LJ eBulletin

Climate catastrophe and planning for the next seven years

‘Thought’ on Mikkeitz – Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

LJ E-Bulletin, 12.23

COP28, which brought together 50,370 delegates (including 2,456 fossil-fuel lobbyists), 15,063 registered NGOs, and 1,293 Media organisations, concluded on 13 December after two weeks of intense deliberations in a compromise: an agreement to transition away from fossil fuels, but no commitment to phase them out https://unfccc.int/cop28 https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2023/dec/05/record-number-of-fossil-fuel-lobbyists-get-access-to-cop28-climate-talks https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2023/dec/13/cop28-second-draft-text-of-climate-deal-calls-for-transitioning-away-from-fossil-fuels

Twenty-eight years of UN climate conferences, so far. The target for avoiding the permanent breach of the 1.5°C increase in global warming, is in just seven years’ time. What are the plans for those seven years?

Interestingly, ‘sevens’ are an important feature of the Torah, from the seventh day set apart for ceasing from work (Genesis 2:1-3), through the seven-year agricultural cycle, and the seven cycles of seven culminating in Yoveil, ‘Jubilee’ in the 50th year, a year of D’ror, ‘Liberty’, proclaimed on Yom Kippur with the blasting of the shofar (Leviticus 25).

In this week’s parashah, Mikkeitz (Genesis 41:1-44:17), we encounter the number seven in the context of the ongoing Joseph story. Pharaoh has dreamt two dreams: First, seven fat healthy-looking cows are eaten by seven lean ones, and then seven abundant ears of corn are swallowed up by seven feeble ones. On waking, Pharaoh is keen for an interpretation. His Chief Butler remembers that when he was in prison, a certain Hebrew slave interpreted his dream, as well as the dream of the Baker, who was imprisoned with them, and that the interpretations had come to pass. Fetched out of prison, Pharaoh reiterates his dreams to Joseph, who promptly explains them: ‘The dream of Pharaoh is one… / The seven good cows are seven years; and the seven good ears are seven years: the dream is one. / And the seven ill-favoured cows and the seven empty ears blasted with the east wind; they shall be seven years of famine’ (41:25-27). Going on to inform Pharaoh that he should designate someone to oversee the taking up of the produce of a fifth of the land during the seven years of plenty to provide food for the seven years of famine, Pharaoh decides to appoint Joseph to the task. The plan goes so well that there is more than enough to feed the people when crops fail, which is why the famine having extended to Canaan, Jacob decides to send his ten eldest sons down to Egypt to buy corn (Genesis 41: 1-3).

With those seven years before the 2030 deadline at the forefront of our minds, we are all too aware that not only is there no plan in place to ensure that the 1.5° Celsius limit is not breached, but that the UK government is in the process of generating policies that will mean the deadline for UK compliance is extended for another five years to 2035 https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2023/sep/20/uk-net-zero-policies-scrapped-what-do-changes-mean https://www.which.co.uk/news/article/government-delays-ban-on-new-petrol-and-diesel-cars-aS7HJ8O5JC3q

There is a particularly pressing issue in connection with the failure to meet the 2030 deadline, which our Torah portion highlights. As the climate continues to heat, the planet is increasingly beset by extreme weather events year after year, both droughts and floods. What happens to life-giving crops, like corn, maise, wheat and barley in these conditions? They are utterly destroyed; unable to thrive, either, in the baked cracked soil, or when the ground is submerged in water. The global refugee crisis is not only driven by war and persecution, it is also a product of famine, flood and destitution. The famine having extended to Canaan, Jacob’s sons went down to Egypt to buy corn from the store houses. As we contemplate impending climate catastrophe, we may well ask: Where are the store houses? Where are the plans to feed and house millions of destitute people? Closing with the death of Joseph, the focus of the last portion of the Book of Genesis, Va-y’chi (Genesis 47:28-50:26), is on Joseph’s reunion with Jacob and the whole family moving to Egypt, and settling there. Refugees from famine made welcome. But then, the Book of Exodus opens with a tale of a new Pharsaoh ‘who did not know Joseph’ (Exodus 1:8), and the fate of the ‘children of Israel’, the descendants of Jacob, changes dramatically from peaceful coexistence to slavery and genocide (Ex. 19-16). It’s a familiar story, retold at Pesach. So well-known that sometimes we forget that before they became a persecuted people, the ‘children of Israel’ lived and thrived in the land of Goshen by the Nile in Egypt for many generations in peace, prosperity and security (Genesis 47:5-6; Exodus 1:1-7). Of course, minority peoples, especially, migrants and refugees, dependent on the goodwill of the host nation, are always vulnerable to persecution. As Jews, we know this only too well. It is for this reason that as we call on the governments of the world to keep to the 2030 deadline, we must also continue to demand that climate refugees and those in flight from war and persecution are given sanctuary amongst us.

Sukkot LJ E Bulletin

Sukkot, chag ha-asif, ‘the feast of ingathering’, is the concluding autumn festival of the ‘three feet’ festivals (shalosh r’galim), when our ancestors would go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem with their offerings (Exodus 23:14-17, Deuteronomy 16:16). The first is Pesach, chag ha-matzot, ‘the feast of unleavened bread’, in the spring. The second is Shavuot/Weeks, yom ha-bikkurim, ‘the day of first fruits’, also known as chag ha-katzir, ‘the feast of the harvest’, in the early summer

In the Torah‘s accounts of the festivals, there is also another cycle of three: the sacred days of the seventh month (Leviticus 23 and Numbers 28 and 29). The cycle consists of the first day, Yom T’ru’ah, a ‘Day of Blasting’ (Num. 29.1), which later became the New Year for years (Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1.1), the tenth day, Yom Kippur, referred to in the Torah as Yom Ha-Kippurim (Lev. 23.27), and the seven-day festival of Sukkot (followed by Sh’mini Atzeret, the ‘Eighth day of Closure’), beginning on the fifteenth day of the month (Lev. 23.23-36; 39-43; Num. 29.12-39).

Sukkot is the connecting link between the two cycles. Both cycles inaugurate a time of renewal: the renewal of the Israelites at Pesach, in the first month of the year, originally known as Aviv, ‘Spring’ (Exodus 13.4); the call to renewal, individual and collective, with the ‘blasting’ of the shofar, the ram’s horn on the first day of the seventh month in the autumn (Lev. 23.24). But the two cycles resonate differently. While the ‘three feet festivals’ are rooted in the earth, in the seasons and the cycles of nature, and in the history of journeying, the sacred days of the seventh month inhabit the realm of eternity. 

The particular orientations of the two cycles are reflected in the festival that links them. Sukkot both concludes the agricultural cycle, and draws on and expands the themes of the first ten days of the seventh month. One of the ways it does this is through the reading on Sukkot of the biblical Book of Kohelet, Ecclesiastes, a work of wisdom literature that teaches about the fleeting nature of Life. The message is also conveyed more directly by the principal mitzvot of Sukkot: the sukkah and the lulav.

The two mitzvot connected with the sukkah concern ‘building’ and ‘dwelling’ in the fragile ‘hut’ that is open to the sky and to the elements (Mishnah Sukkah, chapters 1-2). Although a practical ritual, the meaning of the sukkah is complex. On the one hand, the sukkah represents the shelters used during agricultural labour in the fields once the people settled in the land beyond the Jordan, demonstrating a connection between the sukkah, and Sukkot as the late harvest festival. On the other hand, the passage in Leviticus 23 places the sukkah in the wilderness narrative: The people shall ‘dwell in sukkot so that your generations know that I made the Israelites dwell in sukkot, when I brought them out of the land of Egypt’ (Lev. 23.43). At first sight, this statement is straightforward. However, according to the Exodus narrative, the people dwelt in ‘tents’ (ohalim), not in ‘huts’ (sukkot) in the wilderness (Exodus 33.8). This suggests that the phrase in Leviticus 23.43 is a metaphorical reference to the refuge provided by God during the wilderness wandering years, a reading supported by a phrase in Isaiah concerning the future time when the presence of YHWH in cloud smoke and fire over Mount Zion will be accompanied by ‘a sukkah for a shadow in the day-time from the parching heat’ (Isaiah 4.6).

Alongside remembrance of the autumn harvest, the sukkah also signals the fragility of life, our vulnerability and dependence, which is why offering hospitality is a special obligation at Sukkot. Hospitality, especially to strangers and those in need remains a vital issue today. Traditionally, hospitality includes the invitation to seven special ‘guests’ – ushpizin (masculine) – from the Jewish past, a practice with its origins in the sixteenth-century kabbalistic mystical commentary on the Torah, the Zohar, ‘Book of Splendour’. In recent years the practice has extended to inviting seven significant ushpizot (feminine: see https://ritualwell.org/ritual/ushpizot/). Inviting people into the sukkah is both an opportunity to share the fruits of our labour with them, and a way of acknowledging the precariousness of existence, and our responsibility to offer refuge to others.

Turning to the lulav. The lulav has its origins in the reference in Leviticus to ‘taking’ on the first day of Sukkot, ‘the fruit of a tree of splendour, branches of palm trees, and boughs of thick trees, and willows of the brook’ and ‘rejoicing’ (Lev. 23.40). No reason is given in the passage in Leviticus for the particular selection of these four species. Nor are there any details of how the ‘rejoicing’ is to be conducted. The careful selection of the items, and the guidelines for shaking the lulav, made up of a palm branch, two willow and three myrtle branches, together with a citrus fruit, known as the etrog, is outlined in tractate Sukkah in the Mishnah and Talmud and in later codes (Mishnah Sukkah 3.1ff., Babylonian Talmud, Sukkah 37b-38a; Shulkhan Aruch, Orach Chayyim 651).

Although the emphasis is on practical details, it is clear from the instructions that, like the sukkah, the lulav is freighted with symbolic meaning. For example, the requirement to shake the lulav in the directions of the compass, East, South, North and West, and towards the heavens and towards the earth, is in recognition of ‘the One to Whom everything belongs’ (Babylonian Talmud Sukkah 37b). Holding the lulav and etrog together with our hands, and shaking it in the prescribed manner, provides a tangible reminder to give thanks for our material blessings and the bounty of the Earth. At the same time, shaking the lulav reinforces our awareness that we live our finite material lives in the context of the infinite and eternal, in which context everything passes, however hard we grasp

Embodying Judaism: 

A commentary on the Torah portion, Tazri’a-M’tzora 

LJ E-Bulletin, 04.23

Jewish practice, rooted in Jewish teaching, is visceral. It concerns what Jews do with our bodies from the kitchen to the bedroom, how we mark our homes, what we wear, and how we celebrate Shabbat and the festivals with food, rituals and song.

The Book of Leviticus opens with lists of sacrifices of animals and grains cooked or burnt on the Temple altar that was at the centre of Jewish life for a thousand years. It then turns to rituals surrounding the consecration of the officiating priesthood, creatures that can and cannot be eaten, and a ban on the eating of wild animals and those that die naturally. This week’s double parashah, Tazri’a-M’tzora, begins with women in childbirth, and proceeds to skin eruptions and house-wall eruptions, both described as tza’ra’at, which is usually translated as ‘leprosy’. The double portion concludes with seminal emissions and menstrual blood. The disruptive impact of each of these – childbirth, eruptions and secretions – is resolved with ritual, including immersion in water.

The first five portions of Leviticus bring the reader into an ancient realm of life and worship that may feel quite alien, especially to a Liberal Jew. It is for this reason that Liberal Judaism tends to focus on those parts of Leviticus that feel more relatable to contemporary society: the ethical and social justice rules of K’doshim (Leviticus 19) and B’har (Leviticus 25), and the biblical festival calendar set out in Emor (Leviticus 23). Nevertheless, I think a case can be made for Liberal Jews finding ways of making meaning for our Jewish lives out of the apparently less spiritually edifying parts of Leviticus, not least, the messy areas of human experience that constitute the content of Tazri’a-M’tzora.

We start with the acknowledgement that we humans, with our wonderful intellectual capacities that separate us from the other creatures, nevertheless, like the other creatures, inhabit bodies that encompass bodily functions and experience ailments and dysfunctions. Tazri’a-M’tzora reminds us to include our bodies in our religious lives.

This does not entail adopting the patriarchal worldview of the Torah. As soon as we start reading Tazri’a, which opens at Leviticus chapter 12, we are confronted with the gender binary (12.1-5):

The Eternal spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Speak to the Israelites saying: when a woman in childbirth bears a male, she shall be unclean seven days; shall be unclean as at the time of her menstruation. / On the eighth day the flesh of his foreskin shall be circumcised. / She shall remain in a state of blood purification for 33 days: she shall not touch any consecrated being, nor enter the sanctuary until her period of purification is completed. / If she bears a female, she shall be unclean two weeks as during her menstruation, and shall remain in a state of blood purification for 66 days.

The differences between the strictures concerning the births of males and females are striking. The mother’s state of ritual impurity following the birth of her baby was double when she bore a daughter: 7 days/33 days for a male; 14 days/66 days for a female. In giving birth to a male, a woman brought a child into the world, who did not share her gender. Hence, following seven days of ritual impurity, on the eighth day he was circumcised and so initiated into the society of males, whose destiny he would share once he reached adulthood. Circumcision itself may be seen as a form of cultural mimicry: the removal of the foreskin, causing the male generative organ to bleed, just as the female bleeds naturally, both when menstruating and in childbirth. With circumcision, the binary opposition of male as bearer of culture versus female as embodiment of nature is reinforced. By contrast, when a mother gave birth to a female, she brought into the world a potential menstruating and child-bearing woman like herself, hence, the double indemnity.

Significantly, the practice of circumcision has been a feature of Liberal Judaism since its inception. Just as significant, in the past forty years, Jewish feminism has led the way in reconstructing the ancient practice of ritual immersion in water in the context of the lives of Jews today (see: https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/mikveh and https://ritualwell.org/ritual/mikveh/). In fact, influenced by Jewish Feminism, a progressive mikveh initiative called ‘The Wellspring Project’, launched in 2018, ‘aims to build a centre for wellbeing in Barnet’ that is ‘a welcoming, inclusive and non-judgemental space for people of all ages, genders, faiths or non-religious beliefs’ that ‘will promote the use of Jewish ritual such as immersion as part of our well-being, good mental health, recovery, and for moments of celebration.’ In addition to ‘immersion pools’, the centre ‘will include rooms for talking and complimentary therapies and groups’ (see: https://www.liberaljudaism.org/2022/03/find-out-more-about-the-wellspring-project/ and https://www.wellspringuk.org/).

During the early days of the Women’s Liberation Movement, the Boston Women’s Health Book Collective, produced Our Bodies Ourselves. A Book By and For Women (New England Free Press). I still have a copy of the original 1970 edition. A self-help manual, it has been republished many times in the past 53 years. I think the moment has arrived for Liberal Jews to embrace the deep wisdom underlying Tazri’a-M’tzora: that living our lives as Jews, entails engaging our bodies, and acknowledging every aspect of our embodied humanity in our Jewish practice.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Joseph and their life of many genders: LJ Thought on Va-yeishev – Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Joseph and their life of many genders: LJ Thought on Va-yeishev – Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Parental favouritism is a central theme of the Torah narratives about our ancestors and comes to the fore with the birth of the twins, Esau and Jacob, to Rebecca and Isaac (Genesis 19:22-26). Isaac favoured Esau and Rebecca favoured Jacob. (25:28). Unfortunately, once a father and blessed with twelve sons and a daughter, Jacob also had his favourite: Joseph. But as we see when the Joseph story opens, Joseph was not just the favourite child; Joseph was utterly different from Jacob’s other sons. Further: Joseph’s difference centred on a characteristic that takes the story beyond the theme of parental favouritism into the realm of the beyond: gender nonconformity – or, to use more contemporary language: non-binary gender fluidity.

As we read at Genesis chapter 37, which is where parashat Va-yeishev opens, the beautiful coat Joseph received as a gift from Jacob, k’tonet passim, a ‘coat’ that reached to the ‘palms’ (37:3), signalled more than Joseph’s special status in Jacob’s affections. K’tonet passim was also the garment of a princess. In the Second Book of Samuel, when Tamar, the daughter of King David was assaulted by her half-brother, Amnon, we read that: ‘She was wearing a k’tonet passim, for virgin princesses were dressed thus in olden times’ (II Sam. 13:18-19). Significantly in the biblical narratives, Tamar and Joseph alone are dressed in a k’tonnet passim.

So, Joseph was dressed like a royal virgin princess. And his ‘princesses’ garment’ also provided a visual representation of Joseph’s unique qualities. Joseph wasn’t a shepherd like their brothers; Joseph was a dreamer, whose dreams revealed an exceptional calling. Joseph dreamt that the family were all binding sheaves in the field, when suddenly Joseph’s sheaf stood up and remained upright, and then their sheaves gathered round and bowed down to it. Joseph dreamt that the sun, the moon, and eleven stars were bowing down to them (Gen. 37:5-9). Jacob was angry and bewildered by Joseph’s dreams (37:10). He was also oblivious of the feelings of his older sons towards his favourite child – which is why Jacob sent Joseph on an errand to go and see how they were, as they tended the flocks (37:12-14).

It is hardly surprising that Joseph’s older brothers took the opportunity to wreak their revenge on the princesses’-garment-wearing-dreamer-favourite of their father. If it hadn’t been for the actions of the eldest brother, Reuben, they would have killed Joseph. As it was, the fourth eldest, Judah came up with a plan of selling Joseph to a travelling caravan of merchants, who took Joseph down to Egypt and sold him to Potiphar, a courtier and chief steward of Pharaoh (37:18-36).

What happened in Egypt reinforces the message about the dreamer’s unique capacities. Indeed, we read that God brought blessing and prosperity to Potiphar’s household ‘for Joseph’s sake’ (39:5). However, it was Joseph’s ability to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams that got Joseph out of prison (41:39 ff.) after being wrongfully arrested for attempting to sexually assault Potiphar’s wife (39:13-20), and resulted in Joseph becoming Pharaoh’s chief vizier, overseeing the collection of grain during the seven years of plenty in readiness for the seven years of famine to follow (41:46 ff.).

Joseph was special. But it was the incident with Potiphar’s wife that provides another way of understanding Joseph’s specialness (39:7ff.). On the one hand, the tale at this point simply conveys the vulnerability of Joseph the ‘Hebrew slave’ in the house of his Egyptian master – and mistress. And so, the reader understands why Joseph ran away, leaving their simple garment (beged) in her hand, when she kept pleading with Joseph on successive occasions to ‘lie’ with her (39:7-12). On the other hand, this story within a story, opens by saying how ‘beautiful’ Joseph was – literally, ‘beautiful’ (39:6): Va-y’hi Yosef y’feih to’ar vifeih mareh – ‘Joseph was beautiful of form and beautiful in appearance’.

At first glance, the reference to Joseph’s ‘beauty’ simply acts as a preamble, explaining why ‘his master’s wife cast her eyes upon Joseph’ (39:7). But this phrase is more than a statement about Joseph’s attractiveness; it links Joseph directly with their mother, Rachel, whom Jacob had fallen in love with at first-sight because she was so beautiful (Gen. 29:17): v’rachel hay’tah y’fat to’ar vifat mareh – ‘Rachel was beautiful of form and beautiful in appearance’.

Hebrew is an entirely gendered language. The only difference between this phrase about Rachel and the later one about Joseph is that the verbs, nouns and adjectives associated with Rachel are in the ‘feminine’ gender and those associated with Joseph are in the ‘masculine’ gender. But the difference in gender only serves to underline the similarity between the two phrases: Joseph was ‘beautiful’ as Rachel was ‘beautiful’.

So, what do we make of Joseph? After a spell in prison, the exceptional dreamer who wore a princesses’ garment and was utterly beautiful, was elevated by Pharaoh to be his second-in-command, dressed as an Egyptian overlord, given a new name – Tzaph’nat Panei’ach – married to As’nat, the daughter of Poti-phera, Priest of On (41:39-45), and became the father of Ephraim and Manasseh (41:50-52). Joseph wore a variety of different garments and many guises, transcending a simplistic understanding of who ‘Joseph’ was. Joseph: an exception that proves the rule – and yet, also a model and exemplar of another gender-fluid way of being human; which brings me to Joseph’s name: Yoseph – based on the Hebrew root, Yud Sameich Pei, to ‘add’. As we try to make sense of Joseph, binary gender categories of ‘male’ and ‘female’ just don’t work. Perhaps, what we need to do in order to encompass the complexity of Joseph and acknowledge fully Joseph’s qualities is add a dimension of humanity between male and female. And so, may we learn from the story of the one who was Yoseph to recognise that life transcends our attempts to impose binary gender definitions – and may we also acknowledge all the Yosephs in our midst.

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‘We need a Sabbath for the Earth’: A commentary on B’har (Leviticus 25:1-26:2).

LJ Thought for the Week: B’har

Life is full of paradoxes. One particular paradox is highlighted in this week’s Torah portion, parashat B’har (Leviticus 25:1-26:2). There we learn that we live in cycles of seven years, and that in the seventh year, there should be a Sabbath for the land (25:2-7). We also learn that following seven cycles of seven years, that is, after 49 years, the 50th year should be set apart (25:8-12):

You shall count for yourselves seven Sabbaths of years, seven times seven years; 49 years. / Then you shall make the shofar blast in the seventh month, on the tenth day of the month, the Day of Atonement; you shall sound the shofar throughout your land. / And you shall set apart [v’kiddashtem] the 50th year and proclaim d’ror throughout the land for all of its inhabitants. It shall be a yoveil for you: each person shall return to their holding and each person shall return to their family. / The 50th year shall be a yoveil for you: you shall not sow, neither shall you reap the after-growth or harvest the untrimmed vines. / For it shall be a yoveil. It shall be set apart [kodesh] for you. You may only eat produce directly from the field.

I haven’t translated three words in this passage: shofar; d’ror; and yoveil. Of these three, shofar is probably the most familiar: ‘horn’; usually understood as the horn of a ram. D’ror, is translated in different ways: ‘release’; ‘liberty’. It actually means that which is ’flowing’ or ‘runs freely’. In a passage in Exodus chapter 30, dealing with the spices to be used in connection with the offerings in the oheil mo’eid, Tent of Meeting, there is a reference to ‘500 weight of flowing myrrh – mor d’ror (30:22).

Yoveil is always translated as ‘Jubilee’. But what exactly does ‘Jubilee’ mean? In fact, yoveil is another word for ‘horn’: a ‘cornet’. But to get to the heart of its meaning, we need to check out its root: Yud Beit Lameid. Found, verbally, in causative constructions [Hiphil and Hophal], Yud Beit Lameid means to ‘conduct’ or ‘bear along’. Nouns related to yoveil reflect this meaning: yuval, is a ‘stream’ in Jeremiah 17:8; and y’vul, means ‘produce [of soil]’ at the beginning of next week’s parashah, B’chukkotai: ‘I will give you your rains in their season, so that the land shall yield its produce [y’vulah] and the trees of the field their fruit’ (Leviticus 26:4).

So, we can see an intimate connection between yoveil and d’ror: both words suggest dynamic movement, flow, growth. Just as streams flow, and crops that started life as seeds spring out of the soil, so the 50th year is a time of ‘release’. The shared underlying meanings of yoveil and d’ror remind us that although it appears that Life is lived in nature’s endless cycles, forever repeating themselves, week after week, season after season, Life is also about inexorable movement forwards – from birth to death.

But of course, the message of d’ror-yoveil does not just concern the paradoxical realities of Life. We learn that we are called to actively break out of the cycles of seven and proclaim d’ror and a 50th year that is a yoveil. ‘Release’ is only possible if we make it happen. Although the Sabbatical year was observed historically and continues to be observed in Israel today, there is no evidence that there has ever been a year of ‘release’ after seven cycles of seven. The reality is, then and now, that caught up as we are in the repeating rhythms of life, despite the fact that as time passes the final inevitable destination of our lives gets closer, the possibility of breaking free eludes us.

And it’s no good arguing that d’ror-yoveil is not possible because we have lost count of the seven cycles of seven. As the millennium approached, picking up on the biblical concept of yoveil in Leviticus chapter 25, ‘Jubilee 2000’ a campaign aimed at cancelling the debt of poorer counties gained momentum. As it happens, the campaign is relaunching this year (2022) as ‘Debt Justice’ (https://www.advocacyinternational.co.uk/featured-project/jubilee-2000

https://jubileedebt.org.uk/). In the USA, a similar ‘Freedom’ Jubilee was planned by radical Jews to mark the 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence in 1976 (see God-Wrestling by Arthur Waskow, chapter 11, ‘Beyond Marx and Buddha: The Jubilee’, Schocken Books, NY, 1978) and there is, currently, another Jubilee campaign in the US (https://jubileecampaign.org/ ).

We don’t need to know where we are in the seven cycles of seven to launch a year of ‘release’ campaign linked to a significant forthcoming anniversary – or deadline. As it happens, the current year (2021-22) is a Sabbatical year. Perhaps, the 2030 tipping point in the climate crisis – the year after this new cycle of seven – might focus minds. And perhaps, Liberal Judaism, could lead the way over the next seven years in framing that tipping point as an opportunity to break out of the cycle of continuing ecological and climate devastation and proclaim a year of release for the Earth and all its inhabitants.

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Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

May 2022 – Iyyar 5782

Bo and a Theology of Intervention – Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah – LJ Thought for the Week

This year, January 27th will be a complex moment: both, International Holocaust Memorial Day and Tu Bishvat, the New Year for trees – so, a day for commemorating the horrors of the Sho’ah and a day for celebrating new life.

On the surface, the contradiction could not be greater. But when we turn to the Torah readings that precede January 27th, we find clues that bridge the chasm between death and life in the tale of the Exodus from Egypt.

More of this in a moment. Why was January 27th chosen as the date for the nations of the world to commemorate the Sho’ah? After all, Kristallnacht, the ‘night of the broken glass’, 9th-10th

November 1938, when the Nazi persecution of the Jews of Europe turned to violence in Germany and Austria, seems a more immediate choice? Alternatively, one might argue that once the Nazi top brass agreed on ‘the final solution’ at the Wannsee conference in January 1942[1], each and every day during the next four years until the Nazis were defeated in April 1945 was a day of unimaginable torment.

What made January 27, 1945 distinctive was that it was the day that the Red Army entered Auschwitz and liberated the camp. In other words, it was the day that marked the beginning of the end. So, perhaps, compared to all the other possible days of commemoration, from 9th November 1938 onwards, 27th January might be seen as the day when the flame of hope was rekindled. Just as – blossoming almond blossom trees in Israel apart – Tu Bishvat marks not the spring, but the hope that spring is on the way, January 27, 1945, might be understood as a sign that liberation was on the way.

If we turn to the Exodus narrative: Long before the plagues finally overwhelmed Egypt, reaching a crescendo of destruction in this week’s parashah, Bo (Exodus 10:1-13:16) which recounts the last three plagues – locusts, darkness, and the death of the first-born – the seeds of the challenge to the oppression of the Hebrews were sown in acts of human courage and defiance; the impulse to intervene and challenge injustice. Hence, the courage and defiance of the midwives, Shifrah and Pu’ah, who refused to obey Phaorah’s command to kill the new-born Hebrew baby boys (1:15-21); hence, the sense of outrage that propelled Moses to kill a taskmaster that was beating a slave (2:11-12).

Nevertheless, the focus of the Exodus narrative in the Torah, amplified later in the Haggadah, is on the role of God in liberating the slaves. When Moses encountered the Eternal One at the burning bush that was not consumed by the flames, the Eternal said to him: ‘I have surely seen the affliction of My people who are in Egypt and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their pains; / and I shall come down to deliver them out of the hand of Egypt …’ (Sh’mot, Ex. 3:7-8a). At the beginning of the next parashah, the encounter continues with a declaration that includes four promises of redemption: ‘I am the Eternal and I will bring you out from under the burdens of Egypt, and I will deliver you from there bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgements, and I will take you me as a people and I will be your God’ (Va-eira, Ex. 6:6-7a). And then, when the Israelites were unable to hear the promises of freedom that Moses brought to them because the ‘harsh bondage’ had caused kotzer ru’ach, a ‘shortness of spirit’ (6:9), the ten plagues that followed conveyed a more potent message. Finally, when the ex-slaves arrived at Mount Sinai at the beginning of the third month following their departure from Egypt, another dramatic declaration expresses the accomplishments of the all-powerful God in poetic language: ‘You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, and how I bore you on Eagle’s wings and brought you to Myself’ (Yitro, Ex. 19:4).

But what about the human actors in the story? God is not a ‘Superman’ with ‘a mighty hand and an outstretched arm’ – or an Eagle. God works through people: ‘But the midwives feared God and did not do as a king of Egypt had spoken’ (1:17) Another way of putting it is that being created b’tzelem Elohim, ‘in the image of God’ (B’reishit, Genesis 1:27), means that each human being is tasked to ensure that all human beings are treated as images of God. We are meant to intervene to challenge oppression and injustice, just as Shifrah and Pu’ah intervened, just as Moses intervened. While at the beginning of B’reishit, the Book of Genesis, we encounter a theology of Guardianship expressed in the responsibility of the first human to ‘tend’ and ‘keep’ the garden (Gen. 2:15), Sh’mot, the Book of Exodus confronts us with a theology of Intervention. When we look at the world today, there are so many sites of injustice and oppression. Thinking of the horrors of the Sho’ah, the plight of the Uighur Muslims, in particular, held as slaves in concentration camps, tortured and compelled to submit to re-education[2], demands our concern and our intervention. A cultural genocide – and a full-blown genocide in-the-making if the horrific treatment of the Uighurs is allowed to continue unchecked. Fortunately, campaigns have got off the ground, so we have an opportunity to participate and make a contribution[3]. As we read parashat Bo this Shabbat and mark Holocaust Memorial Day and Tu Bishvat on the 27th, let’s embrace a theology of intervention as Liberal Jews and make a commitment to act.

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  1. https://www.hmd.org.uk/resource/20-january-1942-wannsee-conference/ ↑

  2. https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/china-uighur-muslim-detention-camp-unhrc-xi-jinping-a8983971.html

    https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/sep/24/china-has-built-380-internment-camps-in-xinjiang-study-finds ↑

  3. https://campaignforuyghurs.org/ https://www.saveuighur.org/ https://jewishnews.timesofisrael.com/19-rabbis-among-uk-faith-leaders-calling-for-justice-for-uyghurs/ ↑

Our Foremothers: A Commentary of parashat Chayyei Sarah

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah – LJ E-Bulletin, November 2020 /Cheshvan 5781

25 years ago, the publication of Siddur Lev Chadash was a huge milestone. After two decades of Jewish feminism, the new prayer book of Liberal Judaism put gender equality at the top of the agenda. The main difference in this respect between the new siddur and Service of the Heart published in 1967 was the use of an inclusive translation of the Hebrew throughout. When it came to the language of God, for example, gone were the words ‘Lord’, ‘King’ and ‘Father’; replaced by ‘Eternal One’, ‘Sovereign’ and ‘Parent’.

The changes in the Hebrew were minimal by contrast, but one change was extremely significant. In the Avot, ‘Fathers’, the first paragraph of the T’fillah, the Central Prayer, in came the ‘Immahot’, the ‘Mothers’. So, after the traditional recitation of Elohei Avraham, elohei Yitzchak veilohei Ya’akov, ‘God of Abraham, God of Isaac and God of Jacob’: Elohei Sarah, elohei Rivkah, elohei Racheil veilohei Leah, ‘God of Sarah, God of Rebekah, God of Rachel and God of Leah’ (Siddur Lev Chadash, LJ, 1995, p.97).

We should note the decision to add the Foremothers after the Forefathers, rather than list them by generation. The translation in the American Reconstructionist prayerbook published in 1994 also puts the Patriarchs first, but the Foremothers appear alongside the Forefathers, and with the omission of the word ‘and’, they stand in their own right (Kol Haneshamah. The Reconstructionist Press, 1994, pp. 90-91):

God of Abraham God of Sarah

God of Isaac         God of Rebekah

God of Jacob         God of Rachel

God of Leah

Significantly, in both versions Leah is mentioned after Rachel, although she was the elder sister and the first to bear a child (Va-yeitzei, Gen. 29:31-32).

Gender equality is a contemporary value. The Genesis narratives of our ancestors reflect a patriarchal culture, in which males and females were not treated equally, and married women’s lives were limited to their roles as wives and mothers. When Sarah couldn’t conceive, her maidservant, Hagar became her surrogate (Lech L’cha, Gen. 16:1-4). Similarly, when Jacob’s favourite wife Rachel was unable to conceive, her maidservant, Bilhah became her surrogate. Two of Jacob’s sons, Dan and Naphtali were the sons of Bilhah (Va-yeitzei, Gen. 30:1-8). Rachel’s older sister Leah, on the other hand, was fertile. However, when she stopped conceiving temporarily after bearing Reuben, Simeon, Levi and Judah, Leah made a similar arrangement with her maidservant, Zilpah, who mothered Jacob’s sons, Gad and Asher (30:9-13).

Since Bilhah and Zilpah mothered between them four of Jacob’s twelve sons, perhaps, we should also include them in the blessing of the Avot v’Immahot? The argument against would be that the blessing refers in each generation to the ‘God of … ‘ and there is no evidence that Bilhah and Zilpah had a relationship with God. But then, there is no evidence that Sarah, Rachel or Leah had a relationship with God, either. Indeed, we learn that Rachel hid her father Laban’s idols when Jacob’s household was leaving to go back home after his twenty-year exile (Gen. 31:19 and 30-35). Rebekah was the exception. We read that when she was pregnant and felt a struggle within her womb, ‘she went to enquire of the Eternal One – Va-teilech lidrosh Adonai – and the Eternal One responded explaining that ‘Two nations are in your womb … and the elder shall serve the younger’ (Tol’dot, Gen. 25:22-23). Armed with this knowledge, Rebekah took action to ensure that second-born twin, Jacob, would be heir to the blessing due to the firstborn son (Gen. 27:1ff.)

So, what about our first Matriarch, Sarah? This week’s parashah, Chayyei Sarah opens with her death (Gen. 23:1). Of course, Sarah’s role in ensuring the succession from Abraham to Isaac was crucial. Once she became pregnant and gave birth to Isaac, she persuaded Abraham against his wishes to expel Hagar and Ishmael, the son Hagar had borne with Abraham (Va-yeira, Gen. 21:9-11). But reading of Sarah’s death, we are reminded that her life was focused around the imperative to bear a male heir. In everything else, she either followed Avram’s lead as her husband, or disappeared from the narrative altogether. And so, when Avram responded to God’s call and decided to leave his home, the text says simply, ‘Then Avram took Sarai his wife’ (Lech L’cha, Gen. 12:5). When their journey brought them into Egypt and Avram sensed danger, he told Sarai to pretend to be his sister (12:13). Even when the mysterious messengers came to the door of the tent and announced that Sarah would bear a son, it was Abraham who organised the hospitality, while Sarah listened in the background and laughed to herself at the prospect of becoming a mother at her great age (Va-yeira, Gen. 18:10-15).

Chayyei Sarah opens with the words ‘The life of Sarah was 127 years… And Sarah died in Kiryat Arba, that is Hebron’ (Gen. 24:1-2). Towards the end of the parashah, having secured a wife for Isaac and after marrying again, we read of Abraham’s death at the age of 175 (25:7-8). There is nothing remarkable about the passing of our first Matriarch and Patriarch – except for two things; one implicit and one explicit. Sarah’s death is recorded immediately after the binding of Isaac (Va-yeira, Gen. 22). This juxtaposition should make us wonder about the connection between the two events. Was Sarah consulted, when Abraham went off to sacrifice Isaac? And then, when Abraham died, we read that ‘Isaac and Ishmael his sons buried him in the cave of Machpelah’ (25:9). Sarah’s sole act of volition was to force the two brothers apart, but nevertheless, they remained brothers and shared the sacred duty of burying their father.

So, should the first blessing of the T’fillah reflect more closely what the Torah narratives tell us about our Foremothers and Forefathers? No. While our liturgy connects us to our inheritance, it is also an expression of our values as Liberal Jews today of all genders, committed to equality and inclusion.

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Forgetting Miriam: A commentary on Parashat Chukkat

What do we remember? What do we forget? Memory is tricky. We don’t so much remember what happened to us as tell stories of our past. It’s not that we are making it up. When we weave our tales out of the fabric of our past lives, we are making meaning; trying to make sense of where we have come from and where we are going – and, most crucially: who we are.

What is true for individuals, is also true for communities. When we open the Torah, for example, we find the stories that have been transmitted orally and then recorded. Of course, telling tales is not the same thing as writing them down. Recording is a more deliberate act. As progressive Jews, who do not believe that the Torah is literally the word of God dictated by the Eternal to Moses at Mount Sinai, we have a responsibility to consider how the Torah got to be written. Then, of course, after the writing, comes the editing. Critical scholarship of the Bible has revealed that the Bible was recorded and redacted (edited) over hundreds of years.

Until forty years ago, biblical scholarship, like scholarship in general, was mostly a male enterprise. Since then, the work of women rabbis and feminist biblical scholars in general, has revealed that whoever was involved in telling tales of the past, recording and redacting was mostly in the hands of men.

This is nowhere more evident than in the story of Miriam, which concludes in this week’s parashah, Chukkat, after a 38-year lacuna – gap – in the narrative (Numbers 20:1):

The Israelites, the whole congregation, came into the wilderness of Tzin, in the first month; and the people dwelt in Kadesh; and Miriam died there, and was buried there.

The first month – that is the first month of the fortieth year. Thirty-eight years have elapsed since the story of the rebellion of Korach, Datan, Aviram and On related in last week’s parashah, and this is all that the Torah has to say about the death of the eldest of the three sibling leaders of the Exodus!

The brevity of the passage is made all the more apparent when we compare it with the eight-verse account of the death of Aaron (Numbers 20:22-29), which concludes (20:29):

When all the congregation saw that Aaron had expired, they wept for Aaron thirty days, the whole house of Israel.

Similarly, when Moses dies (Deuteronomy 34:8):

The Israelites wept for Moses in the plains of Moab, thirty days.

So, what about Miriam? Why no mention of a thirty-day mourning rite for her? Significantly, no sooner has Miriam died and been buried, then we read in the very next verse (Numbers 20:2):

There was no water for the congregation: so, they assembled themselves together against Moses and against Aaron.

The rabbinic sages, puzzled by the absence of any reference of mourning rites for Miriam, made a connection between these two events: the death of Miriam and the lack of water. From this crucial conjunction emerges the rabbinic legend of the Miriam’s Well that sustained the people, providing them with the water they needed to survive, throughout the forty years that they wandered in the wilderness. (Talmud, Ta’anit (9a):

Israel had a well in the desert in Miriam’s merit.

The sages filled in the missing pieces of the Miriam story, and brought out the significance of the role she played as a leader. And so, noting that when her name is mentioned for the first time, she is also called a prophet, n’vi’ah (Exodus 15:19-20), they found evidence of Miriam’s powers of prophecy in the first Torah tale where she is introduced as the sister of the baby Moses, assisting their mother in saving his life (Exodus 2:1-10) (Talmud, M’gillah 14a).

However, the sages were limited by their own imagination, and failed to do justice to the key text at the heart of the Torah’s account of Miriam; Numbers chapter 12, which begins (12:1-2):

Miriam spoke [Va-t’dabbeir] – and Aaron – against Moses because of the Cushite woman whom he had married: for he had married a Cushite woman. / And they said [Va-yom’ru] ‘Has the Eternal indeed spoken only by Moses? Has God not spoken also to us?’ And the Eternal heard it.

Both Miriam and Aaron had reason to be aggrieved concerning their baby brother’s special relationship with the Eternal. However, since Aaron already had a significant leadership role, we can imagine that as the marginalised elder sister, Miriam had even more reason to object to the pre-eminence of Moses. Certainly, the last verses of Numbers 12 make it clear that Miriam alone was punished – with a temporary plague of leprosy (:9-10). But the opening Hebrew word of Numbers 12 suggests that it was principally Miriam who objected to Moses marrying the Cushite woman: Va-t’dabbeir – ‘She spoke’.

So, why did Miriam object? Significantly, there is no mention in the Torah of Miriam being married – making her unlike any other female character in the Torah. Uncomfortable with her unmarried status, the rabbis married Miriam off to Caleb (Sh’mot Rabbah 1:17), who together with Joshua, did not join in the rebellion following the tribal leaders’ reconnoitre of the land (Numbers 13:30 and 14:6-9).

Moses was already married, of course, to Tzipporah, the daughter of the priest of Midian (Exodus 2:15-22). For the rabbis, the Cushite woman mentioned in Numbers 12 was Tzipporah (Talmud, Mo’eid Katan 17b). But that doesn’t explain Miriam’s belated objection. Perhaps, Miriam objected to Moses’ marriage because the Cushite woman whom he had married, was her woman?

We can only speculate. Indeed, taking our cue from the sages who created tales in response to gaps and puzzles in the text, the 38-year lacuna in the Torah narrative invites us to use our imaginations. Perhaps, the gap in the record was motivated by the need to censor the story of Miriam’s relationship with the Cushite woman? Certainly, when we assess everything that is related about Miriam in the Torah – just 31 verses in all – we are left with the curious fact that the eldest of the sibling leaders of the Exodus and wilderness wanderings barely gets a mention.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

LJ E-Bulletin

June 2020 / Tammuz 5780

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The Challenge of Freedom: A Commentary on B’shallach LJ e-Bulletin February 2020

Did our ancestors flee the house of bondage or were they pushed? The parashah, B’shallach opens with the words: ‘It came to pass when Pharaoh sent the people away … – Va-y’hi b’shallach Paroh et ha-am …’ (Exodus 13:17). B’shallach is often translated as ‘let go’, but the plain meaning of the Hebrew root, Shin – Lamed – Chet in this intensive active (pi’el) form is to ‘send away’. The verb used in last week’s parashah, Bo, is even clearer. We read: ‘They baked unleavened cakes of the dough that they brought out of Egypt, for it was not leavened; because they were thrust out of Egypt …. ki gor’shu mi-mitzrayim …’ (Exodus 12:39). The Hebrew root Gimmel – Reish – Shin means to ‘cast out’, and in this intensive passive form (pu’al): to be thrust out.

The language of both these verses suggests that the slaves were not actively engaged in their liberation. This impression is further reinforced by the scene at the shore of the Reed Sea. With the Egyptians pursuing them, the slaves were overcome with fear (14:10-12). Terrified of dying in the wilderness they cried out: ‘It was better for us to serve the Egyptians, then that we should die in the wilderness’ (:12). But then the Eternal commanded Moses to lift his rod so that the waters parted and the Israelites walked through the passage created by the walls of water on either side (:21-22).

It seems that the slaves were not exactly enamoured at the prospect of freedom. Indeed, as we discover in the very next scene following the crossing of the Sea of Reeds, the deprivations of the desert terrified them and they looked back longingly on the security and stability they had experienced in Egypt. We read that after a three-day journey in the wilderness, finding no water, they arrived at Marah, so called because the waters there were ‘bitter ‘– and the people immediately began to murmur against Moses. Their next stop took them to Elim and twelve springs of water, but still as they journeyed on into the wilderness of Tzin, a month into their trek through the wilderness, once again they murmured in discontent (16:3): ‘Would we had died by the hand of the Eternal in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots, when we ate bread to the full; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.’

What a miserable lot! Interestingly, rabbinic commentary offers an alternative version of events at the Rea of Reeds. We read in Midrash Mechilta on 14:22: ‘When Israel stood at the edge of the sea, each one said: ‘I will not be the first to enter’ … While they stood there deliberating, Nachshon ben Amminadav [who was a chieftain of the tribe of Judah] leapt first into the sea and plunged into its waves. Midrash Sh’mot [Exodus] Rabbah 21:10 goes further: ‘The sea did not part for them until they had waded into it up to their noses; only then did it become dry land.’

Ruth Sohn’s poem, which focuses on Miriam standing at the shore of the Reed Sea, underlines this very different presentation of the slaves: ‘To take the first step – / To sing a new song –/ Is to close one’s eyes / and dive / into unknown waters. / For a moment knowing nothing risking all – / But then to discover / The waters are friendly / The ground is firm (Kol Haneshamah, Shabbbat Vehagim, The Reconstructionist Press, Wyncote, Penn., 1994, pp.768-9).

It is not easy to be free. It takes courage and determination ‘to take the first step … and dive into unknown waters.’ We all know this. Anyone who has left the security of home, knows that the longing to be free can be overwhelmed by fear of the unknown beyond the familiar walls that contain us. No one leaves their home unless they have developed a powerful sense of personal security that sustains them wherever they go, or, they feel they have no other choice, or, as is the case with so many refugees today, their homes have been shattered by violence and war.

Freedom is so complex. There is freedom from and freedom to, freedom granted and freedom grasped, external freedom and internal freedom, collective freedom and personal freedom.

From its inception at the dawn of the twentieth century, Liberal Judaism in Britain embraced modernity’s gift of this complex bundle of freedoms by responding to Lily Montagu’s call ‘to satisfy the needs of the age’ (‘Spiritual Possibilities of Judaism Today’ Jewish Quarterly Review, 1899) and make sense of our Jewish inheritance in ways that are relevant and meaningful for contemporary life.

One of the principal vehicles of this commitment to relevance and meaning has been the prayer book. Since the first Liberal Judaism prayer book was published in 1902 under the auspices of the Jewish Religious Union, every twenty-five years or so, a new edition is fashioned that reflects our contemporary needs. And so it is with the new prayer book that is in the process of being created: Siddur Shirah Chadashah, ‘Siddur of a New Song’; the title recalling that moment of freedom at the shore of the sea, when as the g’ulah – the blessing of redemption that follows the Sh’ma – expresses it, our ancestors sang ‘a new song’.

Since Siddur Lev Chadash was published in 1995, LJ congregations have become increasingly accessible to people with diverse backgrounds and life situations attracted by Liberal Judaism’s commitment to equality and justice, compassion and hospitality. A new century calls for new words to reflect our transformed reality. At the biennial in May, responsive to the broad range of feedback we have received, we shall be launching the second draft of the new multi-vocal siddur, which will also include an Erev Shabbat service. Whatever your personal experience of liturgy, we invite you to dip your toes or to dive in – and to sing new songs (and old ones) with us.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

LJ E-Bulletin, February 2020/Sh’vat 5780

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OBSERVING YOM KIPPUR AS LIBERAL JEWS

Observing Yom Kippur as Liberal Jews

What is the Liberal Jewish approach to Yom Kippur? Traditional observance of Yom Kippur is based on rabbinic interpretation of the command found in the Torah that ‘you should afflict yourselves – v’innitem et-nafshoteikhem – ‘on the tenth day of the seventh month’, ‘from evening to evening’ (Leviticus 23:27-32). This affliction is understood according to the halakhah (Jewish law) in terms of five prohibitions (Mishnah Yoma 8:1)

1. Not to eat or drink

2. Not to bathe

3. Not to anoint

4. Not to wear leather shoes

5. Not to have sexual relations

Since Liberal Judaism prioritises ethical over ritual teachings, Liberal Jews may question whether or not all these prohibitions are applicable to our observance of Yom Kippur as Liberal Jews. While most Liberal Jews probably adopt the first prohibition concerning not eating and drinking, the others may be regarded as irrelevant to the main purpose of the day, which is to complete the process of t’shuvah, ‘returning’, by confessing our misdeeds before God and making a journey towards forgiveness and atonement.

Closer inspection, however, suggests that all five prohibitions are relevant to observing Yom Kippur as Liberal Jews. With the threat of environmental catastrophe looming and in the context of the global refugee crisis and the persistence of poverty, adopting the five prohibitions enables us to engage our bodies and our minds in pursuit of our Liberal Jewish ethical agenda.

1. Not to eat or drink

Importantly, the haftarah (concluding scriptural passage) set aside for reading on Yom Kippur morning from Isaiah, chapter 58, centres on the prophet admonishing those who feel that they have fulfilled their obligation on Yom Kippur by fasting, and reminding us that the fast that the Eternal One desires is to liberate the enslaved and oppressed, feed the hungry, clothe the naked and house the homeless (58:6-7). The message is not that one should not fast, but rather that the purpose of not eating and drinking is to remember those in need and take action on their behalf.

And there is more to consider when we fast on Yom Kippur – not least where the food we eat on the other 364 days of the year comes from. Is it fair-traded and ethically sourced? How many air-miles have been consumed to bring it to us? Then, there is the impact on the planet of our attachment to eating the same diet all year round. For example: Avocados are lovely, a real superfood, full of nutrients, but our determination to eat avocados whatever the season, has involved the uprooting of bio diverse forests to plant enough avocado trees to meet the demand. A few years ago, Rabbi Janet Burden wrote a Liberal Judaism leaflet, entitled, Ethical Eating. Refraining from eating and drinking on Yom Kippur gives us the opportunity to reflect on how and what we eat the rest of the year and to develop an ethical approach to our consumption.

2. Not to bathe

The first prohibition includes ‘not drinking’. There are vast areas of the world where people are dying of thirst. And then, there is the second prohibition against bathing. We take it for granted in the northern and western regions of the world that we can take a bath or shower whenever we like. But there are growing areas of the planet, where water is increasingly in very short supply. Millions of people across the globe do not have the luxury of bathing. If the thought of not bathing for a day makes us feel uncomfortable, imagine what it’s like never to have the chance to immerse oneself in clean water.

3. Not to anoint

‘Anointing’ is about using facial and body creams, putting on make-up and wearing perfume. On Yom Kippur, the physical self-care involved in our daily anointing rituals is replaced by spiritual self-care and self-examination. But there can be more to abstaining from anointing than this. Observing this prohibition gives us the opportunity to reflect on of the use of chemicals in cosmetics, to consider the narcissism involved in our preoccupation with our appearance, to reflect on the problem of sexual objectification in our society and the extent to which societal expectations ‘groom’ us into thinking that to be ‘acceptable’ we must be ‘desirable’.

4. Not to wear leather shoes

The prohibition against wearing leather shoes, symbolic of our dependence on other creatures, brings us back to environmental concerns. The bald fact is that leather goods represent dead animals. As we consider the threat of climate change, we know that the ruthless exploitation of our beautiful blue planet and our reckless use and abuse of other creatures is reaching catastrophic proportions. Perhaps, on Yom Kippur, as we put on footwear that has not entailed killing, we may reflect on our impact on the Earth. Of course, we shouldn’t limit our concern to the use of leather, and think about all the materials that have gone into the shoes – and into the clothes – we wear and where they have come from.

5. Not to have sexual relations

Jewish teaching has a very positive attitude towards sex. Indeed, it is a mitzvah to have sex on Shabbat. But contemporary culture has become sex-obsessed. As sex has been commodified, how much sex a person ‘has’, has become a marker of personal achievement. It may now be increasingly acceptable to be LGBT in the western and northern regions of the world, but it remains unacceptable to be asexual. And then there is the matter of how we conduct our sexual relationships. The Torah portion read on Yom Kippur afternoon in LJ congregations, includes a verse from K’doshim, the ‘Holiness’ code that speaks directly to this concern: ‘You shall love your neighbour/companion as yourself’ – V’ahavta l’rei’akha kamokha (Leviticus 19:18). In the context of sex: regardless of sexual orientation, sexual relations should be loving, mutual and reciprocal. When those of us who have sexual relationships resume sexual activity after Yom Kippur, Leviticus 19:18 should be our guide.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

LJ E-Bulletin, October 2019 /Tishri 5780

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