The Pillars of Jacob and Laban

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to Judeo Talk. In this week's Torah portion, Vayeitzei, there is a very interesting use of a particular motif. The parsha begins and ends with the laying of a pillar, but what those two pillars symbolize could not be more different.

The parsha opens with Jacob's journey from home. He travels alone from Be'ersheva toward the land of his cousin Laban. While he is on the road, Jacob settles down to sleep on a rock. It's there that he has his famous dream depicting a ladder to heaven where he speaks with God and the family covenant is reiterated. As a side note, it should be apparent by now that each generation after Abraham has had to accept the covenant individually. Just like sins aren't passed down to the next generation, blessings and agreements require renewed commitment as well. This is going to be especially important in the later books of the Tanakh when the Israelites wander in the wilderness struggling with righteousness and law. They are obviously not entitled to the Promised Land just by merit of being in Abraham's line. They have to accept the covenant and hold up their end of the bargain.

When Jacob awakes from his dream, he recognizes that he just had a holy experience so he sanctifies the rock on which he slept and he lays a pillar to mark the spot. He names the place Beth-El (House of God) and then continues his journey. In this instance, the pillar represents the extent of holy places, that a person can have powerful spiritual experiences anywhere in the world. Even unremarkable places as plain as a rock on a blank path can be the scenes of important moments in life. Jacob's pillar is the sign of just how open life can be.

When Jacob arrives in Laban's land he falls in love with Laban's daughter Rachel, eventually marrying both Rachel and her sister Leah. From there Jacob has many children, the ones that will eventually come to establish the twelve tribes in Exodus. He stays in the land, working for Laban as a herder and mostly being at peace. At some point, relations between Jacob and Laban sour and they come very close to open combat. When all is said and done, the best solution they can muster is to set a pillar marking where one's land ends and the other's begins. In modern terms, Jacob and Laban are setting borders, fences, even walls just like the Berlin Wall, the proposed wall at the border of the United States and Mexico or the wall between Israel and Palestine.

This second pillar is the opposite of the first. Instead of symbolizing the openness and possibilities of the world, it represents the way we put things between ourselves and our neighbors out of an inability to forge peace. When we look at the structures we build in our lives, whether literal or figurative, we should ask ourselves whether we build them to recognize something good or to separate ourselves from others. Are our synagogue or church walls there to mark a place where people can gather, or do they primarily exist to keep disagreeing neighbors on different sides?

Jacob and Esau: Brothers at War

It's unsettling how much the story of Jacob and Esau has in common with the current conflict in Israel between the Israeli and Palestinian people, but then again all long wars between nations are a reflection of this tale. It is both sad and reassuring that the understanding of brother set against brother is as old as any human record. The unfortunate part is that we, as the people of this world, should have moved beyond this by now, but there is an indication of hope in this parsha as well.

Isaac and Rebekah are married for twenty years before they conceive. Rebekah bears twins, Esau and Jacob. Like many elements of the Book of Genesis, this story has counterparts in the stories of other cultures. Twins in stories of antiquity almost always represent opposing forces in a conflict. Two individuals, equal in birth and privilege, embody different ideals and qualities, butting heads or otherwise living in some kind of inequality until they either destroy one another or come to a compromise. In the Greek myth of Castor and Pollux, for example, the former brother is immortal and only finds equality with Pollux when he relinquishes his living eternity for a shared position as the constellation Gemini. The story of Esau and Jacob is less gentle than this before it comes to a resolution in a later parsha.

Esau and Jacob are, like Isaac and Ishmael before them, a contemplation on the question of shared birthright. God's covenant with Abraham is that his lineage will be a nation, but what happens when there are multiple children who can lay claim to the title of patriarch? In this case, Esau is technically the "eldest" because he emerged from his mother's womb first, but before the boys are even born God tells Rebekah that her sons will struggle and one will prevail over the other. The issue of who is first born seems moot, then.

But what does this parsha actually mean to us today? What does it say about the nature of conflict, especially at the national level?

For the answer to this, we need to look at the accompanying story of Isaac and Rebekah digging wells in the land of the Philistines. They dig three wells close to where Abraham dug one of his own. The first two Isaac digs come under contention by his neighbors but the third is maintained in peace. The lesson here is twofold. When brother fights brother, or nation fights nation, peace will come, but it is uncertain how that peace will be achieved. Through enough fighting one side will simply lose and the peace will be the peace of a contender left alone. But peace can also be achieved by the will for peace, the decision to stop fighting instead of being forced to stop by simple attrition.

When Esau and Jacob fight, this is the question they must answer for themselves. Will they achieve peace through destruction or through compromised coexistence? In this particular story, the brothers don't destroy one another, but the one who "wins" doesn't come away unscathed. Jacob claims his new birthright after being emotionally and physically broken down by a crisis of faith. Compromise, the righteous route, requires sacrifice.

In the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, this is the reality as well. Both sides believe they have the right to the land, both believe they are Jacob, and both are correct. The Esau has no recourse but destruction, the Jacob must compromise, there is no other way. The Jacob of any conflict must submit to the necessity of sacrifice, coming away from the fight alive and righteous, but not whole. The land of Israel cannot be taken as a whole, but live on as two limping nations, two Jacobs choosing peaceful coexistence over the ever more tragic destruction of one's brother.

Isaac and Rebekah

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to Judeo Talk. The Torah portion for this week, Chayei Sarah (the life of Sarah) marks the passing of the head of Abraham's family to Isaac upon his marriage to Rebekah, a Mesopotamian woman who embodies the ancient Hebrew concept of propriety. But really, this story is essentially a stately romance of antiquity. Like the great novelized romances of Victorian literature, kindness and manners are shorthand in this story for love and a prosperous partnership between the man and woman concerned. In fact, much of this parsha revolves around this concept of an above-board approach to delicate emotional business.

At the beginning of the parsha, Abraham's wife Sarah dies at the age of 127. After a period of grief, Abraham seeks out a place to inter Sarah's body and he ends up requesting a specific cave from a neighbor named Ephron. At this point, Abraham and his family are very well-liked in Canaan, so much so that Ephron offers to give Abraham the cave and the land around it free of charge. Abraham insists on paying a fair price for it and the two men come to a deal. There is an important dynamic here. Abraham is grief-stricken, but neither he nor Ephron seek to take advantage of the emotional weight of Sarah's death. Abraham could easily take a burial cave for free, just as Ephron could ask an unfair price for the land. That they both go about the business details of their transaction so kindly and fairly is a lesson in itself. Life happens and sometimes it incurs real-world costs. It takes a gentle approach to handle such matters in a way that is fair to all parties involved.

With Sarah gone, it is time to find Isaac a wife so the Abrahamic line can continue and fulfill their destiny according the Covenant. When the time comes, Abraham sends a faithful servant named Eliezer to the land currently known as Mesopotamia to find a suitable young woman. As for why Isaac doesn't go himself, the sages have concluded that it is important for at least one of the patriarchs to be born in and never leave the Promised Land. Isaac, for such a significant figure, doesn't actually do much in the Tanakh. He's more of a fulcrum than an actor in these stories.

When Eliezer arrives at his destination, he devises a method for selecting the girl to whom he'll offer Isaac that basically identifies a person who is conscious of kindness and common courtesy. When Rebekah, then her family prove that they are as well-mannered as possible, they strike a deal with Eliezer and the engagement is set. Interestingly, Eliezer also gives Rebekah some jewelry for her trouble, a clear parallel to the silver Abraham paid to Ephron for the burial cave.

According to our society's modern concept of romance, the courtship of Rebekah isn't very appealing, but in the ancient sense it's really quite heartwarming. In an age and region where it wouldn't have been out of place for Abraham to use his wealth and power to force any girl he wished to marry his son, he insists on fairness and propriety. Rebekah obviously comes from a less wealthy family than Isaac, as she does work usually reserved for servants and has no jewelry before Eliezer shows up. This story is of two families being good and honest to one another, not just for their own sakes but for the sake of their shared future in their children.

Judaism, Sin and Family

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to Judeo Talk. This week, the Torah portion is Vayeira, some of the most famous, as well as some of the most busy, chapters of the Tanakh. In this portion we find the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the rather dark story of Lot, the expulsion of Hagar and most importantly the akedah, the binding of Isaac. There is no portion of the Torah so loaded as this one, but as most parshiot go, this one runs on a theme.

All of the stories in Vayeira have something in common. While each one plays out on a different scale, some as big as whole nations and others within a single household, they all use family as the overarching model for the human experience.

In fact, there is hardly a single story in the Five Books of Moses that doesn't somehow center around family of some sort. All of Genesis is a series of family dramas ultimately leading to the descendants of Abraham settling in Egypt; Exodus is as much about the way Moses's two families, the royal family of the pharaoh and the blood relatives he discovers later, differ in their core values; even as the Israelites wander in the wilderness for the remainder of the Tanakh, their leaders are all related and their individual stories focus on fathers, wives, sons and daughters. Judaism as a faith, culture and lifestyle has followed suit in this way. Everything begins and ends with the family.

Arguably, the entire book of Genesis is a compendium of sin, Vayeira especially. The detailed dramas of this contemplation on the nature of sin take place in family settings. For example, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah is in the background of Lot's sordid story. This is hardly a coincidence. We watch the cities burning under divine wrath as Lot commits his worst sin, offering his daughters to a mob that would rape them so they wouldn't attack God's messengers. By relinquishing the safety and purity of his own family, Lot brought on the destruction of the cities where he made his home. Just prior to this scene, Abraham talks to God about sparing the cities. God, in so many words, agrees to forgo their destruction for the sake of any good people who live there. By going through with the assault, God is essentially saying that no good people, not even the ostensibly righteous Lot, dwell there.

The implication of these stories is that no one can be expected to helm an entire nation if they can't even protect their family. And in these stories, whole nations really are on the line. Abraham's descendants will fulfill the Covenant and literally be a nation. These stories prove that this family, however great their destiny, has a very long way to go before it's ready for such a huge responsibility.

We are supposed to see this lesson in the text, that we have a responsibility first to our families. To destroy the sanctity of our households is to give up an entire city, even a nation. Sin, as it is depicted in the Torah, is to do harm to our kin.

Judaism and Mourning

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to Judeo Talk. Today I want to examine a special topic, one that concerns all people regardless of faith or culture. People of all backgrounds deal with the loss of loved ones, but every culture approaches the experience of bereavement differently. Today, I will explain the basics of the Judaic customs surrounding death and mourning.

First and foremost, it must be understood that Judaism is a religion primarily concerned with life and those who live it. While death is an inevitable part of life, the Jewish faith does not preoccupy itself with any aspect of death. Most importantly, traditional Judaic texts have very little to say on the subject of an afterlife. While there is a Hebrew word, shamayim, roughly translated as "Heaven", there is no mention in the Tanakh of an afterlife and the old sages did not spend much time discussing the particulars of any proposed metaphysical model for life after death. As far as Judaism is concerned, life as we live it is the first and often only true concern.

All of the above considered, the Jewish approach to death and mourning centers more around the bereaved than on the departed. There are rules and rituals surrounding how the remains of a person are to be handled, but beyond such necessary concerns there is no ritual surrounding the fate of the individual who has passed. The law states that, unless there are unique circumstances, the body of the deceased must be buried within one day of the time of death. Cremation is traditionally forbidden and the body must be interred in as whole a state as is possible. This includes any separated appendages, removed organs and in some cases the blood itself. Open wounds are to be closed and the body is to be cleaned. A Jewish person is not supposed to be buried in jewelry or other finery.

Aside from the funeral itself, which is usually brief, the central ritual of Jewish bereavement is the act of sitting Shivah. Shivah comes from the Hebrew number Shevah, seven. This is a week-long period of ritual mourning for immediate family. In antiquity it was the tradition for the bereaved to literally tear their clothes during this period, but the modern practice favors attaching a piece of fabric to one's clothes as a symbolic tear. Shivah includes the recitation of special daily prayers and (though it is less frequently observed today) a refrain from bathing until the seven days have passed. The sabbath does not count as one of the seven days and no mourning rituals are to occur on shabbat.

Additionally, the immediate family of the deceased observe the yartzeit, a Yiddish term meaning "time of the year" that marks the date in the Jewish calendar when the loved one died. Every year, the individual observing the yartzeit lights a special candle and says a prayer for their loved one in memorial.

What is important to remember about Jewish mourning is that it is a ritualized recognition of the sadness inherent to loss. Mourners are told to accept their pain rather than attempt to banish it by some means. Boiled down to its simplest form, the Jewish approach to the experiences of life is to feel what is natural for a given situation. Celebrate in happy times, accept sadness in times of pain and loss. To live is to feel all of these things and it would be pointless to ignore what are obviously natural reactions. Death is a very difficult thing to handle, so the Jewish rituals exist to give the bereaved a path to acceptance through honest confrontation.

Judaism and Modern Technology

Judaism has always been an education-centered religion. There are morals in our liturgy about teaching our laws and precepts to our children every day, as there are lessons in the Torah about the importance of personal growth through hands-on experience. The use of new technology in the dissemination of our cultural knowledge is integral to the survival of Jewish thought. From stone engravings to printed manuscripts, ancient Judaism benefited from the advances of the times. Likewise, modern Jews must continue to update how we communicate our ideas.

At the forefront of the advancement of Jewish learning through technology are companies like Davka. Davka is a software corporation that has specialized in Judaic educational and functional programs since 1982. The most widely used Davka program is its DavkaWriter software, the first and most popular English-Hebrew word processor. Prior to the invention of DavkaWriter, there was no real way for English-speaking Jewish scholars to create new Hebrew texts. The process to even reference lines out of the Tanakh, Talmud or other primarily Hebrew documents was painstaking, inefficient and ultimately not very presentable.

Since the success of DavkaWriter, the corporation has branched out to other tools for Jewish learning. Their products include children's learning games, language education software and Jewish encyclopedia CD-roms.

Other companies have produced significant electronic adaptations of large Jewish texts, like the CD-rom of the Soncino Talmud. In hard copy, the collected commentaries of the Talmud take up whole bookshelves. While an electronic version of the Talmud is hardly meant to be a replacement for the written volumes, a computerized reference source is essential for scholars and teachers who are away from home. It would also serve as an excellent teaching aid that is far more elegant than hard text with overhead projection.

Of course, like all forms of modern communication the Jewish educational buck stops with the Internet. In the early days of popular Internet use, sites like Ask A Rabbi popped up as a way for curious but remote individuals to take their first steps into Jewish learning. Today, the applications of new media to Judaic education are as numerous as the technologies themselves. Web cameras allow for live streaming lectures and direct counseling for people who live too far from a rabbi or educator to access these services face to face. With a mix of Internet technologies it is possible and even practical for a rabbi on one side of the world to train a young man or woman on the other side for his or her bar or bat mitzvah.

My own father, Rabbi Leonard Sarko, has been implementing such technological advances for years as a spiritual leader and educator. As the distant communities of our world become more connected, it becomes less necessary for people of any stripe to condense their numbers into a few locales, but the sheer human resources involved with providing niche services like Jewish education are sadly lacking. If accredited rabbis are willing to serve as community leaders for a virtual collective, there's no need to neglect Jews and those curious about Judaism simply because they live too far from a traditional congregation to become involved in person.

Shabbat: October 23-24 2009

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to Judeo Talk. The Torah portion for this week is the story of Noah and the Great Flood. This is obviously one of the most allegory-heavy sections of the Tanakh and as such it serves a strong foundation for an effectively endless series of lessons.

The story of Noah, provided one's interpretation of it is not literal, is the Jewish entry in what may just be the most common mythological theme in human history: the deluge. There are practically as many flood epics as there are civilizations on record. Given the prevalence of Abrahamic monotheism in the world, the story of Noah is one of the most widely known, but it is certainly not the only one. The Babylonian epic of Gilgamesh is another popular flood story and anyone familiar with ancient Chinese myth will recall the deluge that introduced a legendary leader named Da Yu into both historical and folklore texts. Ultimately, the importance of flood stories is how a given culture uses such a universal disaster to teach a lesson.

The epic of Gilgamesh, for instance, doesn't aspire to the lofty, world-consuming flood of the Noah story. Rather, it is a more local disaster that text uses to posit Gilgamesh as a prudent, intelligent and all-around good man. He builds his own ark of sorts to protect his goods and his family, then when the waters recede he returns to the simple joys of his life. It is a moral tale to be sure, but it is a smaller, more human story.

Compare Gilgamesh to Noah, whose trial is nothing less than the end of the world. Noah is just one of many early biblical stories of "The Last Good Man". Like Seth, Lot and especially Abraham, Noah bears the responsibility of the world's future. The moral core of the book of Genesis suggests that the wicked can't be relied upon to safeguard life, so the obligation falls on the good, even down to the very last of the good.

Jewish stories often aspire to these incredible stakes. From Adam and Eve to the very last moments of the Tanakh, the future of righteousness and sometimes the very world itself hangs in the balance. This constant focus on the fate of all things instills Jewish philosophy with aims toward complete and total morality. It is not good enough for Noah, the last good man, to just be righteous in his own corner of the world. He has to take care of life itself.

For modern Jews, this means that we grow up with stories designed to instill us with a sense of global responsibility. Every moral decision is a decision for all of life. If Noah is the last man, then we are, in the spiritual sense, his descendants. We live our lives with the memory of the deluge from our storytelling tradition, a sense that there may come a time when we as individuals are asked to bear the obligation of goodness. While we probably won't ever have to save the world in the literal sense, we are all likely to stand alone on the righteous side of a moral decision.

Shabbat: October 16-17 2009

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to Judeo Talk. This week we return to the beginning of the Five Books of Moses, having read the concluding passages of the Tanakh in the past two weeks. Rather than continuing to pursue direct biblical exegesis every week on this blog, I feel that it would be appropriate to explore the importance of applying the lessons of Torah to our modern lives. So, every week I will be inviting you to think about how some element of Torah can manifest in your daily existence by analyzing the words, themes and history of particular passages, some from the parsha, some from the haftarah and some from other sources like the psalms or other supplementary texts. This week we will be looking at one of the larger meanings of the creation story as well as the haftarah from Isaiah that accompanies the first portion of the Tanakh.

Because every culture has one, we tend to fixate on the mythology of the creation story as an attempt by an ancient civilization to explain the origin of life. While that is certainly part of it, there's a danger to ignoring the many nuances of this famous story. It not only illuminates how Jews of antiquity viewed the hierarchy of life, it is also an expression of how people in that time and place thought of themselves in relation to nature. It should catch a reader's attention that the creation story puts the emergence of humanity as the very last thing to happen. This is a common convention in many creation stories. In an implicit sense, many human cultures viewed themselves as an advancement beyond nature, something that had not always been.

In a sense, this feeling of being new and ultimately separate from nature indicates a sort of existential crisis inherent to our species. If we are not of nature, then what is our origin, what is our purpose? We are not dedicated hunters like carnivores or indicators of habitability like plants. This first story in our cultural tradition is a contemplation on the direction of human existence. These early passages express a sense of wonder for the natural world, but also a deep sense of loneliness as creatures made separate from it.

Almost all people experience some form of this existential dilemma. We feel compelled to define ourselves and in doing so guide ourselves to action. This can lead to religious devotion, i.e. "I am a Jew, so I will go to Shabbat services on Friday night", and it can lead us to careers, "I am a baker, so I will make bread." While devotion and purpose can be very good things indeed, there is also a danger in becoming too locked-in to how we define ourselves.

The haftarah, the supplemental text, for Genesis 1 is a reading from the book of Isaiah. In it, God expresses the perpetuity of creation and the impossibility of people defining their own fates. In so many words, the sentiment is that all new things are themselves a continuation of creation. Not just the physical entities of the world, but all the events and actions related to them as well. It is impossible to predict the path of a life, if only because it is a thing in motion.

This haftarah is a counterpoint to the assertion that the creation ended after the sixth day. We live in a constant stream of creation, all our works and products included. Though it is important to find purpose in our lives, we must not mistake today's sense of purpose for a conclusion. Like it or not, the stream keeps flowing and the very stuff of the self continues to change just like the seasons of the natural world.

West Bank Story: An Israeli-Palestinian Musical

The Israeli-Palestinian conflict isn't exactly the richest source of levity and entertainment in the world. Most of the humor related to it relies on shock value to deliver its commentary, which unfortunately removes the heart from the true human struggle of those caught in the middle. West Bank Story, a musical comedy short by Ari Sandel and Kim Ray, manages to present the street-level sentiments of the conflict that, while occasionally goofy, still goes a long way to identify the common bonds of people on both sides.

West Bank Story follows a narrative tradition that is older than the Israeli-Palestinian conflict itself. It is a miniature (in spirit) adaptation of the classic musical West Side Story, itself an update of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, which in turn is an update of the ancient Greek tragedy of Pyramus and Thisbe. In West Bank Story, an IDF soldier named David harbors a secret, mutual love for a Palestinian cashier at a falafel stand named Fatima. David watches from his guard post as two competing falafel businesses become increasingly antagonistic, threatening to explode into a small street war at any moment.

Though this conceit is designed to be cute and even cartoonish, it has more than just a kernel of truth to it. The fact that the conflict between Kosher King and Hummus Hut surrounds falafel, a common cultural bond of both the Israelis and Palestinians, alludes to the larger shared heritage of the belligerent parties. Through the smiles, the funny costumes and the tongue-in-cheek musical numbers there is a strong case for the path to peace.

Thankfully, West Bank Story doesn't share the tragic ending of the stories that inspired it. The closing moments find both restaurants in smoldering ruins, a not-so-subtle metaphor for the entire region. The truth is that, both literally and figuratively, Israel-Palestine is a mess and maybe the only way to rebuild is for both sides to take what little remains and learn to work together.

West Bank Story has its fun moments, but it's tempered by the real horrors alluded to in microcosm throughout the film. The building of walls, the racist stereotypes and the heavy-handed peacekeeping remain in the narrative. Perhaps the most striking joke is an almost too subtle moment when David, distracted by the petty conflict of the competing falafel stands, allows a masked, bomb-carrying terrorist to slip past his guard post.

West Bank Story received some international recognition at the 2007 Academy Awards where it won for Best Live Action Short Film. At just over 21 minutes, it is an entertaining excursion, but also a good centerpiece for an academic discussion of the present and future of Israel-Palestine. At best, a movie like this can act as a springboard to a conversation concerning the disparity between the everyday individuals caught up in the conflict and the people in power who perpetuate it.

To use terms laid out in West Bank Story, everybody wants lunch and everybody wants to be loved. The ongoing wars in the Middle East, whether we call them wars or not, distract people from the hard facts of common suffering. The best our generation can do in the region is tend to the simple essentials with as little fighting as possible. From there, maybe a lasting peace can grow.

A Reader Question Response: Numbers 12

Recently, a reader named Dawn submitted a few questions in our comments section that I believe deserve to be featured here on our front page, so I'm going to take this time to answer these inquiries in full. The questions concerned both a comment I made in a previous article about interracial relations in the Jewish community, and one of the more striking events from the reading that includes Numbers 12.

Replying to my comment that Jews, a majority of whom are white-skinned, have spent much of history being forbidden to closely associate with people of color, Dawn asks,

"didn't Moses marry an Ethiopian woman, the wife who Miriam and Aaron did not like? Shouldn't we have learned something from this?"

Before I answer, I want to thank Dawn for her comments and questions. We always welcome any inquiry on this blog. Now, to dive right in.

When I wrote about racial restrictions, I was referring to those imposed by the larger secular world. Regardless of what Jewish philosophy says about race, it sadly does not trump the pressures of an entire society. Judaism, like any other faith, does not exist in a vacuum free from the customs of the world around it. For example, to be white in America in 1950 carried the racist custom of not closely associating with people of color, especially when it came to romantic pairing. It didn't matter if the white person in question was Jewish or of any other background.

Considering the indefensibility of being Jewish and supporting racial segregation, many Jews were and continue to be instrumental in the fight for civil rights. As far as modern Jewish philosophy goes, racial equality is the only moral position.

Dawn also asked,

"Further... why did only Miriam get stricken with leprosy when it was both Aaron and Miriam who spoke against Moses?.. Yes, Miriam is listed first in Numbers 12:1 but it was an Aaron holding the greater office, having even the greater level responsibility (or at least recognized as so). I believe Miriam was stricken and not Aaron because the people were still following her over Moses but that was not in alignment with what was the will of God in the deliverance of the people. Yes she was to serve as a bridge between the people she had always known and a Moses who had not, but it was not a permanent assignment for her. But she did nonetheless serve as a de facto leader (if I can use that term in this way!). The entire camp even refused to move until she was able to rejoin it.

Concerning the punishment of Miriam, there are a few things to consider. First, the Israelites did not follow Miriam in the same way they followed Moses. God made Miriam the sole source of water for the people as soon as they left Egypt, so it would only stand to reason that the people wouldn't move on without her. They would have died of thirst. They depended on her for sustenance just like they depended on Moses for judgment under the law. Miriam was a mother figure for an entire nation and Moses was no king.

As for why Miriam was given leprosy but not Aaron, there are again several items to consider. First of all, this is a narrative device meant to make us concentrate on the importance of the women in our lives. The contention concerned Moses's new wife, a Cushite woman. By attempting to disrupt the stability of that pairing, which had been at least tacitly approved by God, Miriam and Aaron implicitly disrupted the very concept of wifehood and motherhood, thus the cursing of the symbolic mother of all Israelites.

Furthermore, Aaron was the head priest of the Israelites and would have been permanently disqualified from the priesthood by having leprosy as described in a previous parsha. His sin was significant, just not significant enough to strip him of his responsibilities.

As always, Judeo Talk welcomes any and all questions. Thank you for your comments, Dawn. I hope we have all learned from this discussion.

Pages