OzTorah

Q. Where does the Torah forbid a girl to have sex before marriage?

A. Deut. 22:14 expects a woman to come to marriage as a virgin. Deut. 23:18 says, “There shall not be a harlot among the daughters of Israel”. Maimonides holds that this verse forbids pre-marital sex even if the man and woman have had no other sexual partners (Hil’chot Ishut 1:1). To those who object that the Torah allows concubines, Maimonides states that this applies only to kings.

Yes, a couple may theoretically bring a marriage into being by cohabitation but this is disapproved of and severely limited by the rabbinic scholars. The ruling principle over many centuries is that if a couple really want each other they should have a recognised, formal marriage ceremony.

Q. I am surprised that the beautiful Psalm 23 (“The Lord is my Shepherd”) is not part of our daily prayers. Surely it should have been included?

A. Though not statutorily required, Psalm 23 is often said, for obvious reasons, on occasions of sickness or bereavement.

It is also often sung on Shabbat at Se’udah Sh’lishit, the third meal, which is usually eaten late on Shabbat afternoon. At this moment Shabbat is ebbing away and the psalm offers a comforting assurance of Divine protection, even when we leave the serenity of Shabbat and turn back to the stresses and strains of the workday week.

The traditional translation of the psalm is deservedly famous, but not entirely accurate. The phrase tzalmavet, for instance, probably does not mean “the shadow of death” but “dark gloom” – not that this changes the meaning long associated with the word; the late Rabbi Israel Porush said that its message was, “Even when I find myself in the depth of darkness and despair I trust in God and am not afraid.”

This and other psalms are not only for the synagogue. In our own individual lives the Tehillim ought to be an invaluable companion. Life requires us to articulate both agony and ecstasy, and the Psalmist has the uncanny ability to assist us to frame the words.

This is what is behind a comment on the opening sentence of the sidra of Sh’mot. The first five words are V’eleh sh’mot b’nai Yisra’el haba’im – “And these are the names of the Children of Israel who came (to Egypt)”. The final letters of these Hebrew words make up the word Tehillim, Psalms, indicating that wherever one may be, Tehillim are a precious guide.

The rabbinic sages have nothing but scorn for the mit’yav’nim, the Jews who wanted to be more Greek than the Greeks.

When Jews wanted to adjust to Hellenistic ways, Joshua became Jason and young gymnasts tried to efface their circumcision.

No wonder Chanukah is still so popular, because – at least in some circles – it enables Jews to show that they have a colourful festivity to rival Christmas and some families go in for the Chanukah Man and the Maccabee Tree.

At the same time there are serious gentile attempts to adopt Jewish practices as diverse as the Chanukah candles and the Passover Seder.

An elderly rabbi I knew used to shake his head in confusion. “The Yidden want to be goyim, and the goyim want to be Yidden!” he muttered, amazed at the paradox.

Some of the Jews in the days of Antiochus even thought that it was doing the community harm by maintaining its separateness.

The First Book of the Maccabees (1:14) reports that some of the people “went out from the midst of Israel and stirred up the masses, saying, ‘Let us covenant with the nations around us, for since we have turned aside from their ways many grave troubles have occurred”.

It was not just in superficial things that they wanted to be like everyone else, but in art, literature, theology and philosophy.

Jewish history has encountered many cultures and pondered whether and how far Judaism could live with them. Some went to extremes: in both directions, total acceptance of the environment and complete retreat from it.

Both extremes had their negative effects on Jewish identity, but both added to the debate about how far Judaism can adapt to the world and how far, to use Samson Raphael Hirsch’s famous words, it is possible to adapt the standards of the world to the criteria of Judaism.

Chanukah and Purim are often regarded as on a par, but the comparison is only superficial.

In terms of religious observances, Chanukah appears to have the upper hand. It lasts eight days, Hallel is recited daily, there is a Torah reading every day, and of course there are all the observances connected with the menorah and its lights.

On the other hand, Purim is a mere one-day festival (Shushan Purim has been described as “only the hangover of Purim”). The Megillah is read evening and morning, but there is no Hallel and no Torah reading, though the feasting and giving of gifts are taken very seriously.

Yet Purim has a whole book of the Bible and a tractate of the Talmud, whereas Chanukah rates only a few incidental mentions in the Talmud and has no authentic literature of its own (the Books of the Maccabees are apocryphal and the so-called Megillat Antiochus has no status). It seems that the sages who had control over rabbinic literature were determined to play down Chanukah to the advantage of Purim.

There is a view that this reflects the rabbis’ disapproval of the later generations of Judah Maccabee’s family who sought to wear two crowns – spiritual and temporal – at the same time.

But possibly the problem lay not so much in the Maccabean leaders as in the people.

In the Purim story, though Jewish physical existence was threatened, there did not seem to be any danger that Judaism itself would be undermined. The Jewish people were well aware that their security was at stake, but they remained faithful to their heritage. When trouble loomed, they prayed and fasted. They behaved like traditional Jews.

True, God is not mentioned by name in the Megillah, but His Presence clearly hovers in the background; there is no suggestion that the people had abandoned or defied Him.

In the Chanukah story, on the other hand, we see a divided people. The few remained loyal to God and their tradition, but the majority were tempted to adopt the ways of the Greeks, and many did.

No wonder the sages stressed the story of the little jar of oil that kept the lights burning for eight days. The story of the jar of oil was an implied rebuke to the assimilationists – an implied rebuke, and a warning that even if they themselves drifted away from the tradition, the tradition was eternal and a thin light would miraculously grow into a full flame.

In “Why I am a Jew”, Edmond Fleg says this to his unborn grandson about the Jewish tradition, “Will you take it from me, my child? Will you hand it on? Perhaps you will wish to abandon it… But whether you abandon it or whether you follow it, Israel will journey on to the end of days.”

Joseph was very trusting. He thought that people are grateful and return favours.

In prison he did the royal cup-bearer a good turn and asked the latter to keep him in mind and mention him to Pharaoh (Gen. 40:15).

A reasonable request? The Midrash (B’reshit Rabba 89:3) does not think so.

Its view is that because of the two things Joseph asked (“remember me” and “mention me to Pharaoh”), two further years were added by God to the time Joseph spent in prison. This explains why the sidra commences, “And it happened at the end of two full years…” (Gen. 41:1).

But why should Joseph be punished in this way?

The Midrash quotes the Psalmist, “Happy is the man who makes the Lord his trust and does not turn to the arrogant” (Psalm 40:5).

The Natziv (Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin) of Volozhin (1734-1802), author of the commentary Ha’amek Davar, says this shows that one should not rely on human beings alone when one needs help, nor rely solely on miracles from God.

Someone who seeks a way out of a difficult spot should not fail to pray for Divine support, and often God will answer by sending an earthly agent to work on His behalf. But if one tries to manage without God entirely, human beings may prove to be a broken reed.

The point is beautifully illustrated in a story told of David Ben Gurion and Chief Rabbi Isaac Herzog.

In the tense days of the Israeli War of Independence, it is said that Ben Gurion came to the rabbi and asked, “Why does God not send us some miracles to get us out of this crisis?” Rav Herzog is reported to have answered, “Prime Minister, He has. You are one of God’s miracles!”