The Israelites stand at the precipice of entering the land (Deut. 11:29) and face the immense challenge of establishing a stable, thriving society. The dramatic shift from a nomadic society protected by God鈥檚 presence and encamped near the Tabernacle, to an expansive polity, posed profound agricultural, social, political, and religious challenges addressed in the parashah.[1]

It is significant that this foundational moment is framed by the notions of choice and decision. Good legislation is a necessary component of a thriving society 鈥� one of the primary preoccupations of Deuteronomy. But a legal system that is good 鈥� comprised of God鈥檚 commandments 鈥� is not sufficient. A guiding ethos must undergird the choice to do what is right and good. Ethics is thus a central preoccupation of Deuteronomy, as well.

If it were easy to create a stable, just, thriving society, there would be no need to emphasize choice. However, it is natural for societies to organize around scarcity, competition, and the pursuit of power for survival, as in the 鈥渟tate of nature鈥� described by political philosophers. Deuteronomy thus emphasizes that the good life 鈥� even in a well-organized society marked by an excellent legal code 鈥� must be repeatedly chosen. Dilemmas abound between competing desires, needs, and values. A broader ethical vision serves as a guide in those ever-present difficult moments of decision.

The choice presented at the beginning of Parashat Re鈥檈h is presented both in the second person singular (谤别鈥檈丑) and the second person plural (lifneikhem). R. Jacob Ben Asher (13^th century) argued that the singular-plural doubling is significant (Baal Ha-Turim, Deut. 14:1). The good life requires coordination among the individual and the collective.

But what guides our choices? In addition to legislation, Deuteronomy is filled with programmatic statements that provide overarching norms to guide our choices more broadly.

For example, Deuteronomy, including this parashah (at Deut. 13:5), is the primary locus of the concept of 鈥渨alking in God鈥檚 ways鈥� (vehalakhta bidrakhav). From the Talmud to medieval and modern philosophy Imitatio Dei 鈥� imitating God 鈥� has been a central component of 黑料社 ethics, emphasizing virtues and ethical acts ascribed to God in biblical narrative (e.g. Talmud B. Sotah 14a, Shabbat 133b).

Ethics is often associated with an orientation toward the other. The infinite worth of all human beings, foundational to ethics, emerges with the creation of the human being in the image of God. The image of God is also found in the self, and there is an intimate interrelationship between self-worth and the worth of all others. This interplay 鈥� between an orientation toward the other and the preservation of self-dignity 鈥� lies at the heart of 黑料社 ethics.

Parashat Re鈥檈h gives unique expression to the importance of a theologically-informed fundamental sense of self-worth, at Deut. 14:1: 鈥淵ou are children of the Lord your God 鈥� you shall not cut yourselves (lo titgodedu)鈥� [in mourning] over the dead.鈥�

In Pirkei Avot, R. Akiva identifies this verse as one of three essential theological-ethical statements in the Bible (Avot 3:14).[2] The verse includes a broader value statement that results in a norm. The broader concept is the idea of being the children of God, which dignifies the 黑料社 people, who must, in turn, preserve their own dignity and self-worth (R. Samson Raphael Hirsch [19^th century], Commentary on the Pentateuch, Deut. 14:1). The norm is a commandment against self-harm. In moments of crisis, when one feels broken, there is a temptation to externalize and literally embody that brokenness.  

In the development of 黑料社 law, two distinct commandments emerged from the single statement 鈥測ou shall not cut yourselves.鈥� The first is the principle against physical harm to the body of the individual. The second, derived from rabbinic exegesis (Talmud B. Yevamot 14a), is a prohibition against dividing the body politic into polarized factions governed by separate legal courts. Polarization emerges at moments of profound crisis within the polis, where the temptation becomes great to display this brokenness by fracturing fundamental institutions 鈥� creating separate legal frameworks. R. Judah Loew (Maharal) of Prague (16^th century) noted that extreme civil discord fractures the collective, and the individual citizen, too, feels 鈥渁s if鈥� their own 鈥渂ody is broken apart鈥� (Gur Aryeh on Deut. 14:1).

In Deut. 14:1, something about being God’s children is a call to the individual and the collective to remain whole, even 鈥� especially 鈥� when brokenness abounds everywhere. Being God’s children is an unconditional status (R. Meir’s position on Deut. 14:1, Talmud B. Kiddushin 36a) that implies being loved and valued always. This knowledge is central to the pursuit of the good life.

Being God鈥檚 children is always simultaneous with being created in God鈥檚 image alongside all creatures (Avot 3:14). An ethic of self-preservation is intimately intertwined with an ethic of the dignity of all. Neither can be forgone if a society and the individuals who comprise it are to have any hope of achieving the 鈥済ood life.鈥�

In Parashat Re鈥檈h, at the precipice of forming a stable and permanent civil society in the promised land, the civil and political founding is accompanied by an ethical founding. The call to self-dignity and self-preservation of Deut. 14:1 is immediately followed by a call to holiness: 鈥淔or you are a holy people unto the Lord, your God鈥︹�� (Deut. 14:2).

These verses transport the Israelites back to Leviticus 19, another founding moment of 黑料社 ethics. 鈥淏e holy, for I the Lord your God am holy鈥� (Lev 19:2) is an earlier articulation of the notion of imitatio Dei 鈥� a call to a life that mimics God鈥檚 holiness. Leviticus 19 also includes the prohibition against self-harm (19:28) as well as the command to 鈥渓ove the neighbor as yourself鈥� (19:18) and its parallel command to 鈥渓ove the stranger as yourself鈥� (19:34).

Parashat Re鈥檈h opens with the rallying cry of the second half of Deuteronomy 鈥� the call to choose 鈥渢he blessing.鈥� Central to the good life is a deep sense of self-worth, self-dignity, and a commitment to self-preservation. This follows from being the beloved children of God. A thriving community also requires an ethos of the dignity of neighbor and stranger, also created in the image of God. At times of crisis, there is a temptation both to fracture the community and overlook the dignity of the other. It can feel impossible to choose the 鈥渂lessing鈥� and 鈥渢he good.鈥� The concept of choice was developed in Deuteronomy at a crucial foundational moment. At the cusp of a new life, fear of the unknown and awareness of the profound challenges that lay ahead were countered with the formulation of guiding values and a persistent belief in the power to choose.

[1] The geographical distance of a centralized Temple would pose agricultural questions about food supply and meat consumption (e.g. Deut. 12:20ff). The risk of structural poverty called for rigorously applied social policies (Deut 15:1-18). Absent the constancy of the divine presence of the wilderness, charismatic demagogues who might sway the people would need to be opposed (Deut 13:2ff).

[2] The others are Gen. 9:6 (prohibiting murder on account of the creation of the human being in the image of God), and Prov. 4:2 (declaring the Torah a good teaching not to be forsaken).

This makes sense鈥攇reat skill requires great effort. In , we read that 鈥溩溩ぷ曌� 爪注专讗 讗讙专讗鈥�(according to anguish is reward). Or, as Jane Fonda summarized it, 鈥淣o pain, no gain.鈥� Only by practicing and practicing some more can we develop proficiency in a skill. Repetition is boring鈥擨 imagine that most athletes become bored with their sport at some point鈥攜et the pursuit of excellence motivates continued effort.

Why, if this is so obvious, do most people expect that another proficiency will come quickly and without effort? I refer here to faith. Many people think that religious faith is something that one either has or doesn鈥檛 have, and that it is acquired in an instant. You should just feel God鈥檚 presence the minute you open a prayer book or light the candles. We are impatient with faith and don鈥檛 invest the effort needed to develop it. Popular stories of sudden conversions foster the expectation that faith is a gift requiring no effort.

That expectation, however, is neither realistic nor productive. Faith is, in fact, a skill that requires effort and develops in stages. These stages are evident in a gem of a verse in chapter 13 of Deuteronomy. Verse 5 reads (my paraphrase),

1. Walk after the Lord your God
2. revere God
3. guard God鈥檚 commands
4. listen for God鈥檚 voice
5. serve God
6. cling to God

There is a history to interpreting each phrase of this sentence so that it refers to another activity. In the midrash known as Sifrei, the clauses mean the following:

1. Perform the positive commands
2. show reverence
3. avoid the negative commands
4. listen to the Prophets
5. worship in the Temple
6. separate from idols and stick to God

When I read this sentence, however, I see each phrase as a stage in religious development. The first stage in cultivating faith is to make a decision to act differently鈥攖o walk after God. This means relinquishing some of our autonomy and seeking to satisfy a higher will. The second stage is to cultivate reverence. While this might seem primary, it takes time to develop the psychological awareness of God鈥檚 commanding presence. This prepares us for a third stage: to observe the commandments. Sure, many people keep some commandments without even knowing what they are. But this verse speaks of 鈥済uarding鈥� the commandments. Only with proper intention can one become a guardian, a shomer mitzvot.

As the mitzvot become integrated into our daily life, we become ready for a spiritual breakthrough. At this point can we begin to listen for the Voice. Mitzvah consciousness seeps into our daily routines, affecting our habits, our relationships, our homes and offices. God鈥檚 voice becomes audible through the mitzvot. Only now can our worship be described truly as 鈥�avodah (service). Until we reach this stage, 黑料社 practice can be self-serving. But once the mitzvot have started to make us aware of the Voice, it becomes possible for our religious practice to become service.

The final stage in this progression is hardest to achieve, much less sustain. It says that we are to cling to God. Clinging to God implies releasing some of our grasp on the world. I don鈥檛 know if a normal life can be lived while clinging to God. People with highly developed faith may have moments of clinging to God. But this stage of faith may elude us until death, when the soul returns to its source.

Just as a world-class athlete requires years of practice to master his or her sport, so too does a person of faith require practice to walk after God, feel reverence, guard the mitzvot, hear the Voice, serve God, and cling to the divine.

True, even an amateur athlete can sometimes serve an ace, and anyone can have a suddenly intense awareness of the Almighty. In the Talmud (), Rabbi Judah exclaims at the end of a famous martyrdom tale, 鈥淪ome acquire the world to come in a moment, and some in many years!鈥� But this story and the entirety of the Torah point to a deeper truth: that it takes will and effort and devotion and inspiration to learn how to cling to God.

This Shabbat, we bless the new moon of Elul. For the following four weeks, we will blow the shofar each morning and prepare to stand before God in teshuvah鈥攁s those who have returned. The Rabbis teach that Elul is an acronym (in Hebrew) for the words in the verse, 鈥�Ani ledodi vedodi li鈥� (I am my beloved鈥檚, and my beloved is mine; ). By walking in God鈥檚 ways and attending to our faith, we can feel God鈥檚 love and cling to our Creator.

You and I may never be world champions in any sport or other celebrated skill. But we each have a soul that was designed for challenges and that is waiting for attention. Let鈥檚 use this month to practice鈥攖o walk after God, to feel reverence, to guard the mitzvot, to listen for the Voice, to serve, and to cling. With God鈥檚 help, our practice will lead to great joy and love.

This commentary was originally published in 2014.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (锄鈥漧) Hassenfeld.

Yet our Sages add another dimension to the story. In the Gemara聽(), we hear that Hannah actually threatened to undergo the聽sotah聽ritual, a humiliating and traumatizing ordeal meant for spouses suspected of adultery,聽in the hope that its promise of fertility for the fortunate few who passed would open her womb. Hannah sought, from this point of view, to stimulate the divine system from below鈥攖o engineer cosmic blessing through threats, coercion, and the intimidating effect of recklessness.

Turns out, this is an established approach to the Divine in our faith, and one that is well-suited to our current calendrical moment.

Our Sages saw Hannah as trying to trap God into offering blessing, and they interpreted the same from another unlikely context, one that also occurs during this month鈥檚 Torah readings. We read about the apparently bizarre mitzvah of shilu鈥檃h haken, the sending away of the mother bird.  is the sole description of this shockingly precise mitzvah: 鈥淚f you happen upon a bird鈥檚 nest while on the road, whether in a tree or on the ground, whether with chicks in it or still-unhatched eggs, and the mother bird is sitting on the eggs or chicks, you shall not take the mother with the young. Instead, chase away the mother bird and take the young鈥�in order that you be well and your days long.鈥�

What鈥檚 the purpose of this mysterious mitzvah? Despite its often being cited as the case par excellence of a hok, or irrational commandment, many explanations have been offered. In some sense, the explanation is right in front of us: that we should be well and live long. Yet the standard reasoning, drawing on the Midrash, is that performing the mitzvah reminds us that God鈥檚 compassion is upon all creatures, and that performing the mitzvah cultivates the same compassion within ourselves (Devarim Rabbah,Ki Tetzei 6:1; ). The exact nature of this compassion is not clear, however. Are we exercising compassion for the mother, in preventing her from watching us take her babies? Are we exercising compassion for the species, in not eliminating the possibility of procreation?

Standing at the threshold of the month of Elul, in which we pray for compassion for ourselves, we owe it to ourselves to dig a bit deeper into this mitzvah鈥檚 meaning. We鈥檒l find that learning to exercise compassion is not a complete explanation for it.

The deeper level is the one that Hannah acted out in the rabbinic imagination. She didn鈥檛 only plead for divine compassion, she took action鈥攎anipulating the spiritual system to ensure compassion.

Similarly, for the significance of shilu鈥檃h haken, the Zohar offers a deeper take. The Zohar tells us there is an angel appointed over the birds, and when we perform the mitzvah and chase away the mother, that angel appears before God angrily, asking, 鈥淕od, how could it be a commandment to show such cruelty to birds?鈥� Immediately, the Zohar tells us, God turns to the other angels and says, 鈥淟ook, this one is concerned about his birds鈥攂ut not a single one of you could plead on behalf of the Shekhinah and her children exiled on Earth?!鈥� Eventually, out of frustration, God states, 鈥淭hen I will act for my own sake,鈥� arousing compassion for the Shekhinah and Israel here on Earth (Tikkunei Hazohar 23a).

Thus, our performance of the mitzvah does eventually stimulate divine compassion鈥攂ut only through our exercise of cruelty. Shilu鈥檃h haken, for the Zohar, operates the same way the Sages saw Hannah maneuver in her moment of desperation鈥攁 way to engineer the cosmos through our own action, a way to 鈥渨ork the system鈥� and manipulate God into acting for our sake and for the sake of compassion. In this view, we don鈥檛 simply plead for compassion; instead we blackmail, threaten, and coerce compassion from God.

As we stand at the beginning of the journey toward Rosh Hashanah and enter the period when selihot (penitential prayers) are recited in the weekday liturgy, it is worth considering what exactly we are doing with our spiritual efforts. Are we, like the midrash about shilu鈥檃h haken says, exercising compassion upon ourselves and pleading that God grant it to us? Or are we, like Hannah and the Zohar, using what resources we have to make God be compassionate upon us? Does this mean that we should do teshuvah differently? Maybe not; maybe all that is required is to see teshuvah differently. Perhaps we should embrace Hannah鈥檚 method and find a way to make God see us. Perhaps we should understand the practices of these Yamim Nora鈥檌m, these Days of Awe, not as petition, but as protest.

What if the fast of Yom Kippur was not about depriving ourselves, but instead was about getting God鈥檚 attention? What if the hunger we experience is not that of an ascetic practice, but that of a hunger strike? What we do, when we recite selihot every morning, when we rise early to plead before God, when we starve our bodies to feed our souls, is protest. Not petition, but protest. We don鈥檛 do shilu鈥檃h haken in order to be compassionate; we act cruelly in order to get compassion.

Similarly, we should not spend the next 40 days asking for forgiveness, we should ensure it. We should act in a way that requires God to forgive us. We should work the system, and appeal to God鈥檚 sense of justice as much as God鈥檚 sense of love. The mitzvot purify us, but they also can be our form of protest. Our earnest engagement with repentance can be a way of saying, perhaps above all else, 鈥淟ook at what a mess it is down here! I鈥檓 going to rub it in your face until you do something about it.鈥� Perhaps if we embrace the practice of protest, we鈥檒l find our petitions better received and our souls more ready to begin another year in a renewed world.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (锄鈥漧) Hassenfeld.

Many questions arise from this reference to the site of the Temple. Where was the Temple supposed to be built? How were the Israelites to know that God had chosen a specific location? Does the phrase refer to one centralized site of worship as opposed to many sites of worship? Is the number of cultic worship sites not at issue, but the selection by God of those sites? Can it be understood as suggesting that only a single site of worship must exist in any given time, but the location of that single site may change in different generations? Most importantly, however, we must ask: Why is the site of the Temple never identified explicitly?

It cannot be argued that vague place descriptions are characteristic of the book of Deuteronomy, for many locations in Deuteronomy are explained in great detail. For example, our parashah begins with the commandment to 鈥済ive the blessing and the curse鈥� upon entering the Land on two mountains. The locations of the mountains are then described in 11:30: 鈥淏oth are on the other side of the Jordan, beyond the west road in the land of the Canaanites who dwell in the Arabah, near Gilgal, by the terebinths of Moreh.鈥� For a book that can obviously describe locations in painstaking detail, it is striking that the location of the Temple, a most important location, be left ambiguous.

The Rambam in his Guide for the Perplexed (3:45) suggests that Moshe did not identify the site distinctly so that other nations would not occupy it or fight for it, and also so that the 12 tribes would not fight over who received the inheritance of land that would house the Temple, as this would lead to divisions and discord among the nation. Sadly, the events of recent years highlight the profundity of these suggestions. So much fighting takes place surrounding the Temple Mount, both within the 黑料社 religion and across the religious divide. The unfortunate result is that a holy site is besmirched by hatred and violence. People will always find things to fight about, but to drag a holy site into the mire taints its holiness.

This week鈥檚 haftarah is the third in the set of seven haftarot in between Tishah Be鈥檃v and Rosh Hashanah, known as the shivata denehemta, the 鈥淪even of Consolation.鈥� These haftarot were not chosen due to their relationship to the weekly parashah; rather, for their relationship to the time period. After we remember the destruction of the two Temples on Tishah Be鈥檃v, these seven prophecies of consolation bring us comfort that God has promised to redeem us from exile. According to the Talmud (JT ; ), the Second Temple was destroyed due to sinat hinam. This phrase is generally translated as 鈥渂aseless hatred,鈥� but I prefer to translate it as 鈥渇ree-flowing hatred,鈥� since who among us ever believes our hatred to be unjustified? Rather, 鈥渇ree-flowing hatred鈥� expresses the inclination of people to put down or hate others with ease and no remorse.

I don鈥檛 propose that all Jews should unite themselves into one homogenous group. I don鈥檛 propose unity across 黑料社 factions. The Jews as a people were never truly united; our history encompasses many sects who opposed each other: Pharisees vs. Sadducees, Karaites vs. Rabbinites, Hassidim vs. Mitnagdim, and the plethora of denominations that exist today. Unity has never been our strong suit. However, I do believe that we should strive for a respectful disunity. Let us embrace each other鈥檚 differences but not fight against one another nor try to restrict each other鈥檚 religious expression based upon our own religious convictions. How much fighting could we reduce if we just let people be different from ourselves? If the Temples were destroyed due to sinat hinam, it stands to reason that future redemption can result from ahavat hinam, the inclination to respect and accept鈥攁nd maybe even love鈥攅ach other.

Perhaps the Rambam was correct that Deuteronomy chose to hide the future location of the Temple in order to extend a peace for a little while. In Tom Petty鈥檚 1981 song 鈥淭he Waiting,鈥� the chorus begins and ends with the observation, 鈥淭he waiting is the hardest part.鈥� I鈥檝e always respectfully disagreed with Mr. Petty on this point. I鈥檝e always felt that not knowing is harder than waiting. Waiting for something that is guaranteed to happen is easier than waiting for an unknown outcome. In general, I always think it鈥檚 better to know information than to not know it, for with knowledge comes the opportunity for preparation. However, in thinking about the Temple and its hidden location as hamakom asher yivhar Hashem, I find myself reevaluating my position. Perhaps there is something to not knowing. Perhaps not knowing the specific site of the Temple allowed for a level of holiness that was no longer possible once the site鈥檚 location was revealed.

Withholding the location of the Temple site might have allowed for focusing on what the Temple truly represented to Deuteronomy, namely a rejection of pagan practices and a commitment to serving a transcendent God, without fighting over the physical location.

May we all strive for peace and merit to see holiness in the place that God will choose.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (锄鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (锄鈥漧).

According to Deuteronomy 14:22, Israelite farmers must tithe the produce of their field 砖指讈谞指讛 砖指讈谞指讛, shanah shanah, which at first glance means 鈥測ear, year.鈥� Later in the parashah, Deuteronomy 15:20, we are told that firstborn animals shall be eaten at God鈥檚 chosen place 砖指讈谞指讛 讘职砖指讈谞指讛, shanah veshanah, which apparently means 鈥渁 year in a year.鈥� What does the repetition mean in these two verses?

In Biblical Hebrew, repetition conveys a sense of plurality often translated as 鈥渆very,鈥� 鈥渆ach,鈥� or 鈥渁ny.鈥� Joseph resisted the sexual advances of Potiphar鈥檚 wife 讬讜止诐 讬讜止诐, yom yom, 鈥渆very day鈥� (Genesis 39:10). Samson awoke from his sleep thinking he would again break free from Delilah as he had done 讻职旨驻址注址诐 讘职旨驻址注址诐, kefa鈥檃m befa鈥檃m, 鈥渆ach time鈥� (Judges 16:20). We are told that 讗执讬砖讈 讗执讬砖讈, 鈥榠sh 鈥榠sh, 鈥渁ny man鈥� who curses his parents shall be put to death (Leviticus 20:19).

Returning to our parashah, what do the phrases 砖指讈谞指讛 砖指讈谞指讛, shanah shanah, and 砖指讈谞指讛 讘职砖指讈谞指讛, shanah veshanah convey? They mean the Israelites were supposed to visit God鈥檚 place 鈥�every year.鈥� This phrase has a similar meaning to 诇职讚止专 讚止旨专, ledor dor, in Exodus 3:15, in which God reveals his name to Moses 鈥渇or every generation.鈥� As the years and generations pass, God is still waiting to be served.

If we look closely, sometimes we find syllables repeating themselves within a single word. This has a slightly different nuance. Instead of meaning 鈥渆very,鈥� 鈥渆ach,鈥� or 鈥渁ny,鈥� this type of repetition occurs when a great plurality is to be imagined. The 转址旨诇职-转址旨诇执旨-讬诐, taltallim, 鈥渓ocks of hair鈥� in Song of Songs 5:11 convey a full head of hair with bountiful locks; 注植-拽址诇职-拽址诇旨-讜止转, 鈥榓办补濒办补濒濒辞迟, 鈥渢wisted鈥� in Judges 5:6 suggests a road with frequent turns; 注址驻职-注址驻址旨-讬, 鈥榓蹿鈥榓辫辫补测, 鈥渕y eyelids鈥� in Psalm 132:4 connotes blinking repeatedly; the name 讚址专职-讚址旨专, dardar, 鈥渢histle鈥� of Genesis 3:18 warns of its many thorns; and the 讙址诇职-讙执旨诇指旨-讬讜, galgillav, chariot 鈥渨heels鈥� in Isaiah 5:28 implies spinning round and round.

With this knowledge we can better understand a noun in the second half of the parashah:

鈥� 讗侄转志讝侄讛 转止旨讗讻职诇讜旨 诪执讻止旨诇 讗植砖侄讈专 讘址旨诪指旨讬执诐 讻止旨诇 讗植砖侄讈专志诇讜止 住职谞址驻执旨讬专 讜职拽址砖职讉拽侄砖侄讉转 转止旨讗讻值诇讜旨变

This you all shall eat from everything in the water: everything that has fins and scales you all shall eat.

(Deut. 14:9)

Whereas the plurality of 砖指讈谞指讛 砖指讈谞指讛, shanah shanah, means 鈥�every year,鈥� the repetition of 拽砖讉-拽砖讉 in 拽址砖职讉拽侄砖侄讉转, kaskeset, conveys the hundreds, if not thousands of individual scales on each fish. The repetitive form suggests abundance.

Looking beyond the parashah, repetition can be found in some of the most well-known verses in the Tanakh. For example, the angels surrounding God are described in Isaiah  as follows:

鈥� 讜职拽指专指讗 讝侄讛 讗侄诇志讝侄讛 讜职讗指诪址专 拽指讚讜止砖讈 拽指讚讜止砖讈 拽指讚讜止砖讈 讬职讛讜指讛 爪职讘指讗讜止转 诪职诇止讗 讻指诇志讛指讗指专侄抓 讻职旨讘讜止讚讜止變

And each one called to another 鈥�kadosh kadosh kadosh鈥� is the Lord of Hosts, his honor fills the entire world!

(Isa. 6:3)

What does kadosh kadosh kadosh mean? Most translations have something like 鈥渉oly, holy, holy!鈥� but our approach adds new meaning to the repetition, rendering it 鈥渉oly in every way鈥� or 鈥渋nfinitely holy.鈥� This happens to be the understanding of the Targum Pseudo-Jonathan, which adds that God is 鈥渉oly鈥� in the heavens, 鈥渉oly鈥� on the earth, and 鈥渉oly鈥� for all eternity. God is holy in every conceivable way.

In next week鈥檚 parashah we will read that judges must be fair and righteous:

鈥�爪侄讚侄拽 爪侄讚侄拽 转执旨专职讚止旨祝 诇职诪址注址谉 转执旨讞职讬侄讛鈥� 讜职讬指专址砖职讈转指旨 讗侄转志讛指讗指专侄抓 讗植砖侄讈专志讬职讛讜指讛 讗直诇止讛侄讬讱指 谞止转值谉 诇指讱职變

Pursue tzedek tzedek so that you may live and possess the land which the Lord your God is giving you

(Deut. 16:20)

What does tzedek tzedek mean? Some translations have 鈥渏ustice, justice,鈥� but our approach suggests 鈥�every type of justice.鈥� Justice for the rich and the poor. Justice for your friend and your foe. As it turns out, this is the approach of the King James Bible, which translates tzedek tzedek as 鈥渢hat which is altogether just.鈥� The way to say 鈥渁ltogether鈥� in Biblical Hebrew is to repeat.

Repetition is so uncommon in the English language it is underlined in red in Microsoft Word. This is not the case in Biblical Hebrew. As we have seen, some of the most familiar and influential verses contain repetition, and our approach can be applied to each and every one. All you have to do is repeat, repeat.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (锄鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (锄鈥漧).

You are God鈥檚 children. Do not gash yourselves or shave the front of your heads for the dead, for you are a people holy to God. Out of all the peoples on the face of the earth, God has chosen you to be God鈥檚 treasured people.()

This prohibition, here extended from the priests to include all male Israelites, refers to a ritualized type of self-harm that is different from the hurt that some people afflict on themselves as a way to release painful emotions. To this day, self-laceration remains an expression of mourning in some cultures. In a few weeks, when Shiite Muslims celebrate Ashura and the martyrdom of Imam Husain at Karbala, some will flog themselves until blood flows, even as others reject these practices as extreme.  

But why does the Torah tell us not to mourn too much? What is wrong with feeling our losses intensely? We read here that it is because we are 鈥淕od鈥檚 children . . .  chosen to be God鈥檚 treasured possession.鈥� Excessive mourning is rejected because it is not seen as behavior fit for a holy people. One view is that the prohibition stems from gashing being associated with idol worship, as in the case of the Baal prophets who confronted Elijah ().

The rabbis of the Talmud offer another interpretation. 鈥淲eep not for the dead, do not lament for them,鈥� we read in . The Talmud explains that the second half of this verse refers to going beyond the traditionally prescribed periods of mourning, while the opening sentence alludes to extreme mourning (BTMoed Katan 27b). This interpretation follows a harrowing story about Rav Huna and a bereaved mother who refuses to be consoled. 鈥淥ne who grieves excessively will in the end weep for another person,鈥� the Talmud warns the reader. But the mother does not listen to Rav Huna鈥檚 admonition to stop mourning. She continues to cry and eventually loses her remaining sons, and her own life. This kind of mourning, the Talmud implies, is a criticism, an indictment of the Divine. Bereavement, too, comes from God, and extreme mourning is seen as a refusal to accept God鈥檚 will.

The example of the twelfth-century polymath Moses Maimonides reveals the tension between interpreting mourning and living it. On the one hand, Maimonides saw mourning as a pedagogical tool. When we encounter death, he writes, we are called to 鈥減repare ourselves and repent and awake from sleep鈥� to face our lives, and our mortality (Hilkhot Avel 13:12). But in an intimate letter, he also describes how he spent an entire year bedridden and in great despair when his beloved brother David was lost at sea, a loss he called the greatest misfortune of his life. Maimonides was well familiar with the long tentacles of grief: the pain of this experience, he writes in the same letter, was reawakened when he as much as glanced at his brother鈥檚 handwriting.

Limiting deep mourning is difficult but, our parashah insists, necessary to regulate the pain of existential loss. Plunged into the alien world of the bereaved, Jews have access to finely tuned practices reaching from Aninut (usually the time between death and burial) to shivah (the seven days of mourning), and distinct periods of mourning, a year for parents and sheloshim (thirty days) for others. Experiencing a death can shatter our sense of self, and mourning customs offer orientation: Aninut exempts the bereaved from the everyday demands of spiritual life. You are now, Aninut says, free to mourn as deeply as you wish. Shivah, and to a lesser extent sheloshim and the year of mourning, are periods of declining intensity that ritualize ways in which we can express emotions, and gently guide the mourner back into life after death.

The prohibition against excessive mourning grew out of the lived experience that loss, and mourning loss, is an existential challenge. What does this prohibition mean in the face of a pandemic that robbed us of so much, including the comfort of ritualized mourning? Many funerals were solitary affairs, with loved ones following along on Zoom or, if they were lucky, from their cars. When my father died in Germany last year, ten days passed between his death and his funeral, and I had to re-evaluate what Aninut meant for me (we were fortunate, others had to wait three weeks). How many people sat shivah at home, comforted virtually by loving friends and family, and yet alone. Some of the changes brought by the pandemic will surely stay: virtual shivah visits have opened up the mitzvah of nihum avelim (comforting the mourner), gathering mourners and those who love them, wherever they may live. Virtual minyanim are bringing welcome accessibility to mourners who for a myriad of reasons鈥攑hysical ability, dearth of community, convenience鈥攎ight not have been able to say kaddish otherwise. For others, the disappearance of what we now call 鈥渋n-person services鈥� and the solace that can come from saying kaddish in shared space has been devastating.

As we (hopefully) emerge from this current pandemic, I am not sure that I am ready to heed the advice to limit mourning quite yet. I do not mean that we should get mourning haircuts or scar our bodies. But before we can celebrate the lessons learned during the pandemic, it may be good to acknowledge the hard parts: people we lost, months spent indoors, time not spent with friends and families, the times when we missed out on watching babies morph into toddlers or sitting with the elderly or the ill. 

With Elul approaching, and the High Holidays not far behind, we are invited to tune into the rhythm of the 黑料社 year. We close out one year and turn to the next. We complete one cycle of the Torah and open it again to begin afresh, with our grief, our mourning, and all the hopes that make up our human experience.  We are also called to reach out to those who lost someone over the last year. For although no gashes or shorn hair remind us of their losses, they may still be in pain.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (锄鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (锄鈥漧).   

But what can this verse mean to us today, in the twenty-first century, when we are no longer standing on the border of the Promised Land following a forty-year trek in the desert? If the Bible speaks to people in all times and places, how can we discern the verse鈥檚 relevance to our own lives?

I understand the word 讛址讬旨讜止诐/ 鈥�today鈥� in the same way that the Midrash understands the words 讛址讬旨讜止诐 讛址讝旨侄讛 / 鈥渢his day鈥� in Exodus 19:1 and Deuteronomy 27:9.

讘旨址讞止讚侄砖讈 讛址砖讈旨职诇执讬砖讈执讬 诇职爪值讗转 讘旨职谞值讬志讬执砖讉职专指讗值诇 诪值讗侄专侄抓 诪执爪职专指讬执诐 讘旨址讬旨讜止诐 讛址讝旨侄讛 讘旨指讗讜旨 诪执讚职讘旨址专 住执讬谞指讬變

鈥淚n the third month since the children of Israel鈥檚 leaving the Land of Egypt, on this day, they arrived at the wilderness of Sinai.鈥� (Exod. 19:1)

讛址住职讻旨值转 讜旨砖讈职诪址注 讬执砖讉职专指讗值诇 讛址讬旨讜止诐 讛址讝旨侄讛 谞执讛职讬值讬转指 诇职注指诐 诇址讛’ 讗直-诇止讛侄讬讱指

鈥淏e silent and hear, O Israel; this day you have become a people of Hashem your God.鈥� (Deut. 27:9)

Why does the Torah use the words 鈥渢his day鈥� in each of these verses? Exodus 19:1 would read better with the words 鈥渙n that day,鈥� and Deuteronomy 27:9 doesn鈥檛 actually take place on the day the nation entered a covenant with Hashem! In his commentary on each of these verses, Rashi, the preeminent medieval 黑料社 biblical exegete, references midrashim (cited in Yalkut Shimoni 273 and BT Berakhot 63a, respectively) which present the idea that on any given day that these words are read or heard鈥�meaning on every single day鈥�it should feel as though the event in question (receiving the Torah or entering into a covenant with God) is occurring 鈥渢oday.鈥� Similarly, in our verse in Parashat Re鈥檈h, on any given day that we read these words, we are being told that God is giving us blessings and curses.

In the biblical narrative, 讘旨职专指讻指讛 讜旨拽职诇指诇指讛 (previously translated as 鈥渂lessings and curses鈥�) refers to a choice between receiving blessings or curses, depending on our behavior. Yet this phrase does not have to be read as a choice. Rather, it can be understood to encompass both: God giving us both blessings and curses at the same time. Life is full of both positives and negatives simultaneously. We all have blessings for which we鈥檙e grateful and experience hardships that feel like curses; they co-exist in our lives, and we don鈥檛 get to choose only the good or only the bad. 

In this verse, the Torah is directing us toward the realization that both the good and bad in our lives come from God, as is written: 讗指谞止讻执讬 谞止转值谉 诇执驻职谞值讬讻侄诐 / 鈥淚 am giving you.鈥� Indeed, 黑料社 practice acknowledges that both the positive and negative in our lives come from God. The Shulhan Arukh, OH 222:1鈥�2, teaches us that upon hearing good news or experiencing something extremely positive, we recite either the blessing Hatov vehametiv / 鈥淲ho is good and causes good,鈥� or Sheheheyanu / 鈥淲ho has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.鈥� We also recite a blessing upon hearing bad news or experiencing something extremely negative, that of Dayan ha鈥檈met / 鈥淲ho is the True Judge.鈥� It is not our place to accept the good that God gives us and reject the bad; we don鈥檛 get to pick and choose God鈥檚 lot for us. Additionally, we are not to blame God for the negative things we suffer while taking credit for the positive things in our lives; Deuteronomy 8 already warned us against that.

鈥淏eware lest you forget your God . . . and you say in your heart: 鈥楳y power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth.鈥� But you shall remember your God, for it is He that gives you power to get wealth . . .鈥� (Deut. 8:11, Deut. 8:17鈥�18)

The first word in our parashah, Re鈥檈h / 鈥淪ee,鈥� charges us to recognize that all of the above are true. The 12^th century Spanish biblical exegete Rabbi Avraham ibn Ezra notes that the command 鈥湴疴�檈丑鈥� is written in the singular despite Moshe鈥檚 speaking to all the Israelites, because Moshe addressed each individual who was present. We can learn from this that it is incumbent upon each and every one of us to internalize the verse鈥檚 message. 

Each of us must recognize that we receive both blessings and curses from God every day. Sometimes it is easy鈥攁nd during these challenging days of pandemic, perhaps almost unavoidable鈥攖o get caught up in the travails of the day and lose sight of the blessings in our lives. It is also easy to take certain privileges for granted and stop being consciously grateful for them. But the opening verse of this week鈥檚 parashah enjoins us to recognize and appreciate every good thing with which God blesses us, even at a time when we may be contending with challenges and losses that would have seemed unimaginable a year ago. We are literally instructed to 鈥渟ee鈥� God鈥檚 gifts.

May we all strive not to lose sight of our blessings, and in recognizing them every day, merit increased peace and joy in our lives.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (锄鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (锄鈥漧).

鈥淎nd once I saw her menstrual blood . . . saw it shining darkly up at me from the worn linoleum in front of the kitchen sink . . . Also in this icon is an endless dripping of blood down through a drainboard into a dishpan. It is the blood she is draining from the meat so as to make it kosher and fit for consumption. Probably I am confusing things . . . but I see her standing at the sink salting the meat so as to rid it of its blood, when the attack of woman’s troubles sends her, with a most alarming moan, rushing off to her bedroom. I was no more than four or five, and yet those two drops of blood that I beheld on the floor of her kitchen are visible to me still.鈥� (Philip Roth, Portnoy鈥檚 Complaint, 42鈥�43)

These days most observant 黑料社 women in North America do not soak and salt their own meat. What was once a common and familiar marker of 黑料社 kitchens, and a deeply gendered rite of passage for young 黑料社 women, has been professionalized and sequestered away from the eyes of most of those who cook and eat kosher meat. In the United States, the act itself is often performed by mostly non-黑料社 workers under the supervision of Orthodox rabbis鈥攁 largely male caste. The sounds, sights, and smells of this 鈥渒ashering鈥� process as performed today would seem strange, unfamiliar, and perhaps even repulsive to most 黑料社 North American women. The remaining women whose mothers taught them this little ritual of water, blood, and salt, with its ramped wooden drainboard, are now mostly in their late sixties and early seventies. Within the next twenty or thirty years, for all practical purposes, its existence as a rite commonly performed by women in 黑料社 kitchens may pass from living memory.

This shift in location from home to commercial setting has happened in my own lifetime. As recently as the 1970s, Rabbi Isaac Klein, the Conservative Movement鈥檚 widely-accepted posek (adjudicator of 黑料社 law), wrote this piece of practical advice:

We would suggest that housewives who put meat into a deep freeze should, as a rule, kasher them first and then freeze them. In cases of emergency, however, and where the meat was accidentally not kashered, we permit the kashering of the meat after it was taken out of the deep freeze. (A Guide to 黑料社 Religious Practice, 353)

What is relevant for us is that the tradition of kashering meat at home was still robust enough at the time he was writing that a sufficiently abundant number of 黑料社 women would have been interested in whether they should kasher their meat before or after freezing. I think it unlikely that a contemporary rabbi would write such a passage for a popular 黑料社 audience. The question is simply not relevant to the lived day-to-day practice of observant Jews in the English-speaking world.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother beside the kitchen sink with raw meat laying before her on a slanted board, a small blue box of kosher salt on the counter. The memory is vague and foggy and yet strikingly immediate, tinged with the metallic scent of blood. There was a time when these miniature scenes of decontamination were common to the point that 黑料社 men and boys鈥� imaginations of their mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters were suffused with a ferrous crimson. Philip Roth was only able to use the iconography of salt, blood, kitchen, and mother so powerfully because of its familiarity to him and other 黑料社 men of his generation. In times and places other than our own, 黑料社 women wielded a curious power in the control they held over blood. Blood was threatening and dangerous, possessing a hazard. Women held the antidote in the form of two water-based rituals鈥攌ashering and mikveh. This decontamination had to occur before Jews could eat meat or make love.

JTS professor emerita Rabbi Judith Hauptman has argued compellingly that already in the time of the Mishnah women took power over the ritual complex of niddah (menstrual impurity) by invoking stringencies or leniencies in matters of seeing menstrual blood. As she writes, 鈥淭he rabbis seem to have sensed that in the area of niddah women had taken matters into their own hands鈥� (Rereading the Rabbis, Ch. 7). These ancient rabbinic women controlled the reactivity of desire, either drowning it in blood, or rousing it with water.

Meat was also long linked with desire in rabbinic representation. Deuteronomy 12:20 reads:

When the Lord your God enlarges your territory, as He has promised you, and you say, 鈥淚 am going to eat some meat,鈥� because you wish to eat meat, you may eat meat whenever you have the desire.

Sifrei Deuteronomy, an early work of Midrash, already contextualizes the dispensation for the eating of non-sacral meat in the quenching of desire.

Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah says: Scripture comes only to teach you proper behavior. For a person should not eat meat unless they desire it. (pis. 75)

Most notably, Roth鈥檚 association of kashering with the blood of menstruation is not coincidental. For a non-trivial amount of time, soaking and salting was an oral tradition among women, as with niddah, passed from mother to daughter. It also arose from a culture of blood taboo and purity鈥攊t was a practice that seemed normal, mundane, and unremarkable. It is only now when kashering has become a strange, alien, and unfamiliar thing that we have the possibility of seeing its full range of associations with clarity.

The term 鈥�ostranenie鈥� (often translated as 鈥渄efamiliarization鈥� or 鈥渆strangement鈥�) was first coined in 1925 by the Russian literary theorist Viktor Shklovsky in his essay 鈥淎rt as Device.鈥� Shklovsky claimed that presenting audiences with common things in an unfamiliar or strange way (as art does) allows recovery and restoration鈥攁 fresh and renewed experience of quotidian events, circumstances, and entities. When a thing is common and familiar we tend to take it as a given and it escapes our attentiveness. Even matters possessing storied pasts and profound symbolic potency become hum-drum and disregarded. Framing them in new perceptual contexts grants us a new clarity of vision and rejuvenates our capacity to attend to them.

This is the gift that Roth gave in the above passage from Portnoy’s Complaint. We are able to see the tensions and fault lines of depuration, disgust, desire, femininity, food, and fear that all join together in this workaday observance. These blood taboos serve to compromise between the two negative possible extremes: giving in to the chaos that desire contains in potentia, on the one hand; and the repressive stifling of the drives that make life vital on the other. The desires for meat and sex are dangerous; either desire can spill over into violence and rip a community apart. Yet, without some indulgence life is meagre and grey. Throughout the novel, Portnoy finds himself trapped in exactly this conflict between chaos and suppression, the Torah鈥檚 solution of moderating life with blood and water denied to him (and even unconsidered) because of the modern casting off of religious ritual life.

In our distance from this blood-purging food ritual鈥檚 commonplace recurrence, now that it is hidden from our eyes and made strange to us, we are doubly blessed. On the one hand, this act of purity and decontamination still resides in living memory. We can see it just barely out of grasp, perhaps ready for us to reclaim it. On the other hand, it has all but disappeared from the observed life of the contemporary Jew. And through its strangeness we see its roots in an older, broader domain鈥擲cripture鈥檚 apprehension of blood rooted in its association with unrestrained desire. Today we can witness it oozing life as it disappears from the hearths of the 黑料社 people in favor of the system of commercial and industrial kashrut. Let us pray that we are observant enough to mark its passing and decide how we should respond.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (锄鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (锄鈥漧).