The Numbers:13 Project
 
His offering: one silver bowl weighing 130 shekels and one silver basin of 70 shekels by the sanctuary weight, both filled with choice flour with oil mixed in, for a meal offering;   Numbers 7:13
 
Over the course of our forty-plus years of welcoming guests into our home, my wife and I have been the recipients of many tokens of appreciation.  I was taught to call them “hostess gifts,” though I am certain that nomenclature is outdated.  The custom, however, has continued, and one of the ways you can tell if someone was raised to be familiar with social graces is if there is a small gift in hand upon arrival as a guest.
 
Frequently, a bottle of wine or a small arrangement of flowers suffices.  But just as often, the creativity of the gift is most impressive. It needn’t be expensive; we have received unusual spices, a salt cellar, candles, a decorated cork for a bottle, coasters and small packages of dried fruit.  Some people have put great thought into finding something they think will appeal to our Jewish values.  Some have contributed to what they know are our interests and hobbies.  A few have honored us with something home-made.  Occasionally there is an exotic liqueur.
 
Likewise, we have tried to imagine what our hosts would appreciate.  An interesting spoon, a small picture frame, a refrigerator magnet that is either not tacky (hard to find) or uber-tacky (harder to find), assorted teas – these are items that tell our hosts how much we appreciate the thought that went into the invitation, and that it was reciprocated.
 
I do not know where this custom originated, but I like to imagine it goes deep into history.  I once visited an exhibit at the Bible Lands Museum in Jerusalem that seemed to me to be a collection of rows and rows of idols, lined up as if they were warehoused for future sale.  The first thing that came to my mind was the story of Abraham’s father, Terach, who was an idol merchant.  But the guide told me my assumptions were all wrong.  The tableau was indeed a pagan temple, but the figures were not the idols.  They were the worshipers.  This particular sect believed that the more hours spent in praising and appeasing the local gods, the more likely that blessings would rain down on them.  But people have to tend to the fields, raise families, address the necessities of life.  To make it possible to meet a level of piety and live a day-to-day life, people commissioned statues of themselves and placed them in the temple as “permanent residents.”  They were therefore always present in “body” and spirit.
 
There were many jokes made at the expense of that custom and modern-day habits of attending worship.  But kidding aside, there was something profound about the custom.  Members of this community could live perpetually in the presence of the divine by gifting themselves to the temple.
 
When we have overnight guests, they almost always say, upon leaving, “I hope I didn’t leave anything behind.”  And I usually respond, “If you did, it just means you want to come back again.” Leaving something of yourself with a host or hostess makes you a “permanent resident” of their home.  Without overstaying your welcome or interfering with your need to get back to your life, you can leave a piece of yourself as a token of your bond of friendship or love.
 
In my imagination at least, the origin of the hostess gift – and especially choosing a gift that is a reminder of the one who gives it – is not only an expression of appreciation, but also of connection.  Without being intrusive, the guest will always find something of herself or himself in a home that has been welcoming.
 
Those gifts that were brought to the tabernacle performed the same function.  Graven images of self were no more acceptable than those of God.  But a lovely silver bowl, some fine oil, other objects and foods that would sustain the tabernacle and its attendants were gifts of appreciation that also gave the donor and his tribe a sense of being “permanent residents,” a part of them always present in the holy precincts of God’s dwelling place among the people.  Anyone entering would recognize a part of themselves and feel at home.
 
Can the same effect be accomplished with a bottle of wine or a small picture frame?  Maybe, maybe not.  But the heartfelt offering of a guest will long be remembered by the host, and the gracious acceptance by the host will lone be remembered by the guest.  And that’s close enough for me.

The Numbers:13 Project
 
This is the ritual for the nazirite: On the day that his term as nazirite is completed, he shall be brought to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.      Numbers 6:13
 
Every winter my wife and I have a friendly argument about which of Irving Berlin’s two Christmas movies is better – “Holiday Inn” or “White Christmas.”  Both are filled with great music and mediocre music, classic production numbers, implausible plot twists and enough misogynistic, racist and classist imagery to fill an encyclopedia (whatever that is).
 
I am a partisan of “Holiday Inn,” though I admit to loving Danny Kaye (who is in “White Christmas” only).  I must acknowledge, however, that the ridiculous surprise near the end of the movie (a secret reunion of WWII veterans to cheer up their retired and depressed general) is very moving in that suspension-of-disbelief context.
 
General Waverly, played by Dean Jagger, finds himself bumbling around a farm in Vermont ten years after the war.  Bing Crosby goes on television to summon the troops, introducing his appeal with a musical question: What can you do with a general when he stops being a general?  He sings about how the retired general is hailed for his service, but otherwise without function in society.
 
(Never mind that Dwight Eisenhower was the president when the movie was made…)
 
When Christmas Eve arrives, the veterans of General Waverly’s command suddenly appear in uniform and precision formation.  Having been tricked into wearing his own uniform, the general reviews the troops and regains his sense of purpose (presumably).
 
Perhaps it sounds a little ridiculous in today’s world where retired senior military officers wind up on faculties, corporate boards and White House staffs and the rank-and-file veterans are the ones looking for work, but the point is the same regardless of rank at the time of discharge.  Those in military service – most especially those who answered duty’s call with a sense of purpose – find themselves casting about for ways to find fulfillment and meaning when their last tour comes to an end.  It is not only about a decent job, but dignity and significance in employment is perhaps the simplest place to start.
 
A combat service person serves in a particular type of way.  The nazir, a man who takes on a regimen of physical self-denial for a period of his life devoted to God, serves in a very different way.  Limited in time by this section of the Bible, when he finishes his service he is (as the verse says) brought to the entrance of the tent of meeting. There, he is initiated into a ritual that seems designed to remind him of what it is like to be a spiritual civilian rather than a monastic.  (Look it up if you are unfamiliar.)
 
It is not easy to go from a life of intensely regimented service to one of personal independence.  I imagine that’s especially true if the higher purpose that guides your service is not so readily accessible outside the structure.  It is the responsibility of those who were the beneficiaries of that service to welcome the veterans back into civilian life and to create a community in which that higher purpose finds some expression.
 
I certainly do not mean to suggest that there is some pathology that afflicts service people or nazirites upon their discharge.  In fact, the re-entry they experience is only a preview for everyone else.  Sooner or later, everyone retires from their day job (and some do so frequently!).  Love it or tolerate it, work provides context and meaning and a certain structure that becomes ingrained.  When it is time to walk away, not merely for a little vacation or professional development, that sense of purpose and expectation may be hard to come by.  And if the work environment is also a place of community, the transition is even more complicated.
 
Very precious few of us will have Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye organize a surprise testimonial for us (or, I don’t know, Beyoncé and Ricky Martin).  But each of us knows someone who has set aside some years of service and transitioned to a completely different kind of life.  They need more than “thank you for your service,” more than an interest in who they were in that role.  They need to know that the purpose they pursued has meaning outside the service for which they are being thanked.
 
If for no other reason, we need to make for a society in which those ideas and ideals find tangible expression.  That’s our role in showing appreciation to those who have set aside a time of their life to serve the rest of us.
 
And may all your Christmases be white.  Well, that’s the way both movies end, anyway.

 
The Numbers:13 Project
 
They shall remove the ashes from the [copper] altar and spread a purple cloth over it.        Numbers 4:13
 
I am a big fan of ritual, especially when it has the capacity to convey meaning that might otherwise been left unexpressed.  Such ritual exists in abundance in my own tradition and in other faith traditions as well.  Ritual in social interactions may vary from society to society, but every one of them has some version of “I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do; they’re really saying, ‘I love you.’”
 
In my opinion, there is no more expressive ritual than a military burial in Arlington National Cemetery.  I have attended almost every variation of interment and inurnment and, for a few years, even served as the officiant when Jewish chaplains were unavailable.  (My own discomfort with placing cremains in a columbarium, often months after death, led me to relinquish the contract.) I am always moved by the ceremony and by the exquisite detail with which it is conducted.
 
With full honors, a caisson with the casket aboard is pulled by a team of horses behind a mournful marching band.  With simple honors, the deceased is delivered to the graveside by hearse.  In either circumstance, as the flag that adorns the remains passes, those in uniform salute and those in civilian garb – like me – place their right hand over their heart until it passes.
 
Next to the bereaved, on the arm of a uniformed escort, stands the wife of an officer past or present.  She is an Arlington Lady, a sweet anachronism, who stands in support of the survivors and delivers oral and written condolences.  Many times I have seen these volunteers provide the necessary unscripted comfort to families both buoyed and mystified by the formalities.
 
An honor guard carries the casket to the grave and placed on the lowering device.  The flag is stretched above the casket and whatever service is to be conducted takes place. The rifle volleys are fired; “Taps” is played.  The graveside is very quiet.
 
For me, no matter how much respect I have tried to show to the flag, no matter how startled I am by the volleys, no matter how saddened I am by the bugler’s call, the most important moment is yet to come.
 
The honor guard, still holding the flag taut, folds it in very specific movements until it is shaped into a crisp triangle.  In measured steps, with military bearing, the leader of the team approaches the next of kin, drops to one knee, presents the folded flag and says, quietly and gently, “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States (Army, Marine Corps, Navy, Air Force or Coast Guard ), and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service.”  There is no more powerful moment in which so many aspects of American life intersect, including the acknowledgment of the importance of every life.
 
Every veteran leaves something of herself or himself on the altar of national defense.  The most fortunate never see combat.  The next fortunate see combat but survive it.  The least fortunate make the ultimate sacrifice.  Those who are interred among the veterans in Arlington (or, for that matter, in any national cemetery) spend their last few moments in the sight of their loved ones under the canopy of the flag, which covers them like the purple cloth covered the altar in the Tabernacle.
 
In order for ritual to be effective, it must carry meaning for those who perform or witness it.  Lost in our era is a visceral connection to the Tabernacle and the Temple.  Losing in our day is the visceral connection to waving a palm branch, kissing a fallen prayer book, reciting the descriptions of rituals past.
 
But essential to the renewal or innovation of the rituals that sustain us is the moment when the pomp and history distill into the human connection that creates some version of an opportunity for a young person, likely unknown, to drop to eye level with a stranger and recite words appropriate to the circumstance that mirror these: On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States (Army, Marine Corps, Navy, Air Force or Coast Guard ), and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service.

The Numbers:13 Project
 
His troop, as enrolled: 59,300.    Numbers 2:13 
 
Every ten years, the Constitution of the United States requires the government to take a census of the population.  The numbers are extremely important.  They determine proportional representation in the House of Representatives, factor into disbursement of tax dollars, divide up the Electoral College and all sorts of other things.  An accurate count is necessary, though the definition of “accurate” for the census may not be quite as precise as for, say, balancing your checking account. 
 
Like everything else in today’s world, the census has become politicized.  The questions you ask determine the answers you get.  And when you combine the suspicion people have developed of aggregation of data, quarrels over the nature of the questions, the exact wording and the specificity of the information recorded about any given respondent have become voluble. 
 
I often say that I believe the Bible is true, but not always accurate.  To me, the least threatening “proof” of my statement is the census described in Numbers, including in the verse at the top of the column.  Somehow, every total of adult male populations was an exact multiple of a nice, round ten.  No 17, no 63, no 32.  A zero at the end of every total. 
 
Is there a lesson for the US census in this phenomenon?  Is “approximately” or “give-or-take” a reasonable standard to which we should aspire? 
 
If the answer is yes – as it seems to be in the Bible – then the discussions of the nature of the questions are really pretty ridiculous.  Given the scale of the counting across the country, can’t we just round up or round down or even estimate?  Can’t we just do a representative sampling, apply one of those famous algorithms and be done with it? 
 
Actually, I think the answer is no.  I am not among those who believe that such a system would be corrupted by those with malicious intent – though I acknowledge the possibility.  I base my objection on a theological standard: every person is an entire world.  Eliminate one and destroy a world.  Manufacture one and affirm something that is not true. 
 
As a matter of principle, every person counts, and each of those persons who is a citizen has the right to cast a ballot for the people who will determine the directions of the community, state and country in which they reside.  Among those considerations is how we treat the residents who are not citizens; should they be rounded up and redistributed as political pawns, as some officials recently suggested, or should they receive a fair share of services and support in recognition of their contributions to society and, more important, their basic humanity?  I clearly have a preference, but I, like everyone else, only have one voice in the matter. 
 
Which, of course, brings us to the matter of how that voice is expressed: voting.  Just as we can’t round off the census numbers, we also can’t round off the tallies of votes.  If the census gives us the big picture necessary to reimagine our country on a cyclical basis, elections give us the pixels that make up that big picture.  If there is any indication of just how radical the concept of one person, one vote really is, it is the constant attempt of groups fearful of losing power to restrict the access of voters they consider opponents to the polls. 
 
The Voting Rights Act of 1965 was the first comprehensive legislation since the 19th Amendment (which enfranchised women) to expand the protections of voting to all eligible voters.  It was particularly important to – and focused on – southern states where obstacles to African American citizens who wished to register and exercise the franchise were purposeful and steep.  Some of those states of late successfully made the case that the original rationale for the provisions of the law had been eliminated.  But the creativity of those who would suppress the vote has not abated.  Therefore, like the attempts to politicize the census, we must be vigilant in resisting the false claims of fraud that animate opponents of easy access to the polls. 
 
There is a reason the Bible prohibits the deployment of a census except in very specific circumstances.  Kings generally counted their able-bodied men when they were preparing for an expeditionary war.  The Bible is suspicious of such motivation, and it seems to contextually each census in those very limited contexts.  War, of necessity, dehumanizes combatants; victories are too often determined by the number of lives lost (or saved).  In those situations, it is not surprising that a rounded number will do.  Unlike elections, nobody ever won a war by one life. 
 
But in a society that puts ultimate value on every life, it is important to recognize that no one should feel like a number – unless for each of us that number 1.

(Welcome to the Numbers:13 Project. If you have been following me since Genesis, you know that each week for the next 36 weeks, give or take, I will write a column prompted by the 13th verse of each subsequent chapter of the Book of Numbers.  Mostly, I hope to reflect on the climate of our times, but sometimes -- especially in Numbers -- that will be a challenge.  For those of you expecting that, as a Beatles fan, I would have elected to go with the Numbers:9 Project,  here's another hint for you all: too obvious.  If you would like to subscribe to this series, visit the Google group "Aliba D'Rav" or send me an email.)


 
From Asher, Pagiel son of Ochran.         Numbers 1:13
 
Just like a lot of Jews of my generation, I do not have a Hebrew name.  I was named (as my parents were) for beloved ancestors who themselves were named in Yiddish.  And not only were they named in Yiddish, but they were named in the dialect of Yiddish spoken in their home shtetls.
 
Some people carry a sort of double name – one in Hebrew and one in Yiddish.  Most famous of these is the name of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson.  There are others that are familiar enough if you spend time in the world of Jewish names: Dov Baer, Tzvi Hirsch, Shraga Feivush.  But most of us with Yiddish names have only those names.
 
Rabbis who were not raised with Yiddish (like me) often have a hard time deciphering names brought to them by family members preparing for a gravestone or the naming of a child.  To the Yiddish-speaker, the nuances of pronunciation are familiar, just like native English-speaker can see the immediate connection among Alexander, Alex and Xander.  But what do you do if a granddaughter wants to remember her beloved Bubbe with the Hebrew equivalent of “Hudes,” not knowing its origin or even accuracy?
 
I was named for my father’s father and my mother’s paternal grandfather.  Grandpa Jack was named Zelig.  And Great-Grandpa Louis was named Leimah.  Those were probably pretty common names back in the day, but they cycled out of mode before I could say them. And my Hebrew school teachers – especially the Israeli ones who had cast off Yiddish in favor of Hebrew – always derided Zelig and insisted there was no such name as Leimah.
 
Though I never coveted a Hebrew name like my siblings had (double-duty ones though they were), I also prefer to stick with “Jack” when I am asked by a Hebrew speaker what to call me.  Frankly, I would rather deal with “Jeck” and “Tzack” from Israelis than the “what-kind-of-name-is-Zelig” that is the inevitable response.  And as much of an honor as it is to be called to the Torah by my “name for all holy matters,” even veteran officiants usually need two or three repetitions to get my name and my parents’ names anywhere near correctly.
 
Many years ago, I was asked by a Chabad rabbi (a follower of the aforementioned Lubavitcher Rebbe) what my name was.  “Zelig” he found acceptable.  But “Leimah” provoked a long internal dialogue (which he held aloud) until finally reminding himself that sure, yeah, there had been a famous Leimah, only he thought it was Leimeh or maybe Leimel (as distinct from Lemel), but in any event he would certainly remember me as the first Leimah he ever met.
 
It’s like being named “Seven” or “North.”
 
There are plenty of Biblical Hebrew names you never hear anymore unless you are reading the Bible.  “Pagiel, son of Ochran” is a good example.  Near as I can tell, Ochran connotes stubbornness or maybe a taciturn personality, while his son Pagiel carries a name that indicates that either God helped him escape or he escaped God.  No further explanation is available.
 
My name, Zelig, means “happy.”  As it happens, that is also the meaning of “Asher.”  And “Leimah” may or may not be a corruption of (or nickname for) Shlomo – as in Shleimeh, drop the “sh.”  “Shlomo” comes from “shalom,” meaning “peace” or “wholeness.” Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
 
So, to borrow from one piece of literature, My Name is Asher Shlomo.  Happy and whole is not a bad expectation to carry around with me. 
 
But to borrow from another piece of literature, Call me Zelig.  Just as Melville’s narrator began Moby Dick and remained Ishmael to the very end, I am Zelig from my eighth day of life.  However much explanation and reimagining my name means, it carries with it a legacy handed to me from a place I never knew and from people I never met in a language I never spoke.
 
Preserving that makes me happy and whole.

The Leviticus:8 Project
 
But if one cannot afford the equivalent, he shall be presented before the priest, and the priest shall assess him; the priest shall assess him according to what the vower can afford.      Leviticus 27:8
 
As every older generation does, my generation wonders how things can be so different with younger generations.  I know some of things I did drove my elders crazy.  During my first year of seminary, I was outraged that the pristine building in which my classes were held was suddenly sprouting heavy brass plaques engraved with the names of wealthy donors.
 
(In fact, I remember a worker entering a class in progress with such a plaque and a huge drill to anchor it into the concrete block walls.  Our teacher, a very gentle and modest rabbi, said, “Excuse me, we are conducting a class in here.”  The worker responded, “Oh, that’s okay, you won’t bother me.”  And with that, he revved up the drill and proceeded to hang the plaque.)
 
I took matters into my own hands and used Post-It notes to put up my own plaques ahead of the formal dedication.  I am not certain what Ed and Trixie Norton had dedicated in honor of Ralph and Alice Kramden, or exactly who dedicated the urinals, but they were all discovered and removed.  Well, all but one: The Julius and Ethel Rosenberg Memorial Wall Socket.
 
My elders were not amused.  The new building was a big deal – a milestone in the school’s maturity and a leap forward from the repurposed hotel that had served as classrooms and offices for many years.
 
Not so many years later, I was interviewing with a congregation anxious to move from its long-time building to a growing community that was miles away from its graying population. I was approached about taking the position, but I declined.  I did not want to begin my tenure by taking on a construction project, especially one that left devoted members behind.  (They built it without me.)  But revenge was in the cosmos.  It wasn’t so many years until the congregation I served grew to the point of needing renewed facilities.
 
Brick-and-mortar was very much the measure of success for the generation of my parents and their parents. The synagogue of my youth had arrived when it stopped meeting in the Oddfellows Hall and Methodist church and moved into its own classroom-and-auditorium building.
 
For my generation, renewal and renovation of existing facilities seems to have been our physical focus.  The synagogue I served boasted an award-winning design which was eliminated when we needed more room in the sanctuary and pews that had not been salvaged from a local movie theater decades before.  We saw it as an opportunity to leave our mark as we met our needs.
 
This past week I had occasion to speak with a younger rabbi who serves in an historic congregation in a very old building.  It has been renovated and repurposed as best as possible to accommodate the changing population of the neighborhood – young couples, some with kids, and older individuals who no longer have or never had kids.  He described to me the task of building to a new paradigm.  “Membership” is a term in certain disfavor, and “dues” sounds too rigid.  In particular, younger people, who are often reluctant to be joiners, are encouraged to contribute what they can afford as a way to ease into engaging as community members (rather than a la carte consumers), just like in the verse above.
 
For a long time, the American Jewish community seemed to practice an adage that later became famous in a movie: If you build it, they will come.  And for a while, it worked.  Belonging to a synagogue was mostly a value in the Jewish community, and it was not so much whether you joined a synagogue or temple, but which one you chose.  As synagogues became centers of comprehensive learning and activities, those large halls were redesigned to be more flexible, and another generation arrived, perhaps not in the same numbers, but more frequently for a wider variety of reasons.
 
Now, as younger leaders try to create intentional communities, the focus is not on a building.  These independent groups, like the growing congregation in the old building, are willing to make do with what is available.  They meet in church basements, community rooms, libraries, or even apartments of various participants.  The choice to use what is available and affordable has removed the role of architecture and decorating from the worship experience.  (And sometimes even more: one very successful group meets in a church sanctuary, surrounded by iconography.)
 
Some groups will want a place to call their own and others just a place to call home.  No matter which, it is a pretty fair bet that a generation will arise with a different perspective and a new way to address it.  The leaders at the time will have to assess what they all can afford.  It will be considered equivalent.
 
 
This column brings to a conclusion the Leviticus:8 Project.  All past offerings may be found at www.jackmoline.com.  Beginning soon, watch for the new weekly series, The Numbers:13 Project, which will continue through calendar year 2019.

​THE GOLIATH OBSESSION
 
The Leviticus:8 Project
 
Five of you shall give chase to a hundred, and a hundred of you shall give chase to ten thousand; your enemies shall fall before you by the sword.     Leviticus 26:8
 
It’s the plot of every underdog film.  The ragtag band of misfits is charged with the defeat of the highly-trained and heavily-armed army of bad guys.  That’s the fantasy, right?  Since little David dinged Goliath between the eyes and brought down the entire Philistine shock-force, it’s what we always want to see and always hope will happen.
 
Look at the world today and you can see it playing out.  On the global stage, Kim Jong-un’s obsession with the United States has persuaded him his missiles could defeat us.  In Las Vegas, everyone with a system believes they can beat the house.  And the current President of the United States has behaved like a beleaguered loner while encouraging those who identify with him to resist the juggernauts of the press, the Democrats and, well, anyone who disagrees with him.
 
But the fact of the matter is that almost all of the time the lesser combatant loses.  There may be some short-term promise, but ultimately, North Korea doesn’t stand a chance, the casino has the odds and Donald Trump’s administration will end and he will return to private life somewhere.
 
I can’t fault the fantasy.  In a lot of ways, it is encouraged by faith traditions, including my own, that promise that brute force is not the ultimate determinant of dominance.  In the end, faith suggests, there is a higher power rooted in the object of faith.  Access what you worship, and that power will serve you against all foes.
 
I am by far not the first person to call out this misconception.  In the United States, toward the end of the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln famously said, of the two cohorts of combatants, “Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other.”  The North prevailed because of superior resources and strategy, not because God was on their side.
 
So, am I suggesting that the Bible presents a falsehood in this assurance that faithfulness is the superpower of the believer?  Only if you choose to take this assurance literally.
 
Anecdotally, there are certainly cases where David beats Goliath. What makes those anecdotes remarkable is that they are unusual and unexpected.  To consider them a reward for diligence or observance is to deny the way of the world.  Even without our contemporary knowledge of physics and chemistry, the Bible affirms the dependability of the ways of the world – cycles of the sun, of the moon, of the years, of life.  To rely on miracles is to deny the creative powers that formed the world.
 
Instead, we are admonished individually and collectively to do what is right and good, physically and spiritually, so that we will be prepared to face the challenges of the thousands and ten-thousands when they arise.  In the physical world, neglecting to anticipate and prepare for aggression from hostile nations or from the inevitable “natural disasters” means that lives and comfort will be lost.  Spiritually (or, if you prefer, ethically or philosophically), a failure to reflect on what is right and good and to cultivate individual and societal standards of righteousness that respects all people and celebrates the diversity of our world means that those with malice in their hearts and the power of words will triumph in their attempts to oppress and repress.
 
I recently returned from a visit to Alabama where I was reminded of the accomplishments of the civil rights leadership – the people who assumed Lincoln’s unfinished business.  The marchers in Selma did not dispatch the state troopers at the foot of the Edmund Pettus bridge.  Goliath was ready for David in 1965.  The battles were won because the hearts of Americans were urged to live up to the values we professed by leaders who deployed the language of righteousness and the songs of freedom. 
 
That’s what is missing in our society at the moment.  Our superior firepower – assuming it is yet superior – will protect us against foreign adversaries who are foolhardy enough to believe their own hype.  But our country needs to aspire to more than the accumulation of physical power.  We are in desperate need of leaders who will appeal to our better angels and arm us with dedication to do more than just to win, to make a beneficial deal, to collect the most money, toys or votes.  A wall may or may not prevent people from crossing a border, but it will most certainly not inspire wise and effective and compassionate treatment of people on either side. 
 
The will to do good makes the five hundred powerful enough to disarm the thousand with the will to do wrong by persuading them otherwise.
 
David took five stones when he went out to meet Goliath.  Only needed one because he was prepared and because his aim was true.  And not just the aim of his sling.

The Leviticus:8 Project
​
You shall count off seven weeks of years—seven times seven years—so that the period of seven weeks of years gives you a total of forty-nine years.         Leviticus 25:8
 
Some number of years ago, a movement was underway to forgive the debts that countries with developing economies had amassed.  The notion was that lender countries with strong economies were in a better position to assume the loss than countries with significant debt were in to maintain the interest on the loans.  It is not surprising that many of the advocates for forgiveness were familiar with the Biblical mandate to reset the economy and land holdings every fifty years – the jubilee.
 
Before any such program could be finalized, those strong economies plummeted, and the plans were abandoned.  But it is worth noting that the conversations about this innovative approach were not all supportive.
 
There’s no doubt that both the Biblical mandate and the contemporary proposal were well-intended.  After all, if wealth is concentrated in the hands of the few, the many suffer disproportionately.  That situation seems to be acceptable only to those with wealth or the expectation that they will amass it to the disadvantage of others.   Still, the Bible (and, indeed, all of Jewish thought) concedes that there will always be poor people.  It also insists that the privileged have the responsibility to provide for the disadvantaged.  In every way from creating self-sustaining opportunities (such as leaving the corners of the fields unharvested or teach a person a marketable skill) to simply handing over money (preferably with joy, but even with resentment), those that have must provide for those that don’t.
 
But this notion of the forced redistribution of wealth is one of the places that capitalism chooses to disregard the instruction of Scripture.  Who would lend money, who would build a house, who would plant an orchard if, after seven years or seven times seven years, the investment would be lost?
 
Close readers of the Bible know that the reluctance of lenders to lose their loan is anticipated.  And those who have studied even a little Jewish law know of the invention of the prosbul, a legal fiction that allows lenders to assign their loans to the court, an institution that is not a person (my friend), so that debts can survive the mandatory forgiveness.  Despite the moral authority of the Bible and the admirable notion of a society free from permanent want, practical experience made it clear that human nature was sometimes more reliable than divine instruction. 
 
The old joke is both older than old and not such a joke: The students come to the rabbi and say they have found a way to rid the world of poverty – the rich will give the poor what they need.  “How is your plan doing?” asked the rabbi.  “We’re half-way there,” they replied.  “The poor have agreed to accept the gifts.”
 
And it turned out that there was some pushback against the debt-forgiveness movement as well.  Countries, like people, were reluctant to forgive existing debts even when they were prospering and might well have been able to afford the gesture.  In almost every case, the debts were being managed to prevent disabling the smaller economy.  But the anticipation that strong economies might not always be so strong (which turned out to be devastatingly true) made representatives of lender countries declare their reluctance to extend future credit to these same countries.  A once-in-a-generation reset might very well have complicated the ability of any country to move beyond momentary solvency.
 
I know that there was disappointment in some quarters (especially among some faith-based activists) that the “jubilee plan” did not come to pass. If there had been a willingness, it not only would have alleviated a significant amount of debt, but also it would have validated a particular perspective on the wisdom and authority of the Bible.  At least a few of the proponents believed that the latter “witness” was as important as the former problem-solving.
 
There were other creative minds who went to work on national debts.  There has yet to be a solution, but with the exception of those few leaders that will not acknowledge their country’s economic crisis, the combination of public and private efforts has made inroads in alleviating poverty.  There is a long way to go, but not as long as before.
 
But the lesson of the push for debt forgiveness gives me quiet satisfaction – not because I am somehow in favor of crushing debt, but because I continue to reject a literal reading of the Bible. The embedded skepticism of the idealistic vision, tackled by the legal logic so disparaged by outsiders to Jewish tradition, gives me great delight.  With a minimum of exceptions, everything is a negotiation, not out of some worship of making a deal, but because of the constant celebration of our capacity to be idealistic and practical at the same time.
 
In the best sense, that’s my definition of politics, my version of Otto von Bismarck’s “art of the possible.”  You work at something for a long time – maybe seven times seven years – and in the end, with people of good will, you get the best possible outcome.  That’s a jubilee worth celebrating.