Oral History interview on Queeriality 7/14/13 http://queerituality.com/#item=rabbi-jacob-staub
Teshuvah is a combination of my work, my practice and my good intentions together with a subliminal, imperceptible, wonderful phenomenon that seems to arrive out of the blue from somewhere else.
How do you do teshuvah (repentance/return) anyway? If you are like me, it’s one thing to express the noble sentiment that you would like to change, but it is quite another to actually change. Somehow, my food addictions linger after the Yom Kippur fast. I forgive those who have hurt me, but the pain (and therefore the anger) remains. I am essentially the same person in October that I was in August, despite the best of intentions!
It’s not that I don’t believe in the transformative power of spiritual practice. I do! Through regular practices of prayer and meditation, I walk through my days with an awareness of the blessed mystery of existence. By cultivating kind, compassionate thoughts about people—and by treating them with kindness—I am a much more generous, forgiving and loving person than I was before.
Practice works, but not on a predictable schedule. You can’t do teshuvah in the one day of Yom Kippur or the three days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur or the 40 days from the New Moon of the month of Elul through the Day of Atonement. Teshuvah is a prescribed activity twelve months a year, but even if you practice, you don’t know whether or when it’s going to have its transformative effects. You work on being less self-centered and better at listening to others, and you just can’t seem to break out of your personality flaws … and then, one day, you notice that you’ve changed! Is that because change is incremental, so that it takes time to notice it? Or because change is a mystery, an event of hen(grace/ an unearned gift)—a term that shows up frequently in our liturgy that we may not have noticed or understood.
The rabbis taught that there is a divine voice (bat kol) that calls out from Mount Sinai, saying over and over again: “Shuvu! Return to Me you wayward children!” The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, interpreted this to mean that the Giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai was not a one-time event. Rather, the divine voice calls forth to us perpetually, at every moment, inviting us to return. It’s a voice that most of us can’t hear most of the time because of the noise, the distractions, the busy nature of our daily lives. But when we truly listen, when we cultivate our “hearing” through practice, sometimes, unexpectedly, the voice becomes audible, and I know exactly what to do, after days or months of feeling confused. The voice was always there, but I couldn’t hear it.
How can you believe in a voice that is not measurably audible? It may not be audible, but it is measurable. Notice it when you, your loved ones or your co-workers change—mature and re-orient perspectives in ways that you could not have imagined a year or two ago. Teshuvah is a mysterious process, indeed! It is a combination of my work, my practice and my good intentions together with a subliminal, imperceptible, wonderful phenomenon that seems to arrive out of the blue from somewhere else.
Rabbi Jacob Staub is professor of Jewish philosophy and spirituality at the RRC, where he directs the Program in Jewish Spiritual Direction. He is co-author of Exploring Judaism: A Reconstructionist Approach (Reconstructionist Press)
Meant to Be For Some Purpose
I was 47 when I drove four other rabbis in my teal Windstar minivan from Philadelphia to the Catskills for a mindfulness meditation retreat. None of us were meditators, and none of us could imagine being speechless for any length of time at all. Talking is a primary occupation of rabbis. If rabbis excel at anything, it is filling silences with words.
When we sat, we were supposed to focus our attention on the breath, noting what thoughts arose and then returning to the breath and the present moment. I was not having a lot of success. My mind kept wandering. My body ached and itched. I couldn’t get past the third breath before my mind went swirling away on a monster roller coaster.
The next day, I met with Sylvia Boorstein, the retreat leader, for a scheduled fifteen-minute check-in to tell her this practice wasn’t for me.
“I don’t want to empty my mind,” I confessed. “I love to daydream. It’s where my poetry comes from.”
Smiling, Sylvia reached out and touched the back of my hand gently. “No, Jacob, that’s it! That’s exactly the practice of mindfulness! We are not trying to empty our minds. We want to notice the ever changing flow of thoughts in our consciousness, so that we can remain in the present moment and not become too attached to whatever thoughts and feelings happen to arise and depart.” Her smile was bright and wide, but her tone was earnest, almost urgent.
I continued to practice mindfulness meditation into the night and when I woke up the following morning. What arose was an intense flashback to the moment ten years before, when my youngest daughter Hana, then almost three, was bitten in the face by a rabbinical student’s dog. Hana adored animals and bent over to hug a dog that was sitting in the sun outside the seminary. Startled, the dog snapped back at Hana and took a chunk out of her left cheek.
The next hours were as wrenching as any I had ever experienced. I rushed to the hospital emergency room, arriving to see Hana’s face stitched up with a mesh netting that covered her entire cheek. I sat up with her through the night as she whimpered and tried to pull at it, worrying what the scars would look like after the wound healed. Most of all, I felt powerlessness as I realized that we could not protect our baby girl. I’d known that, but I hadn’t often faced it. In those hours, it was the constant refrain.
Now at the mindfulness retreat, the chaotic scene with Hana in the seminary lobby ten years before reappeared in all of its intensity. I saw my wife Bella sitting and holding Hana, staunching the flow of blood as my friend and colleague Bob bent over and tried to help her. At the time, I was in the fog of shock and had never fully beheld that scene. Nevertheless, the images had remained intact, buried deep inside me. They surfaced in my mind, and I felt like I was in the seminary lobby again, terrified, as if no time had passed.
I took deep breaths and my heart raced as I tried to push the scene from my memory. Finally, I requested an emergency meeting with Sylvia to talk about it. After she had listened to my story, she asked, “How is Hana now?”
“She is completely healed. She has a bit of a crooked smile, but nobody notices it except for Bella and me.”
“And is she afraid of dogs?”
“Incredibly, no! She is still as much in love with them as ever. She is inseparable from our dog Jenny. She is so resilient. It’s miraculous.”
“Jacob,” Sylvia said, “This is beschert. Do you know the Yiddish term?”
“Yes, my mother often used to use it to comfort me. Beschert means that it’s ‘meant to be’.”
“Meant to be for some purpose,” she added. “It’s beschert that all of this has come up for you this morning. Here is what you should do. Go back out, and when the scene returns, don’t duck. Hold it and notice everything you can about it, what feelings arise, how it feels in your body when you remember it. Everything. And then…let it go. Send it on its way. It will return, and when it does, do the same thing again and again. Each time it returns, it will be a little less potent, less frightening. Don’t duck. When you run, it only gets more frightening.”
Out in the field and then in the meditation hall, I followed Sylvia’s instructions. Each time, I allowed myself to experience the trauma in all of its intensity even though I wanted to run. I noticed the tightening in my chest, the knots in my stomach, the shortening of my breath, the dilation of my eyes. And each time, the scene was slightly less powerful.
By the time we broke silence two days later, I believed that this practice of mindful meditation worked—better, in some ways, than all of the hundreds of hours of therapy I had experienced in my life.
How have I understood my mother’s belief that everything is beschert, that everything is meant to be for some purpose? I do not believe that everything is predetermined, either by a divine plan or in some other set of causal cosmic equations. It was not inevitable that toddler Hana would slip away from her mother and hug a sleeping dog that would bite her. It was not predestined that I attend that particular retreat in 1998—I could have easily decided not to go. Nor was it inevitable that fourteen years later, 27-year-old Hana would choose to swallow a fatal dose of medications on the morning of May 27th, 2011.
The meaning is not in the event itself, but in what we do when the event occurs. There are always opportunities—“invitations” if you will—to react one way or another. The meaning that I attribute to any circumstance, when I am able to do so at all, is not in the event itself, but how I respond when it ricochets out of my control. I could duck from these experiences, but instead I welcome the flashbacks as an entry to a new, liberating way to explore the eruptions of my soul.
“The Healing Serpent: Recovering Long Lost Jewish Fragments in Parashat Hukkat (Numbers 19:1-22:1),” in Torah Queeries, edited by David Shneer, Greg Drinkwater, and Joshua Lesser, New York University Press, 2009, pp. 206-211.
The Healing Serpent: Recovering Long Lost Jewish Fragments
Jacob J. Staub
When Ezra returned to Jerusalem from the Babylonian exile, he brought a version of the Torah virtually identical to the one we have today. All subsequent Jewish reflection on the text was recorded as commentary. Ezra and the scribes who edited the final version of the Torah out of other texts, however, did not preserve earlier versions. They intentionally sought to create the impression that the Torah has always spoken with one, normative voice. They did a masterful but imperfect job of editing out diverse strands of the tradition. Queering the Torah thus involves more than questioning the received text; it also involves digging beneath it for echoes of suppressed ancestors. One such echo is the copper serpent story in Parashat Hukkat.
The Israelites in this parashah complain, as they do throughout the Book of Numbers. Who can blame them? By now, their dramatic rescue at theSea ofReeds and their receipt of the Torah atMount Sinai are distant memories. They find themselves wandering in the wilderness without a reliable source of water (Numbers 20:2), attacked by the Canaanite king ofArad (Numbers 21:10), detouring aroundEdom (Numbers 21:4). With no end to their trek in sight, they want to return home, even to Egyptian slavery. They believe, understandably, that they are going to die in the desert, before reaching the Promised Land. Moses loses his temper, striking the rock in anger and frustration at the people’s impatience, and he himself is punished for his unseemly behavior (Numbers 20:6-13).
God too loses his temper and punishes the Israelites for their faithlessness by sending serpents whose bites are lethal causing many Israelites to die. Thus, the people are induced to acknowledge their sinful murmuring and to beg Moses to plead for God to rescue them. At God’s instruction, Moses makes a copper serpent and mounts it high and visible on a standard; suffering snakebite victims who look at the serpent do not die.
This narrative is problematic for those who believe that the Torah consistently reflects uniformly exalted values and that immediately following its revelation atMount Sinai, the Israelites did not engage in totemic, magical practices. We will deal first with the values problem.
Repeatedly in the stories of Israel’s wilderness trek, we may feel the urgent need to question the narrative’s basic underlying premise: that God is a tyrannical tribal chieftain who requires absolute, unambivalent loyalty, who has a quick temper and punishes insubordination in extreme ways, and who is oh-so-merciful in being willing to relent when the sinners confess and repent. We are heirs to a heritage, whose formative narratives demand, on pain of death, absolute obedience and conformity to the norm, leaving precious little space for multivocality or diversity. The Golden Calf episode is the classic example of this worldview; the narrative in Parashat Hukkat is but a minor echo. Both stories of ‘insubordination,’ however, can be read as accounts of Israelite practices that were condemned only in later centuries by those who wrote the stories down.
The narrator of the copper serpent episode leaves some seams exposed. We are able to peer beneath the normative, monotheistic façade that contemporary Bible scholars tell us was constructed in eighth-century Jerusalem. Traumatized by the fall of the Northern Kingdom in 721 BCE and Jerusalem’s narrow escape from the Assyrian siege, Judean leaders blamed the catastrophe on the allegedly idolatrous practices of the North. That is, the North must have done something to deserve its fall. They warned the people of Jerusalem (including many refugees from the North) not to repeat those mistakes, lest Judea fall as well.[i]
This is the context in which the pentateuchal documents were edited into their final form, and we can assume that the editors were interested in condemning traces in the narratives of older practices and beliefs that were current and acceptable, but which they now viewed as deviant and worthy of punishment. In the wake of the Assyrian destruction of much of the Judean countryside, they were centralizing and normalizing the cult in theJerusalemtemple, where they could control practices. These condemnations thus reveal more about their contemporary concerns than about the age-old stories themselves.
If queering the text means questioning the norms that it sets, then we must begin by questioning the assumption that all biblical voices had the norm-setting agenda of late First Temple editors. If they are admonishing the people not to act like the exiled people of theNorthern Kingdom, then they must have been addressing an audience whom they thought were inclined to engage in the practices they were now condemning. Thus, not all Judeans were piously inclined to eradicate diversity. Similarly, in centralizing the cult at theTempleinJerusalem, they condemned heterogeneous practices that until this point, had been current in the local high places outside ofJerusalem, and which had never before been made homogeneous. Contrary to the assumption of the prophets, the practices that they condemned were not idolatrous deviations from pristine older rituals; rather they were older, accepted practices that were being newly condemned.
The literary counterpart to these leaders were a group of Biblical historians often called the “Deuteronomist,” who edited the Book of Deuteronomy as well as the historical books called First Prophets and who lived in the eighth and seventh centuries. The Deuteronomist presents Israelite history through a cycle: we sinned, we were punished, we repented, and we were saved. Having witnessed the destruction ofSamariaand the near-destruction ofJerusalemandJudea, they urged the people to change their sinful ways and ward off further destruction, and they read this theology back into earlier narratives: 3000 were slaughtered by the Levites after the sin of the Golden Calf; many were killed by the serpents after the Israelites complained. But then, the rest of us were delivered when we repented. So, let us now repent and be saved. A queer perspective questions whether the pressure to conform to a monolithic norm, developed as a post-traumatic response to the catastrophic Assyrian invasion, need be regarded as the only authentic strand that we inherit from our Judean ancestors.
Queering our text also means imagining the voices that were silenced by the redactors. The seams in the façade of the edited text are the ancient narratives that remain. They are cast in the text as illustrations that support the editors’ agenda, but they nevertheless give us a glimpse into our ancestors’ narratives before those stories were edited into moralizing fables. The Israelite men are healed from their venomous snakebites by looking at the copper serpent. They whine, having lost their virility in their inability to stand fast and firm in their faith. Moses built what sounds like a very impressive phallus. Just looking at it heals them, restoring their masculinity. The story probably survived as a warning against lack of faith, but it preserves a snapshot of other Israelite beliefs that were becoming unacceptable in the eight century.
Freud had something to say about looking at snakes. In his 1922 essay, “Medusa’s Head,” he identifies the terror of Medusa as the fear of castration, linked to the sight of female (mother’s) genitals, surrounded by hair, minus a penis. Medusa’s hair is often represented as snakes. Frightened at the thought of castration, men see phalluses everywhere. The sight of Medusa’s head turns the terrified (male) viewer into stone, stiff with terror—terrified, yet erect once more. Displaying the male genitals—whether on Medusa’s head, as a giant copper serpent, or in a locker room pissing contest—is an apotropaic act, defending oneself against the terror of castration with bravado.[ii]
The Israelites are certainly terrified, not to mention bitchy. Listen to their words as they address God and Moses: “Why did you make us leave Egyptto die in the wilderness? There is no bread or water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food.” (Numbers 21:5)[iii] Assailed by lethal serpents, they are cured by gazing upon a copper serpent, erect and larger than life. As per Freud, the serpent is both lethal and redemptive.
The sequence of our questions might proceed as follows: Could it be that earlier Israelite traditions included a narrative in which Moses, at God’s instruction, uses a phallic totem to heal the sick? Does pure monotheism allow for that? Had they always believed uniformly in the One God who didn’t need magical props? The copper serpent narrative reveals a layer of primal Israelite symbolism that is illumined by Freud’s analysis.
Subjecting Numbers 21:4-9 to Freud’s analysis of the Greek Medusa myth also allows us to learn from Helene Cixous’s criticism of that analysis.[iv] Addressing the phallocentric tradition of writing, Cixous argues:
For what [men] have said so far, for the most part, stems from the opposition activity/passivity from the power relation between a fantasized obligatory virility meant to invade, to colonize, and the consequential phantasm of woman as a “dark continent” to penetrate and to “pacify.”…Conquering her, they’ve made haste to depart from her borders, to get out of sight, out of body.[v]
Men don’t want to linger. They don’t want to view the phallus-less woman. Men’s fear of looking at the Medusa is their fear of castration. Women remind them of this primal fear, so they avert their gaze. Looking itself is lethal.[vi] Cixous exhorts women to refuse to play the roles assigned to them in this phallocentric psychodrama. Women need not continue to be passive, dark, and therefore threatening.
Too bad for them if they fall apart upon discovering that women aren’t men, or that the mother doesn’t have one….You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing.[vii]
Moses in Parashat Hukkat wants the stricken Israelites to look and be healed. The feminist Cixous exhorts men to look at women in order to transcend their fears. But the overwhelming weight of rabbinic tradition commands us not to look at the physical world lest we be tempted. As an example, I choose the early sixteenth-century Italian biblical commentator Rabbu Obadiah Sforno because he represents the culmination of the medieval (hence “traditional”) approach to Bible commentary and because his allegorical reading is so clear and precise in its separation of body and spirit. Here are his comments on the word “serpent” in Genesis 3:1:
And the serpent. “He is Satan; he is the evil inclination (yetzer hara).”[viii] [That is,] he does great damage while being barely visible….Our text refers to the evil inclination, the cause of sin, as a “serpent,” in that it resembles a serpent, whose utility is slight, while its damage is great and its visibility is small.
The rabbis said that “Samael rode upon him.”[ix] That is, the power of desire leads us to sin by means of the power of the imagination, which brings to it images of material pleasure that deflect it from the path of perfection intended by God, may God be blessed….The rabbis taught that the eye and the heart are the agents of sin, just as [the Torah] warns us, “Do not follow your heart and eyes [after which you go lusting].” (Numbers 15:39)
According to Sforno and so many of his predecessors, we (at least, we men) should not look at anything. Our eyes provide the pleasurable views that fuel the imagination and that feed desire that lead us to go a-whoring. Look instead at the tzitzit (fringes) on your tallit (prayer shawl) so that you don’t think about material things, thereby feeding your lust with your imagination. The threat of castration for the murmuring Israelites in Parashat Hukkat, as for mind-wandering, prayer-shawled men at prayer, comes from God the Almighty. Don’t complain, don’t fantasize, don’t lust, or you’ll be dealt with most severely. Images of material pleasure thwart God’s intention and will. According to Sforno, God frowns not only on pleasure but on fantasies of pleasure.
How can this narrative be told in a way that helps us to avoid re-inscribing the message that the other is dangerous and should be subjugated—whether it is the other gender, or the other, imaginative impulse, or the body and its pleasures, or lust? Here is at least one place in which we are given a precedent for looking—and for its healing power. The Israelites look at a totemic phallus and are healed. They look because God commands them to look. Numbers 21:4-9 doesn’t have the weight to counterbalance the third paragraph of the Shema (Do not follow your own heart and eyes [Numbers 15:39]), but it is a start, one small step toward embodiment, toward celebrating physical pleasure as divine. To be healed, you must look.
But it is not only desire-inducing material images at which we are forbidden to look. Moses is also commanded not to look at God’s face. Looking at God’s face is lethal. (Exodus 33:20) Traditionally, the explanations of these two different prohibitions are worlds apart. One can wonder, nevertheless, whether at some earlier period, it was an embodied God at whom one could not look—the One with an outstretched arm and flaring nostrils, the One who occupied a very definite physical space in the Temple’s Holy of Holies, the One seen by Isaiah in robes and Ezekiel in flight, the One whose physical measurements were calculated and recorded in the Shiur Komah literature. You don’t look into the eyes or at the groin of a father or a chieftain and leave undamaged.
Imagine then that we could travel toJudeaat a time prior to the Assyrian invasion, before the two Israelite kingdoms had been ravaged by a brutal imperial power, before Judean leaders feared for their survival and sought to fend off additional divine punishment by suppressing what they now regarded as sin. Imagine a society in which the cult was not centralized and diverse customs flourished at local shrines, where nobody thought it idolatrous to bake cakes to the Queen of Heaven or to cast calves or bulls to represent the seat of an invisible but very embodied God, and where serpent totems healed. Without necessarily embracing these ancient beliefs as credible in the twenty-first century, we can be liberated by their diversity to see that norms were imposed then, just as they are today, by those who seek power and make dubious claims to ancient authority.
Once we free ourselves from the censors, we can look where we have been forbidden to look. Unafraid that “copper serpents” are idolatrous, we might be freer to explore symbols and rituals that are, after all, Jewishly authentic. Understanding that we need not accept the portrayal of God as an autocratic, vindictive tribal chieftain, we might discover benign, supportive, nonjudgmental aspects of God that we had never noticed. And rediscovering God’s body, we might reclaim the blessedness of our own bodies, affirming that materiality and physical pleasure are divine gifts rather than temptations.
[i] For a review of the current literature, see Jason Radine, The Book of Amos and the Development of Judean Political Identity,University ofMichigan doctoral dissertation, 2007.
[ii] Sigmund Freud, Sexuality and the Psychology of Love (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1963), pp. 202-203.
[iii] Translation from Tanakh (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1999).
[iv] Helene Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa,” translated by Keith Cohen and Paula Cohen, in New French Feminisms: An Anthology, edited by Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron (New York: Schocken Books, 1981), pp. 245-264. I thank Dr. Lori Lefkovitz for sending me to Cixous.
[v] Cixous, p. 247, n. 1.
[vi] Cixous, p. 254f.
[vii] Cixous, p. 255.
[viii] B. Baba Batra 16a.
[ix] Pirkei de Rabbi Eliezer 13.
Neither Oppress Nor Allow Others to Oppress You:
Jacob J. Staub
broke the sacred tablets on Sinai, the rich
picked the pieces carved with:
“adultery” and ”kill” and “theft,”
the poor got only “No” “No” “No.”
Ilya Kaminsky, “American Tourist,” Dancing in Odessa
The queer perspective questions all norms—not only norms of gender role and definition or sexual orientation, but all norms. From a queer perspective, norms are human attempts to simplify, classify, and regulate the complexities of reality. Reality, however, is inevitably messier than the categories we impose. There are always exceptions that do not conform to our classifications. The establishment of norms of any kind, therefore, is a process that essentially and inevitably excludes and peripheralizes difference, forcing diversity into pre-set categories and condemning that which does not fit in. It is inherently oppressive.
Parashat Behar is a powerful text on which we can ground the queer perspective, because it subverts the legitimacy of class distinctions. In mandating the sabbatical and jubilee years, Leviticus 25 contains the only regulations in the Torah about land tenure and the rights of landowners to sell or mortgage their land.[i]
The law of Shemitah, or the sabbatical year, requires that in the seventh year, the land is to have a Sabbath (25:2-7). No sowing, reaping, or pruning is permitted. The version of this practice described in Exodus 23:10-11 arises out of a concern for the poor, who are given exclusive access to the growth of the land in the sabbatical year. The version in Deuteronomy 15 emphasizes the remission of debts and the freeing of indentured servants. Leviticus 25 seems unconcerned with any of these rationales. Instead, it declares, “In the seventh year the land shall have a Sabbath of complete rest, a sabbath of the Lord.” The text is focused on the sanctity of the land, and on God’s ownership of the land. We are to let the land rest as a periodic reminder that it does not belong to us. Rather, it is ours temporarily, as an ahuzah, a long-term lease.[ii]
There is significant evidence that the Shemitah year was observed in Ancient Israel. There is little evidence, however, for the observance of the Yovel, the Jubilee year,[iii] and it is only in Leviticus 25 that it is mentioned. At the beginning of the fiftieth year, the shofar is sounded, and release (dror) is proclaimed to all the inhabitants of the land,[iv] all of whom reclaim the right to their ancestral lands. “The land must not be sold beyond reclaim, for the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me.” (25:23) If poverty has forced you to sell your land, if you have hired yourself out as an indentured servant, in the Jubilee year, everything is equalized, all inequality rectified.
The practice of the Shemitah and Yovel years reflects an extraordinary concern of the Torah to attend to the needs of the poor and to prevent excessive class distinctions. These institutions represent an acknowledgement of economic inequity and a regularly set attempt to ameliorate its consequences. Parashat Behar is a central text in ongoing discussions about the political leanings of Jewish tradition.
Contemporary interpreters disagree about whether the consistent tendency of Jews in the modern world to be more liberal than their non-Jewish neighbors can be accounted for as resulting from ancient Jewish teachings and core Jewish values. Some argue that the centrality of the Exodus from slavery narrative in Jewish ritual and consciousness[v] helps to explain why American Jews were prominent among the leaders of the labor movement, for example, were early supporters of the Civil Rights movement, and consistently vote to the left of their own economic interests.[vi] They believe that Judaism stands with the oppressed and the powerless, and that ideally, Jews ought to work toward the elimination of class distinctions.
Others interpreters resist, citing the long historical experience of Jewish communities in the Diaspora, under both Muslim and Christian rule. They note that community kehillot were ahead of their time in caring for orphans, widows, released hostages, and all those community members in economic need, but that the needy were assisted according to their class history—that the orphaned daughter of a wealthy family, for example, was matched, and her wedding feted, very differently than a woman whose parents had been poor.[vii] They acknowledge that Judaism mandates a social safety net that provides for the basic needs of the poor, but they do not agree that Jewish principles demand a commitment to radical egalitarianism.
Parshat Behar allows us to transcend the debate. The Jubilee text may describe an ideal that was never implemented, but its utopian character is precisely what gives it such breathtaking power. It questions all social and economic distinctions in the agrarian society of Ancient Israel. It questions all norms! Acknowledging the existence of economic oppression, of foreclosures and slavery, it assails the existence of these de facto realities on the most radical of bases: The land belongs to God, so it is not yours to sell, no matter how dire your economic straits.[viii] And since the Israelites are God’s servants, they cannot sell themselves into permanent slavery.[ix] Mishnah Avot 5:9 elevates the importance of the laws of Behar, attributing Exile to the violation of these laws, which the medieval commentator Ramban understands as following from the failure to acknowledge the work of creation.[x]
The sabbatical year ameliorates injustice. The jubilee year eradicates it, or it would have if it had ever been instituted in a comprehensive way. It demands that we recall that we are all servants of God, and that all hierarchies of distinction are false. It reminds us that the earth and its fullness belong to the Lord, so that our accumulated wealth is not ours. It queers conventional norms about social and economic status.
Pursuing the objective of queering all norms, we can learn from the rationales with which Parashat Behar seeks to subvert economic and social hierarchies. Inasmuch as we were all slaves in Egypt redeemed by God, we have no right to oppress others because they are different, nor to allow ourselves to be oppressed. Only God the Redeemer has that right, not the very human poskim (halakhic authorities) who read and misread texts in order to establish norms that regulate, exclude, and oppress. Inasmuch as everything we have ultimately is a gift from its true Owner, we are not permitted to utilize our God-given resources to degrade other human beings, nor to allow ourselves to be degraded.[xi]
Alas, our text can only be stretched so far, because it rests on another norm—the ancient division of the land of Israel into tribal holdings that it regards as permanent and divinely ordained. At the Jubilee, the original position to which everyone is to return is the land that is presumed to have belonged to one’s clan since the original conquest of the land. The Jubilee offers nothing to those who do not fit into an accepted, ancient category: those without clear, unblemished Israelite lineage, those without children to inherit their land, those with same-sex partners, those who do not wish to be farmers.[xii] Like all utopian visions, it rests on its own assumptions of what is ideal.
It is here that I turn to the fragment of Ilya Kaminsky’s poem, cited at the opening. In wryly noting the difference in the way that the commandments are experienced by the rich and the poor, the poet implicitly suggests that before Moses smashed the tablets, the commandments would have been observed uniformly by rich and poor, or perhaps that there would have been no such class distinctions. Of course, much like the never-implemented Jubilee, there never was a moment of intact tablets, intact commandments. Moses smashed them before he had delivered them to the people. And of course, if there had been such a hypothetical, ideal moment, it would have been full to overflowing with norms: Sabbath observance, respect of parents, speaking God’s name, coveting, and so on. From a queer perspective, would we prefer the intact tablets, the broken ones, or neither of them?
Actually, the rabbinic answer to this question is: both of them!
This Talmudic passage imagines that both sets of tablets were placed in the Ark of the Covenant, carried around at the center of the Israelite camp in the wilderness for forty years, and then placed in the HolyTemple in Jerusalem. The broken and the whole were at the center of the Israelite cult, the one testifying against the other in a tandem of ineffability. Like the hypothetical Jubilee text that has stood through the ages as a perpetual critique of the imperfect, unjust state of our communities, so in the rabbinic imagination, at our spatial center rested a graphic, material acknowledgement that however we try to interpret and execute the divine will, we can never get it right, because God’s will is beyond transcr
[i] For a full discussion, see Baruch A. Levine, The JPS Torah Commentary: Leviticus, (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1989), pp. 168f., 270-274.
[ii] See Levine, p. 172.
[iii] Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus: A Book of Ritual and Ethics (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), p. 307.
[iv] The inscription on the Liberty Bell.
[v] “In every generation,” we recite in the Passover Haggadah, “We are required to view ourselves as if we ourselves [were slaves inEgypt] and were liberated.” This theme is reinforced in every morning and evening service, and is a central point in Parshat Behar,
[vi] See Michael Walzer, Exodus and Revolution (New York: Basic Books, 1985). Walzer makes an eloquent and persuasive case that the Exodus theme is a powerful and essential factor in the drive towards “this-worldly redemption, liberation, and revolution” (p. ix).
[vii] See Daniel Nussbaum, “Tzedakah, Social Justice and Human Rights, “ Journal of Jewish Communal Service 60:3 (1983): 228-238. Mark R. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Princeton: PrincetonUniversity Press, 2005); and S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society:The Jewish Communities of the Arab World As Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967-1993).
[viii] See Sifra Behar 6:1, which has God saying, “My deed (of ownership of the land) has first priority.”
[ix] The commentator Abraham Ibn Ezra on 25:42 explains that the redeemer becomes the new owner. Obadiah Sforno elaborates: Since he is My servant, it is not in his hand to sell himself as a total slave.
[x] See his comment on 25:42.
[xi] “You shall not rule over him ruthlessly; you shall fear your God.” 25:43
[xii] In fact, the text explicitly excludes city dwellers from its regulations. Those who sell property within walled cities are not entitled to repossess it at the Jubilee. (25:29-30)
[xiii] Deuteronomy 10:2.
[xiv] Babylonian Talmud, Baba Batra 14b.