OzTorah

Q. If a man has a hairpiece, would he also have to wear a kippah or hat?

A. Technically speaking, the head is covered if one wears a wig. This is helpful for a person who prefers not to wear a kippah whilst at work.

But in a Jewish context there is a problem of marit ayin – people’s perception – and a kippah or hat should be worn in order not to give the wrong impression. This applies particularly in the synagogue or when saying a b’rachah or davening.

The question is not new; Isaiah ben Avraham, who died in 1723, cites in his Ba’er Heitev on the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chayyim 2:6) a ruling that “hair that is called ‘perruque’ is regarded as head covering, but because of marit ayin one should be careful if possible”.

The fast we observe that day is, according to the prophet Zechariah, one of four that commemorate the destruction of the city and the Temple.

In messianic times all four will change their character and “be to the House of Judah joy and gladness and cheerful seasons; therefore peace and truth shall you love” (Zech. 8:19).

It is one thing, and a most welcome one, to have faith that darkness will turn into light and sorrow into joy. But what is the connection with loving peace and truth?

It points to one of the two approaches to the destruction of the Temple – the external and the internal.

The external interpretation blames the enemy; the internal interpretation blames us ourselves.

Without excusing the enemy’s cruelty and savagery, the internal interpretation says that in a community in which truth and peace are not honoured there will be such social disintegration that the enemy will find it easier to enter and do its damage.

Conversely, if we raise the quality of our society we will achieve such inner strength that we can overcome any odds and find that no dream, even the rebuilding of the sanctuary, will be impossible.

Immense uncertainty surrounds the parah adumah, the Red Heifer (Num. 19).

The heifer’s ashes, combined with a mixture of other substances, were sprinkled upon a person who had become ritually impure, but the procedure had the paradoxical effect of rendering impure the kohen who performed the ritual.

How can one and the same substance do two contradictory things?

The Midrash Tanchuma on Parashat B’shallach offers an analogy. Three things, it tells us, led the Israelites to complain.

The incense was part of the required ritual, yet it caused the deaths of Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu. The Ark was an essential feature of worship, yet when Uzziah touched it, he was struck down (II Sam. 6:7). The rod was a legitimate symbol of authority, yet it brought the plagues upon Egypt.

When Israel brought these three complaints to God, says the Tanchuma, the Almighty said in reply: “The incense brought death – but it also brought atonement on Yom Kippur. The Ark brought tragedy – but it also brought blessing to Oved-Edom the Gittite in his battles. The rod brought problems – but it also enabled Moses to perform miracles.”

The message is that nothing is necessarily sacred in itself. It depends on the purpose for which it is used.

The parah adumah brings purity when the ministering kohen sincerely desires to help a fellow human being, but if he worries too much about his own dignity it can bring him problems.

Taken more broadly, this concept represents any human achievement, especially ideas. One person can use a great idea to bring healing and light: another person can use the same idea to bring destruction and harm.

What majesty and eloquence there is in Bilam’s words: Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob: your dwelling-places, O Israel” (Num. 24:5).

We take this as the ultimate compliment to the Jewish people. We recite it on entering the synagogue. The composers vie with each other to express it musically. It gives us nachas and inspiration.

The strange fact is that Bilam never meant to utter these words at all. He intended to curse Israel, not to bless them.

Nobody was as surprised as Bilam himself when the curse turned to blessing in his mouth. Balak, king of Moab, who had hired Bilam, was disgusted and angry.

The sages were not of one mind in deciding how to regard Bilam. One view saw him as Bilam HaRasha, Bilam the Wicked; according to another, “There never arose philosophers amongst the nations like Bilam and Oenomaus of Gedera”.

Both hit upon the secrets of the Jew. Their intentions may have been malevolent, but they saw the truth. Bilam recognised two pillars of Judaism – the tent and dwelling-place, i.e. the home and synagogue. Oenomaus added “the school children chirping with their voices”.

We can learn from both when it comes to charting a Jewish destiny. Over and above everything else in a Jewish community, the truly crucial elements are homes, synagogues and schools. If they are strong and effective, nothing can stand in the way of Jewish future.

Q. Why is religion responsible for most of the wars and suffering in the world?

A. Superficially it appears that it is religion that impels the wars, terrorist attacks and human suffering that we see in so many parts of the world. The non-believer therefore argues that we would be better off without religion and there would be more peace and harmony if God did not exist.

But this is a dangerous fallacy, though it must be said that it is largely because of religious believers that religion loses credibility. If members of other faiths were aware of the terminology that Jews are familiar with, they would call extremist acts that are claimed to be done for God’s sake a Chillul HaShem (a desecration of God’s name).

A passage in Lech L’cha reports that Malchitzedek, king of Salem, blessed Abram and said, “Blessed is Abram of God Most High, Maker of heaven and earth, and blessed be God Most High”. Abram had involved himself, without thought of personal benefit, in an international political crisis. The kings of the north had attacked the kingdoms of the south and during the operation Abram’s nephew Lot was captured. Abram rescued Lot and brought some stability to the kingdoms of the south. Malchitzedek was impressed and gave credit to God for Abram’s acts.

Yet Abram merely thought what he was doing was good. There was no religious propaganda, no attempt to arouse others to join a band-wagon by appealing to piety. If it was war it was war, if it was politics it was politics. It was not disguised as a war for God. It did not purport to be a Kiddush HaShem campaign. If it was going to succeed it had to succeed on its own merits without exploiting the religious emotions of others. If Abram’s innate piety gained the admiration of Malchitzedek, so be it.

In modern times when God and religion get dragged into a conflict situation, it is not one side but both that tend to shout whatever slogan is their equivalent of Kiddush HaShem. But all the religions concerned seem to be monotheistic religions, and it is presumably one and the same God in whose name they all claim to be acting.

So how can there be a fight between the Catholic and Protestant God, the Christian and Islamic God, the Islamic and Jewish God?

If God were so minded, He might want to echo Shakespeare and say, “A plague on all your houses!” But it is more likely that He would draw attention to the Yerushalmi passage (Chagigah 1:7) in which He says, “Would that they would abandon Me but keep My Torah!”

If those who exploit religious emotions took note, they would leave God’s name out of their conflicts altogether and instead make a quiet, genuine attempt to learn and live by Divine principles such as “Love your neighbour as yourself” (Lev. 19:18), “Do not hate your fellow in your heart” (Lev. 19:17), “Seek peace and pursue it” (Psalm 34:14), “Justice, justice shall you follow” (Deut. 16:20), and “When you see your enemy’s ass weighed down by its burden you must not refrain from helping” (Deut. 23:5).

Doing this without fanfare, fanaticism, propaganda or slogans is the true Kiddush HaShem.