LJ Today

The usual English translation of the first verse of the Torah is: ‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth’ (Genesis 1:1). But that’s not exactly what the Hebrew says: B’reishit bara Elohim eit ha-shamayim v’eit ha-aretz – ‘In beginning God created the heavens and the earth’ – the definite article, ‘the’, is missing from the Hebrew. In the beginning would be: bareishit. What’s in a word – or in the case of the Hebrew, a vowel? A world of difference: in the beginning: at a particular moment; in beginning: a process.

B’reishit: ‘In beginning’. The first portion of the Torah is about beginnings, and includes two tales concerning the beginnings of the Earth. The first revolves around God ‘calling’ the world into existence; creating each element, stage by stage, and it is usual to refer to the texts in chapters 1 and 2 as ‘Creation’ narratives.

But so much more than divinely orchestrated acts of creation are described in B’reishit. The second story (Genesis 2:4ff.), in which the human being is at the centre, rather than at the apex, demotes humanity from a position of ‘dominion’ over the entire world to a ‘tender’ and ‘keeper’ of a garden, and also makes it clear that the human being is subject to the power of God (Gen. 2:15-17):

The Eternal God took the human being [ha-adam] and placed it/hir [oto]* in the Garden of Eden, to tend it and keep it. / The Eternal God commanded the human being, saying: “Of every tree of the garden you are free to eat; / but as for the tree of knowledge of good and evil, you must not eat of it; for as soon as you eat of it, you shall surely die” [*hir: conflation of him/her. There is no ‘neutral’ gender in Hebrew: oto, is the masculine form].

The human being: singular – hence, non-gendered. While the first narrative, divides ha-adam into sexually differentiated forms, zachar and n’keivah, ‘male’ and ‘female’, for the purposes of reproduction (1:27), the second concludes with a division of ha-adam into two related types, ishah and ish, ‘woman’ and ‘man’, with an emphasis on their common humanity (2:22-24). Genesis 3 then goes on to explore the consequences of human consciousness. When the woman’s curiosity drove her to eat the fruit and share it with ‘her man’ (3:6), they did not die, but ‘their eyes were opened’ and becoming aware of their nakedness, they sewed fig leaves together to cover themselves (3:7).

The story continues with the punishments meted out by God for their disobedience: Principally, humanity will no longer inhabit a garden, which has sufficient for all their needs; human beings will have to go out into the world, and work to eat. Further: at the end of life’s labours, they will return to the ground, from which humanity was formed (2:7): ‘for dust you are, and to dust you shall return’ (3:19). Death: a consequence of life. And of all the creatures on the earth, human beings alone are aware of their mortality.

The first portion of the Torah: not simply a ‘how life began’ tale, also a reflection on how all life, inevitably, ends. But, significantly, B’reishit does not conclude here, but rather continues with a story of murder: the first murder. Death, as it turns out is not just the inevitable last chapter of the journey of life. Cain, the first child of the first human beings killed his brother, Abel, because God preferred his younger brother’s offering – ‘the choicest of the firstlings of his flock’ – to the one that he had brought ‘from the fruit of the soil’ (4:3). Human beings are driven to intervene and kill: not, simply, in order to eat – and interestingly, up to this point all the creatures of the world, according to the Torah, are vegetarian (Gen. 1:30) – but rather, to annihilate the other.

B’reishit: stories of beginnings – including the first murder. Human beings: curious and intellectually gifted, and also driven by powerful emotions, not least, competitiveness and murderous rage. That more or less sums us up. But not only human beings: The first narrative in B’reishit speaks of the human being as created ‘in the image of God’ – b’tzelem Elohim (1:27). So what of God? The Divine, it turns out, is not only choosy when it comes to accepting offerings: the ‘Creator’ is also the ‘Destroyer.’ And so, the very next portion, Noah, relates the story of what happened when ‘God said to Noah: “I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the Earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about to destroy them with the Earth”’ (6:13).

Humanity created in the image of God: with the capacity and the urge to create and destroy. This is all very challenging – perhaps, especially to Liberal Jews. How do we integrate the troubling underside of the Torah – of which the first portions are only a foretaste – with our emphasis on ethical conduct and our commitment to practice the values of compassion and justice? Certainly not by ignoring what Jungian psychotherapy refers to as our ‘shadow-side.’ As usual, our rabbinic sages have some wisdom to offer us. We read in a 6^th century collection of midrash, Genesis Rabbah, in a comment on Genesis 1:31, (9:7):

‘And God saw all that He had made, and found it very good [tov m’od]. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.’ Nachman said in Rav Samuel’s name: ‘Very good’ refers to the good inclination [yetzer tov]; and ’very good’ refers to the evil inclination [yetzer ra]. Can then the evil inclination [yetzer ha-ra] be very good? That would be extraordinary! But without the evil inclination [yetzer ha-ra], however, one would not build a house, marry, beget children, or engage in business.’

B’reishit: the tales of our beginnings are an invitation to harness all our complex capacities and drives and values to the challenging task of living life as fully and deeply as possible until we die.

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei, opens with the words: Ki-teizei La-milchamah al-oy’vekhah – ‘When you go out for war against your enemies’ (Deuteronomy 21:10). The last wars fought by Jews in the land of our ancestors – long before those engaged in by the State of Israel since 1948 – were against the Roman occupiers: the Jewish War of 66-70 CE, which ended with the destruction of Jerusalem, and the Bar Kochba revolt of 133-135 CE, finally crushed with the slaughter of many of the leading rabbis of the day, including Rabbi Akiva.

Since time immemorial wars have been fought over territory. And today, apart from the on-going conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians, and a host of other perennial antagonisms the world over: the march of the ‘Islamic State’ through Syria and Iraq and the deadly skirmishes between the Ukraine government and the Russian separatists. The second verse of John Lennon’s famous idealistic anthem, ‘Imagine’, says it all for those who would rid our planet of war and its causes: ‘Imagine there’s no countries / It isn’t hard to do / Nothing to kill or die for / And no religion too / Imagine all the people / Living life in peace…’

And so: going out to war; a timeworn experience – even for Jews. And yet: not exactly for Jews. For almost 2000 years, our people has gone out again and again, but not in the sense that is meant by the phrase: Ki-teizei La-milchamah al-oy’vekhah – ‘When you go out for war against your enemies.’ We have been driven out by tyrants and expelled from many lands; we have fled persecution. We speak of ‘the Exodus from Egypt’; the Hebrew formulation is y’tzi’at mitzrayim – literally: ‘the going out of Egypt’. The Hebrew root is identical to that used in the phrase, ki teitzei: Yud Tzadi Aleph. But in the case of ‘the Exodus’, our ancestors did not ‘go out’ of their own accord. The parashah that tells the story, B’shallach, begins: ‘Now it came to pass: when Pharaoh sent the people away: Va-y’hi: b’shallach Paroh et-ha-am (Exodus 14:17). The root, Shin Lamed Cheit, to ‘send’ – here in an intensive active form: to ‘send away’. So, the Israelites did not ‘go out’; they were expelled. In the previous parashah, Bo, the narrative relates that after the final plague, the death of the firstborn: ‘Egypt prevailed upon the people to hasten in order to send them away [l’shall’cham] from the land’ (Exodus 12:35). A few verses further on, the origins of matzah are explained in a similar vein: ‘And they baked unleavened bread of the dough that they had brought out of Egypt, for it was not leavened, since they had been driven out of Egypt [ki go’rshu mi-mitzrayim] and could not delay… (12:39).

The slaves ‘brought out’ [hotzi’u] the dough – but they did not ‘go out’ themselves, they were thrust out. The same might be said of the progenitor of the people Israel, Jacob. The narrative relates at the beginning of parashat Va-yeitzei : ‘Jacob went out from B’eir Sheva’ – Va-yeitzei Ya’akov mi-b’eir shava (Genesis 28:10). However, as it happened, Jacob was in flight from his brother, Esau, after stealing the paternal blessing due to Esau as the firstborn son (27:41).

We learn from these tales of our ancestors that ‘going out’ has often been a case of being on the run – in stark contrast to the assured and belligerent ‘going out’ we find in this week’s parashah. Significantly, there is one oft-forgotten story amidst the tales of the patriarchs, where, uniquely, someone did ‘go out’ of their own accord. Even more remarkably, the individual concerned was a young woman. And so we read in parashat Va-yishlach, which focuses primarily on the reunion of Jacob and Esau after 20 years, the tale of Dinah, the sole daughter in Jacob’s family: ‘Now Dinah, the daughter of Leah, whom she had borne to Jacob, went out [va-teitzei] to see the daughters of the land’ (Genesis 34:1). Arguably, this is the most extraordinary verse in the whole of the Torah. Nowhere else does a daughter ‘go out’ purposefully – not least, to see other ‘daughters’. Dinah acted independently, revealing by her action, both, her need, as a lone daughter, to meet other ‘daughters’, and her fearless eagerness to approach those whom she did not know. But Dinah got her comeuppance: on an excursion to see other daughters, she was seen by Shechem the son of Chamor, the Hivite: ‘He saw her…. and took her and lay with her and humbled her’ (34:3); the rapid succession of verbs, mirroring the speed of the conquest.

Daughters and wives belong at home. That message is underlined in this week’s portion, where the rules of military engagement begin with conquest, and the process for transforming a beautiful woman taken as ‘captive’ into a ‘wife’ (Deuteronomy 21:11ff.). The gender binary is inescapable. Indeed, another verse in the parashah makes it absolutely clear that it cannot be breached: ‘A woman must not put on man’s apparel [ch’li gever], nor shall a man wear woman’s clothing [simlat ishah]’ (22:5). The expression for ‘man’s apparel’ – kh’li gever – connects the two themes: the noun, k’li, means, ‘article’, ‘utensil’, ‘vessel’, and immediately evokes the image of a man dressed for battle. As remains the case to this day, gendered clothing reflects gendered roles. That is why it is so unsettling – now, as then – when individuals blur the boundary. Binary gender tyranny exposes the dilemma at the heart of Jewish existence: are we a macho people of action, going out and asserting ourselves against other peoples, or are we, like the subjected female stereotype, the passive victims of the actions taken by others against us?

Fortunately, Liberal Judaism offers ways out of these binary options. We learn from our inheritance, but are not bound by its assumptions and rules. We prioritise ethical teachings and conduct, and ‘go out’ to forge connections with others and repair the world.

Word count: 991

Writing a ‘thought for the week’ for Liberal Judaism’s e-bulletin, based on the weekly Torah portion, prompts some questions: what are we doing as Liberal Jews when we read the Torah? Why do we continue to link our lives today to the Torah reading lectionary established by the Sages 1500 years ago?

Perhaps one obvious answer might be: the Torah is our inheritance as much as it is the inheritance of other Jews and other Jewish denominations – and so we look to it, and follow the annual cycle, as we try to make sense of our lives and of our tasks as Liberal Jews today.

Sounds great in theory – but what do we do when we read a portion that includes passages that seem to conflict with everything that Liberal Judaism stands for? Of course, one approach is to ignore those passages. So, this week, when we read Pinchas, which spans Numbers 25:10 to 30:1, I could choose to highlight the story of the daughters of Tz’lophchad, who petitioned Moses to change the law of inheritance, when their father died without having any sons (Numbers 27:1-11), and/or, the account of the ordination of Joshua as Moses’ successor, which follows (27:12-23). Given that I am a feminist, who has challenged Jewish teaching to respond to the needs and experiences of Jewish women, and also that I am celebrating the 25th anniversary of my ordination (9 July 1989), focusing on these narratives seems an excellent option.

However, I think that we might learn a good deal more that is relevant for our engagement as Liberal Jews from the aspects of the portion that are less amenable to Liberal Judaism’s liberal and progressive frame of reference. So, here goes…

Pinchas opens with the Eternal One rewarding ‘Pinchas, the son of Elazar, the son of Aaron the priest’, for ‘turning away’ God’s anger from the Israelites and acting ‘zealously’ on behalf of God (Numbers 25:10-11). What did Pinchas do? At the end of last week’s parashah, Balak, we read (Numbers 25:1-19) that while the Israelites were in Shittim, the people began to consort sexually with ‘the daughters of Moab’ and worship their gods. In response, ‘the anger of the Eternal One was kindled against Israel’ and God told Moses to hang the chieftains of the Israelites and instructed the judges to kill all those who had engaged in pagan rites. Then, while the people were weeping, one Israelite brought a Midianite woman to his brethren in full view of Moses and the congregation. When Pinchas saw this he was so incensed that he followed the man into the bed-chamber with a spear and killed them both. As a result, the text tells us that ‘the plague against the Israelites was halted (25:8).’

So, this is how Pinchas, the grandson of the High Priest, demonstrated his religious zeal: not only by doing God’s work – but by taking the zealous initiative. And Pinchas was rewarded for his actions:  We read in this week’s parashah (Numbers 25: 12-13): ‘Therefore say: Behold, I give to him My Covenant of Peace; / and it shall be to him and his descendants, the Covenant of an everlasting Priesthood; because he was zealous for his God and made atonement for the Israelites.’ God’s ‘Covenant of Peace’? The ‘Covenant of an everlasting perpetual Priesthood’?  Is that a fitting response to Pinchas’ zealous act of slaughter?

Maybe: Perhaps the reward served to contain God’s faithful servant’s zealotry?  After all, when there’s a zealot on the loose, who knows where he might strike next… Or, perhaps, the object was self-restraint: the Eternal One’s way of curbing the ‘wrath of God’?  Maybe the whole point of the elaborate system of worship presided over by the priests was to channel religious zeal and keep it under control? If we read the text from this perspective, God’s reward of Pinchas marks a new departure: Having witnessed how God’s rage acts as an incitement to Pinchas, after a series of Divine outbursts related in tale after tale in the Book of Numbers, perhaps God decided, ‘Enough is enough: My Divine anger is dangerous and must be contained before other zealots follow Pinchas’ example.’ Hence: the ‘Covenant of Peace’; the ‘Covenant of a perpetual Priesthood.’

If we follow this reading of the text, the story of Pinchas becomes a ‘Cautionary Tale’ and a lesson in the need to control religious zeal.

Like all zealots, Pinchas knew he was right. Nowadays, many people are alienated from religion by similar demonstrations of zealotry. Indeed, the list of religious militant outfits in the world today willing to kill in the name of God is very long. But the problem with zealotry is not expressed solely by the extremes that some zealots will go to; it begins with the assertion of an absolute singular rightness. Atheists can be guilty of this too – and so can Liberal Jews.

Liberal Judaism ceases to be ‘liberal’ when it asserts that we alone have the right form of Judaism and other Jews are wrong. By Definition, a ‘liberal’ perspective is one that acknowledges pluralism – a plurality of ways of making sense of the world and of living our lives. Of course, pluralism is a concept that only pluralists understand! Helping us to acknowledge the zealot that is in all of us – including God – this week’s Torah portion offers a way of containing religious zeal safely by channelling its reckless ardour into a regulated system of worship: sacrifice in Temple times – which is how the portion, concludes (Numbers chapters 28-29); study, prayer and good deeds, as taught by the rabbis. In addition, through the example of the petition brought to Moses by the daughters of Tz’lophchad, parashat Pinchas empowers us to change the rules in response to changing needs and circumstances, and so provides a model of religious engagement rooted in responsible action and responsive to the challenges we face today.

WORD COUNT: 983

WHAT IS FREEDOM? 

What is freedom? It’s a good question to ask as Pesach approaches. The early rabbis called the spring festival that celebrates the Exodus from Egypt, z’man cheiruteinu – ‘the season of our freedom’. Cheiruteinu – ‘our freedom’: the Haggadah that the sages composed for ‘telling’ the tale on the first night of Pesach, reminds us:

B’khol dor va-dor chayyav adam lirot et-atzmo k’ilu hu yatzah mei-eretz mitzrayim.

In every generation, each individual is obliged to regard themselves as if they had gone out from the land of Egypt.

So, as we enter into the Exodus story, we are supposed to relive our ancestors’ experience of slavery and relive and celebrate their liberation.

As we do so, we take it for granted that the Exodus was about an oppressed people becoming free. But that’s not exactly what either the Torah or the Haggadah tells us. Rather, the Eternal, through Moses, repeatedly confronts Pharaoh with this imperative: Shallach et-ammi v’ya’avduni – ‘Let my people go that they may serve Me’ [my emphasis] (Exodus 9:1). As the ritual of ‘laying t’fillin’ – the binding of boxes containing sacred texts on the upper left forearm and forehead – so graphically demonstrates, the Israelites were liberated from bondage in Egypt in order to become the bonded servants of the Eternal.

This week’s parashah, Acharey Mot, makes this point powerfully. Like all the portions of the Torah, Acharey Mot is named after the first significant words of the text. So, at the beginning of the portion, at Leviticus chapter 16, we read (:1):

The Eternal spoke to Moses acharey mot – after the death – of the two sons of Aaron, who died as they brought near their offering before the Eternal.

How was it that Aaron’s two eldest sons died as they brought their offering to God? We read in Sh’mini, an earlier portion, at Leviticus chapter 10 (1-2):

Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it, and they offered before the Eternal eish zarah – alien fire – which God had not enjoined upon them. / And fire came forth from the Eternal and consumed them; thus they died before the Eternal.

The Torah goes on to offer an explanation for this shocking incident (15: 3-4):

Then Moses said to Aaron: This is what the Eternal meant in saying, ‘through those near to Me I show Myself sacred, and gain glory before all the people.’

Aaron and his sons had an exalted status amongst the people, but nevertheless, they were the servants of the Eternal, bound to do God’s bidding, and forbidden from undertaking anything by their own initiative. Perhaps, Nadab and Abihu had been doing no more than expressing their enthusiasm. Their deadly punishment made it clear that their function was to obey the Eternal – no more, no less – and it seems that their father understood the message: The verse concludes: Va-yidom Aharon – Aaron was silent. A more alliterative translation would be: ‘Aaron was struck dumb’.

The priests were not free – and neither were the ordinary Israelites. Acharey Mot concludes at Leviticus 18, with a passage detailing proscribed sexual acts. The introductory verses of the chapter provide the rationale for these prohibitions. We read (18: 1-4):

The Eternal spoke to Moses saying: / Speak to the Israelites and say to them: I am the Eternal your God. / You shall not practice the ways of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan, where I am bringing you; nor shall you follow their statutes. / My laws alone shall you observe and my statutes shall you keep, going along the way with them. I am the Eternal your God.

From Egypt to Canaan: a journey of liberation – or a desert boot camp designed to inculcate obedience to the new Master of the slaves? Just take a look at the narrative: the litany of rebellions and mob revolts and the punishing responses of the Eternal – starting with the Divine wrath that followed the building of the molten calf during Moses absence on Mount Sinai (see Ki Tissa, Exodus 32). Why did the journey take forty years, when the people arrived on the Eastern bank of the Jordan in less than two (see Mas’ey, Numbers 33-36)? The narrative following the rebellion of ten of the twelve tribal leaders sent out to reconnoitre the land gives an account of the punishments meted out by the Eternal (Sh’lach L’cha, Numbers 14). In addition to sending a plague against the ringleaders, the rest of the community is condemned to wander for forty years. We read (14: 32-35):

‘Your carcasses shall drop in this wilderness, / while your children roam the wilderness forty years, suffering for your faithfulness, until the last of your carcasses is down in the wilderness.  / You shall bear your punishment for forty years, corresponding to the number of days – forty days – that you scouted the land: a year for each day. Thus you shall know what it means to thwart Me. / I the Eternal have spoken: Thus I will do to all this evil congregation that has banded against Me: in this wilderness they shall die.’

Whatever you make of the new tyrannical Master of the slaves, one thing is apparent: liberation from bondage in Egypt did not mean freedom. Of course, freedom can never be absolute. We read in Pirkey Avot, the philosophical sayings of the sages appended to the Mishnah (6:2), concerning the words ‘engraved upon the tablets’ (Exodus 32:16):

Do not read, ‘engraved’ (charut), rather [read] ’freedom’ (cheirut).

The Hebrew words, charut and cheirut are based on different roots: charut on the root, Cheit Reish Tav, to ‘engrave’; cheirut, meaning, ‘freedom’, first appears in rabbinic literature, and is related to the root Cheit Reish Reish to be or become ‘free’. Nevertheless, the pun makes a point worth noting: In order for people to enjoy freedom, we need a structured society governed by laws. However, such a society is a far cry from a tyrannical dictatorship. Pesach is just the time to consider the difference, and to resolve to free ourselves from every form of tyranny.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

LJ e-bulletin

Exodus 13: 9 & 13:16; Deuteronomy 6:8 & 11:18 – passages from which the binding ritual is derived. The Deuteronomy verses became part of the liturgical text known by its initial word, Sh’ma (Deut. 6:4-9, Deut. 11:13-21 & Numbers 15:37-41).

It’s complex being Jewish. There are so many varieties of Judaism; so many different ways of living a Jewish life. So, do Jews today need to have a complex – or, is complexity, perhaps, our greatest gift?

There is nothing new about Jewish complexity. The double Torah portion for this week, Mattot-Mass’ei, concludes the Book of Numbers – B’midbar – with a clear presentation of how impossible it is to make monolithic declarations about Jewish existence. As its very different English and Hebrew names suggest, Numbers-B’midbar is a fascinating book that embraces two contradictory strands – order and disorder: the organisation of the camp in the desert, including the ordering of the tribes and their duties; and the disruption caused by rebellion after rebellion; human chaos reflecting the wilderness – midbar – in which the people find themselves.

Mattot-Mass’ei is not a particularly inspiring conclusion to the struggles and drama narrated in earlier portions of the book. It is, without doubt, a less riveting read. Nevertheless, it does its job of concluding the book rather well. In fact, originally, the final book of the Torah – the book of Deuteronomy being a later addition – Mattot-Mass’ei does more than conclude the Book of Numbers-B’midbar, it also completes the entire Exodus and wilderness narratives. As we read in the final verse:

These are the commandments and ordinances, which the Eternal One commanded by the hand of Moses to the Israelites, in the plains of Moab, by the Jordan at Jericho.

The Israelites encamped on the eastern side of the River Jordan: waiting for the moment when they will begin a new odyssey and enter the land on the other side.

That’s how the great story of the formation of the Jewish people ends – on the brink of new possibilities. But before the denouement, Mattot-Mass’ei presents us with a complex picture. A summary of the contents conveys the complexity:

Mattot begins with the theme of individuals, individual men and women, taking upon themselves special vows to the Eternal One (Num. Ch. 30). It moves on to a grisly war between the Israelites and the Midianites – and the accounting of the spoil and the prey (Ch. 31). The next theme concerns the tribes of Reuben and Gad and half tribe of Manasseh and their desire to settle on the eastern side of the Jordan (Ch. 32). Mass’ei opens with a summary of ‘the journeys of the Israelites’ – massei v’ney Yisrael – in the wilderness (Ch. 33). It goes on to delineate the borders of the land of Canaan and the way in which the land will be divided up between the tribes (Ch. 34), before moving on to deal with the cities assigned to the Levites, the cities of refuge set aside for those who kill another person unintentionally, and the laws regarding the fate of murderers (Ch. 35). Finally, Massei concludes by returning to the case of a particular family within the tribe of Manasseh: the five daughters of Tz’lophchad, whom we first meet in the preceding portion, Pin’chas (Numbers 27), whose father died without a male heir, and their claim to inherit his estate (Ch.36).

So what are we to make of this diverse array of topics? On the one hand, the contents of Mattot-Mass’ei do no more than reflect the preoccupations of our ancestors and the particular circumstances of an ancient people in formation and transition. On the other hand, I think that we find here all the ingredients of the complex nature of Jewish existence and peoplehood to this day – a multifaceted response to the question: So, who/what is ‘the Jewish people’?

A collectivity composed, ultimately, of individuals: individual men and women, making their own choices and commitments in their own ways (Num. 30).

A singular people: defining our identity in relation to, and sometimes, in opposition to others (Ch. 31).

A collection of ‘tribes’: with different inheritances, geographies, and allegiances (Ch. 32).

A collection of families: with particular circumstances and needs (Ch. 36).

A wandering people: forever on a journey, ‘from Egypt until now’ (Leo Baeck) (Ch. 33-34).

A male-defined people: preoccupied with rules and regulations; with creating and maintaining social order (Ch. 35).

A motley crew of challengers and boundary-breakers: individuals, women, men, families and tribes, who question the rules and assert their interests (Chs. 32 & 36).

The Jewish people today: a continuing story of complexity. One people, still, and yet heterogeneous: embracing individuals, men, women, families, tribes and myriad constituencies – progressive, liberal, reform, traditional, orthodox and ultra-orthodox, cultural, secular, ethnic, political (of every hew) – in Israel and the diaspora; forever struggling and striving; grappling with the legacies of the past, the needs of the present, and the challenge of creating the future.