Pinchas: Resisting Division

וּבְנֵי־קֹ֖רַח לֹא־מֵֽתוּ

The sons of Korach, however, did not die.  (Bamidbar 26:11)

Good morning, we’re back after a short break and ready to drash. This week’s Torah portion is Pinchas, named after the priest who committed an act of violent zealotry near the Mishkan. The parsha also contains census numbers by tribe, the story of the daughters of Zelophehad, the decree that Moshe will not enter the Land, and it ends with lists of offerings for the holidays. Amidst the census data, we get the odd verse above, which has been the subject of much commentary, including my own, way back in 2016. 

In that commentary, found here, I looked at Rashi’s explanation that the sons of Korach were saved from the fate of their rebellious father (getting swallowed up whole by the earth) because they had thoughts of repentance, perhaps even at the last minute. Go look at my earlier commentary for more on that, but this year let’s look at this same verse from a different perspective. The following comments also presume basic knowledge of Korach’s rebellion, so if it’s not familiar to you, click here

Several other rabbinic commentators ask a different question: why were Korach’s children mentioned in the census tally for the tribe of Reuven, when the whole point of Korach’s rebellion was that he was a Levite, related to Moshe and Aharon, and therefore could make the claim that he and his gang had an equal right to leadership? Datan and Aviram, Korach’s co-conspirators in the uprising, were of the tribe of Reuven, so while mentioning them among the Reuvenites, Korach is also mentioned as among those who were swallowed up whole by the earth. (See link above.) Ibn Ezra, a Spanish scholar who lived in the 1100’s, takes the placement of Korach’s name here to imply that Datan and Aviram, from Reuven, were even worse than Korach himself, because their entire families went with them into the earth, while Korach’s sons were spared. 

Chizkuni, a French rabbi of the 13th century, agrees with this view, and points out how remarkable it was that the sons of Korach were able to resist, at least somewhat, the influence of their father, given that the children of Datan and Aviram apparently joined the insurrection and were punished accordingly. Or HaChaim, an 18th century Moroccan commentary, goes even farther, suggesting that because Datan and Aviram were mentioned before Korach in these verses, it implies that they, and not Korach, were the real instigators of the rebellion. Or HaChaim (Chaim ibn Attar) further proposes that Korach actually had some good qualities- he raised sons who would resist the riot to some degree- which in turn means that he was probably influenced by Datan and Aviram to be the front man for the coup. Note that Reuven, the eldest of the sons of Yaakov, was not chosen to be the tribe of either political or religious leadership. Perhaps Datan and Aviram were motivated to fix what they considered a historical injustice, but to do so, they’d need a figurehead who could plausibly challenge Moshe and Aharon. 

So what do we do with these interpretations of our strange verse? First, in an era when demagogues have unprecedented capacities to create division and strife, note these rabbis going out of their way to praise Korach’s sons, who were able to maintain their moral center when everything was exploding- or perhaps imploding- around them. Second, the rabbis condemn Datan and Aviram not only for what they did, but also for what they apparently influenced others to do. There are those in every generation and every community who seek to create dissent, anger, division, enmity, and chaos for their own selfish or misguided purposes, and their identities and goals aren’t always clear. After all, the Torah portion is called Korach, not “Datan and Aviram.”

Social media companies know that stoking negative emotions like outrage and polarization drives engagement with their platforms- it’s never been easier to whip up a mob. The good news is that every one of us can resist those who attempt to stoke our resentment or rage. After all, if Korach’s sons could repent of their own father’s plot, the rest of us should, in theory, have an easier time turning off the radio, signing off the internet, taking a break from the news, and trying to reclaim our yetzer hatov, our inclination towards good, from everyone who would derail it. Korach, Datan, and Aviram disappeared into the earth, but it’s our task not to get engulfed by negativity, scapegoating, and sinat chinam, causeless hatred. Resisting the demagogues of every generation isn’t easy, but it’s more important than ever.   

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Korach: People before Perks

וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה, אֶל-אַהֲרֹן, אַתָּה וּבָנֶיךָ וּבֵית-אָבִיךָ אִתָּךְ, תִּשְׂאוּ אֶת-עֲוֺן הַמִּקְדָּשׁ;

וְאַתָּה וּבָנֶיךָ אִתָּךְ, תִּשְׂאוּ אֶת-עֲוֺן כְּהֻנַּתְכֶם

The Holy One said to Aaron: You and your sons and the ancestral house under your charge shall bear any guilt connected with the sanctuary; you and your sons alone shall bear any guilt connected with your priesthood. (Bamidbar 18:1)

Good afternoon! This week’s Torah portion, Korach, is all about strife, conflict, jealousy, power struggles and dramatic showdowns, and surprisingly, it’s not describing Congress or the Knesset. Korach, a relative of Moshe and Aharon, challenges their position of leadership, proposing that all of Israel is equally qualified for authority. Korach is probably not really interested in democracy, just getting the power for himself, but he’s soon enough put in his place (deep in the earth, unfortunately.)

After two chapters recounting Korach and the subsequent power struggle, the portion finishes with chapter 18, which details the tithes due to the priests and Levites, who are the tribe of religious service responsible for the portable sanctuary and its vessels. Yet before listing the privileges of the priests and Levites (such as eating from the tithes brought by the rest of the nation), the Torah sets out their responsibilities, as in the verse quoted above. Verse 18:1 begins a short section of warnings to Aharon, the High Priest, that he is responsible for keeping the Levites and the rest of the people away from the holy areas of the Sanctuary (Mishkan), lest they die like Korach and his gang.

One could read these verses of warning as simply delimiting the authority of Aharon and the priests- they and they alone are allowed in the Mishkan- but you can also read these verses in the context of the ones that follow, listing the benefits and privileges of the Kohanim (priests) and Levites. What’s notable is that the verses spelling out their responsibilities come clearly and explicitly before the section describing their privileges. I think the Torah is making clear that they are given a leadership role for the service of others and receive the tithes only to allow them to do that. 

Judaism sees leadership- really, any worthy role or profession- as responsibility, accountability, and service, not perks and profit. That’s what Korach never understood, or, for that matter, those who have acted like Korach in every age. The spirit of Korach is not just strife, but misplaced values: he put his personal desires before that of the people’s needs. That’s just not what we’re here on Earth to do. 

Shabbat Shalom!

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Beha’alotcha: Speaking to the Heart

Copyright Neal Joseph Loevinger 2023

Torah Portion: Beha’alotcha

לֹֽא־אוּכַ֤ל אָנֹכִי֙ לְבַדִּ֔י לָשֵׂ֖את אֶת־כׇּל־הָעָ֣ם הַזֶּ֑ה כִּ֥י כָבֵ֖ד מִמֶּֽנִּי׃

I cannot carry all this people by myself, for it is too much for me. (Bamidbar/Numbers 11:14)

Good afternoon! There are many rich stories, themes, and texts in this week’s Torah portion, but one stands out as eternally relevant, because it involves kvetching. The Israelites are on their long sojourn from Sinai to the Promised Land, and being sustained by the miraculous manna that appears every morning in precisely sufficient quantities, plus wells of water that appear as needed.

Apparently, that’s not enough for some of the travelers, the so called “riffraff” or “rabble-rousers” (see here) who provoked the rest of the Israelites to complain about the nice food they had back in Egypt (you know, when they were slaves.) Moshe hears the people weeping and moaning and kvetching, and complains to God that he, Moshe, can’t possibly provide meat to the people and can’t carry the burden of leadership alone. In fact, he’d rather die than bear this heavy burden by himself!

Ramban, AKA Nachmanides, has a beautiful interpretation of the verse quoted above. He points out that even if there were many other leaders of the people, the complainers would still come to Moshe to pray for them and try to solve their problem. (Raise your hand if you’ve ever gone right to the top of an organization with your complaints. I want to speak to a manager!) What a team of other leaders could do is ”speak to the hearts” of the complainers to try to get their anger to abate or subside. He also offers a second theory: if there were many leaders who had some share of Moshe’s prophesy, then the complainers would go to those other folks too in order to ask for prayers.

I like Ramban’s first interpretation, because it speaks to another eternal human truth: you can offer compassionate presence to another even if you can’t solve their material (or medical, or financial, or logistical, or emotional) problem. Maybe the compassionate presence is even more important than the presentational problem because people generally feel less afraid and anxious when they know they don’t have to go through a challenge alone. This isn’t just true of the complaining Israelites: God tells Moshe to appoint 70 elders so he, Moshe, wouldn’t have to bear his burden by himself. Perhaps they comforted Moshe as much as they comforted the people: a listening ear and an open heart can be transformative for anyone, from the greatest leader to the humblest among us.


Shabbat Shalom!

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Naso: Jealousy and Remembrance

Copyright 2023 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Naso

וְהֵבִ֤יא אֶת־קׇרְבָּנָהּ֙ עָלֶ֔יהָ עֲשִׂירִ֥ת הָאֵיפָ֖ה קֶ֣מַח שְׂעֹרִ֑ים לֹֽא־יִצֹ֨ק

עָלָ֜יו שֶׁ֗מֶן וְלֹֽא־יִתֵּ֤ן עָלָיו֙ לְבֹנָ֔ה כִּֽי־מִנְחַ֤ת קְנָאֹת֙ ה֔וּא מִנְחַ֥ת זִכָּר֖וֹן מַזְכֶּ֥רֶת עָוֺֽן׃

And he shall bring as an offering for her one-tenth of an ephah of barley flour. No oil shall be poured upon it and no frankincense shall be laid on it, for it is a meal offering of jealousy, a meal offering of remembrance which recalls wrongdoing. (Bamidbar 5:15)

Good afternoon! It’s been too long, I’ve been a bit busy the past 5 weeks or so, but the monkey is off my back and we’re back in business at rabbineal.net. This week’s Torah portion contains one of the most vexing set of laws in the Torah, that of the Sotah, a ritual of drinking bitter waters to demonstrate the guilt or innocence of a wife suspected of infidelity. There’s an entire tractate of Talmud dedicated to the laws of this ritual, as well as much commentary about its relationship to other Biblical and ancient laws, as well as trenchant observations about the unfairness of having a ritual that humiliates women suspected of infidelity but nothing comparable for men.

For today, however, I want to focus on one subtle aspect of the ritual, often overlooked in many other commentaries. The husband of the suspected wife brings an unusual meal-offering when he brings her to the priest, a meal-offering of rough barley flour, without oil or fragrance. Some commentaries suggest this meal-offering is rough barley flour because barley groats are more like animal feed than human food, and the woman being brought to the Sotah ritual is suspected of acting out of lust or passions like an animal might.

I would suggest it’s the other way around. Notice the relatively verbose description of this unique mincha-offering: a meal offering of jealousy, a meal offering of remembrance which recalls wrongdoing. The Hebrew root kuf-nun-aleph, translated as “jealousy,” can also mean zealous. The last phrase is especially interesting: literally, this offering is a “mincha of remembering, of the remembrance of sin,” with the word for “remembrance” being doubled in the phrase.

In other words, perhaps the mincha of the Sotah is plain barley, without oil or fragrance, because it’s the husband who is acting out of baser instincts like jealousy or possessiveness. Not only that, but look at how this offering is described ten verses later:

וְלָקַ֤ח הַכֹּהֵן֙ מִיַּ֣ד הָֽאִשָּׁ֔ה אֵ֖ת מִנְחַ֣ת הַקְּנָאֹ֑ת וְהֵנִ֤יף אֶת־הַמִּנְחָה֙ לִפְנֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֔ה וְהִקְרִ֥יב אֹתָ֖הּ אֶל־הַמִּזְבֵּֽחַ׃

Then the priest shall take from the woman’s hand the meal offering of jealousy, elevate the meal offering before יהוה, and present it on the altar. (5:25)

Now it’s merely the mincha of jealousy, without even being called a “zichron,” or remembrance. (See also verse 18.)

It seems to me that there’s a not very subtle hint here that a husband who remembers obsessively becomes someone who is consumed by his jealousy. The woman may or may not be innocent, but he’s the one acting out of baser emotions. We might further suggest that too much remembering can be just as bad as too much forgetting: if we kept account of every slight, injustice, or suspicion in our relationships, who would not ultimately become zealously enraged? The sources tell us the Sotah was discontinued in ancient times, but the task of moderating our emotions, and letting go of our suspicions, grudges, and wrath, is always our challenge, in every generation.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Tzav/Shabbat Hagadol: Turning the Hearts of Parents and Children 

Torah Portion: Tzav and Shabbat Hagadol 

Copyright 2023 Neal Joseph Loevinger 

Greetings! This week we’re reading the second chapter of Leviticus, spelling out the various kinds of offerings and detailing the inauguration or dedication ceremony for Aharon and his sons when they become priests. 

It’s also the Shabbat before Pesach, traditionally called Shabbat Hagadol, the “great Shabbat,” perhaps for the penultimate verse of the special haftarah, or prophetic reading, for the day. In that verse, the prophet Malachi promises that Eliyahu [Elijah] will come on the “great and wondrous” (some translate nora, wondrous, as awesome or fearful) day of the Lord. Nobody knows who Malachi was- the name just means “my messenger”- but we can assume he lived in the early second Temple period, as he calls the people to faithful and loyal worship there. 

The anonymous prophet stresses the idea that on the Day of the Lord, those who do evil will be requited and those who do good will be elevated. The final verse of the haftarah speaks of a reconciliation between parents and children: 

 וְהֵשִׁיב לֵב-אָבוֹת עַל-בָּנִים, וְלֵב בָּנִים עַל-אֲבוֹתָם–פֶּן-אָבוֹא, וְהִכֵּיתִי אֶת-הָאָרֶץ חֵרֶם.

The Lord shall turn the hearts of parents to their children and children with their parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction. (Malachi 3:24

“Utter destruction” is not a nice place to end a prophetic reading, so in synagogue, verse 23- the one about sending Eliyahu- is usually repeated. The haftarah’s connection to Pesach seems obvious: just as there was a “great and wondrous” overturning of evil in the days of the Exodus from bondage, so too will there be a “great and wondrous” day when hypocrites, oppressors, thieves and corrupt leaders of Israel will be overturned. 

So what does turning the hearts- of parents towards children, and children towards parents-  have to do with the great day of the Lord? 

Rashi says he heard from a rabbi named Menachem that this passage means that the Holy One speaks to the children, with love and persuasion, to go to their parents and tell them to hold to the ways of the Divine. So “turning the hearts of the parents” means that sometimes it’s the children who encourage the parents to grow spiritually, or to stick with the Jewish tradition, and not just the other way around. Notice that “children” doesn’t necessarily mean young children: this passage implies that spiritual exhortation and Jewish learning is not a one-way valve from elder to younger, but that the whole family- or really, anybody across generations- can share knowledge, wisdom, and encouragement. 

The Pesach seder is often thought of as an educational event for children, with questions, rituals, special foods, songs and stories all brought together to hold the interest of kids who probably wouldn’t be interested in a purely intellectual discourse on the meaning of ancient religious history. Maybe it’s also true that when parents (and other adults) see their children- of any age- wrestling  with making meaning out of our texts and traditions, it can inspire them in ways that rabbis, cantors and professors probably can’t. 

Rashi reminds us that “from generation to generation” means that older generations, or those thought of as teachers and role models, must also embrace being students as well. Modeling lifelong learning fulfills the words of Ben Zoma (whom we shall soon meet again at the Pesach seder): who is the one who is wise? The one who learns from everybody. That’s an ideal for our Passover seder and all year round. 

Have a happy and healthy Pesach! 

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Vayakhel-Pekudei: Waving Our Gold

Copyright Neal Joseph Loevinger 2023 

 Torah Portion: Vayakhel-Pekudei

 וַיָּבֹאוּ הָאֲנָשִׁים, עַל-הַנָּשִׁים; כֹּל נְדִיב לֵב, הֵבִיאוּ חָח וָנֶזֶם וְטַבַּעַת וְכוּמָז כָּל-כְּלִי זָהָב, וְכָל-אִישׁ, אֲשֶׁר הֵנִיף תְּנוּפַת זָהָב לַיהוָה.

Men and women, all whose hearts moved them, all who would make a wave offering of gold to יהוה, came bringing brooches, earrings, rings, and pendants —gold objects of all kinds. (Exodus 35:22) 

The Torah portions Vayakhel and Pekudei are often joined together, and tell the story of Moshe’s call for donations to build the Mishkan, the actual construction of the Mishkan, and an accounting for the donations. All kinds of materials are needed for the portable Sanctuary, including gems, precious metals, different kinds of wood, fabric, and animal skins. In the verses above, there’s an interesting anomaly: those who brought donations of gold did so as a “wave offering” to God, but this is not how the donations of silver and bronze are described just a few verses later. 

Now, what’s a wave offering? It’s typically associated with the bringing of the omer, which is a sheaf of barley brought in the weeks between Passover and Shavuot (late spring/early summer) and displayed or waved by the priests on the altar. There are other examples of the wave offering, but for today let’s just notice that the donations of gold were waved or held up and displayed by the priests, but silver and bronze were not. A few chapters later, in the accounting of the donations, gold is again called zahav hatenufah, or gold of the wave offering (translated as “elevation offering” by Sefaria) but bronze is also called tenufah, wave offering, in this later chapter.  

Commenting on the verse above, Ramban, a 12th century commentator, explains the gold was a “wave offering” because those who brought it would hold it up to show the importance or rarity of their donation, or perhaps the priests took it from the donors and held up the gold to show the others how praiseworthy these donations were. He also suggests that since so much bronze was needed, it also was considered an especially important or noteworthy donation, and could be waved or held up as well, thus explaining the later verse from chapter 38.


It’s certainly true that gold was an important material for the Mishkan, and it’s certainly admirable that men and women literally took it off their bodies to give to an important communal purpose. On the other hand, the long lists of materials to be donated in these Torah portions is also understood to teach that every donation is precious and important, and even more, that a Sanctuary for the Holy requires the participation and inclusion of the entire community. 

Perhaps the Torah is simply reflecting an age-old tension: worthy causes need widespread support, but the wealthy can give more than others. Does that mean they should “wave” their donations around and draw attention to themselves? In an ideal world, probably not, but in our world, wealthy donors are feted and honored. Maybe the real lesson of the golden “wave offering” is that we can acknowledge the generosity of major donors while placing the far greater emphasis on finding ways for anybody to participate in crucial communal projects. There were so many things needed for the Mishkan- from yarn to wood to gems to skins- that everybody could bring something, and receive the honor of building something holy. That’s a model for our times as well, when needs are so great, and so many have so much to give.

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Ki Tissa: False gods

Copyright Neal Joseph Loevinger 2023 

ד  וַיִּקַּח מִיָּדָם, וַיָּצַר אֹתוֹ בַּחֶרֶט, וַיַּעֲשֵׂהוּ, עֵגֶל מַסֵּכָה; וַיֹּאמְרוּ–אֵלֶּה אֱלֹהֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל, אֲשֶׁר הֶעֱלוּךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם.

This he took from them and cast in a mold, and made it into a molten calf. And they exclaimed, “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!” (Exodus 32:4) 

Things get complicated in this week’s parsha, but as usual these days we’re going to focus on one little detail to see what we can learn from it. To summarize the story so far: after leaving Egypt, the Israelites come to the base of Mt. Sinai, where they have a great revelation. Moshe stays up on the mountain to receive more commandments, including how to build the Mishkan, and on the 40th day, the people get anxious wondering where he is and what’s going on. 

That’s when they gather against Aharon, at the beginning of chapter 32, wanting answers. So Aharon gathers up their gold and makes the Golden Calf, perhaps just wanting to delay the forthcoming rebellion, but things quickly spin out of control. Look at the verse above: it begins with “This he took from them and cast in a mold”- that “he” is clearly Aharon. Then in the next clause, “they said: this is your god, Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!” 

Who is “they” who said “this is your god?” Rashi and others point out that it says “your god,” not “our God,” and quotes an earlier midrash to suggest that it was the erev rav, or “mixed multitude” of non-Israelites who left Egypt during the Exodus. That would explain “your god;” a group of people who came from a culture of polytheism and religious images could easily revert to their previous beliefs when they thought that Moshe had abandoned them. As several commentators have suggested, they probably thought Moshe himself was a divine figure and were making a replacement for him. 

Now, on the one hand, blaming the Golden Calf on non-Israelite fellow travelers seems a bit too convenient in getting the Israelites off the hook. After all, it was just 40 days earlier that they’d heard the command at Sinai not to make any graven images or bow down to other gods, and here they are, caught in the act! It seems to me that an important point of this story is the universal human capability for error, fallibility, self-justification and false consciousness, even just a few weeks after a literally earth-shaking revelation. 

On the other hand, maybe Rashi has a point. We don’t want to blame others for our own misdeeds (like making idols), but it’s also true that there are always people who take advantage of anxiety or fear, and say, “this is your god,” for their own purposes. “This is your god” can mean “this will solve all your problems if you only obey me,” or “this is the only way to think about things,” or “this should be your ultimate allegiance.” Think of all the advertisers who take advantage of human insecurities about appearance, wealth, or social standing, and sell them the false gods of materialism, status-seeking and impossible standards of physical perfection. Even worse, think of all the times throughout human history when dividers and demagogues took advantage of social anxiety and stoked it with fear of the other, with hatred of another nation or people, with ugly or violent rhetoric, pushing people towards the false gods of nationalism, nativism, religious chauvinism, irredentism or ideological extremism. 

This is your god is a timeless trap, sprung on the vulnerable whenever we let our guard down. We must resist not only being led astray by the idolaters of our day, but also the temptation to take advantage of another’s anxiety or fear by offering easy but illusory answers to life’s difficult problems. We can never fix the problems within ourselves by grasping easy answers or ideologies which circumvent the painful and slow work of cultivating virtues. Back in the desert wilderness, the people feared the journey without the leader who brought them there, but just a smidgen of patience and faith would have kept them going till Moshe got back. How many false gods have we accepted in our lives, false gods we would have rejected with just a bit more clarity of conscience and ability to abide uncertainty? That’s faith in action, and it clears out the idols from before us. 

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Shabbat Zachor: A Torn Garment

Copyright Neal Joseph Loevinger 2023

 וַיִּסֹּב שְׁמוּאֵל, לָלֶכֶת; וַיַּחֲזֵק בִּכְנַף-מְעִילוֹ, וַיִּקָּרַע. 

As Shmuel turned to leave, he seized the corner of his robe, and it tore. ( I Samuel 15:27) 

Hello again! This weekend the Torah portion is Tetzaveh, mostly concerned with the garments of the priests, and the haftarah is for Shabbat Zachor, which is always right before Purim. Shabbat Zachor has a special additional Torah reading about Amalek’s attack on the Jewish people, and the haftarah continues the theme with the story of King Shaul’s war against Agag, king of Amalek in his day. The two stories of conflict with Amalek are connected to Purim because Haman, the villain of the Purim story, is a descendant of Agag, the antagonist of this week’s haftarah. 

Now that you have all that background, let’s ignore all of the Amalek/ Haman/Purim related themes for today and instead focus on the dramatic moment when Shmuel, the prophet, tells King Shaul that he has lost the kingship. Shaul failed to wipe out the Amalekites, which is a troubling command, which we can revisit another time. The text says that when Shmuel, the prophet, confronted the king about the failure to wipe out the Amalekites and all their animals and property, Shaul offered up the somewhat lame excuse that his troops wanted to offer the best animals as sacrifices to God and he was afraid of what they’d do if he, the king, didn’t let them have their way. Shmuel rebukes Shaul, saying that obedience is better than sacrifice – again, this is a story that’s difficult for modern readers- and tells Shaul that God has rejected him as king. 

When the prophet turns to go, we get the sentence quoted above: 

As Shmuel turned to leave, he seized the corner of his robe, and it tore.

What’s interesting here is that the Sefaria translation which I’ve adapted, says that it was Shaul, the king, who grabbed Shmuel’s garment, as Shaul wanted the prophet to go with him as he tried to fix his mistake. The Hebrew, however, is more accurately rendered as I’ve done above, with ambiguous pronouns. Rashi notices this too, and points out that even the ancient sages weren’t sure if it was Shaul tearing Shmuel’s garment- probably the simplest reading of the text- or the other way around, that Shmuel tore the king’s robe. 

The latter reading is plausible for two reasons. The very next verse has Shmuel comparing the tearing of the garment to the loss of the kingdom: 

And Shmuel said to him, “The LORD has this day torn the kingship over Israel away from you and has given it to another who is worthier than you. (15:28

Furthermore, Shaul’s garment gets torn by his successor, David, just a few chapters later. In chapter 24, Shaul sets out with thousands of men to find and kill David, but David is able to sneak up on him in a cave and cut off the corner of his robe. David then presents this as proof that he means the king no harm, as he could have killed him but didn’t. (See 1 Samuel 24 verses 1-21.) 

So it makes literary sense that it was Shmuel that cut Shaul’s robe when announcing that the kingdom is “torn from him,” as shortly thereafter, when David shows him the piece of cloth cut from his robe, Shaul is forced to admit that indeed, kingship is taken from him and given to David. In this reading of our verse, Shmuel’s action is a foreshadowing of David’s: when Shaul realized the two robe-cuttings were connected, he had no choice but to confront the bitter reality that he was trying to avoid. 

The key word in verses 27 and 28 is karah ( קָרַ֨ע), to tear. You might recognize this as the same root or sound as kriah, which is the tearing of the garment at a funeral or upon hearing of the death of a loved one. Kriah is one of the most distinctive Jewish rituals of mourning, going back to Biblical times. Connecting the Shaul’s torn robe with kriah, the ritual of mourning, fits with the interpretation that it was the prophet who tore the king’s robes and not vice versa: perhaps the prophet was showing the king through the symbolism of tearing that he must accept his loss, and that grief would be a better reaction than resisting the new reality. 

In my work at the hospital, I often see patients or their loved ones who simply cannot accept what is plainly happening. We humans are often quite good at ignoring that which we don’t want to see, or denying that which we don’t wish to be true. Perhaps it’s even more true for people of wealth and power and privilege, who are used to imposing their will on others or getting their way in the world. In our case, a mighty king seemed to confess in the moment that his entire life had been upended, but soon enough went back to living as if he’d never heard what the prophet proclaimed. 

In this telling, King Shaul displays the most ordinary human fallibility: he denies to himself what he must, on some level, know to be true. He could have torn his garment in grief and humility, and perhaps not come to the tragic end that was the inevitable result of his fruitless attempts to hold fast to what was already lost. So in our own lives, when confronted with difficult truths, and we are shown that our robes are torn, as it were, the challenge is to mourn what is lost, but accept what we must. That is the path towards healing and renewal, and it starts with facing truth bravely. 

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Terumah: We Have the Tools We Need

Copyright Neal Joseph Loevinger 2023 

Torah Portion: Terumah 

 וְהַבַּיִת, בְּהִבָּנֹתוֹ–אֶבֶן-שְׁלֵמָה מַסָּע, נִבְנָה; וּמַקָּבוֹת וְהַגַּרְזֶן כָּל-כְּלִי בַרְזֶל, לֹא-נִשְׁמַע בַּבַּיִת בְּהִבָּנֹתוֹ

When the House was built, only finished stones cut at the quarry were used, so that no hammer or ax or any iron tool was heard in the House while it was being built. (1 Kings 6:7) 

Sorry for missing out on last week, had to call out sick, but all good now. 

This week’s Torah portion, Terumah, is about the building of the Mishkan, down to its smallest details of decoration and architecture. The theme of building sacred space is carried on in the haftarah for this week, from 1 Kings, in which King Shlomo (Solomon) sends tens of thousands of men to Lebanon to bring back materials for the building of the Mikdash, or Temple, in Jerusalem. 

Now, you may remember that two weeks ago, when discussing the Torah portion Yitro, we learned that the stones of the altar of the Mishkan must  be made of unhewn stone, not fashioned by iron tools. Now look at the verse at the top, from this week’s haftarah: it says that the stones for the Mikdash were cut at the quarry, so that no ax or iron tool was heard at the site of the Temple itself. (See also the verse 1 Kings 7:9, which also explicitly says all the buildings were made of hewn stones.) 

Hmm, that doesn’t quite jibe with what we learned two weeks ago, does it? The JPS Haftarah commentary brushes off the contradiction, positing that the verse above is fully aware of the prohibition in the Torah, and this is the Biblical author’s way of harmonizing the verses. Many other commentators agree, including Rashi on the verse from chapter 7. He brings the same explanation to another verse from this week’s haftarah, verse 5:31. In both cases he explains that it’s not a violation to use iron tools at the quarry, just at the Temple itself. 

However, for our verse above, from chapter 6, Rashi brings a famous midrash to explain the “hewn at the quarry” contradiction. This is the midrash of the shamir, a unique creature that was set into the stone and shaped it, so that no iron tool was needed. (Some say the shamir was a kind of stone stylus that cut the rocks into their shapes.) The rabbis still have a problem, though. The various verses above say that the stones at the quarry were hewn, so one solution is to say that the shamir cut the stones for the Mikdash and the stones for the king’s palace were cut with iron. (Cf: Talmud Sotah 48b.) A third possibility mentioned by the rabbis in Sotah goes like this: if it’s permissible to cut stones at the quarry with iron, why do you need the shamir at all? Answer: the shamir cut the precious gems of the High Priest’s breastplate. 

What do we do with all this? A famous paragraph from Pirkei Avot says that there were ten things created just before twilight on the 6th day of creation- that is, they were the last things created and placed into the world. (Pirkei Avot 5:6, and check out the commentaries.) These are all miraculous things that can’t be explained by the laws of nature, such as the donkey that spoke to Bilaam or the ram that was caught in the bushes to be offered in place of Yitzhak. The idea is that these special phenomena were created once and put in just the right place to reveal themselves at just the right time, just once. 

One could argue that this is the rabbis throwing up their hands at miracles that can’t be explained, but if you look at the list in Avot, you’ll see that every one of these belief-defying marvels also has a strong and clear moral meaning. The ram was offered instead of Yitzhak because human sacrifice is theologically and ethically obscene. The donkey speaks to Bilaam because smart people who justify their immoral actions can be rebuked by the example of a simple pack animal, which serves loyally and without betrayal or guile. Proposing that all these miracles were created as one-offs, placed into creation at the beginning, isn’t about “we can’t explain this.” Rather, I believe the rabbis are saying “we’re not worried about how the miracle got there, because that’s not the point of the story.” 


The meaning of the shamir, the stone-cutting worm or whatever it is, isn’t about fabulous fantasy creatures. The deeper idea is that the Holy One cares how our sacred spaces are constructed, and gave us the religious and moral capacity to build beautiful, inclusive, kind, reverent Jewish spaces and organizations, if we will avail ourselves of the spiritual tools we already have. We can’t build a reverent and awe-filled community with cynical or immoral means. When it comes to synagogues and other spiritual organizations, there’s no separating process and product. That’s the moral point of the prohibition against hewn stones in the Temple. The shamir comes along not to fix a problem in the text, but to renew our faith that we have the tools we need already in hand.

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Yitro: Rough Stones

Copyright 2023 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Yitro 

Copyright 2023 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Yitro 

וְאִם־מִזְבַּ֤ח אֲבָנִים֙ תַּֽעֲשֶׂה־לִּ֔י לֹֽא־תִבְנֶ֥ה אֶתְהֶ֖ן גָּזִ֑ית כִּ֧י חַרְבְּךָ֛ הֵנַ֥פְתָּ עָלֶ֖יהָ וַתְּחַֽלְלֶֽהָ

And if you make for Me an altar of stones, do not build it of hewn stones; for by wielding your tool upon them you have profaned them. (D’varim 20:22) 

I hope everybody had a fruity and sweet Tu B’shvat. This week we’re reading the story of the revelation at Sinai: after the thunder and lighting and smoke and fire, Moshe and the Israelites are told they can make their offerings on simple earthen or stone altars. There’s one caveat: in verse 22 above, it says that if they make an altar of stone, they must not hew the stones with an iron tool. 

Rashi and other commentators quote a famous midrash on this verse, linking iron tools to weapons of war: a place of peace and prayer should not be made with tools that remind us of those made for violence. A few years ago, I wrote about another interpretation in the commentaries: the commandment to use only unhewn stones was about the sufficiency of simplicity in a place of worship. (See more on that here.

This year I noticed a comment from Rashi adding a third interpretation, one that seems especially relevant in these times of often bitter social and political division: 

And a further reason is: because the altar makes peace between Israel and their Heavenly Source, and therefore there should not come upon it anything that cuts and destroys. Now, the following statement follows logically: How is it in the case of stones which cannot see nor hear nor speak? Because they promote peace Scripture ordains, “Thou shalt not lift up against them any iron tool!” Then in the case of one who makes peace between a person and their spouse, between family and family, between a man and his fellow, how much more certain is it that punishment will not come upon him! (Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael 20:22:2).

The altar “makes peace” between humans and the Divine because it’s the place where various kinds of offerings are made to atone for sin, give thanks and celebrate wholeness and prosperity. The stones are not cut with iron tools so that people are reminded that if even inert rocks are rewarded (by not being hewn) for making peace and effecting reconciliation, how much more so is a person rewarded in the Heavenly realms! 

Jews are a famously fractious bunch, but what if we actively honored the peacemakers among us? What if we refused to let our synagogues and communities be places of exclusion, grudges, ideological conformity, violent speech, political bullying or spiritual snobbery? What if we built communities and societies to be like an altar of unhewn stones: humble places of peace and reconciliation and gratitude, where the values we honor are as obvious as the difference between rough rocks and magnificent masonry? 

I bet we could do it if we tried. 

Shabbat Shalom, 

RNJL 

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