Parshah Mishpatim - Laws, rules, regulations, statutes!

Not in Heaven

Hazzan Marcia Lane

In Talmud Bava Metzia 58b-59b, there is a famous story of a discussion concerning the kashrut – the ritual purity – of an oven. The majority of rabbis rule in one direction, but Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus consistently rules in the other direction. He calls upon a carob tree, and on a stream, and even on the walls of the school, and they behave in supernatural ways in order to attest to the correctness of his ruling. Finally, Rabbi Eliezer calls for a heavenly voice to confirm his judgement, and when it does, Rabbi Yehoshua, speaking on behalf of the majority, answers the voice by saying, famously, “It is not in heaven!” That is, the adjudication of this dispute is not a matter for God to decide. People, fallible though we may be, are responsible to adjudicate on earthly matters. (Bava Metzia 59:b)

In last week’s Torah portion, Parshat Yitro, the assembled mass of people who just two months ago had left Egypt, stood at the foot of the trembling, steaming, Mount Sinai and received the Ten Commandments, or Ten Utterances – Aseret HaDibrot in Hebrew. Amid thunder and lightning, in a bombastic over-abundance of sensory input, we are given primary laws, the bones upon which the rest of Torah will be hung. The essential action of revelation happens above us, between Moshe and God, shrouded in mist, hidden from plain sight.

In this week’s parshah, Mishpatim, law comes right down to earth with what can perhaps be best described as an accordion-file of civil statutes dealing with rights of slaves and of slave owners, penalties for manslaughter, theft, kidnapping, and property damage, principles of money-lending, of witness reports, the prohibition against bribery, and an assortment of other legal issues. The range of human affairs is covered in varying degrees of detail. But then, after covering a long list of person-to-person legal issues, we have a sudden turn in tone.  “You shall not curse God, nor revile a judge.” (Ex. 22:27) The implication is that earthly judges should be regarded with a measure of reverence, perhaps because one of the most difficult jobs must be to adjudicate between people, to deal with personal grievances, to dispense justice.

The end of the portion turns to the realm of Jewish spiritual and ritual law: the observances of Shabbat and festivals, prohibitions on worshipping other gods, ethical treatment of strangers, and the laws of allowing the land to rest in the seventh year.

One way to understand the tenor of the parshah is to see all matters of law, whether civil or ritual, as having a double valence; if you will, a foot in two worlds. While it is true that civil law primarily concerns matters between people, and that human judges have total responsibility for rendering a decision, God also has an interest in the outcome. A just verdict is one that satisfies not only the letter of the law, but the spirit as well. One might say that heaven is pleased when human judges agree with the One Judge.

In a similar vein, in the observance of festivals and Shabbat, while these are primarily matters between an individual and God, the community fares better when ritual law is observed. Beasts of burden rest on the seventh day, the land rests in the seventh year, and the earth is better for it. The act of bringing first fruits or a tithe from the harvest fulfills two purposes: It acknowledges our gratitude to God for the bounty of the earth and it makes us thoughtful concerning best practices in agriculture. Both heaven and earth have a stake in the outcome.

In his book on the nature, function, and intricacies of Halakha – Jewish ritual law – Eliezer Berkovits opens his very first chapter with these words:

The Torah is all-inclusive. It embraces the entire life of the Jewish people. Halacha, therefore, has to interpret the intention of the Torah for all areas of Jewish existence; the spiritual, the ethical, the economic, the social. (Not in Heaven, Eliezer Berkovits. Shalem Press, 1983, p.3)

Despite the title of his book, our parshah seems to hint that all matters of law exist in both the earthly and in the heavenly realms. Something to think about the next time you are tempted to drive and text.

Vay’hi - He Lived!

As a Jew – and in particular as a hazzan – I’ve always felt very comfortable with life in galut, in exile from the land of Israel. As much as I love it when I’m there, I feel my Judaism strengthened by my life here in the United States. In the final parshah of the book of Genesis, Vay’hi, we close out the narrative of the families of our patriarchs and prepare for the next story, one that will take the tribes descended from those patriarchs from servitude in Egypt to the brink of the land of Canaan, which will become Israel. The essence of Parshat Vay’hi is life and death, specifically the lives and deaths of Jacob and his beloved son Joseph. Curiously, the ways they lived are not necessarily reflected in the events surrounding their deaths. Is there something to be learned from these two men, about relationships to family, to the land of exile versus the land of Canaan/Israel, and to the past or future of the Jewish people?

“Vay’hi Ya’akov b’eretz Mitzrayim….” ‘So Jacob lived in Egypt ….’ Torah relates that Jacob spent his final 17 years in Egypt, probably the least troubled of his 147 years. The previous 130 years involved deceptions and struggles with his brother Esau, fleeing his home on threat of death, serving his father-in-law Laban for many years, strife between his wives, the loss of his son Joseph, the death of Rachel in childbirth … a life that was, in his own words, short and bitter. (Not short by our standards, but by comparison with those of his grandfather, Abraham, who lived to 175 years, and of his father, Isaac, who lived to 160.) But although his life prior to Egypt had been filled with pain and loss, Jacob extracts a promise from Joseph to bury him in the Cave of Mahpelah, in the place where his father and grandfather, and his wife Leah, were buried. He extracts a promise from Joseph: “Im-na matza-ti heyn b’ey-ne-ha ….” He speaks to his son in the language of a petitioner, acknowledging that the son has attained a far higher stature than the father. ‘If I have found favor in your eyes … bury me with my fathers.” (Gen. 47:29-30)  So even though the years in Canaan were difficult years, Jacob is attached, by language, by kinship, and by custom, to the past and to the land of his fathers, the land of promise. At the moment of his death the verse says, “and he was gathered to his people.” (Gen. 49:33)  Jacob’s death is a link to the past. His sons fulfill their promise to reunite their father’s bones with those of his wife Leah and with his ancestors, in the cave of Mahpelah.

By contrast, Joseph spent his first 17 years in conflict with his brothers, the following 13 years first as a servant to Potiphar, and then as a prisoner in Pharaoh’s dungeon. But the bulk of Joseph’s 110 years were spent in luxury and privilege in Egypt. Second only to Pharaoh, Joseph had a life of ease, a life of assimilation to Egyptian ways. His clothing, manners, even his speech are so altered by his experiences that his own brothers don’t recognize him until he reveals himself to them. Joseph may be a dreamer and an interpreter of dreams, but he lives in the present. We are told that he lived to see his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. When his time comes to be ‘gathered to his kin,’ Joseph puts very different conditions on his brothers than did Jacob. “I die, but God will surely remember you, and will bring you up out of this land to the land which He swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob. When God remembers you,” he has them promise, “you shall carry my bones from here.” (Gen. 50:24-25)  Joseph’s words are less like petition and more like prophecy. He has the authority to demand that his brothers take him, upon the occasion of his death, out of Egypt, but that’s not what he wants. Although his early history with his brothers had been one of conflict, Joseph wants to remain in Egypt with his brothers, his children and grandchildren and great-grand-children. Only when they all leave will he leave. And when they finally do return, Joseph will not be interred with his ancestors in the Cave of Mahpelah. “And the bones of Joseph, which the children of Israel brought up out of Egypt, were buried in Shechem, in the plot of land that Jacob bought from the sons of Hamor ….” (Joshua 24:32)

In a way, Jacob is like those Jews who, no matter the difficulties, feel drawn back to Eretz Yisrael. They are filled with an undeniable yearning. Joseph is like those of us for whom life in galut, in exile from the land, can be fruitful. That despite the difficulties, life in foreign lands can still be happy and productive. We want to return, but perhaps not yet. We see our Jewish lives thriving, even among strangers. And the truth is, Judaism needs all of us: native Israelis, Jews that make aliyah, and the ones who remain in other lands. We are all part of the family. We all strengthen Ahm Yisrael, the people Israel.

Return Again – The Spiral Staircase  

God’s Attribute of Forgiveness

It’s that time of year again. The old joke goes that the Yamim Nora’im — the Days of Awe — are always either early or late. They never come on time! Well, this year, as in most years, they feel awfully early to me. It’s not that I am unprepared for the davenning, because the music remains pretty much the same year to year. It’s that I’m unprepared for the climb up the staircase.

The Jewish year is a cycle of holidays that goes around and around in a circle, but each year we are different people by virtue of being one year older. Our goals get clearer or fuzzier. Our resolve to live a particular kind of life is stronger, or we perhaps can’t see our way. Things change. We change. This year’s Rosh Hashannah is not the same as last year’s. This year’s fast on Yom Kippur will be different from last year’s. We do not simply go in circles. The word teshuvah means turning around, or returning to our truest selves.

Rabbi Shlomo Carelbach, z’l, was more famous as a storyteller and a troubador than for sermons. He composed this chant, which seems to embody the process of teshuva.

Return again. Return again. Return to the land of your soul.

Return to who you are. Return to what you are. Return to where you are

Born and reborn again.

Return again. Return again. Return to the land of your soul.

(To hear the music, click on the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Ahmh8Kt7qM )

We aspire to ascend, step by step, through our lives. As the Kaddish for the High Holy Days says, “L’eilah ul’eilah,” higher and higher. For me, the question remains: How, exactly, do I return? And how do I know what would constitute the authentic, best ‘me’?

The music of the holidays is designed to help with that aspiration: it is, on the one hand, built of a series of motifs that are recognizable to every Jew. So the congregational moments are familiar and sing-able for all of us. But there are also moments of choral or cantorial music that strain to lift our thoughts and our prayers toward God.

“Ochilah l’Eyl, achaleh fanav, eshalah mimenu ma’aney lashon.”

I put my hope in God, I seek God’s presence, I ask for the gift of expression.”

These are the words of the cantor’s prayer that comes in the middle of the Musaf Amidah. At that moment the hazzan asks not for blessings of wealth or health or even wisdom. All we ask for is the ability to express the innermost thoughts and fears of the congregation. We pray for the ability to carry the congregation’s hopes higher toward the divine. Step by step, through the Musaf Amidah the hazzan travels upward, not in a direct line, but in a spiral. I’ve sung these notes before, but now I am a different person than I was last year. I’ve prayed these words before, but I am one year older, sadder, wiser, happier. The person I am this year says to You, as I said last year, “Shma koleynu!” Hear the collective voice of Your people who have come before You. Notice that we have changed, hopefully for the better. We have turned and returned to You. 

S’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, ka-peir lanu. Forgive us. Pardon us. Grant us atonement.

Zimmerman and Snowden: Who Judges?

This is a 'reprint' of sorts. It's the more formal version of the d'var Torah I gave on July 6th, my final Shabbat at West End Synagogue. If you were there, then you know I was not in great voice. (That's something of an understatement; I had no voice!) So this, then, is a more complete, more thoughtful version of my thoughts.

On June  29th we read Parshat Pinhas, the parsha with the greatest number of named women in the Torah. When the daughters of Zelophechad step up to claim the right to inherit property, we see the first legal ruling giving women property rights. The ruling from God, that these five women were correct, is followed by another statement:
                      And not only in this case, but in all situations when a man dies without a male heir.

So the Torah teaches us by means of the fifth hermeneutic principle of Rabbi Ishmael: A specific term followed by a general ruling is expanded to include all that is implied by that rule. That is, God creates legal precedent in this ruling.

On July 6th we read the double portion of Matot and Masei, and because we read the tri-ennial, we focused on another issue of law; the establishment of cities of refuge for one who unintentionally causes a death. It's interesting to really examine what the Torah says concerning "accidental manslaughter." Yes, the slayer can run to one of 48 cities of refuge, but then he is not 'home free' because "the community examines his statement." That is, for want of a better word, a jury of his peers decides if his intention was to harm, or if the death was the result of unforeseen circumstances. Was it premeditated? Did he strike with some implement that could reasonably be expected to cause death, or was he just throwing a rock behind him and it struck someone by accident. What was his intent? If he is cleared of murder, but he leaves the city of refuge, he may be killed by a relative of the person he killed, and there are no penalties for the "go-el ha-dahm" -- the avenger of blood.

There are two cases in the news  that speak to the issues of intent and of refuge, sanctuary. In Florida, George Zimmerman is trying to convince a jury that the death of Trayvon Martin was not intentional, could not have been foreseen, was not his fault. At the end of this process, Zimmerman will either be judged guilty of having the intent to kill, or he will be found to have acted out of some other impulse. I don't claim to know what was in his mind. Perhaps even he doesn't know what was his intent. (I know that I have been 'guilty' of compulsively eating chocolate, and I have no idea why!) But the community, or at least a small segment of it, will come to some consensus on the matter. Just as they would have almost 3,000 years ago.

In the case of Edward Snowden, the biblical notion of sanctuary is being turned on its head. Instead of trying to find a place where his actions can be examined and judged, Edward Snowden is seeking a get-out-of-jail-free card. He doesn't want to face a jury. He doesn't want to explain his intentions and have them judged.  Again, I don't claim to know what his intentions were, and I don't even know how I feel about the substance of his revelations. I only know that if he receives "sanctuary" -- a word that means sacred space -- we will never have the opportunity to examine his intent. It will be true that, if he leaves the country that gives him a place, he will be fair game. He's probably not going to have a great life, but he will never have to clarify this issue of intent.

Since this is my final Shabbat, I need to stand here, before the community that I have served, and admit that I have made mistakes. Lots of mistakes! But it was never my intent to harm, and if I have ever hurt someone by my words or my actions, I humbly apologize to you for my actions. I will remember you all, and I will carry you in my heart. Shabbat shalom.

B'Chol Yom Tamid .... (Every day, continually)

So! My last posting was about this notion that the 'containers' for prayer -- words, music, silence (or, for that matter, dance or art) -- are not the prayer itself, but only a vessel for the prayer. When I look back to the texts from the spirituality workshop I see, over and over again, the word "practice." We practice meditation. We practice our prayers. By practicing, the understanding is that we will, gradually, get better at something, that it will become a habit. But if prayer and meditation become habitual, doesn't that make them predictable? Boring? Old? I want familiarity with prayer, but I don't want to find my prayers becoming rote. In a way, I want non-habit-forming habits. I don't want to be a prayer-junkie, mindlessly jamming in prayers.

A text from Degel Machane Ephrayim -- written by a grandson of the Ba'al Shem Tov -- comes to help us renew our prayers:

If you do not believe with complete faith that the blessed Holy One renews the act of Creation each day, then you will see prayer and the mitzvot as aged and commonplace, and you will scorn the recitation of the same words every day. This is what my grandfather said regarding the verse “Do not cast me off in old age” (Ps.71:9). This means that we must not let our practice get old. Just as old age causes weakness in our limbs, because of diminishing powers and thinning of the circulation of the blood that keeps us alive, so it is with matters of the spirit. That which is old [e.g. prayer by rote] gives us neither great pleasure nor vitality. This is not the case with something new. This is the meaning of “Consider them” – the words of Torah – “each day as new,” for “they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness” (Lam. 3:23). Because “they are new every morning”, because God renews each day the acts of Creation, we experience in turn “great is our faithfulness in You”. Thus faith is the foundation of prayer and the commandments.

So, if we have faith that each day, indeed each second is a new thing, if we are clear in our vision that God renews creation one instant at a time, then our prayers are also being renewed by our act of saying them. I have been trying to pick out one or two phrases at a time in my every-day prayers, and focusing on only those words. I don't need to re-invent the prayer-wheel, so to speak! I just need to alter my relationship to what I think about the words. To renew, each day, the action of creating a relationship with God.

I promise, not every post will be quite so ... intense! But here's where I am at the moment.

The Glass is Not the Water ....

This is the first of what I think might be a series about prayer. I'm still buzzing from the meditative part of my experiences at the Cantors Assembly convention. I've always been intrigued by the Institute for Jewish Spirituality and its training for rabbis and cantors. At the CA convention I had the opportunity to spend 6 hours experiencing the mix of meditation, Chassidic texts, and self reflection that form the core of IJS programs.

My personal meditations this week have centered around the nature of prayer and the meaning of service. Tefillah and avodah are frequently used to mean the same thing; service of the heart. Prayer in the place of animal sacrifice. But they are, in fact, two different but related actions. And for my money, prayer is the more elusive of the two.

We pray with words, with music, with silence. But the words and the music and the silence are not the prayer. It's a little like a glass, one with no ripples or imperfections, filled to the brim with water. When you look at it, you see the water, but you could not have the water, you could not hold it without the glass. Prayer is something that exists beyond words or music. It lives within the intention to pray, even when that intention is subconscious. We use the words in the same way that we use the glass, as a container.

It's understandable that we might mistake one for the other. That we might put such importance on the words that we miss the prayer. Saying the correct words, saying them correctly or rapidly or with practiced proficiency, these are the outward symbols of prayer. But they are not prayer. In the synagogue I serve -- and I dare say in most synagogues -- there is a tension, maybe a competition, between the "Chick-Chock" davenners -- the ones who mutter their words as rapidly as possible on both the exhale and the intake of breath! -- and the "Every Syllable Matters" guys, who sound out every single vowel and consonant with exquisite precision, even if the davenning lasts long into the night! But it never occurs to either of these groups to stop and just 'live' with a word or a phrase and let that be the prayer they pray. They fall into the trap of imagining that the glass is the water!

Our relationship to the language of prayer could use a little re-focus, a new definition, a prayer make-over! But it requires that we believe that prayer is more than an obligation. We have to decide that prayer matters.

More on this thread next blog!

It's been a long time since I posted on this blog. Now I've decided to make it the 'home base' for my Monday Morning Message from the cantor. I make a promise not to post more than once a week, and not less than three times a month. Let's not get too crazy, right?

So! Here I am in May 2013, at the Cantors Assembly convention in NJ. It's a joyous annual gathering of hazzanim from all over the world, and we come together to learn, to be inspired by each other and by the amazing teachers -- both musical and other -- who come to teach and learn with us. I am supported by friends, greeted with love, and I greet my colleagues and friends with much love and affection. (By the way, that brings up a story about my grandmother, my mother's mother, but I'll tell that another time, I promise!)

We have the opportunity to spend four sessions, a total of 6 hours, with one teacher or one kind of practice, and I've chosen to be with Rabbis Jonathan Slater and Lisa Goldstein from the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. It's the perfect blend, for me, of text study, meditation, and shared reflection, and it has given me renewed hope, especially at this time in my life. And so I wanted to share this hiddush, this new teaching. It comes from a Chasidic collection of Torah commentaries called Me'or Eynayim -- 'light of the eyes.'

"For YHVH is a devouring fire" (Deut. 4:24) ... What does this mean? Whatever we become accustomed to ceases to make an impression on us. [so how do we wake up?] ... Torah warns, "Let the words of Torah be new to you as if they were given new today."

On the one hand we strive to become fluent in the language of prayer. Speed davenning is a competitive sport in my shul! But this text says, no! Approach each word as if it had been created fresh each day. Only by seeing each word of prayer or of Torah as newly created can we continually find meaning in it. That's my ongoing practice; to come to the text - and the music - as if it's a revelation, even though I've worked hours and weeks and years to master it!

NEXT TIME: The glass is not the water! (and other thoughts about our daily lives)

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