted certain exclusive rights to a variety of intangible assets, such as musical, literary, and artistic works; discoveries and inventions; and words, phrases, symbols, and designs.” 

Whether or not such a concept exists in Jewish law is beyond the purview of most pulpit rabbis. Such a question should probably be addressed to a Talmudic scholar. Such questions are more likely to be addressed in a court of law rather than in the Beit Midrash.  

That being said, I believe that we do have certain moral concepts in Judaism which might have some relevance in addressing such an issue. The sages speak of g’nevat hada’at, literally, misleading others or the stealing of knowledge. Rabbi Alan Yuter, a member of the Union for Traditional Judaism, writes: “While it may be legitimately argued that the Oral Torah records no such norm, avoiding purloining intellectual property may be an act of piety.” While Rabbi Yuter stops short of declaring this a law for the Jewish people, he senses that it just isn’t right.

Similarly, we find the commandment in the Torah, “You shall not steal; you shall not deal deceitfully or falsely with one another.” (Leviticus 19:11) I believe that the Torah is speaking about something more than the theft of material objects or expressing falsehoods. Intellectual property might be said to fall somewhere in between these two categories. To use someone else’s material is certainly a form of falsehood. Even in matters of Torah study, we are expected to give full credit to the person from whom we borrowed an idea; to do so is, “to bring redemption to the world.” This implies that if I borrow someone else’s teachings and quote them without giving the person full credit, I am in fact condemning the world to a state of non-redemption.

I can think of one interesting precedent for intellectual property in Jewish law. In the nineteenth century many Jewish books began with a warning to others not to republish the works within a defined period of time. Apparently the rabbis, who were unlikely to go to a civil court of law, understood that their works had some economic value and prohibited others from publishing new editions of their work.

In the end, citing chapter and verse may not be very helpful in cases of intellectual property from the vantage point of Jewish law. It seems quite clear to me, however, that stealing someone else’s intellectual property is treif. This is more a matter of common sense than halachah. From a moral and ethical point of view I believe that one can make a strong argument that using someone else’s material, particularly where there is economic gain, is just another form of theft, intellectual or otherwise.

 

You are not alone in having doubts about the celebration of Purim. In Israel, Purim is marked on two different days: regular Purim is celebrated on the 14^th of Adar in places like Tel Aviv and Haifa, and Shushan Purim, celebrated in ancient walled cities, on the 15^th of Adar. Those who enjoy Purim can celebrate the holiday on the 14^th of Adar in Tel Aviv and then jump in their car dash off to Jerusalem to celebrate Shushan Purim in Jerusalem on the 15^th of Adar. On the other hand, those who are more circumspect about this holiday can spend the 14^th of Adar in Jerusalem and the 15^th of Adar in Tel Aviv; they will never be in a place where Purim is taking place!

Purim is a strange holiday. Megillat Esther, the basis of this holiday, is the only book of the Bible that does not contain God’s name. It is a story containing debauchery, drunkenness, lewd behavior and hidden identities. In many ways it is both a comedy and a satire. Even the hero and heroine are a bit strange: the name, Mordechai, is derived from Marduk, the main god in the Babylonian pantheon, and Esther is connected to Ishtar, a Babylonian goddess. The final chapters of the Megillah describe a battle in which the Jewish people kill and convert their enemies. This chapter is so shocking that many editions of the Megillah do not even provide a full translation of this chapter.

So why do we celebrate Purim today? What does the militancy of this story mean for us at a time when the Jewish people have an army of its own to defend the interests of Israel? And what is the whole business of costumes and masks, carnivals and banquets, and the somewhat permissive attitude toward drinking. It seems that every culture needs to have a day when people can let loose and be lax about the standards of normal behavior. Anthropologists call such occasions, rites of reversal. According to anthropologist Philips Stevens, rites of reversal are “ceremonial situations that allow for the reversal of appropriate behaviors that typically occur at transitional times between periods of intense activity. Western tradition has had several rites of reversal for adults—New Year's Eve, Mardi Gras, May Day, Oktoberfest, the like…”

While there are some questionable elements in the story and celebration of Purim, I would suggest that we are not meant to take this holiday or ourselves too seriously. Purim offers us an opportunity to laugh at ourselves and at our deepest fears. In a time of Jewish autonomy, we still need to acknowledge the existence of hatred and intolerance in the world. Purim suggests that we can do so by laughing at it. The Talmud says: “When we enter the month of Adar we increase merrymaking.” Rather than focusing on violence and drunkenness, we focus on bringing joy to others and helping the needy in our community.

There is a profound side to Purim as well. The absence of God in the Megillah does not mean that God is totally absent from this story. The people of Shushan are saved from annihilation through a series of coincidences that take place. When Mordechai asks Esther to go to the king and speak out for her people, he says, “Do not imagine that you of all the Jews will escape with your life…and who knows, perhaps you have attained to royal position for just this crisis.” Mordechai seems to suggest that Esther’s rise to power was not a coincidence; it was a product of the hidden hand of God in her life. Esther’s name, it has been suggested, comes from the Hebrew root nistar, hidden. She is the hidden presence of God in the world. Masks and costumes, then, can be seen as an expression of the hidden face of God in the world.

I should add a word about Haman. According to the Megillah, Haman is a descendent of Amalek, the same tribe the cruelly attacked the people of Israel shortly after they left Egypt. The Torah tells us that the Amalekites attacked the weakest element of the nation in a murderous desire to destroy the Israelites. Amalek would emerge again in the time of King Saul and again in the Mordechai and Esther. It represents the face of hatred which slanders and plots against Israel. Is Amalek gone from the world? I think not. We have seen the face of Amalek in Hitler and Stalin in our own day. We have seen the face of Haman in all those who have promoted and practiced genocide against other nations of the world as well. Purim suggests that it is not enough to turn the other cheek in the face of such hatred – we must sometimes wage war against it. This is the darker side of Purim.

It has been said that Judaism encompasses the full gamut of human emotions. The holiday cycle reminds us that nothing is foreign or strange to God. Purim suggests that sometimes we can even serve God through silliness and merriment.  We all wear masks – even God. Purim is simply the one time of year that we acknowledge that we are wearing them!!

We learn this lesson from Biblical history. One of the most infamous characters in the Bible was Jeroboam. He was the first leader of the Northern Kingdom of Israel after the ten northern tribes broke ranks with Jerusalem. Although it was predicted by a prophet of God that Jeroboam would lead this rebellion, he was never criticized for establishing a renegade kingdom opposed to the Davidic monarchy. Yet Jeroboam was later criticized for encouraging his countrymen to worship a calf at temples in Beth El and in Dan. Jeroboam did this for purely pragmatic reason – he wanted to discourage his people from returning to Jerusalem to worship God once the northern kingdom separated from Judah. Later Jeroboam was condemned as a mah’tee, as one who caused others to sin.

 

In the book of Leviticus we are commanded: “Do not place a stumbling block before the blind.” (Leviticus 19:14) The Sages interpreted this expression in a non-literal sense; it applies not only to those who are physically blind but those who are blind to the dangers before them. A Midrashic work called the Sifre Leviticus explains: "Thou shall not put a stumbling block before the blind" Not just the physically blind, but one who is "blind" in a particular matter. Thus, suppose such a one came to you and asked, "Is the daughter of So-and-so fit to marry into a priestly family?" Do not say to him, "She is fit," if in fact she is disqualified. If a man seeks your counsel, do not give him counsel that is not right for him. Do not say to him, "Leave early in the morning," so that brigands will rob him. Do not say to him, "Leave at noon," so that the sun will strike him. Do not say to him, "Sell your field and buy a donkey," so that you may circumvent him and take the field away from him. If you protest, "But it is sensible counsel I am giving him," remember that the matter is turned over to a man's heart…” No matter how sensible one’s advice or assistance me be, if it leads the person to sin or misery, one is as guilty as the one who actually performed the act.

 

The bigger question is how we view pornography. What’s so bad about pornography? Isn’t it a victimless crime? After all, one might argue that the people who allow themselves to be recorded are doing so freely and the person who chooses to look at such material does so of his or her own free will. I believe that this is untrue. First, pornography demeans the human being and turns our bodies into objects rather than miracle created in the image of God. At the heart of Judaism is the mandate to treat other people, body and soul, with dignity (kavod) and respect. Second, pornography is hardly victimless, either from the standpoint of those who create it or those who become viewers of it. Pornography, for some, is no less addictive and destructive to human life than drugs or alcohol. And one might also argue that there is connection between pornography, prostitution and pedophilia, and other ills of society; these are crimes which do victimize people in our society.

 

We might argue about how we define pornography but I think you are correct to think twice about supporting an industry which enables others to participate in such activities. While one might argue that gambling in moderation is acceptable (another issue we may chose to discuss at another time) even a little pornography is morally indefensible.

 

 

 

Thank you for your question and happy Chanukah!  The first time we find the ‘traditional story’ of Chanukah is in the Talmud which was edited approximately six to seven hundred years after the Maccabean revolt. The story of the oil appears as an afterthought; the Talmud discusses the proper way to light the Chanukah candles and parenthetically asks, Mai Chaunkah, “What is (the reason) for Chanukah? (See the Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21a)  

In earlier sources on the origins of Chanukah, such as the Book of Maccabees, there is no mention of the oil that burned for eight days. Rather, Chanukah is presented as a celebration of the Maccabean victory and a commemoration of the rededication of the Temple. The word, Chanukah, means dedication. Ironically Jews do not consider this book part of our sacred texts even though it was most likely written by Jews sometime between the completion of the Hebrew Bible and the beginning of Christianity. The Book of Maccabees is part of the Apocrypha,  a set of books that are considered sacred by Catholics.

So why was this feast celebrated for eight days? According to Maccabees,  “They (the Maccabees)  celebrated it for eight days with rejoicing in the manner of Sukkot, mindful of how but a little while before during the festival of Sukkot they had been wandering about like while beasts in the mountains and caves.” According to this book, Chanukah is a belated celebration of the holiday of Sukkot. It is even more surprising that the one passage in our liturgy about Chanukah, the Al Ha-nissim prayer, never mentions the oil that burned for eight days. It says that the miracle of Chanukah was the victory of the few against the many: “In the days of Mattathias, son of Yohanan the Hasmonean kohen gadol, and in the days of his sons, a cruel power rose against Your people Israel demanding that they abandon your Torah and violate Your Mitzvot. You, in great mercy, stood by Your people in time of trouble. You defended them, and avenged their wrongs. You delivered the strong into the hands of the weak, the many into the hands of the few, the corrupt into the hands of the pure in heart, the guilty into the hands of the innocent….”

So what can we conclude from these sources? First, the fact that the story of the oil that burned for eight days wasn’t recorded until the fifth or sixth century does not mean that it was not a more ancient tradition. We cannot be certain when this story originated or by whom. What is clear from this story is that the sages wished to make Chanukah more of a sacred occasion and less of a victory against our oppressors. Elias Bickerman, a leading Jewish historian, writes:  “Among the Greeks it was usual for a generation, when it regarded an event in its own history as important, to believe that it should be commemorated for all time.” Chanukah then was a victory against Hellenism but it was influenced by Hellenistic practices.  The sages were not fond of the Maccabees: in the years to come they would become terribly assimilated, they usurped the monarchy which rightfully belonged to the Davidic household and they were violent. In the first century before the Common Era, they were responsible for inviting the Romans into Jerusalem which ultimately led to the destruction of the Temple. Still, the people of Israel seemed to have loved this holiday and so the sages found a way to make it into a theocentric holiday rather than a war victory.

I believe that God is present in the story of Chanukah though we may not all agree how. For some, God is present in the miracle; for others, in the miraculous victory of the Maccabees. And for others, God is present in the bravery and audacity of the Maccabees who believed that Judaism was worthy saving. In some ways we are still fighting this battle, sometimes with more success and sometimes with less success. Chanukah has become a celebration of Jewish continuity which is no less miraculous to day than it was two thousand years ago.

So did the oil which the Maccabees poured into the Menorah really burn for eight days? We may never know. But the true miracle was that the Maccabees and their followers did not give up hope in their survival and were prepared to light the Menorah in the first place!

 Rabbi Mark B Greenspan, Oceanside Jewish Center

 

 

 

The phrase "Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh" means "all Jews (or all the people of Israel) are responsible for one another." What is the best way to interpret this phrase today, that we are all responsible for the world's Jews, or that we are responsible for everyone in the world?

 

Rabbi Mark Greenspan

 

Thank you for your question. I can’t think of a more important question for contemporary Jews to think about: What is our responsibility to the Jewish people and to the larger world, and what is the relationship of these two sometimes conflicting sets of responsibilities?  Anyone with a conscience must wrestle with this question on a daily basis, constantly weighing our place in the world and our responsibility for our own people.

 

This is not a new question. We find the following discussion in the Talmud: “Whosoever has the capacity to protest to prevent his household from committing a crime and does not do so is accountable for the sins of his household; if he could do so for his fellow citizens, he is accountable for the crimes of his fellow citizens; if the whole world, he is accountable for the whole world.”  (Shabbat 54b) This statement suggests that from the perspective of the sages, responsibility is not either/or but and/also. If we have the ability to make a difference in our own family or community then we must do so. And if we can better the world in some way we can not turn our backs on others.

 

Are there priorities in making choices about who we choose to help and when to help others? I believe that the expression, Kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh applies specifically to the Jewish people but that does not mean we do not have a sacred responsibility to the larger world as well. One might think of our social responsibilities as a series of concentric circles, beginning with oneself (Hillel, “If I am not for myself who will be for me,”), continuing with family, one’s community, the Jewish people and, then, the larger world. We are taught in the Shulchan Aruch, the authoritative code of Jewish law from the sixteenth century: “The poor of one’s city take precedence over the poor of another city. The needy of Israel receive priority over the poor of the Diaspora. Obligations to local resident poor precede those owed to transient poor who have just come into one’s city. One’s impoverished family members come before another poor person. Parents have priority over children (who can support themselves.) One’s self comes before anyone else.” (Yoreh Deah 251:3)  

 

Helping a fellow Jew is extremely important because we have a moral and social responsibility as members of an extended family and a historic community. To quote the old adage, “Charity begins at home?’  If Jews do not support the land of Israel, for instance, who will?  While there are many food pantries, we have a responsibility to make sure that there is a place that provides kosher food for those who want it.  But we should not forget that we are part of a larger community, ‘the family of humankind.’ We live in a global village and cannot ignore the suffering of others and the needs of the world. In ways that were inconceivable for our ancestors, we are aware of what is happening in the far reaches of our planet. As a result, our responsibilities to our fellow human beings continue to grow.  The actions of others have global implications and our lives touch people around the world. The sages understood that knowledge implies responsibility: when we see someone in need, no matter who it is, we cannot remain indifferent. “Don’t stand idly by the blood of your fellow man,” applies equally to Jews and non-Jews.

The specific expression that you have asked about does apply to the Jewish people. But it is only a small part of the bigger question of our responsibilities to the world around us. We have a glorious responsibility, litaken et haolam, to repair the world, and to make the world into a place of both justice and compassion.  

 

 

 

Rabbi Mark Greenspan

Is it true that music sung for Shabbat services should not be sung for a concert?

Mark Greenspan

Liturgical music is often sung in concerts by musicians and cantors of all Jewish denominations. This would include music associated with the Shabbat and holiday services. The only limitation on the performance of such music would be the recitation of berakhot, or blessings.

A berakhah is a special type of prayer. Generally these statements either open or close with the words, Barukh atta Adonai…, “Praised are you, Lord…” There are berahkot for all types of occasions in Jewish life: before and after eating food, when performing a Jewish ritual (such as lighting the Sabbath candles), or in the context of liturgy when reciting the daily services. There is even a berakhah when seeing a rainbow or upon exiting a bathroom. From a Jewish perspective, these are all moments when we can acknowledge the presence of God in our lives.

Conservative and Orthodox Jews feel that because of their importance, a berakhah should only be recited when performing a ritually required act or when it is appropriately recited in the context of either life experiences or prayer. To recite the berakhah frivolously is similar to “taking God’s name in vain.” If the berakhah is being recited outside of this context, then, we do not say these words. The name of God, Adonai, might be replaced by the word, hashem (literally, the name), so that the statement is not technically a berakhah. A berakhah by definition must contain the name of God. A berakhah that is recited frivolously or inappropriately is called a berakhah livatalah, an unnecessary blessing. For instance one would not say the blessing for eating bread Baruch atta ________elohaynu melech ha-olam hamotzi lechem min ha-aretz, “Praised are you Adonai our God sovereign of the universe who brings forth bread from the earth,” if one wasn’t going to eat a piece of bread. Instead, if one wished to make reference to the wording of the blessing one might say, “Praised are you hashem, our God….”

Often in the context of concerts and other nonreligious musical events, the performer will sing the liturgical piece but change the language of the blessing to make it clear that this is not a religious recitation.

 

 

 

One of Judaism’s great ages, Hillel, once taught his students, “Be a disciple of Aaron: love peace and pursue peace, love your fellow creature and bring them closer to the study of Torah.” (Pirke Avot 1:12) Aaron was Israel’s first religious leader following the Exodus and the brother of Moses. He was a beloved leader because he went out of his way to make peace between conflicting parties. For me that is what religion should be about. Religion can be a powerful instrument for promoting peace in the world. Unfortunately, this is not always the case. Religion is often a source of conflict and animosity, even among co-religionists. We see the divisiveness of religious conflict in the recent discussion over the Islamic Center in lower Manhattan

The issues and values involved in the question of an Islamic Center in Lower Manhattan are more ‘American’ than ‘Jewish.’ One of the blessings of America is that our constitution guarantees certain ‘inalienable’ rights to all citizens and our government has a responsibility to protect those rights for people and groups without exception. One of those rights is the freedom to worship as we wish, when we wish and wherever we wish. Of course, that right is not unconditional. There are times when the government must step forward to protect either the individual or the greater good. For instance, if a cult practiced child sacrifice or religious group encouraged the abuse of others, the government would have every right to protect the individual over the rights of the group.

The debate over the building of an Islamic Center near Ground Zero has challenged our understanding of what ‘freedom of religion’ means.  On the one hand, we believe in freedom of religion; people should be allowed to establish a place of worship wherever they wish. On the other hand Americans are understandably sensitive to having a mosque so close to a site which was destroyed in the name of Islam. Even if the people who gather in the Islamic Center were not personally responsible for the acts of terror which brought down the World Trade Center, the presence of the center so close to the World Trade Center is a painful reminder to the families of the survivors and those who were present in downtown New York of what happened on September 11^th nine years ago.

We might compare the decision to build the Islamic Center close to Ground Zero to the decision to place a Carmelite Convent next to Auschwitz a number of years ago. The nuns had every right to build their convent wherever they wanted. But Jews were understandably offended by the decision to place a Christian center so close to a place of Jewish martyrdom. Debating this question, then, I feel a little like the rabbi in Fiddler on the Roof. When confronted with a disagreement between two townspeople, the Rabbi said, “You’re right,” and “You’re right.” Freedom of religion should be accorded unconditionally (within the limits of reason and morality) but religious groups should also be sensitive to the needs of the larger society in which they live in making decisions that affect the community.

So what values should influence the decision to build or not build an Islamic Center? I believe that the prevailing value in such a discussion should be sechel or common sense. Sechel is sometimes referred to as the fifth section of the Shulchan Aruch, the great code of Jewish Law. Actually, there are only four sections in this code of law, but rabbis have long understood that in deciding matters of law, we must look not only at the letter of the law but the larger issues of society and morality. Moslems have every right to build a community center. Our government guarantees freedom of religion for all groups, even (and especially) those groups of which we are not necessary fond. But communities should use common sense in deciding how to express their religious and communal values publicly. Religion should not cause pain to others.

Having said that it would make good sense for members of the Islamic community to rethink the location of the Center, I should add that I am not at all comfortable with the sentiments of many of the opponents of the Islamic Center in Lower Manhattan. What is really motivating their opposition? To what extent are they concerned about the feelings of families who lost loved ones and to what extent is this simply prejudice against the Islamic religion? Too many people are quick to equate religious extremism with the basic values of Islam. It wasn’t so many years ago that a horrific act of terror took place in Oklahoma City, killing 168 adults and children, and injuring almost seven hundred more. That act of terror was carried out by two Christian men. Yet no one suggested that a church should not be built within close proximity of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.

In the Jewish tradition we have a principle: dina d’malkhulta dina, “The law of the land is the binding law.” (Talmud, Nedarim 28a) The American constitution either applies to everyone and in all situations or it applies to no one. The principle of “dina d’malkhulta dina” cannot be applied only when it is convenient or to groups we favor. Some people may not be happy about the decision to build an Islamic Center, but the members of the Islamic have a right to build this center. On the other hand, we have a right to expect transparency, honesty, sensitivity to the community and commitment to the principles of American society in the way this center is governed and founded.

I wonder, then, whether the present conflict over the Islamic Center doesn’t represent a “teachable moment.” It is an opportunity for people of different faiths and cultures to sit down and better understand one another. American society needs a Hillel today; someone who can help us better understand our differences and seek a deeper appreciation of one another.

 

What is Judaism's view on the current same-gender marriage debate? Is Judaism completely against homosexual relationships? Is it for only civil unions? Is it for complete marriage?

The Jewish tradition has a long history of wrestling with questions of how we define love, family and sexuality. It is impossible to offer a single monolithic answer to the question of same-gender marriage. Jewish scholars are deeply divided on this question.  We find, for instance, that the Bible defined sexual relationship between two men as a to’eivah, abhorrence: “Do not lie with a male as one would lie with a woman: it is an abhorrence.” (Leviticus 23:22) This verse, however, is speaking about the act of sex and not necessarily a relationship between two men. (It is interesting to note that the Bible and later Jewish literature never even acknowledged the possibility of a homosexual relationship between two women.)

Bible scholars continue to debate the reason for this prohibition. Some have suggested that the biblical prohibition had more to do with pagan religious practices than it did with a loving relationship between two consenting people. Others have argued that the prohibition had something to do with the mandate for procreation – the Bible frowned on any relationship that could not produce children. However one chooses to understand this biblical verse, it seems clear that the Bible does not acknowledge the existence of same-gender marriage or relationships.

Since the 1980s there has been a considerable amount of discussion about homosexuality in the Conservative Movement. Our growing understanding of the human nature has led many people to a deeper understanding of what it means to be a homosexuality. “Sin” can only be used to define acts over which one has volition. If some human beings are ‘hard wired’ to same-sex attraction, then we must reassess how we understand such relations. Homosexuality is not a choice – it is who one is. This question is further complicated by the fact that homosexuality exists on a continuum – so we can not simply speak about people being gay or straight.  In addition, sex is only part of sexuality (albeit an important part).  There is more to relationships than prohibiting or permitting sexual relations.

Initially, Conservative Judaism addressed this issue institutionally by trying to encouraging congregations to be more welcoming to gay and lesbian congregants, without addressing the larger issues raised by Jewish law. In the past decade, this issue came to a head with a serious discussion of legal ramifications of homosexuality. Can Conservative rabbis perform same-sex marriages? Should people who are openly gay be admitted to Conservative rabbinical schools? Conservative Judaism is a pluralistic movement; as a result there is more than one position on these questions which has been affirmed by the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards.  Some rabbis argued that while there are limits with regard to certain sexual acts based on the statement in Leviticus, accepting homosexuality in light of our changing understanding of human nature is a mandate based on the concept of kavod haberiot, showing respect for the diversity and dignity of all human beings. Others argued that this definition of the biblical prohibition was too limited: whatever the reason for the biblical law, the Bible was unequivocal in its prohibition of homosexual relations. While this second position argued for sympathy and acceptance, it was argued that it is beyond the prevue of Jewish law to condone homosexual marriage or openly gay rabbis.

If all this seems very confusing, you are right – it is! If nothing else, Conservative Judaism tries to be intellectually and religiously honest in addressing such issues and honoring our differences. Some issues are not black and white. I think it is fair to say that all Conservative Synagogues are open and welcoming no matter a person’s sexuality. As a movement, we are learning and growing in addressing what is for many a new question. While some rabbis feel that it is permissible to perform same-sex unions, others feel bound by Jewish law not to do so. The choice of whether we perform such marriages is not determined by rabbinic attitudes toward homosexuality but by the strictures of Jewish law. A same-sex couple will be welcomed into most of our congregations and embraced not on their sexuality but on their desire to be involved in Jewish life. Of course, the ability to perform same-sex marriages will also be determined by state law – we are bound to follow the laws of the region in which we live.

Conservative Judaism does not have an official position on civil unions: this is a question of American law. I believe most Conservative rabbis would argue that this is a question of civil rights and that we have an obligation to allow people in the public sector to make their own choices. They would, then, honor civil unions even if they could not perform a religious ceremony for the couple.

Let me begin for commending you for your courageous and selfless decision to join the military. In synagogue, each Shabbat, we recite a prayer for the welfare of our country and the safety of those who protect and defend our freedoms. America is an extraordinary nation and, as Jews, we are blessed to share in the opportunities that this country has given us. Praying for our country, however, is not enough. If we believe in the values and ideals of our constitution, then we must be willing to fight for them and protect them within our own borders and oversea.

 

That said, I must begin by saying that there are unique challenges for an observant Jew in the military – whether one is serving here in America or in Israel. In order to serve in the military, one must be prepared to relinquish some of the comforts and opportunities that civilians take for granted. In a sense, one is serving a greater value – the welfare of one’s country and one’s fellow citizens. And that means that sometimes the ritual observances of Judaism must be adapted to the greater needs of the military and society.

 

I remember a story that my colleague, Rabbi Danny Gordis, tells. Rabbi Gordis and his family moved to Israel a number of years ago. When it came time for his daughter to enter the Israeli army, he and his wife were understandably nervous about what this would mean for her as an observant girl. A meeting was held by the military for parents of observant children. After speaking about their experience, three observant Jewish girls who were in the army invited the audience to ask questions. One father stood up and asked in an accusing tone: “Does being in the army mean that my daughter won’t be able to observe Shabbat?” One of the observant soldiers stepped forward and said: “There are times when they will have to serve our country in the military on the Sabbath – do you think our enemies take the Sabbath off?”

 

When deployed overseas, your first responsibility is to serve your country and protect your fellow soldiers. There will be opportunities for you to celebrate the Sabbath and holidays but first and foremost this is your responsibility: to protect and defend. This becomes a matter of Pikuah Nefesh, the protection of life, which takes precedence over all else in Judaism. Your commanding officer and the local chaplain will do everything possible to help you observe the traditions of Judaism. But it is unlikely that you will be able to strictly observe the Sabbath, any more than an Israeli soldier can observe the Sabbath when he or she is called to service in times of crisis. It is possible to arrange for Kosher food and the military is sensitive to the importance of Jewish holy days. By the way, I should mention that whether or not you have a Jewish chaplain on your base, I think you will find that they will be helpful in helping you maintain your Jewish identity while you are in the military.

 

Similarly, while serving in the military state side, I suspect you will find that you do not always have control of what days you are ‘on’ and ‘off.’ Depending where you are located you might find that there are religious services for Jewish soldiers or a local synagogue that will be glad to welcome you. Again, it is important to speak to your commanding officer and the local chaplain about such matters – they will be your best advocates.

 

Rabbi Mark Greenspan

 

 

 

There is no easy way to enter into a discussion with someone who questions the validity of your faith and suggests that the New Testament superseded the Hebrew Bible as a source of faith. In such a discussion, you will often find that the other person may know the Bible a lot better than you (by the way, we read the Bible in very different ways and have a vast literature beyond the Bible that we consider sacred that Christians don’t accept). And second, the person with whom you are having this discussion is not likely to listen to a point of view different from his or her own. Besides, it seems to me that there is a lack of derech eretz in telling someone else why their beliefs are wrong; they should not do this and neither should we. Rather than trying to refute their point of view, then, I believe it is easier to respect the other person by listening to what they have to say, but making it clear that, personally, you are proud to be a Jew and that Judaism is a unique and different faith.

There is a good chance that the person with whom you are speaking knows a lot of Bible but very little about Judaism and it might be helpful to explain some of the fundamentals of Judaism to him or her. You might begin by telling them that we do not refer to the Bible as the Old Testament but rather as the Tanach, or Hebrew Scripture. From our perspective, there is only one testament, based on God’s covenant with our father, Abraham, and confirmed by the entire people of Israel at Mount Sinai. Nothing in our Bible suggests that Israel’s covenant is no longer valid and binding. While they might quote chapter and verse from the “Old Testament” to prove otherwise, their interpretation is often based on reading backwards from the New Testament into the Hebrew Bible rather than the other way around. That is, the New Testament is not the fulfillment of the Hebrew Bible but one particular read of our Bible which is not accepted by most Jews. If they continue to insist on the validity of their beliefs, you might simply remind them that Jesus was born as a Jew, lived as a Jew and died as a Jew – and if it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for you too!

The bottom line is that you don’t have to prove your beliefs or values to anyone. Besides, for us as Jews religion is measured not by faith but by deeds. A person is judged not based on what he or she believes but how he or she acts – and that applies equally to Jews and non-Jews alike. We believe that the righteous of all nations ‘have a share in the world to come.’ By the way, this is a fundamental issue about which Jews and Christians disagree: which is more essential - faith or deeds? You might also remind the person that from the perspective of the Hebrew Bible all human beings are created in the image of God no matter what faith they happen to follow.

It might also be helpful to explain to your friend why Judaism is meaningful to you. I have always found the following adaptation of Edmond Fleg’s essay, “Why I am a Jew” to be especially meaningful in articulating what it is that makes Judaism so special:

 

I am a Jew because the faith of Israel demands of me no abdication of the mind.
I am a Jew because the faith of Israel requires of me all the devotion of my heart.
I am a Jew because in every place where suffering weeps, the Jew weeps.
I am a Jew because at every time when despair cries out, the Jew hopes.
I am a Jew because the word of Israel is the oldest and the newest.
I am a Jew because the promise of Israel is the universal promise.
I am a Jew because, for Israel, the world is not yet completed; humanity is completing it.

 

Having listened to what your neighbor has to say, I hope he or she will be willing to do the same. Make it clear to your friend that while you honor him for his faith, it is not the path that God has chosen for you and for your family. This is a matter of faith. You are part of a proud and ancient tradition that has brought great goodness to the world (including Christianity and Islam) and that the world would be a poorer place without the very people who carry on the traditions of Abraham and Sarah. And at the end of the day, no one can prove or disprove matters of faith. Faith is based on beliefs upon which we stake our lives and our eternal souls – and that is true both for their faith and for ours.