imaginary family values presents
a blog that reclines to the left
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Take it away, Sean Collins:
The revelation of Thurmond’s fathering a child with a black woman makes him even more loathsome in my eyes, if that’s possible; to him, black people may not have been good enough to go to the same schools or eat at the same counters or drink from the same water fountains and probably even to vote, if that were possible, but they were good enough to fuck and then discard.
According to a well-known midrash, when Joseph asks the cup-bearer to put in a good word for him to Pharoah (Genesis 40:14–15, in last week’s parsha), Joseph was exhibiting insufficient faith, and as punishment, God kept him in prison another two years.
For a very long time, this midrash bothered me. When we’re in trouble, does God really want us to sit on our butts and wait for divine intervention to save us? Indeed, citations to this midrash are often accompanied by a hand-waving qualification that of course, someone on Joseph’s level should have known better than to ask a mere mortal to help him get out of prison, but we poor schmucks should not rely on miracles.
Then I noticed the distinction between Joseph’s interpretation of his fellow prisoners’ dreams (40:12–19) and his interpretation of Pharoah’s dream (41:25–32). When talking to Pharoah, Joseph makes it clear that God is the agent here, using the dreams to tell Pharoah what He will do. By contrast, Joseph tells the baker and cup-bearer, “Don’t interpretations belong to God?” to get them to describe their dreams, but after that, he doesn’t mention God at all.
Furthermore, as a rational strategy for getting sprung, Joseph’s plea makes no sense. “I was stolen from the land of the Hebrews”—why should Pharoah care? “I didn’t do anything to be put in this pit”—how many prisoners will actually admit to being guilty? Joseph isn’t trying to get Alan Dershowitz to help him appeal his verdict; he’s unburdening his feelings on the cup-bearer, and his predominant feeling is I don’t belong here.
When we are in trouble, we can, and should, use every practical and moral means at our disposal to improve our condition. But our efforts should not make us forget that God is in control of the world.
A woman walks into a post office and tells the clerk, “I’d like to buy some Hanukkah stamps.”
The clerk asks, “What denomination?”
The woman says, “Oy, has it come to this? Six Orthodox, twelve Conservative, and fifteen Reform.”
If you’ve ever been over to chez Gordon for a Shabbat meal, you know that Psalm 126 (which is traditionally read before Birkat ha-Mazon) scans to “Scotland the Brave.”
But did you also know that “Maoz Tzur” scans to “Fortuna Imperix Mundi,” the opening song of Carmina Burana?
And did you know that much of Dr. Seuss’s One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish scans to “Tumbalalaika?”
Heidi Bond contemplates the contract-law implications of this paragraph from Fellowship of the Ring:
“As a small token of your friendship Sauron asks this,” he said: “that you should find this thief,” such was his word, “and get from him, willing or no, a little ring, the least of rings, that once he stole. It is but a trifle that Sauron fancies, and an earnest of your good will. Find it, and three rings that the Dwarf-sires possessed of old shall be returned to you, and the realm of Moria shall be yours for ever. Find only news of the thief, whether he still lives and where, and you shall have great reward and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well. Do you refuse?”
via Amygdala
After Joseph is sold into slavery, Judah “descended from his brothers and associated with an Adulamite man” (Genesis 37:36). As Rabbi Ephraim Buchwald put it, he was fed up with this Jewish dysfunctional family. But why should Judah, of all the brothers, be the one to leave? After all, Judah was the most effective leader in the story: the sale of Joseph was his suggestion. But perhaps his effectiveness as a leader gave him an extra motivation to get away from his brothers; with Joseph gone, Judah had good reason to fear for his own life.
Abraham had two sons: one of them was chosen to carry on his mission, and the other was sent away. Isaac had two sons: again, one was chosen, and the other was sent away. Against this background, the rivalry between Jacob’s sons makes more sense. They have no way of knowing that all of them are going to share in the blessing of Abraham, so when they hear Joseph snitching on his half-brothers (37:2), see Jacob’s favoratism toward Joseph (37:3), and hear Joseph announce his dreams of kingship (37:4–11), they have good reason to be concerned.
(Note to self: The verse that mentions the snitching immediately precedes the verse that mentions the favoratism. Must see if any commentators pick up on this.)
But with Joseph out of the way, there is a more uncomfortable situation: eleven brothers still compete for their father’s favor, and they can no longer be united by their hatred of Joseph. If the other brothers could conspire to kill Joseph, then they could conspire to kill Benjamin, the other son of Jacob’s favorite wife. From there, as my lovely and brilliant wife pointed out, Judah would be next in the cross-hairs. Reuben, the first-born, had offended his father after Rachael’s death (35:22), and his weak response to the plot against Joseph (37:21–22) doesn’t demonstrate much leadership skill. Simon and Levi, the next two sons of Leah, had offended their father by how they sacked Shechem (34:30–31). Judah, as the next one in line, might have decided that he didn’t want Simon and Levi to know where he lived.
On Saturday night, thanks to the babysitter sponsored by gnomi and mabfan, my wife and I saw the Simon & Garfunkel concert at the Boston GardenFleetCenter. A curious incident from that concert:
When they played “The Sound of Silence,” and sang “And in the naked light I saw / Ten thousand people, maybe more,” spotlights swept over the audience on the floor, and the crowd cheered. Why did the lighting engineers decide to do this? Did they want to identify the folks in the expensive seats as “People talking without speaking / People hearing without listening”? And why did the audience cheer? Did they agree with this value judgement? Or were they, well, hearing without listening?
15-pound dog: WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF!
25-pound toddler: Woof, woof, woof.
Dog: WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF!
Toddler: Woof, woof, woof.
Dog: WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF!
Toddler: Woof, woof, woof.
(Dog runs to corner of yard, lifts leg, and urinates next to fence. Toddler does not respond.)
The Jacob of the last two parshiyot is the consummate deal-maker. He sells his birthright to Esau (25:33). Impersonating Esau, he tells his father, “eat my game, so that your soul will bless me” (27:19). His oath to God is conditional: “if the Eternal God will be with me, and guard me on this road …” (28:20–22). And of course, he offers his labor to Laban in exchange for Rachael (29:18, 27), and then agrees to work further in exchange for the striped and spotted sheep (30:32–33). Even his wives get into the contractual spirit, when Leah uses mandrakes to buy the right to sleep with Jacob from Rachael (30:15).
But here, when he reunites with Esau, he makes no deal: he gives lavish gifts and says it was only “to find favor in your eyes, sir” (33:8). What changed?
Once Jacob returns to his father’s house, God has held His end of His conditional oath with Jacob. Jacob’s success in Laban’s household fulfills the blessing originally meant for Esau (27:28–29). With twelve sons, he can pass on the blessing of Abraham (28:3–4) … even if he, and eleven of those sons, meet untimely deaths. Jacob has received many blessings, but immortality is not among them.
Jacob has nothing to offer God in exchange for a continuation of his good fortune. All he can say is “I have become small from all the kindness and truth that you have done for Your servant” (32:11). By realizing the significance of the gifts he received from God, he begins to appreciate the significance of the gifts he can give to his brother.
Hebrew fluency liberates the Jewish mind. Almost every document in the Jewish canon, from Genesis to the responsa, and almost every significant commentary on these documents, is written in Hebrew. Many have never been translated. When they are translated, the translator is not always interested in making the whole text accessible, or in showing the reader all the possible readings of an ambiguous line. The better your Hebrew reading skill, and the broader your experience with classical Hebrew texts, the clearer the window between your mind and the minds of Rebbi, Maimonides, and the Vilna Gaon.
OK, not every Jew has the time or ability to become so fluent. You might think, though, that any Orthodox man who aspires to the title of “Rabbi” would also want to learn the Hebrew language — well enough, say, to pass an examination given in Hebrew — before accepting the title. You might think that even if some aspiring rabbis fell short of this standard, a rabbi with the power to ordain others would not grant the title to a complete stranger who was not fluent. You would be, alas, mistaken.
The Shema Yisrael Torah Network of Israel through its worldwide learning network partner Pirchei Shoshanim is developing a plan with the Chief Rabbinate of Israel which will allow those who desire to take the Israeli Rabbinate Semicha exam to do so in English….
Pirchei Shoshanim’s incredible staff of talented Rabbanim and writers have developed a process where one can learn Shulchan Aruch in a very methodilogical [sic] manner explaining each and every point and then having it be able to be applied in a practical manner. This has allowed those who have not had the opportunity to study the Shulchan Aruch and work full time to learn as if they have learned these areas their whole life and not disturb their daily routine. Moreover, the project allows those without a traditional Yeshiva or Torah education to now learn and understand as if they had always learned.
My rabbi tells me that back in the day, the Rabbanut gave these tests in Yiddish, so I suppose you could spin this news as a return to tradition. But if they’re looking for leniencies of past generations to reauthorize, I could come up with some better candidates than giving rabbinic exams in the vernacular.
It would be a wonderful thing for the Rabbanut to offer the analog of an associate’s degree, to recognize people who had a considerable amount of Torah knowledge but fell short of the requirements for semichah. I could also understand a school relaxing the traditional semichah requirements for individual students who were outstanding in other respects. But this … why?
Fortunately, the sages of Israel have a few standards left. Hebrew fluency has become optional, but a penis is still mandatory. Priorities….
(Sorry, again, for the delay in putting this up. It’s been one of those weeks … followed by one of those weekends … followed by one of those Mondays.)
In, umm, last week’s parsha, Jacob refers to God as the “pachad of Isaac” (Genesis 31:42, 31:53). King James, the new JPS translation, and Metsudah translate pachad as “fear,” Artscroll translates it as “Dread”, and the (Roman Catholic) New American Bible translates it as “Awesome One.” To get a sense of the nuances of this word, it helps to have a concordance. Here are some other places in Tanakh where the same root is used (all translations from the new JPS):
From the various other places where the word is used, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to translate pachad Yitzchak as “the mind-numbing terror of Isaac”. Isaac is the only person who is paired with the word pachad in this way to refer to God. Of course, Isaac is the only person who came within a hair’s breadth of being sacrificed to God by his own father, so I suppose it’s understandable that his relationship with God, and nobody else’s, would be described in these terms.
Some years ago, at a synagogue that shall remain nameless, I came across a surprising d’var Torah, attributed to a rabbi at Yeshiva University. It said that Isaac’s behavior and personality reminded the author of developmentally delayed adults he had worked with. The theory intrigued me on a number of levels.
First, it makes sense. The theory doesn’t match the hagiographic style of midrash that is so popular today, and it violates Maimonides’ principle that you need a Ph.D. in theology before God hands you a prophet’s license. But if you look at the plain text of the Torah, assuming that Isaac was retarded makes a pattern of his life story easier to understand.
Except for his prayer on Rebecca’s behalf and his blessings for his sons, Isaac relied on his memory of how his father behaved to solve every problem he encountered, and never sought to face any challenge that his father had not previously faced. When famine struck Canaan, Isaac wanted to go to Egypt, just as his father had done, and only changed his plan because God told him to. On meeting Avimelekh, Isaac passed his wife off as his sister, just as his father had done. To get Jacob safely away from Esau, Rebecca told Isaac that Jacob should marry a woman from outside Canaan, just as Jacob’s father had done. If this reliance on memory and trusted advisors was the best that Isaac could do, and God protected him from any circumstance that would have presented him with a challenge that could not be met in this way, then this pattern of behavior is less surprising, and the exceptions tell us even more about Isaac’s character and priorities.
This interpretation also lets us make sense of a perplexing midrash. It says that Sarah died when she heard that Isaac was about to be sacrificed, which would make him 37 years old at that time. (See Genesis 17:17, 21:5, and 23:1, and do the math.) As Ibn Ezra points out, if Isaac was an adult at the time of the Akeidah, then he, not his father, deserves the credit for the near-sacrifice — yet the text treats the event as Abraham’s test alone. If Isaac did not have the intellectual capacity to realize what his father was doing, this contradiction is resolved.
While this d’var Torah helped me see the life of Isaac in a refreshing and surprising way, it also reminded me of an issue in the American Orthodox community that is neither refreshing nor, alas, surprising. I cannot name the rabbi who wrote that document, nor recall all its details, because of the circumstances in which I saw it. Some other people in this synagogue were passing it around for the purpose of ridiculing its author. The rabbi, seeing what was going on, ordered them to stop circulating it, and opined that the person on the d’var Torah’s byline did not actually write it. These reactions, I fear, speak volumes about the distance between the attitudes of some contemporary “religious” people and the faith of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
In Genesis 25:6, it says, “to the sons of Abraham’s concubines, he gave gifts.” My wife pointed out a Rashi on this verse, saying that these gifts were shem tum’ah, “impure names” that could be used for sorcery. Gur Aryeh (cited in the ever-helpful Reb Footnote) explains where the rabbis got this idea: since the previous verse reported that Abraham gave Isaac everything he owned, the concubines could not have received any physical gifts from Abraham.
The Gur Aryeh sounds very much like those people who say that you’re not really stealing from musicians when you download MP3s off the Internet, since nobody is being deprived of any physical property. I suppose that in Abraham’s time, they did not have a concept of “intellectual property.” Or if they did, it didn’t apply to kabbalistic formulas.
Joseph Telushkin, in Jewish Literacy, pointed out that even though the biblical law permits polygamy, the biblical narrative advises against it. Whenever a man in the Tanakh has two wives, it seems to be an unhappy marriage: one wife is beloved but infertile, and the other one is fertile but unloved. We’ve already seen this happen with Sarah and Hagar; a few weeks from now, we’ll see it with Rachel and Leah; in Nakh, Hannah (Samuel’s mother) and Peninah have the same situation (I Samuel 1:1–8).
Against this background, consider what Rebecca says when she meets Abraham’s steward (Genesis 24:24): “I am the daughter of Bethuel, the son that Milkah bore to Nachor.” Nachor not only had a wife, Milkah, but a concubine, Re’umah (22:24). Why did Rebecca want to make it clear who her grandmother was? The simple explanation is that by announcing that she was descended from Nachor through his wife and not through a concubine, her family would get the better part of his inheritance. But it’s also worth noting that Milkah gave Nachor eight children (22:10–23), while Re’umah gave him only four. Is there some dynamic going on between Nachor and Milkah that is being passed through to the grandchildren, making them particularly concerned with their status and property (perhaps because that’s all Milkah is getting from Nachor)?
At any rate, you don’t have to be Stuart Smalley to think that Rebecca is coming from a somewhat dysfunctional family. She certainly doesn’t waste any time getting away from it.