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A Year of Jewish Ethics #15: Gossip (Lashon Ha-Ra)

How does Torah define gossip?

The dictionaries in English describe gossip as talking about people behind their backs, usually in an uncomplimentary way; or spreading rumors about people without knowing whether something is true; or sharing private details about someone without their permission. Gossip seems like a casual kind of talking, though of course the consequences can be serious in terms of relationships and embarrassment.

In Torah, the overarching term that’s related to gossip is lashon ha-ra, which means literally “harmful tongue.” As I noted in the first teaching in this series, the Torah begins with the power of words. With words the Divine creates the universe and each element within it. So naturally Judaism teaches that the ethics of speech is at the highest level of ethical significance; one statement even parallels lashon ha-ra with murder.

So how is lashon ha-ra defined specifically in Jewish law? Here is how Maimonides categorizes some different varieties.

Rechilut means talking about a third person, telling something they said or spreading a rumor about them, even when these things are true. It comes from a root-word meaning a traveling merchant, a peddler. Lashon hara is when you say something negative about a person, again even if it’s true.

Motzi shem ra means “bringing about a bad name or reputation”, and Maimonides defines it as spreading a lie about someone.

And Maimonides also describes what he calls avak lashon ha-ra, the “dust of lashon ha-ra”. Which includes innuendos, like saying “I don’t want to say anything about Ploni”, winking that actually you are thinking something juicy or negative and encouraging someone to ask you or to fill in the blanks on their own.

Or saying something gossip-y in a humorous way. Or even certain types of praise, which could provoke jealousy. If you comment on the nice party someone else threw, the person you’re with might be envious that you were invited but not them, or upset that you don’t think their own gatherings are as lovely.

All these types of speech back up the Jewish teaching that lashon ha-ra harms not only the one spoken about, but also the speaker and the listener.

If you go by this code strictly, you might wonder if you could ever say something about another person at all! Even if it’s praiseworthy or constructive. We need ways to confer about ethical matters that involve other people who aren’t around, and in fact there are other parts of the codes that address how to talk about public matters, for instance. Some sociologists even propose that there varieties of harmless talk rooted in good humor that help people bond even though they are within the lashon ha-ra framework.

I think it’s worth considering the extreme version laid out by Maimonides based on the Talmud, even as a way of monitoring one’s own speech and noticing just how many different ways we do talk about others and how our casual or light words might be harmful. It might help us hold back some, or challenge us to find things to say that are more germane to the people we are with rather than those who are somewhere else. We could all benefit from studying the teachings of lashon ha-ra and having our own code about gossip.

In the Torah, the mitzvah of not being a "peddler" of rumors is in Parashat Kedoshim, Leviticus 19:16. The laws relating the skin disease called tzara'at in Parashiyot Tazria-Metzora, Leviticus chapters 13-14, are taken as metaphors for the social processes and moral implications of lashon ha-ra.

For one of my own deeper dives, click here for my Rosh Hashanah sermon on the topic in 5773 (2012).

A Year of Jewish Ethics #13: Lost and Found

It is a mitzvah to return a lost object to its owner. That might seem like a fairly obvious thing to do, but what’s not so obvious is why Jewish law considers returning things to be such a major mitzvah. There are eight chapters devoted entirely to lost and found in the Mishneh Torah, the comprehensive code of Jewish law by the philosopher and Rabbi Moses Maimonides.

To start with the basics, the name for this mitzvah is hashavat aveidah. Hashavat means “returning of”, from the same word as teshuvah, changing ourselves by returning, and aveidah is something lost.

The first thing you’re supposed to do when you find an item is to figure out whether it has signs that it belongs to someone else or rather the kind of thing that is easily disregarded even by someone who might have owned it. This section of the laws is fairly common sense. Look for a name or some kind of identifier, obviously. But also it makes a difference if the item has indications that it was made or assembled by someone, even if you can’t tell who at first glance. The Mishnah gives the examples of a pouch of coins, or a stack of three coins, or a loaf of bread with coins inside it, or a loaf of bread with a distinctive shape different from the typical loaf sold in the market. These look like things someone cared about, put together with intention.

If an object looks like it might belong to someone, Jewish law says to hold onto it and make a public announcement. Anyone who claims the lost item would have to tell its identifying marks; otherwise you are not obligated to give it to the person.

And here’s where the mitzvah goes beyond the obvious. There is one view in the Mishnah that you have to wait for a cycle of the three annual pilgrimage festivals to be completed before giving up finding the owner. There is a tradition that in the Second Temple in Jerusalem there was actually a lost and found, known as the Claimer’s Stone, Even To’en, where people would announce lost objects and come to look for them on the festivals. After a time, if the owner doesn’t materialize, then the owner is considered to have given up hope of finding their lost object, and the finder can keep it.

Before that time is up, the person with a lost object is obligated to take care of it. If it’s a scroll, the Mishnah says, it should be unrolled and read from each month. There are responsibilities for another person’s lost animals – the finder has to take care of them. That’s how the Torah introduces this mitzvah, by talking about animals that have wandered off (Deuteronomy 22:1-3). As you can imagine, this is itself a complicated area of Hashavat Aveidah, because there are costs that go with taking care of an animal.

Where does the spiritual force behind Hashavat Aveidah come from? One is the general Jewish concept that possession does not come with unlimited rights. Possession as often comes with obligations and limits. It’s always a covenant between us and God, and that’s even when I do own outright the thing in my possession. We are in some sense always borrowers from the Divine, even when we are not holding onto someone else’s lost item.

But we can also zero in on the two words that label this mitzvah: Hashavat Aveidah Hashavat , the returning-of, comes from the root shuv, which means to go back or return both literally and spiritually. I’ve already taught in this series about teshuvah -- going back as the central spiritual practice of reviewing our deeds, going over them, and if we did wrong and find ourselves returning to a similar situation then choosing a different action.

Lost objects remind us of our own misplaced souls, which we are always seeking and which we depend on others to bring us back to.  Lost objects remind us that the world is full of good things that aren’t always where they belong. Ideas and ideals and purposes, when they are not actively being made real it’s not because they don’t exist, but just because they have wandered off, become detached from the people they belong to.

In the Torah the first avediah, the original lost item, is the Jewish people. We were lost in Egypt, away from our domain, the place where we did our essential work and were nourished. The Divine found us, cared for us in the wilderness while we were still lost, and returned us. Lost and found is the foundation of our story. The whole Exodus story is Hashavat Aveidah.  So every time we stop and notice a lost object, and try to return it, we are trying to imitate the Divine.

For a deeper dive into the spiritual significance of Hashavat Aveidah, and its relationship to teshuvah, click here to read or here to listen.

Yasher Koach

Here is the draft of my D'var Torah for tomorrow, when we read Parashat Ki Tisa and the story of the Golden Calf.

When someone has an honor to the Torah, we say to them: Yasher koach. This is a Yiddish-y inflection for yishar kochacha. Koach is strength and there are two views of what yishar kochacha means. Yishar kochacha or yishar kochaych, addressing a male or a female. It might mean “May your strength be straight.” From Yashar, which means straight in an ethical sense and also a geographical sense. If you ask directions in Israel, the most likely response is Yashar Yashar, sometimes Yashar Yashar ad hasof which means go straight until you can’t go straight anymore.

Or this might be from an Aramaic root that also means strength – “May your strength continue to be strong.” There’s also a debate about the vowels, whether it’s yishar kochacha or y’yasher koachacha, meaning “May the Divine make your strength straight.”

The custom is to say to someone yishar kochacha, yishar kochaych, and the person replies Baruch tih’yeh, may you be blessed, or brucha tih’yi. A person who has been close to the Torah has a strength, which hopefully can bestow a blessing. That in the same family as kissing the Torah.

Yasher koach is the Ashkenazi form of the custom, and the Sefardi form is Chazak u'varuch, "be strong and blessed", or Chazak ve-ematz, "be strong and courageous," and I like to reply in the Sefardi form gam Baruch tih’yeh, "Also may you be blessed." If you haven’t watched the comedian Modi talk about the difference between Sefardim and Ashkenazim on yasher koach vs. chazak ve-ematz, here it is on YouTube.

That’s the custom, but where does yasher koach come from?

You’ll never believe. The earliest reference to this phrase is in the Talmud Bavli (Shabbat 87a), where Resh Lakish said when Moshe smashed the tablets, the luchot habrit, God said: yasher koach. Which in Talmudic context clearly means, “Attaboy.” Well played, good job.” 

Resh Lakish notices something in the words but obviously it’s going to be more than the words. When God tells Moshe to make two new luchot, God says: I will write on the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, al haluchot harishonim, which you broke apart, asher shibarta (Exodus 34:1). On the surface level that sounds a bit passive-aggressive, so Resh Lakish hears asher shibarta as yishar koach she-shibarta. "Good for you for breaking them."

That’s really strange, that the thing we choose to say when someone is closest to the Torah originated in the act of destroying the two tablets.

And in fact Rashi’s final comment on the entire Torah, on the Torah’s eulogy for Moshe in the final verses we read on Simchat Torah, Rashi says that up there as one of the most important wonders that Moshe did for the Israelites was when he broke the tablets. (Credit to Rabbi Uzi Weingarten for this source.)

There is another early reference, which I got via Rabbi Tzvi Sinensky. It’s in a midrash (Shmot Rabbah 1:32) from probably a bit after Resh Lakish’s time in the Talmud. When Moshe runs away to Midyan and he chases away the shepherds that were menacing Yitro’s daughters, the midrash says that the women said to him: Yishar kochacha for saving us. And Moshe said: Actually it’s the Egyptian taskmaster I killed who saved you. That’s why the text has the daughters telling their father, according to the Torah: An Egyptian man saved us from the shepherds – meaning that the series of events that led to Moshe saving us started with that Egyptian man, who was beating a Hebrew slave.

Both of these yasher koach’s are paradoxical. Paradoxical sources for strength that we make a callback to, when we acknowledge someone who has been to the Torah or led us in a ritual or taught us Torah. Breaking the tablets could be a good thing. Another terrible brokenness that happened in Egypt, a beating followed by a killing, leads to a yasher koach.

And both of these moments, in Midyan and with the tablets, are moments of spiritual challenge and physical strength.

So what all is going on here? With broken and strong?

I know a lot of us feel that our moment now is spiritually challenging and also in our muscles and in our breathing and our heartrate. So part of strengthening our strength and straightening it is in attention to our bodies. Our hearts are pushing us so hard, to walk straight toward our solidarities and toward our principles. There isn’t a separation between what we think and know, and our emotions which are very physical things. And sometimes the burst of a push we can make reaches a limit, which the Torah represents as Moshe holding the tablets and then dropping or breaking them, or saving a life but violently and driving off the shepherds and then sitting in thirst, expended.

There is a lovely midrash about the breaking of the luchot that says that when Moshe first lifted up the tablets, even though they were big solid stones, they were light because of the letters that God had written, which had a heavenly gravity to them. Look at our Torah scrolls, where the words are written from a line etched above them in the parchment, as if they are rising up and not descending. So all the words on the luchot make them light.

When Moshe saw the calf, this midrash says that God took all the writing off the tablets and suddenly they became heavy again like regular stone. So Moshe couldn’t hold them anymore, and he dropped them and they broke. But this midrash says the erasing was actually an act of compassion. Seeing how far the people were from the covenant written on the luchot, God decided to temporarily hide the evidence, to take away all the terms so the whole people couldn’t be held guilty. Which would have been too much for Moshe. So this was actually a chesed for Moshe, a way to give Moshe time to catch his breath. And Moshe got it – instead of trying to hold onto the tablets right at that moment, when they weren’t working, he let himself drop them.

And God said yishar koach sheshibarta, good for you for breaking them, and soon we will be ready and write again and figure this out.

That’s the moment we need a yasher koach, a broken moment when we’re promised that the strength we felt before but not this moment, will return and increase and let us walk straight again.

Yasher koach is a reminder that the Torah itself knows us when we feel broken, because of the time of the calf, when he world around the Torah was so broken and the Jewish people was so broken that Torah itself had to be temporarily broken. The tablets were restored, and came to strengthen us in actual battle and in spirit.

It's good to know that the Torah knows some of the topsy-turvy-ness that we associate this time of year with the Megillah.

Yasher koach is a reminder that every certainty we have, everything that makes us ache today, is actually a revision of some original, a second version of the covenant. Because there is no value that came into the world pure, that hasn’t had a crisis where it broke and needed to be renewed or updated or made more complete. Not freedom, not equality, not Am Yisrael, not Tzelem Elohim. And that will continue. It feels sometimes like the world is broken today in a way it hasn’t before, but that’s not true. Over and over the tablets are broken or we have to let them go, and yasher koach, we mourn and then we engrave again, and it’s the only way we straighten our strength and our path.

And all of this is in our minds and in our bodies. Broken and strong are spiritual and physical. So when you come up to the Torah, make a point to hold onto it. Or when the Torah comes near you, or when it is held up in the air – feel your arm as you reach for it. And then we can say to you, Yishar kochachem. When you are strong may your strength be made straight, and when you are flagging, may you be strengthened.

Antisemitism, Our Security and Our Souls -- Wisdom From the Book of Esther

This was Dvar Torah for Shabbat Zachor last weekend, March 8, 2025.

Last year at this time, I coined a term for a brand-new approach to wellbeing. I called it EIST, for “Esther-Informed Spiritual Therapy.” The big idea is that the Purim story is the best mirror in entire Tanakh, the whole Bible, for Jews like us.

Like us, the Jews of the Megillah are described as living in a vast and diverse world, all across the 127 provinces of the Persian Empire ruled by King Achasheverosh. Like us, the Jews of the Megillah were living in a world of material abundance, at least for some; and like us, the Jews of the Megillah, at least some of them, had two names, a Hebrew name and a Persian name.

Like our world, the world of the Jews in the Megillah has a random quality, where fate is a throw of lots; and the Megillah world is a morally topsy-turvy world in all kinds of ways, represented also as a tipsy world with all these drinking parties around King Achashverosh.

And like our world, inherent in the Megillah world is what we would today call antisemitism. It came to the surface easily, as ideas which could be spoken in the halls of power and converted into violence all over society.

The Megillah holds up a mirror to our world and then shows us a way out of it. That’s what Esther-Informed Spiritual Therapy would be: the mirror we need to see things in and around us clearly, and the wisdom and practices to help us walk through and hopefully emerge strong and well.

The part of it I want to talk about this Shabbat is about antisemitism. This is Shabbat Zachor, and we have read in the Torah and the Haftarah about this people Amalek who are thought to be the most incorrigible enemies of the Jewish people, because they are the most ruthless people imaginable. Haman in the Megillah is their descendant. These are difficult readings, but rather than bury them it’s better for us to face them.

My question for today on Shabbat Zachor is not whether there is antisemitism around us, because there is. And it’s not whether there is more of it than a couple years ago, because there is. Or even whether it’s worse on the anti-Israel left or the white nationalist right, because both are far more active and in the open than they were ten years ago.

My question is about who we are as we perceive and experience antisemitism, directly in our lives or as we read and see film of it in our world. Will we continue to be the Jews we know we ought to be? Will we perceive hate in so many directions that we can’t look at ourselves in the mirror anymore, because we are too busy looking over our shoulders?

Every single day I get an email from the Anti-Defamation League titled “Campus Crisis Alert.” It has a little red siren icon next to the sender in my inbox, so it stands out from my other emails. It doesn’t matter what happened that day on what particular campus – I get a “Campus Crisis Alert.” It doesn’t matter if the content of the email contains mostly good news, about actions taken by Jewish students or university administrations! It’s still called “Campus Crisis Alert.”

I think the ADL is an incredibly important organization and yet I find the daily crisis alert alarming, for a different reason than they do. I have my own campus insider, my daughter at Barnard, and this week was a particularly bad one there. Talk about not knowing the difference between Blessed is Mordechai and Cursed is Haman – the material handed out at sit-ins that obstructed classes and barricaded a dean in her office is actual Hamas material. There was a crisis there this week and I’m not sure it’s resolved.

Yet even there, not every week is a crisis of antisemitism, and I know this from my insider. The hostages are a crisis. Antisemitism is a problem. There are groups invested in maintaining the crisis feeling, within the Jewish community and within our American politics. But as Jodi Rudoren, the editor-in-chief of The Forward, wrote this week -- when you’re in a crisis you can’t think straight, and when you say you’re always in a crisis you excuse yourself from ever having to think.

So what do Esther and Mordechai teach us, who were absolutely in a crisis of antisemitism? What’s the Esther-Informed Spiritual Therapy we need?

The most important single moment in the Megillah is in Chapter 4, when Esther is first learning about what everyone else already knows about, the decree of genocide that Haman has persuaded King Achashverosh to issue. Esther first pleads powerlessness – I cannot go to the king, if you are not called and you go that’s sure death, and he has not called me for thirty days.

Mordechai sends a message back to her:

“If you keep silent, yes silent in this time,
spaciousness and rescue will come to the Jews from another place, and you and your father’s house will disappear.
And who knows if for a time like this you have arrived at royal power.”

כִּ֣י אִם־הַחֲרֵ֣שׁ תַּחֲרִ֘ישִׁי֮ בָּעֵ֣ת הַזֹּאת֒ רֶ֣וַח וְהַצָּלָ֞ה יַעֲמ֤וֹד לַיְּהוּדִים֙ מִמָּק֣וֹם אַחֵ֔ר וְאַ֥תְּ וּבֵית־אָבִ֖יךְ תֹּאבֵ֑דוּ וּמִ֣י יוֹדֵ֔עַ אִם־לְעֵ֣ת כָּזֹ֔את הִגַּ֖עַתְּ לַמַּלְכֽוּת׃

Obviously Mordechai is giving Esther a charge to stand up for her people, for us the Jews. But it’s a very nuanced charge.

Mordechai says to Esther: You have to speak, because right now the Jews do not know what to say about what is going on. All we are doing is wailing and crying out, or speaking without clarity. Someone needs to give better words to this moment, and someone needs to starting guiding us and giving us something constructive to do.

It needs to be you, Esther, because it needs to be someone who is powerful and not powerless. And you are actually powerful, even though you think your power is tenuous. And who knows, maybe the purpose of your power is not simply what I Mordechai originally thought when I sent you in this direction. It’s not that you have status, that you’re my insider. Your power as a Jew is important for the rest of us to see, so we will not feel as vulnerable as we currently think we are.

Mordechai says: If you do not define what this moment requires and what it means, someone else will. One way or another this Haman decree is going to be thwarted. But if you do not stand up, someone who is not you Esther with your moral voice, probably someone not even Jewish – someone else is going to come and rescue us. And then they will say we owe it all to them, to some outsider, and we will be beholden to their truth forever.

And if that happens you and the legacy you are part of will disappear; the moral heights you had in reach will mean nothing.

Mordechai says to Esther: It’s a matter of revach v’hatzala. Hatzala means rescue, so physical safety. Revach is spelled like ruach – spirit. What’s at stake, Esther, is not only our safety but our souls, our neshamas. You can help us not only survive but keep our hearts intact.

And Esther responds in remarkable ways. Last year my colleague Rabbi Karen Reiss Medwed taught me that Esther starts to realize that she has all these servant-girls who revere her as queen. To them she is absolutely the queen, a person of power and stature, and she can ask them to do things for her.

Esther tells Mordechai to direct the Jews to take three days and focus and fast. Fast for me, she says, tzumu alai. She asks them to concentrate on her, to take their minds off the enemies for a time and instead put their attention on her – what she is all about, what she will do and how she will guide them. She is reminding them that even this crisis isn’t a tomorrow crisis; the edict will take months to play out. We don’t need a solution tomorrow, though we do need one. But if we don’t figure it out right this second all is not lost.

After three days she takes what seems like a risk, but it all dissolves when the king sees her. The text says that Esther has the quality of chein, that she is a catalyst for the grace and graciousness in everyone who meets her. It was there the moment the king’s servants first met her, and it’s why the king chose her even though he’s too much of a buffoon to remember until she invites herself back.

I like to think that from there, everyone sees Esther in a high profile summit with the king and Haman -- and the Jews realize that she is okay, not just safe but in control. And they are able to exhale, and think.

When the king finally takes her side and our side, the Jews of the empire absolutely had to stand up in self-defense. But Esther worries that the Jews are learning the wrong lesson – that the only answer to Haman’s violent plan is violence; that the problem isn’t just Haman and his circle but an entire empire of people who may be ready to carry out his plan. So Esther sends a letter to the Jews of the entire empire and instructs them: We will remember Haman’s plan, and we will remember what I did and how we all stood up for each other.

And as we do it, as we retell a story with violence, we will send gifts to each other, mishloach manot, and we will take care of those in need among us, matanot la’evyonim. We will be what we want the world to be at the exact moment we are remembering when the world was not.

We will tell not only about Haman – we will tell about us, on our terms. We will tell that a Jew is someone who does not bow down to any human, that a Jew is someone who looks out for the life of the king and the welfare of the kingdom.

That’s the way out. That’s what the EIST therapist would say to us.

Esther and Mordechai lived in a world something like ours, and actually in a crisis time. The antisemitism we face in the U.S. is not a crisis like that which threatens our very existence. It’s instead a problem, a real one and a big one. And part of solving problems, and being able to strategize, is to protect who you are, the best of who you are.

That includes not letting your enemies define you, or give them control over your consciousness, your rhythm, your daily life.

So in addition to advocating for ourselves and pushing back on the falsehoods, some of what we need to do right now is to refocus ourselves on mitzvot and to see ourselves, each of us, as people of mitzvot – to love our own Jewish neshamas.

We have to be good to each other even more, Jew to Jew, at a time when not everyone is good to us.

We have to be excellent friends to other groups who are also going through things now, loyal allies. We are not the only ones with problems. Esther at the end of the story was not just a Jewish heroine, but queen of the whole empire. We have to remind ourselves of our own power and to use it for good.

We have to continue to keep faith about America and its ideals, its promise, its pluralism, even when that faith seems like a leap of faith. We have to believe in an American Jewish future that is a good one. We cannot give those things away, because then our fears will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Some of us have to be willing to be uncomfortable. To see ourselves as strong enough to go and talk to people or in places we worry we will be attacked. It’s what I have been doing. You might be surprised by what happens in some of those places.

There are many people doing all of these things in the Jewish community now, and so many of them are the college students, especially on the campuses where it’s hardest. They are so inspiring.

As Mordechai says to Esther, Mi yode’a – who knows if this is why we are the Jews here today at this particular time, during this generation of challenge for American Jews and for Jews everywhere.

When it comes to antisemitism especially since October 7, Revach v’hatzala yaa’amod la’Yehudim – we need security and our souls, both at the same time. Esther and Mordechai showed us how we could secure ourselves and even make our souls larger in the process. That’s the Esther-Informed Spiritual Therapy we have all been looking for.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Purim Sameach.

A Year of Jewish Ethics #12: Exodus and Freedom

In my overview of ethics and Exodus, you may have noticed I didn’t talk about one central idea: freedom! Well, the Jewish conception of freedom deserves its very own presentation.

In Judaism freedom has many layers. The term for free people is b’nai chorin; a free person might be a bat chorin or a ben chorin. One of the first blessings we say in the morning expresses gratitude to God she-asani bat chorin or she-asani ben chorin, for making me a free person.

Obviously from the story of Yetziat Mitzrayim, freedom means not being subject to a tyranny or tyrant, and not being forced to work without earning a fair share of the fruits of one’s labor. Flipping that around, we have a positive obligation to do what’s in our power to increase political freedom and eliminate economic exploitation. Whether that’s in how we vote or how we treat people we pay to work for us, or in more continual or large-scale civic action.

When the rabbis of the early Talmud were discussing how to tell the Exodus story at the Pesach Seder, there was a disagreement about the exact arc -- the beginning and the climax of the story. The sage Shmuel said that the story begins with “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Mitzrayim”, Avadim hayinu l'Phar'oh b'Mitzrayim -- suggesting that the story is fundamentally about political and economic oppression, and the Exodus achievement is crossing the sea into freedom. Rav said that the story begins with our idol-worshipping ancestors long before even Egypt, and that the real transformation in the story is arriving at Mt. Sinai. There, away from Pharaoh, we were given the freedom to accept the Torah and the Divine covenant. Rav’s concept of freedom includes the ability to choose a covenant to be bound by.

The debate between Rav and Shmuel foreshadows a distinction made by the modern Jewish political philosopher Isaiah Berlin between negative freedom and positive freedom. Negative freedom is freedom from unjust constraints. Positive freedom is freedom for. The choices a free person has the ability to make ought to be good choices, directed at a higher good and guided by Torah. The Exodus story is obviously about both. The demand Moshe brings to Pharaoh from the Divine is not just “Let My people go”, but “Let My people go that they may serve me" Shalach et ami v'ya'avduni.

The freedom at Mt. Sinai involves trading a surface freedom for the ability to choose wise guidelines and commitments to live by. Being able to make a covenant and bind ourselves to it is part of the Jewish concept of freedom.

Sometimes what gets in the way of our positive freedom isn’t force from the outside, but forces on our inside. In fact all the way back at the beginning of the Torah, in the Garden of Eden, the first woman exemplifies for us the nature and operation of freedom as she weights the fruit she has heard she may not eat, but which the snake says will bring her godlike powers. The Torah describes her moment of deliberation, as she sees that the fruit is good to eat, exciting to the eyes, and fascinating to contemplate. In that moment, she is free to assess the outside authority of God and the snake, her relationship to her husband – all of that coming from the outside -- and the superficial and deeper dimensions of the fruit, the present and the possible future that might flow to her if she eats – these are on the inside.

Being free means using our capacity to assess authority when authority gives us both rules and the space to follow or question. It means sorting out our perceptions and judgments, noticing what is on the surface which might appeal to our desires in the moment, and what might be deeper implications or consequences.

Being b’nai chorin, free people, means bringing more decisions into this kind of awareness. It means cultivating that in others whether as educators or parents or friends, and creating spaces for others to act with that kind of freedom. And not ourselves being arbitrary authorities or exerting emotional force or manipulative words to push someone away from their freedom.

That’s why to me there is a connection between the first of the Ten Commandments and the first rule in the law code that immediately follows. The First Commandment doesn’t sound like a commandment – “I am Adonai Your God who brought you out of the land of Mitzrayim, out of the house of slaves.” The first law is about possessing and freeing a household slave after six years. I don’t think it’s really a permission to own slaves. On the contrary, it’s a recognition that each of us at some point finds ourselves exerting coercive power over someone else, in one way or another. We have a responsibility not only to relinquish that, but to bring a person who is not free enough toward their own positive freedom.

A Year of Jewish Ethics #11: Exodus and Ethics

Most of this series is about specific concepts in Jewish ethics, but like the last one I recorded I want to talk here about something foundational, namely the Exodus story and how it generates so much of Jewish ethics.

Sometimes when we say “Exodus” we’re talking about the part we focus on during Pesach, the festival of Passover, from enslavement by Pharoah to liberation by the Divine. This Exodus is known in Jewish terminology as the Going-Out from Egypt, Yetziat Mitzrayim.

There is a book of the Torah called Exodus, or Shmot in Hebrew. The book of Exodus takes the story further, toward Mt. Sinai where the people experience Divine revelation, enter into a covenant, and receive many specific laws and teachings. It includes the story of the Golden Calf, the first major challenge to those teachings. Shmot ends with the people contributing from their own materials toward the building of the Mishkan, a sacred tent where a cloud of Divine presence comes to rest.

And sometimes when we talk about the Exodus, we mean actually everything that happens in the Torah after Yetziat Mitzrayim, including the whole forty-year journey through the desert and all the challenges and insights of that journey, all the way to the doorstep of the Promised Land.

Here are some ways that Yetziat Mitzrayim shapes Jewish ethics.

First, the Exodus extends the idea that human beings are created in the image of the Divine, B’tzelem Elohim. God pays attention to a people who as outcast as a people can be. A people exiled from their home, feeling abandoned by their God -- indeed, living in a deep valley far from the heavens. A people demonized by a ruler, feared by him and then mocked by him. A people covered in the mud in which they worked as they made bricks for Pharaoh’s works. This is the people the Divine chose as the vehicle for bringing Torah into the world. This is the way the Divine chose to reveal something of God’s essential nature, by showing the Israelites and the world that no one is beyond the reach of Divine attention.

Second, and related, the book of Exodus presents this as though it were a heavier lift for God than even creating the heavens and the earth. Requiring even more Divine energy, metaphorically speaking. It takes many more chapters to make liberation happen than it does to create the universe. In Genesis the Divine creates against a backdrop of formlessness, but in Exodus there is an active and powerful enemy in Pharaoh who calls himself a god. It’s in proving God’s-self against Pharaoh that God shows the measure of Divine strength and greatness.

Third, the opening chapters of Exodus show different people pulled toward connections to others and their responsibilities to them, motivated by more than group solidarity. The first people we meet in the book of Shmot include midwives who serve Israelite mothers but might themselves be Egyptian; Pharaoh’s own daughter, who decides to override her father’s decree of death for Hebrew babies when she is face-to-face with one herself; Moshe, who when he first encounters slaves we’re not sure if he knows he’s an Israelite or if they do either. These stories force us to ask how it is that people decide whom they are connected to, reconcile different sources of authority, reconcile law and compassion, reconcile public identity and conscience.

Fourth, the experience of Yetziat Mitzrayim shows up in all kinds of specific Jewish ethical teachings. The most obvious is the one labeled over and over by the Torah itself: Do not oppress or abuse or defraud someone who is “other” (ger) in your society, because that was you in the land of Egypt. The Torah’s business and labor ethics are meant to be the opposite of Pharaoh. The prohibition against verbal abuse and fraud is a response to Pharaoh. Even the importance of returning lost objects to their owners is an echo of the Divine restoring us, a lost people, to our place and our dignity.

Some of these sorts of things are of course in other systems of ethics too. But in Judaism, we are guided to see ourselves and others always in the light of the Exodus. Not only as a past experience, but as an essential drama taking place on a daily basis. We are always trying to be aware of when we slip into the habits of Pharaoh in our own domain, and whether there is someone near us who might need the same outstretched arm we did in Mitzrayim.

Lessons For Our Moment, From When the Ten Commandments Were Individually Delivered

This is a version of the D'var Torah on Parashat Yitro that I gave in 2021/5781. I've lightly updated it to reflect the changes in the pandemic and the presidential administration since then. It centers a midrash I've linked, and my own take on that midrash.

The midrash called Shir Ha-Shirim Rabba takes the opening of the Song of Songs and applies it to the revelation of the Ten Commandments. The verse says, and I don’t know if my blushing will come through on camera -- Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than wine. יִשָּׁקֵנִי מִנְּשִׁיקוֹת פִּיהוּ כִּי־טוֹבִים דֹּדֶיךָ מִיָּיִן. Like The Weavers: “kisses sweeter than wine.”

The midrash is one of my all-time favorites and as I tell it now hopefully by now some of you will be remembering from when I’ve told it before.

Rabbi Yochanan said that for each of the Ten Commandments, the Divine sent a personal messenger, a מַלְאָךְ mal’ach, to bring that particular mitzvah to each Israelite, to tell it to them, and then to have a discussion about it, for as long as necessary until the particular Israelite would say: I agree.

So imagine the mal’ach coming to you and saying: You shall not covet your neighbor’s house or spouse or servant or donkey or anyting else that belongs to them. And you say: I’ve already agreed not to steal anything  -- does God really care if I’m feeling jealous from time to time?

And the mal’ach says well it depends, maybe your envy will cause you unconsciously to pressure your neighbor to give you something you don’t really need and that’s not really going to make you better off. After all, this is your neighbor who would do anything for you and wants you not to be distressed, or maybe just wants to get you out of their hair. So how about instead of thinking about what they have that you don’t, you try to figure out what’s eating you?

And the Israelite says: Ah, that’s why you (meaning: God) included their spouse and their house and the people who labor for them and their animals. You mean sometimes we get focused on the easy life we think someone else is having right now, we think why can’t mine be like that, and then maybe we think they don’t deserve it, I do -- and that drives us apart?

And the messenger says: You’ve got it. Of course we use others to judge our situation, but that’s a first step, not a shortcut.

Envy is a clue to think about what’s out of whack. Maybe it’s something in your power, or maybe it’s out there in society, in the distribution of houses and donkeys and fields. Use that itch to think about those things, and maybe your neighbor even agrees with you about that and you can bond. Okay, says the Israelite, this coveting thing -- you’re not trying to control my mind, it’s trying to make sure we don’t  get so caught up in our minds that we drive ourselves apart from our neighbors.

And the mal’ach says: So it’s a law, agreed, no coveting? And the Israelite says: Yes! And then the midrash says the mal’ach gives them a kiss -- “let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth” -- and the Israelite feels great, and really connected. And the mal’ach goes back to the mothership for the next mitzvah.

Rabbi Yochanan imagines each Israelite during the revelation of the Aseret Hadibrot (Ten Commandments)  in their own spiritual bubble, with a personal angelic tutor who is very patient and a personal time warp. Rabbi Yochanan is solving a problem of grammar in the Ten Commandments, which is actually a bigger problem. The commands are delivered in the Hebrew singular even though all the Israelites are together. And even though every thing in the Ten Commandments only makes sense in the context of the collective. Honoring parents, and not murdering; letting your household rest on Shabbat, and not coveting -- those are all social. Even the issue of idols is about taking some power  or image recognized by everyone and projecting that as a godly power.

It’s all social, but Rabbi Yochanan says there’s a paradox -- first each person has to go into a kind of isolation, and then “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than wine.” The individual is wooed into the collective in a very deliberate way. Crossing the sea in a big crowd and singing together wasn’t enough. Each person has to feel loved with some love that is as big as everything, that is love from the Divine and the whole people, and also gets connected through a specific other. Only an individual who has been spoken to and kissed this way by a divine representative will say: What we have together is better than wine, better than the high that I experience from my own pleasure or the buzz I get from having my own ideas all on my own.

Up until now, the people had only negative experiences of the collective. Being miserable together, as slaves, who sometimes turned on each other. Watching Egyptian togetherness -- conformity, complicity in evil, mass psychology, the mob. Even when they got out, the Israelites knew themselves frequently as a group of complainers.

How could they trust themselves to be a group that could heal from slavery and get to the promised land? They needed shared ideas, and not shared idols. They needed a picture of fulfillment more motivating than coveting what some small group of them had.

Rabbi Yochanan in the midrash says that if each Israelite will feel loved enough to say “yes” for a moment, ten times, then we get to the  verse right after the Ten Commandments: “and all the people together perceived the voices and saw the bright lights” וְכָל־הָעָם רֹאִים אֶת־הַקּוֹלֹת וְאֶת־הַלַּפִּידִם v’chol ha’am ro’im et hakolot v’et halapidim.

A path to solidarity is what we need right now. We need it to stay alive, we need it to be more than just alive. It’s tempting to think of groups, especially political groups, only in terms of mobs and groupthink. It’s easy to perceive comformity, or to see insider groups that do sloppy work together. Those are real dangers of groups.

So Rabbi Yochanan says solidarity has to be built a person at a time, out of two elements: it’s built out of discussion, and out of loving affirmation. It has to originate on top of the mountain; there has to be somewhere for everyone to look up. But the real work is up close, person by person.

We can’t just assert solidarity or unity. It doesn’t come via the media or speeches. We have to make it by wooing people with our ideas and with our love. On the political level, when I first wrote this D’var Torah, I wanted President Biden and Vice President Harris when they were in office to go out and identify individual communities, let’s say the counties in this country where they got the lowest percentage of the vote, and have a midrash kind of conversation -- here are some principles and ideas, let’s talk about them, talk back and I’ll answer. And even if we don’t find a yes ,we’ll go back to the mothership in DC and come back shortly for the next conversation.

Same for Republican leaders in Congress --  do that. Find whatever community organizng group or congregation will do that with you in those counties. Set up a health clinic for the community there, and have the conversations.

On an individual level, in our own synagogue and our local community, we have to be the personal ambassadors for solidary rooted in reasoned conversation and love, for anyone who opens their ears or their arms.

We are going to need more of this kind of solidarity, to comfront the challenges of Am Yisrael and the United States, and to build our own community as a place that is welcoming and helps each of us reflect and be challenged, grow and flourish. It can’t be done if all we do is criticize when groups fail, which they often do. We need to build the collectives where we trust, and ask what it would take to give ourselves over in solidarity, to say yes to what the divine messengers are offering us.

It’s so hard to imagine getting to that kind of solidarity these days, to believing it’s possible. And it’s hard to imagine that we require it -- but I think there is no alternative. Some critical mass of solidarity is a matter of life and death. It doesn’t have to be everyone but it has to be more than it’s been in a long time. At Mt Sinai time could stand still to get that kind of solidarity, and even then it only held for a short time even for B’nai Yisrael.  We can’t stop time like that. But we each need to be receptive to messengers who come and offer us rational conversation and love, and we need to find opportunities to be those messengers.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than wine.” That kind of intimacy, that kind of solidarity -- it can be scary; we know it was in the Torah. Resisting solidarity will always have its rewards for people -- the wine, the yayin, is a symbol for a real intense feeling that you don’t share but have just on your own. It’s not lasting, but it’s powerful. I myself (Jon) do covet -- and what I covet are pockets of solidarity in this world that are somewhere else. But then I know the question is how not be jealous, but to learn how to do solidarity better right here. So let’s think about how we can open ourselves when the mal’achim come and try to connect us more deeply, and how to be those divine messengers ourselves, patiently trying to build the solidarity we need for life and healing, to overcome isolation, for justice and for peace.     

Shabbat Shalom.

 

A Year of Jewish Ethics #10: Teshuvah

One of the most fundamental Jewish ethical practices is teshuvah. Teshuvah is the word that’s often translated as “repentance” and is too often just associated in people’s minds with the season of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Yamim Nora’im or Days of Awe. The word teshuvah has a broader meaning of “going back” or maybe “going back over”, and it is in fact a fundamental discipline in Judaism for every time of year. In Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ code of Jewish law, the Mishneh Torah, teshuvah is taught not in the holy day section but in the section on the fundamentals of Torah.

Maimonides defines the paradigm of teshuvah as finding oneself in a situation where one previously acted wrongly or made the wrong choice, and this time doing it differently. Maimonides notes that there are various ways to avoid doing wrong, including just not thinking of it the next time, or not having the power or capacity to do the same wrong this time around. So for Maimonides, the ideal teshuvah is when you come to a situation again, with awareness of exactly what you did wrong and the reality that it was wrong, and with all the same capacities and thoughts that you brought to the earlier time available to you this current time. But this time, out of free will you override any situational or internal factors and take a different action.

Usually we are not in the exact same situation – with the exact same person we mistreated a certain way, in the same locale or setting. Generally teshuvah opportunities are by analogy, when the situation reminds us of something we did before. Teshuvah is a discipline of noticing those parallels, those analogies and resonances, and going back. We’re supposed to go back in memory so we can name the act, the type of situation, the thoughts or motivations behind our choice before that we want to reverse. Then an act of teshuvah is not just a bad act avoided this time, but a change within, overcoming a prior thing or a prior pattern in a way that is more likely to endure.

The figure in the book of Bereshit or Genesis who most exemplifies teshuvah is Yehudah, the fourth of the twelve sons of Yaakov. Yehudah plays a key role in throwing their young brother Yosef into a pit to get him out of their lives, and then making it look to their father as though Yosef had been killed by a beast. Yehudah sees his father himself torn apart in mourning and doesn’t do anything to show the truth, much less own up to the act. Some years later, during the famine, Yehudah and most of his remaining brothers go down to Egypt to buy food. They meet with an official there, who they don’t realize is actually Yosef himself – in any case, the Egyptian sends them off with food but insists on holding captive one brother, Shimon, and says that the brothers cannot come again for food without bringing along their youngest brother Binyamin.

They go home to Yaakov in the land of C’naan, and eventually their purchased food runs out. The only option is to go back to Egypt, and the only way they can do that is with Binyamin. Yaakov initially refuses, reminding his sons of his ongoing grief over Yosef. Standing in this situation once again, seeing his father still inconsolable, Yehudah has a moment of teshuvah. He tells Yaakov that he personally will guarantee Binyamin’s safety, exactly what he did not do when the brothers wanted to harm Yosef. This guarantee is the only thing that convinces Yaakov to let them take Binyamin.

Then in Egypt, when the official offers to release all of the brothers to return home well provisioned if they leave Binyamin behind – Yehudah steps forward and tells this (apparent) Egyptian stranger a version of the story of their family. He mentions his father and his father’s losses and grief; he mentions that there is a brother not with them. It’s not the whole story. But faced with a similar choice as at the pit and after, Yehudah goes back to the moment when Yosef was left behind and the aftermath. He states his refusal to do those things again, to another brother and to his father.

The book of Bereshit (Genesis) is not a manual of ethics; there are plenty of actions by our founding ancestors that look wrong or are wrong, even in the eyes of our tradition. And in fact as we will see, it will take the Exodus story to finish the foundations of Jewish ethics. But if we look at the Torah from the standpoint of ethics, it is the development of Yehudah that is the culmination of the book of Genesis, the defining part of the generation that will complete the book. Yehudah’s change may not meet every criterion of Maimonides for complete teshuvah. But it’s also a reminder of how much we can do by approaching that ideal. Yehudah’s teshuvah is described in the Torah through a series of moments. That’s what teshuvah is, an ongoing spiritual, ethical discipline, and it's one of the gifts of the many final chapters of the book of Bereshit. It is one of the reasons that we, the Jews, are named after Yehudah (Judah) -- the Judah-ites, the Jews, the people who do teshuvah.

For a completely different type of deep dive on teshuvah, check out Tov! A Podcast About "The Good Place" and Jewish Ideas -- here on the web, or search for Tov! on any podcast app.

A Year of Jewish Ethics #9: If Someone Treats You Badly How Good Do You Have to Remain?

All of us want to hold ourselves to a high standard of integrity and honesty and to go the extra mile for people as much as we can. But what happens when we are stuck dealing with another person who is either straight up unethical toward us, or whose actions are only just technically acceptable, not against a rule or a law but right at the line and not as good as they should be. And no feedback is going to lead to any change.

I’m talking particularly about business relationships, where in addition to being unpleasant it might cost money that a provider with more integrity would not charge. Though you can think about whether what I say applies beyond a financial context.

Whenever possible we should avoid people who are known to do business this way, or to extricate ourselves once it becomes clear that this is the case. But that’s not always possible, either because there is only one person or firm who does what we need, or because the financial or practical costs of cancelling a contract are prohibitive. Left in such a situation, how far is it acceptable to sink from our own standards to set things right for ourselves, so long as we are not ourselves violating a basic ethical norm?

This is how exactly how I see the situation of Yaakov Avinu and his father-in-law Lavan, in Genesis chapter 30 in Parashat Vayetze. Lavan has taken advantage of Yaakov’s labor for nearly two decades, changing the terms of his service and giving Yaakov the most unfavorable interpretation of their agreements. Yaakov finally tells Lavan he wishes to leave and they negotiate an exit fee to be paid to Yaakov. Instead of asking for a certain number of sheep and goats, Yaakov proposes to tend part of Lavan’s flock for one last period of time, and then collect the speckled and spotted animals among that part as his final payment.

Lavan agrees to the terms as spelled out. Then, Yaakov sets up a breeding system that dramatically increases the number of speckled and spotted animals within his assigned flock, far beyond the expected yield. When Lavan’s sons become aware of what has happened, they see it is as stealing on the part of Yaakov, and communicate that to their father.

What Yaakov has done here is to make a specific agreement and then get the most out of it. Presumably Yaakov knew that he would be able to leave with a bigger payment than Lavan thought he would owe, but it’s all within the letter of the agreement.

Did Yaakov owe Lavan the kind of extra, ahead-of-time transparency that Lavan had never given him? Lavan had not always lived by the letter of his own statements; was it okay for Yaakov to make the most of his own, as long as he himself has not lied?

In this kind of circumstance, where Yaakov has been defrauded over many years, I see the Torah indicating that it is permissible for him to try to make his situation better so long as he does not engage in actual dishonesty. He has after all an obligation to his family and himself, and is not required to leave without the means to set up away from Lavan in some kind of security. And at the same time, it’s important for Yaakov to understand that he is stooping. Not stooping all the way to Lavan’s level, but in that direction. There is a spiritual cost to making that choice in the moment, and a risk for the future of getting used to it -- a risk to himself and to people he may affect. Much of Jewish ethics is a virtue ethics, where our ability to act well has to be built and then replenished continually by repeated actions. When we do something we know is just all right but not honorable, we set up an obstacle for ourselves. Yaakov already has too much experience in his prior life being comfortable with deceit, and indeed some of his own children will learn badly from his example.

I have not quoted much from the Talmudic commentaries on Yaakov and Lavan, or other sources that ask the same question outside that context. But at least on this story from the Torah, there is a sense in the tradition from some interpreters that someone in Yaakov’s situation has a defense for stooping the way he did -- but one ought to still recognize that it is stooping, and take more steps than Yaakov did to prevent yourself from making such stooping into a habit, much less something you are proud of.

A Year of Jewish Ethics #8: War and Peace

The word Shalom is probably the most widely-known Hebrew word, among Jews and also people who aren’t Jewish. Shalom means peace, and because of that Shalom is also the word for greeting someone and saying goodbye. Shalom means not just peace but wellbeing and wholeness, so when we see someone we are expressing our hope that they are well and whole, and we leave we wish them a blessing of peace.

Shalom is even part of the name of our holiest city, Yerushalayim, Jerusalem, the City of Peace. Shalom is central to the Jewish view for humanity and for our holy land.

And at the same time, Judaism is not pacifist. War is sometimes unavoidable and sometimes necessary. One question we can ask is how Judaism views that necessity.

One response is in the midrash about the reunion between Yaakov and Esav. Yaakov returns toward home after 20 years of separation from his brother Esav, who at the time wanted to kill him. So Yaakov is afraid this is still the case, particularly after hearing that Esav has 400 men with him. The Torah says that "Yaakov was very afraid and he was troubled", vayira Yaakov m’od vayeitzer lo (Genesis 32:8).

The midrash picks up on the two descriptions for Yaakov’s fear, and explains it like this: Yaakov was afraid that Esav might kill him, and he was troubled that he might have to kill Esav.

Between this verse and the brothers’ actual reunion, there is the famous story of Yaakov wrestling at night with a being. This being is often called an angel, but in one midrash, the being is described as a representation of Esav and his might. In the course of the fight, Yaakov is given a new name, Yisrael, which has inside it the word sar which means "power" or "rule." And at the end of the fight, in the morning, Yaakov is limping.

These two midrashim suggest a view of war: that being powerful is necessary, and that even justified killing is wounding to one’s soul. War can be necessary for survival, and survival is important not just in itself but in order to continue the covenant the Jewish people are charged with following. Killing in war is never desired, whether the people who die are innocent or enemies. Going to war ought to be sobering, never triumphalist, even when it’s unavoidable or the cause is just. A people who fights will be defined by that fighting, as Yaakov was renamed Yisrael, and they will always have something to heal from, as Yaakov did.

And shalom must remain a goal and a hope, embraced even when shalom between particular nations isn’t likely in the short-term. That is one of the reasons why the essential part of every Jewish service, the Amidah, always concludes with prayers of shalom.