A Struggle with Torah

Pinchas 5776/ 30 July 2016

When I sat down to write this D’var Torah, I had trouble finding something that I wanted to talk about. So naturally, I asked my husband Oren, “What should I write about?” He responded, “There’s always something in the text that bothers you. Find the part that bothers you, and talk about that.”

Just to give you a little background, I am a daughter, granddaughter, niece, sister, and sister-in-law to many wonderful Rabbis (Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox). I grew up with exposure to Jewish text, and was encouraged to experience the text, not just read it. Meaning I should really think about the text and ask questions, not just accept it at face value. I continued to study Torah throughout my years in school and into my year in Israel on Nativ, where suddenly I found myself grappling with the text in the context of my religious life. The questions I was asking weren’t just for the sake of exploring the text, but rather they were questioning my entire relationship with Judaism. There was so much content that I found problematic, and yet I felt it was important to live a religious life. If I found Torah study problematic and frustrating, why continue? Why should I live a religious life based on a text that often conflicts with my morals, ideals and values? This uncertainty is what I want to explore with you.

Let’s start, as my husband Oren suggested, with looking at a text I find problematic. At the end of last week’s parsha (Balak), Pinchas, Aharon’s grandson, kills an Israelite man and a Moabite woman. Pinchas’s actions follow God’s commandment to Moses to publicly murder the Israelites who were consorting with Moabite women and worshiping their god. As we start this week’s parsha,Pinchas, God rewards Pinchas with priesthood for him and all of his descendants.[Numbers 25:10-13] God tells Moses, “Pinchas, son of Elazar son of Aaron the priest, has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I did not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion. Say, therefore ‘I grant him My pact of friendship. It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time.’”

The fact that God rewards Pinchas and saves the Israelites, because of his act of killing, doesn’t sit well with me. Even though the Torah gives us the context of his actions, it is just not satisfactory. This story reflects a common problem I experience when exploring text. How is it that an act of violence can be rewarded with such honor and favor by God? And furthermore, how can I build my life around the Torah, the most central document of Judaism, when it continually reflects such stories as Pinchas, or God’s commandment to wipe out Amalek?  Why do I bother engaging myself in the text? And how do I deal with this uncertainty?

In order to answer these questions, I think it’s useful to explore other important aspects of my life that I continue to engage with, despite their problematic qualities. Together we will discover why they are worthwhile.  

As a nurse I have seen both the infuriating and inspiring aspects of my profession. Starting my career three years ago I found myself idealistic, very excited, and very scared. Working at a pediatric hospital, I was intimidated by all of the knowledge and skill I was expected to have, but didn’t yet. As a slow (but thorough) learner, I felt inadequate. I was asked by my coworkers why I couldn’t do things more quickly. Why did I spend so much time in my patients’ rooms? My answer was: I wanted to be safe and I wanted to take care of all of my patients’ needs, but my answer never satisfied them. Little by little I was able to work a little more efficiently. But it was never fast enough. Every shift I felt like I was running between patient rooms doing everything I could: safety checks, morning assessments and vitals, intravenous medications, oral medications; I administered blood products, monitored intake and output, and ran scheduled therapies and special infusions. I stayed in constant contact the following physician, charge nurse, and the patients’ family, and delegated appropriate tasks. But that’s what you do as a nurse, and at the end of the day you go home exhausted in all possible ways; mentally, physically, and emotionally.

So why do I still choose to be a nurse? It’s because of those moments that inspire me to be better. The moments I find myself reflecting that I DID make a difference. There was one night shift when I was caring for a newer patient on the unit, a little boy around 2 years old. Whenever I worked night shifts I would always try to be as quiet as possible, tiptoeing in and out of the rooms, doing what I had to do without waking the patient or the family if possible. I remember at the beginning of the shift talking with the father about the plan of care for the night and wishing him a good night of rest. He said, “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we arrived; I know there’s a lot of coming and going so I don’t expect to rest anymore.” That night unfortunately did require a lot of maneuvering in and out of the room, giving blood products and checking frequent vital signs. I tiptoed around as best as I could while I worked. At the end of my shift the father woke up and said, “Wow, I haven’t had a good night of sleep like that in two weeks!” In that moment I felt truly happy. “YES!” I said to myself, “this is why I am a nurse.” Inspired by the difference I made, even one so seemingly insignificant as a single night of rest after many sleepless nights, I was at peace. The overwhelming, frustrating, chaotic nature of my job was worth pushing through just to be able to find that small inspiration yet again. The difficulty of the journey made it that much sweeter when I had those moments of inspiration.

So, how is this relevant to my initial question of why I choose to live a religious life? Well, truthfully, I’ve been struggling with my identity as a nurse for the last two years, just as I struggle with living a religious life. Both aspects of my identity carry an uncertainty, where I don’t know whether the next moment will be one of perspiration or one of inspiration.

As an inevitable result of who I am and where I come from, I have been expected to live my life in the role of perpetual Jewish leadership. I followed in my siblings’ footsteps as a leader in my USY chapter and region. I served on the board of Koach, the Conservative Jewish community at my University. But despite the façade I presented, I struggled—and continue to struggle—with what is expected of me in the Jewish community. It’s not just that coming from a Jewishly involved background, I am expected to act as a leader. Whether it’s leading tefilot or writing a D’var Torah, I sense an expectation that this should all come naturally to me, yet most of the time it feels anything but natural.

So, why do I continue to choose to be a Jewish leader? Why did I challenge myself to write this D’var Torah to deliver today? I can’t quite explain the experiences I’ve had of gathering together with hundreds of Jewish teens from across the continent to sing, dance, and celebrate our Judaism, while feeling completely at home. The sense of wonder and inspiration I felt is that of community, and it is when acting as a leader that I have felt most accepted.

In each of these two parts of my identity that I have described, there is a difficulty that echoes the problems I find when studying Torah. And in each of them, the difficulty of the struggle is what ends up enriching the feeling of inspiration when it arises.

In our parsha, the difficulty of grappling with Pinchas’s reward is balanced by the inspiring story of Zelophchad’s daughters that comes in the middle of the parsha. Since Zelophchad had left no sons, his daughters plead with Moshe, Elazar the priest, and the chieftans to inherit their father’s land, in order to keep it in their tribe. God agrees that they may inherit their father’s land and further decrees:[Numbers 27:8] “If a man dies without leaving a son, you shall transfer his property to his daughter.”

This story introduces female characters in a strong positive light, which I have found to be rare in the Torah. It presents Zelophchad’s daughters with strength of character. Pleading for inheritance from Moshe and the other leaders took bravery and commitment. We also see here an example of God’s chesed, often translated as loving-kindness. In a patriarchal society where daughters until this point did not inherit, God’s decree is benevolent towards those who would otherwise have nothing. God’s chesed here serves as a counterpoint, for me, to God’s encouragement of violence in the story of Pinchas.

Let’s address my original questions again, shall we? Why bother connecting with text? What keeps me engaged in religious life? How do I deal with the contradiction between struggling with difficult themes in the Torah and still committing to a religious life? My answer is this: our Torah contains themes that I find problematic as well as stories that I find inspiring. My commitments as a Jewish leader and as a nurse help remind me that a difficult journey to a place of inspiration can often be more rewarding than the inspiration on its own. It is the story of Pinchas, that, because of its complexity makes me reflect on my connection to Judaism, much more than the encouraging story of the daughters of Zelophchad.

My wish for all of you in my community is that whatever you struggle with, you should find enrichment and inspiration in those struggles as much as you do from your successes.

Tags: Identity, Living, Uncertainty