Tag Archives: Shame

Balak, Numbers 22:2-25:9

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/balak

The Other

By Leanne Stillerman

At the opening of parshat Balak, Bnei Yisrael are encamped at the plains of Moab in the desert. They have recently emerged victorious against the Emorite people, after being refused peaceful passage through the Emorite lands. Their formidable victory against the Emorites and their seemingly inexplicable exodus from Egypt have inspired fear in the now neighbouring Moabite people, who join with their king, Balak, in enlisting the help of Bilaam, a seer from Mesopotamia with reported powers to bless and curse. The people of Moab approach Bilaam in the hope that he will curse Bnei Yisrael, and that this curse will weaken the nation and assist the Moabites in chasing them from their lands.

The text suggests that the people of Moab’s plan to curse is motivated by no less than terror of dispossession by a nation they perceive as mightier and more numerous than themselves. The text uses the phrase “vayagor Moab” (Bamidbar 22:3), which, in its plain meaning, is translated as “And Moab became terrified”. The Midrash Rabba comments on the root of the word “vayagor”, and suggests that the people already saw themselves as “gerim” – strangers – in their own land; they already visualized their own expulsion at the hands of Israel.

The text conveys the way in which the Moabites perceive B’nei Yisrael as an almost supernatural force, which they cannot hope to confront without external help. The metaphors used by the Moabites reflect a sense of the people of Israel as an almost non-human mass; the Moabites exclaim: “Now this horde will lick clean all that is about us as an ox licks up the grass of the field,” and Balak refers to them as having “covered the eye of the earth”, a phrase used to describe swarms of locusts. Whether seen as a herd of oxen or a swarm of locusts, it is clear that the perceptions of the people hover between super-human and sub-human. It is here that our text provides us with a classic xenophobic narrative, reflecting a fear of dispossession and a characterization of the “other” as less than human, a narrative which has repeated itself throughout human history.

The text describes the way in which Bilaam continues to attempt to curse the people through techniques of divination, despite signs which suggest that his attempts will be blocked. The first night when Bilaam is visited by Balak’s messengers, God visits him in a dream and tells him” “you will not curse this people, for they are blessed.” However, Bilaam does not convey this message to the messengers. Instead, he simply tells them to return to Moab, because “God will not let me go with you”. Bilaam does not play the role of a true prophet, conveying the divine message, and fails to suggest that God opposes this mission altogether. Had Bilaam conveyed the message, he might have facilitated an authentic dialogue, and assisted the Moabites in perceiving the people of Israel more accurately. Instead, the narrative suggests that Bilaam resists an awareness of what is, attempting to manipulate and alter reality.

It is only at the end of the narrative, when Balak takes Bilaam to the final vantage point from which he hopes Bilaam will curse the people, that Bilaam sees “that it is good in the eyes of God to bless Israel”. At this point, the text tells us, Bilaam does not go out to seek divinations, as he had on previous occasions. Instead, he looks out towards the wilderness, and then lifts his eyes and sees the people encamped according to their tribes. It is only at this point that Bilaam encounters “ruach Elokim” – the spirit of God. On the previous two occasions, God placed a blessing in his mouth, which he forcibly delivered. This time, the blessing flows freely from Bilaam through his encounter with God. Bilaam has finally surrendered his attempts to manipulate reality according to his perceptions, and turns to a genuine perception of what is, which leads to the famous blessing, “mah tovu ohalecha Ya’acov, mishkenotecha Yisrael”. Perhaps, in part, this narrative challenges us to drop our preconceptions of reality and the “other”, and genuinely listen and see the signs around us.

Stillerman, Leanne. "Balak 5770." Limmud on One Leg. (Viewed on July 5, 2014). http://limmud.org/publications/limmudononeleg/5770/balak/


Our Eternal Battle with the Ideology of Pe’or

By Rabbi Yehuda Amital (summarised by Joey Shabot)

The last section of our parasha tells the story of Am Yisrael succumbing to the sin of worshipping the diety of the Moav.

Two verses describe this idol-worship: “And they called the people to the sacrifices of their gods and the people ate and bowed down to their gods. And Yisrael joined itself to Ba’al Pe’or, and the anger of Hashem was kindled against Yisrael” (Numbers 25:2-3).

Apparently, these verses describe two distinct groups of idol worshippers. We know from other places in Torah that the main deity of Moav was not Pe’or, but rather Kemosh. Kemosh was worshipped through sacrifices and genuflection, as described in the first verse. Pe’or, however, was worshipped in a very different manner: not through sacrifices but rather through undressing in front of and defecating on the idol figure.

It is significant that the latter verse, discussing the worship of Pe’or, tells us of Hashem’s anger. Furthermore, whenever the Torah refers to the sin with the women of Moav, it refers to it as “the matter of Pe’or” (Numbers 25:18, 31:16), a clear indication that Pe’or represented the essence of the sin. The number of people who died as a result of this sin was 24,000. Even the sin of the Golden Calf resulted in no more than 3,000 deaths! What precisely was so bad about Pe’or per se, and why does Pe’or receive such prominence as the central sin in this story?

The key to this question lies in the answer to another, more straightforward problem: what was it that made Benei Yisrael, just praised by Bil’am for not adopting perverse and foreign elements (23:9, 21, 23) succumb to this particularly bizarre form of idol worship?

Let us think for a moment beyond the specific manner in which Pe’or was worshipped, and consider the ideology behind it. Pe’or represents an ideology still fashionable today, containing two elements: man living and behaving as he would in his most natural state, and as a result, losing the feeling of common shame (busha) that would otherwise characterize man as distinct from the animals.

According to this ideology, there is no reason for man to feel shame. What is natural is good! Why should fulfilling his most basic and natural physical functions be any cause for hiding? In fact, one would expect the opposite from a God-fearing nation – that man, in celebration of a perfect creation (his wondrous body, and a perfect natural world around him), should do nothing less than embrace nature just as it is, proudly flaunting it as God made it, without adding or taking away. And therefore, it would be perfectly appropriate for these ideas to find expression in nothing less than the very worship of the divine, in the culture of such a nation. Viewed from such a perspective, the manner of Pe’or-worship is indeed articulate poetry, expressing a developed philosophical stance – a stance, however, that Judaism strenuously rejects.

The Torah opens with the theme of the tension between pure nature and shame. The effect of eating from the tree of knowledge, it will be remembered, was to “know the difference between good and bad” (Genesis 2:17). Immediately after tasting from this tree and thus now having the ability to distinguish, Adam and Chava’s first action is to cover their nakedness, fashioning makeshift clothing from the first material in sight (3:7). Adam clearly articulates his first reaction to realizing that he was not dressed: “I was afraid because I was naked…” (3:10). Later, it is Hashem Himself who clothes Adam and Chava (3:21).

The Kabbalists express this idea as central to the whole of creation. Jumble the letters of the first word of the Torah, “Bereishit,” and you can get “Yere boshet” – mindful of shame, which represents the antithesis of unharnessed nature and the antithesis of Ba’al Pe’or. It is man’s job not to be merely part of nature, but to transcend it and perfect it.

Between the days of Ba’al Pe’or and our times, there have been yet others who questioned the theological assertion that man must to a certain degree alter God’s creation. In the well-known midrash (Tanchuma, parashat Tazria), Turnus Rufus, a Roman ruler, questions R. Akiva: “Whose actions are more becoming, God’s or man’s?” R. Akiva, preempting him, asserts that man’s actions are more becoming, and as evidence he illustrates that wheat is useless until man bakes bread with it, and flax is useless until man weaves it. Here, the Roman is really questioning the Jews’ audacity in circumcising their males – how do we dare alter what God made? Indeed, R. Akiva provides an articulate response. His point resounds through the mitzvot, starting from circumcision and extending to such mitzvot as orlat ilan (waiting three years before enjoying the fruit of a tree) and the concept of tzniut (modesty). The same God who created the world also commanded human beings that the world’s natural state is not always perfect or good, and that it is left to man to perfect the world.

The rejection of Pe’or’s “natural” ideology finds expression not only in the Torah’s opening and various mitzvot, but also at its very end. In describing Moshe Rabbeinu’s burial place, the Torah reads “in the valley in the land of Moav against (mul) Beit Pe’or” (Devarim 34:6). Immediately, one cannot help but wonder if the Torah could not find a more complementary manner in which to describe the location, and if it could not have closed with prettier imagery than Pe’or? The Torah’s purpose in summoning associations of the incident described in our parasha, as well as the strategic placement of the grave of Moshe, who can be seen as the embodiment of Torah, becomes obvious in light of the above. The Torah’s challenge to Pe’or’s ideology, and the CONFRONTATION it presents, is clearly symbolized here by the pure contrast: Moshe and his Torah, vs. Pe’or and its temple. Moshe remains eternally poised against Pe’or.

One of the tenets of our Torah is that not everything that is natural is wholesome. And in effect, all of Torah is sandwiched, from Bereishit to Ve-zot Ha-berakha, between reminders of this value.

Amital, Yehuda. "Our Eternal Battle with the Ideology of Pe'or." The Israel Koschitzky Virtual Beit Midrash.  (Viewed on July 5, 2014). http://vbm-torah.org/archive/sichot/bamidbar/40-62balak.htm

Naso, Numbers 4:21-7:89

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/nasso

The Law and Lore of the Wayward Woman

By Adina Roth

Torah—with its rich narratives and poetry, glimpses of the Divine and profound wisdom—is a text we turn to for inspiration, intellectual stimulation and meaning. Yet there are moments in the Bible when culturally located prejudices come to the fore and the reader is left struggling with the tension between timeless writing and context-bound oppression. One such moment is the law of the sotah—or wayward woman—found in Parashat Naso.

The law reads as follows: If a man has suspicions (also translated as “jealousy” or “zealous indignation”) that his wife has had an affair, he brings her before the kohen (priest), who makes her drink a mixture of holy waters and earth. He removes her head covering (which implies shaming) and warns her that if she has indeed been with a man other than her husband, the ingested waters will cause her thigh to collapse and her stomach to distend. The sages are divided on whether this refers to miscarriage or the explosion of her uterus and genitals. Either way, the gruesome punishment seems to be a direct response to the alleged crime: sexual ‘waywardness’ is followed by sexual shaming and maiming. Alternatively, if the woman is revealed to have not been with another man, she returns home with her husband to bear a child—an uncomfortable consolation prize for one who has just been publicly defamed.

Having heard the kohen’s warning and just before drinking the water, the woman must answer “Amen, Amen.” In this context, we realize that ‘Amen,’ despite its benign, comforting associations today, actually means to submit to God’s will. ‘Amen’ is sinister here, as the woman is forced to surrender her fate to forces beyond her control.

It’s ironic that in this rare instance when a woman is given the opportunity to speak in a biblical ritual, she is simultaneously restricted in what she can say; these robotic and depersonalized words silence any defense she might have offered of her guilt or innocence. The subservient quality of ‘Amen’ also contrasts with her alleged waywardness. If she has been wayward, ‘Amen’ signifies the beginning of her return to compliance. If not, it is her forced acceptance that this shaming ordeal is God’s will despite her innocence.

In contrast to the passivity of the woman’s ‘Amen,’ the text places all of the agency and power among men. Her husband brings her to the male kohen, who administers the ritual. And the rite itself carries out the will of a Deity who is characterized as masculine in a biblical context. In this web of husband, priest and God controlling her fate, the woman’s story is absent.

In fact, it could be argued that the patriarchal nature of the ritual depends on the absence of her authentic voice and story. Her story—with all of its intricate details of how she got married, the nuanced unfolding of her relationship with her husband and her private desires and hopes—would identify the woman as an individual. In expressing her individual, lived experience, the woman’s complex story could pose a challenge to the unequal power dynamics and absolutes that the law attempts to enforce.

If the suppression of the woman’s story enables the oppression of women in the sotah ritual, it makes me think that the telling of women’s stories in their own voices can be a powerful antidote to oppression. Women’s stories are, in their own way, forms of “waywardness”—positive, powerful rejections of the status quo. By telling stories, we can challenge sexual norms, question the entire patriarchal system and develop women’s agency over their lives. Stories can serve as activist tools to help women in all cultures move beyond ‘Amen Amen’—and into empowerment.

Women across all cultures are working to author their own stories. Whether it is the sharing among Jewish women in a Rosh Chodesh circle or the oral narratives of women travelers in sub-Saharan Africa, stories are being used to make room for today’s wayward women’s voices to be heard.

Consider the story of Mukhtaran Bibi, a courageous warrior woman in Pakistan. After a tribal council determined that she should be gang raped to redress a family honor crime, Mukhtaran did not shrivel up in despair or commit suicide. Instead, she chose to step forward and, at great risk to herself and her family, she told her story. It created ripples, which turned into waves, and generated such interest that she became an activist, building schools and establishing networks to empower women further. She prosecuted her rapists and her courage gave strength to other women in similar situations to speak out and tell their stories. Individual stories are so powerful that they can inform and inspire activism and even bring about policy change.

It is worth contemplating how women’s waywardness is still punished in overt and subtle ways in the 21st century. The law of sotah in Parashat Naso invites us to consider how women’s stories have been suppressed and controlled by patriarchal conventions—and how unlocking them can lead to change in our own time. Storytelling, with its complex portrayals of humanity, helps shift women from the subservience of ‘Amen’ to the power of having a voice. Only then do they have the freedom to author their own lives.

Roth, Adina. "Parashat 5774: The Law and Lore of the Wayward Woman." American Jewish World Service. (Viewed on May 31, 2014). http://ajws.org/what_we_do/education/publications/dvar_tzedek/5774/naso.html

Tasting Life’s Bitter Waters

By Chana Weisberg

You are intensely committed, to a vision, a goal, a dream. You are devoted to this vision because you know it will make the world a better place for yourself and everyone else. You believe that regardless of the effort it takes, following through with this goal will ultimately make your life more fulfilling, more altruistic, loftier.

Then along comes life. And with it the ups and downs, the challenges and the obstacles. You’re not sure of the cause, but at some point you find that you have swerved from your path, strayed from your morals. It might have been restlessness or boredom with the monotony of the day-to-day minutiae. Or perhaps it was a spirit of impulsiveness, a rebellion against the swerves that life has thrown you.

Maybe you can be blamed for losing your vision and forgoing your ideals. Or maybe you couldn’t ever have been expected to rise above the harsh circumstances of your life. Whatever the case, you wake up one morning to the realization that you have changed. You are no longer leading the life that you had always believed you would. You have strayed from your moral vision. You have betrayed your dream.

You may ask yourself: If I do change paths now, what will be the end result?Is there a path of return? Do I want to take it? Are the costs too high? Is it worth the effort? If I do change paths now, what will be the end result? Will I ever fully succeed?

Common wisdom, laced with its jaded cynicism, says there’s no turning back the clock. Move on with life, leave your childish idealism behind and face the reality of adulthood. Life is not a bed of roses; you need to look out for yourself and your needs. Forget your lofty ideals; a path of sacrifice is not where you will find fulfillment. And anyways, once you have already veered off the path, it can never be the same. It’s simply too late.

Torah wisdom, of course, asserts the opposite.

This week’s Torah reading discusses the law of the ishah sotah, the “wayward wife” who is suspected of adultery.

Moralists see the story of the ishah sotah as expressing the sanctity and holiness of marriage in Judaism.

Others see G‑d’s willingness to erase His holy name for the sake of marital harmony as an indication of the importance of peace between man and wife, and amongst mankind in general. It is a question here of simple existence, whether the marriage will or will not continue

Kabbalists see the story as a cosmic metaphor of the “marriage” between G‑d and the “wayward” Jewish people, who are tested and eventually exonerated through the “bitter waters” of exile.

But perhaps we can also see, in the story of the sotah, a promising lesson for each of us in the personal sojourns of our own lives.

The ishah sotah is labeled a wayward wife because she has “strayed,” deviated from the prescribed moral road, even if she has not been implicated in actual adultery. Her husband has warned her in the presence of two witnesses not to seclude herself with her suspected lover. She has ignored this warning. Her behavior prevents the marriage from being permitted to continue.

At this point, the husband or the wife can decide to terminate the marriage, without any admittance of guilt. Neither the husband nor the wife can be forced to have the test of the bitter waters. But should they wish to resume their marriage, the suspecting husband brings his wife to the Holy Temple, where the kohen enacts the ceremony of the bitter waters. The husband then brings an offering for his wife, making it clear that he wishes to continue the marriage should his wife be vindicated.

The offering consists of unsifted, coarse barley flour, the commonest grain, without the oil or incense that accompany other grain offerings. It is a question here of simple existence, whether the marriage will or will not continue. An animal food—barley—is brought to signify the wife’s questionable moral standing: even if her guilt has not reached the point of actual adultery, she has veered from the pure path and followed her animalistic instincts.

Relevant passages from the Torah were written on a scroll and dissolved in the “curse-bearing waters.” The name of G‑d appeared in these passages, and in the process it would be erased. If the woman was guilty of actual adultery, the waters would cause her an accursed death. If not, she would be blessed with offspring, and her marriage would enjoy a newfound commitment and happiness.

But since the ishah sotah had strayed from the proper path—even if she had not actually committed adultery—why was she blessed so abundantly?The ishah sotah, like each of us struggling with the vicissitudes of our own lives, has never really entirely strayed

Because in truth, the ishah sotah, like each of us struggling with the vicissitudes of our own lives, has never really entirely strayed. We are still “married” to our ideals and vision, since they are so much a part of our soul. We simply need to be reunited with our true, inner self.

Like the ishah sotah on her path of exoneration and return, this takes effort. It takes strength of character. It might involve humiliation or sacrifice. But if our resolve is firm enough, if our character is up to the challenge, if we persevere in what we know is true and right, ultimately we will succeed.

G‑d stands at our side. Once we have demonstrated our commitment, He will defend us, even allowing His own name and honor to be “erased” while assisting us in our endeavor. Moreover, not only will we succeed at realigning our own life to what it was originally, but our commitment and the fruits of our commitment will be more productive and more blessed, leading to greater yields and to a more mature relationship with ourselves and with our world.

Because we haven’t just returned to what we were. We have grown through the process. True growth is not about only persevering on one straight path. Only after tasting of the bitter waters of life, only after struggling and stumbling and standing up against the darker forces of our world, does one become a greater, more courageous and enriched human being. Only after straying and then rebounding are we driven with a stronger yearning for inner unity and divine life. Only after experiencing the darkness of life’s night and the desolation of its winters do we attain an even more intense and meaningful bond with G‑d.

The lesson of the ishah sotah to each of us, man or woman, is that though our path may be a difficult and twisted one, when we victoriously face down the wearying struggles and tempting choices we emerge as greater individuals, and as a redeemed people, in a redeemed world.

Wesiberg, Chana. "Tasting Life's Bitter Waters." Chabad.org. (Viewed on May 31, 2014). http://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/390606/jewish/Tasting-Lifes-Bitter-Waters.htm