The Numbers:13 Project
 
Moses, Eleazar the priest, and all the chieftains of the community came out to meet them outside the camp.        Numbers 31:13
 
Every time my grandchildren come to visit (driven by their parents, of course), my wife and I wait anxiously for them to arrive.  When the car pulls up to our house, invariably, no matter the weather, we come out the front door to get the earliest possible hugs.
 
There are some few other guests who get that kind of welcome.  But unless someone is schlepping large or heavy packages, we generally allow them to approach the house in their own time.  That’s why we have a doorbell.
 
I mean no reference to Seinfeld when I suggest that we are the masters of our domain.  It is up to us whether we admit a visitor (even if that visitor used to be a resident!).  And other than our perfect grandchildren, there are two different reasons we might try to intercept someone on the way to our door.

The first is to show particular respect or honor.  A much-anticipated visitor who is especially loved or missed might very well be accompanied on those last few steps as an expression of special welcome.  It is as if to say, symbolically, I am coming to retrieve you from afar and escort you to my home.  In story and song, from the Bible to Broadway, a delegation that goes out to meet the arriving or returning dignitary is an indication of deference and celebration.

The second is to express caution.  A person’s home is their refuge and the place in which their most precious family members reside.  It is a place of privacy and safety, and it contains their valuables – not just material goods, but also memories of a life lived.  A delegation that steps out of the front door, closing it behind, to prevent arriving visitors from stepping up to the threshold, issues an unspoken warning: leave any hostilities outside or I will not admit you.

The householder is always in the position of power.  Whether that power is used deferentially or as a deterrent, the decision is theirs to deploy it or withhold it.

This dynamic is not only literal.  It is also symbolic.  When the house is not just a house, the arriving outsider may be just as surely welcomed or warned. 

Think about a house of worship.  In my tradition, that is the synagogue.  Years ago, when our neighbor Presbyterians quit their church for a months-long renovation, they moved in with us.  On a designated Sunday, they made the walk of a few blocks to their temporary home.  Waiting for them outside to usher them in were leaders and members of the synagogue community.  We greeted them with “Welcome home.”  The awaiting delegation made a profoundly loving start to a season of very close quarters.
 
These days, if you approach the same house of worship, you will find that the householders have someone to meet you on the way in, too – a sheriff’s deputy, whose presence is meant to reassure the arriving worshipers of their safety, and to deliver the message to leave any hostilities outside or I will not admit you.  It is an unfortunate response to a climate of fear.
 
The same contrast is true when the house is not actually a house.  Institutions have householders, gatekeepers who decide who gets admitted and who does not.  They can flex their muscle by controlling the approach as well as the admission.  From the bouncer on the rope line at a club to the majority leader of a legislative body, these power holders can determine who will be welcomed and who will be frustrated.  Some will enjoy the dance, and others will be excluded from the very process.
 
It is worth thinking about the messages that come with greeting those who arrive at your house when you step outside the front door.  Are you making a show of power or of delight – or even both.
 
All of this applies to every circumstance except one.  If our delicious grandchildren show up at your place, rush to get your hugs.  Don’t waste a minute on ceremony.

The Numbers:13 Project
 
But if her husband does annul them on the day he finds out, then nothing that has crossed her lips shall stand, whether vows or self-imposed obligations. Her husband has annulled them, and the LORD will forgive her.      Numbers 30:13 
 
Over the years, I have had conversations with people who have described their marriages in terms unfamiliar to me.  Specifically, one spouse or another had the power of veto over decisions made by the other.  I just don’t get it. 
 
An acquaintance of mine, many years ago, told me that his wife had decided to get a business degree.  They had two children in elementary school, and she took classes around their schedule, studying at night after their bedtime and in any spare moment she could find.  One day, as she and her husband were on their way to a social occasion on a local highway, he said to her, “I think you should just throw those books out the window and give up this business thing.”  She did.  He was very proud of that story. 
 
Yes, it was most often the husband who had this authority over his wife.  But there have also been circumstances in which a husband has made a commitment and later called me to say that his wife had reversed his decision.  (I simply do not have enough experience with two men or two women to know if that kind of power is ever vested in one person or the other.) 
 
I’m not talking about a deliberated compromise.  I hope every couple has discussions about priorities and commitments.  I mean exactly the kind of situation described in the verse above: one person made an autonomous decision, and the other person reversed it. 
 
This is the stuff of sitcoms, I have to say.  George Jefferson ordering ‘Weezy, Ralph Kramden commanding Alice, Maude instructing Walter.  Except at the end of 26 minutes, comeuppance is a guarantee.  Even when we laugh, nobody puts up with that malarkey in the end. 
 
Except. 
 
This kind of presumed authority is thinly-disguised spousal abuse.  The removal of personal autonomy in decision-making by one partner is a denigration of the humanity of the other.  Surrendering the ability to make “vows and self-imposed obligations” – especially after the fact – invalidates personal competence and judgment.  It creates a hierarchy of basic human dignity which, by all measures, violates the equality of all people. 
 
In my work I encounter any number of faith traditions that affirm that a wife must submit to the authority of her husband.  (These traditions have less experience than I with single-sex couples.)  While there are any number of places in the Bible that they cite justification, none is more explicit than this one.  The usual explanation, perhaps better described as a rationalization, is that men are better suited to decision-making than women.   
 
In communities governed by rules like these, the prophecy is self-fulfilling.  Wives (and women in general) second-guess their own judgment, having been taught it is inferior to their husbands’.  In turn, they teach their daughters and granddaughters to defer to the men in their lives. 
 
Even in “enlightened” traditions, the vestiges of this hierarchy remain.  Women’s teachings may be overruled by men’s.  Female devotees serve the male clergy who are the only conduits to the divine.  Women do not serve as judges or as members of a quorum.  No matter how it is justified or explained away, the female partner is less-than.  And when the male partner becomes less-than, he is depicted as female, to add insult to injury. 
 
I know that it is easy to be critical, especially since we live in a time when pushing back on these teachings is considered the moral and righteous thing to do.  But the attitudes and practices we are correcting are deeply embedded in our cultures, our traditions and, according to the tenets of faith, our sacred and inviolable literature.  What do we do with them? 
 
It is not enough, I am afraid, to assert our presumed authority over such a text.  The result of a flat rejection may be satisfying for the person who feels righteously above the text, but it will do little to persuade the woman or man who feels bound by sacred instruction. It is also insufficient to suggest that people being disadvantaged by these teachings – most of them women – to ”give it time.”  
 
Instead, men and women alike need to model and instruct the right kind of behavior and accompanying attitudes.  It is especially true for opinion leaders – public figures, clergy, people in charge. Just as we no longer hang a transgressor, stone a stubbornly rebellious son or allow for revenge killings, we must say unequivocally that these windows into past conduct are sacred because of their origin, not because of their relevance.  
 
That’s an attitude that probably dissatisfies everyone a little bit.  But its my story, and I am sticking to it. 

​The Numbers:13 Project
 
You shall present a burnt offering, an offering by fire of pleasing odor to the LORD: Thirteen bulls of the herd, two rams, fourteen yearling lambs; they shall be without blemish.     Numbers 29:13
 
Human societies have a long and complicated relationship with numbers.  We like to count things and then assign significance to the totals and the way we can divvy them up.  Perhaps numbers are the last vestige of the human family (as depicted in the Bible) before it fractured into different languages and tribe.  Mathematical patterns are a universal means of expression.  Though they are essentially without nuance, they can be used to express music, color and physical relativity that can capture profound insights.
 
Though I am not much of a whiz at math, nonetheless I have a fascination with numbers, too.  Like my friend Don, I take delight in gematria (with a hard “g”), the “science” that finds relationships between words in Hebrew with the same numerical value.  (Every letter in Hebrew has an assigned value, so if you add up the numbers in, say, ­chokhmah – 8+20+40+5 = 73 – you will find it to be the same as hachayyim – 5+8+10+10+20.  Chokhma means “wisdom,” hachayyim means “the life.”  Therefore, there must be a link between wisdom and life.)  Gematria can get pretty complicated and has implications for students of the Jewish mystical tradition. I find it a useful excuse to find connections among ideas, such as “wisdom” and “life.”
 
We assign significance to numbers that are not inherent, rather that recognize our values.  To be #1 in any field of endeavor means dominance or, at least, arriving earliest.  Seven is both prime and complete.  Ten is comprehensive.  Name almost any number and it will have significance for someone – a batting streak, a weight goal, an hourly wage, the roster of Biblical commandments.
 
But sometimes a number is just a number.  I had a conversation with a friend of mine about our ages.  “You are only as old as you feel,” he said to me (an observation that he was quick to acknowledge was not original).  “That’s irrelevant,” I replied.  “Some days I feel like a teenager and some days I feel like an old man.  But my age is my age, a neutral fact.”  The nuance of that number is not carried by the digits; it is meaning imputed (in this case) by an attitude about age.
 
When I look at the number of offerings and sacrifices designated by the Bible for various occasions, I am frequently mystified. The descending totals for the seven days of Tabernacles (which the verse above begins) has a meaning as self-evident as the last verse of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  And the time necessary to slaughter and roast 29 animals in the Temple precincts would probably take up the whole of the day for the priestly personnel. But the numbers mean something, even if that meaning has been lost to time and speculation.
 
There is one type of significance to numbers that is assigned by Jewish tradition that strikes me as a recognition of the neutral value of those numbers.  There is a strong opposition to counting people – that is, reducing their uniqueness to a number.  Even in determining the number of people present for a minyan (quorum), it is not permissible to assign each one a number.  Instead, a ten-word phrase is used, or the counting is preceded by “not” (not-one, not-two, etc.).  Only when the purpose of counting is for a divinely-mandated purpose – building the Temple, entering the Promised Land – may a census be conducted, but even then within the tribal memberships rather than a general counting.
 
It is therefore not without irony that the English name of this book is “Numbers.”  (In Hebrew it carries the traditional name, taken from the first word of significance, “Bemidbar,” “In the wilderness.”)  The numbers in Numbers are abundant and call out for interpretation, perhaps because they seem somehow random. 
 
But the numbers themselves are neutral, digits that represent quantity or order or something that bears meaning assigned rather than inherent.  That open-ended fact makes it somehow wonderful that numbers exist without limit.

The Numbers:13 Project
 
As meal offering for each lamb: a tenth of a measure of fine flour with oil mixed in. Such shall be the burnt offering of pleasing odor, an offering by fire to the LORD.    Numbers 28:13 
 
Like most men I know, I believe I can look at a something labeled “some assembly required” and succeed in that “some assembly” with little or no guidance.  When I get a new piece of electronic wizardry, I am always glad to find that there are two sets of instructions – the comprehensive user’s manual and the quick-start guide; I don’t need either of them.  And when tasked with following a recipe, I need only two measuring devices – a tablespoon and a 1-cup measure – because I have a good eye for how much to fill each if the recipe calls for a teaspoon or a quarter-cup of something. 
 
I am confident in my abilities because, though I have no formal training in these skills, both of my grandfathers were very good with their hands.  Plus, I can visualize things in my head. 
 
At the core of the assumptions about all of these various assembling activities is the cavalier attitude of “how hard can it be?”  Hammers and nails, Allen wrenches and wood screws, flour and salt, these are ingredients that anyone with a modicum of common sense can figure out how to put together. 
 
Similarly, what prevents me from being a good actor, an admired singer, a talented dancer?  Sure, not everyone is DeNiro, Dion or Hough, but how hard can it be to recite your lines, carry a tune or tap your feet? 
 
And if you can ride a bike, you can drive a car.  If you can drive a car, you can skipper a boat.  If you can skipper a boat (and play a video game), you can pilot a plane.  How hard can it be? 
 
I am, of course, wrong about all those things.  Be glad I did not become a surgeon. 
 
Some few people in any discipline have natural talent.  My late friend Fred could pick up almost any musical instrument and play it well.  He took clarinet lessons – his first love – but played the banjo and the piano without any instruction.  My cousin Ben can build anything you describe to him like some combination of MIT and MacGyver.  My wife can make a technical report read like a Steven King novel.   
 
But mostly, to be good at something, you have to follow directions and learn from a few mistakes (like skipping the instructions).  Even the people with exceptional natural talent (in fact, especially those people) will warn you off pretending that you know more than you do.  Anyone who has baked a cake without follow the recipe carefully will tell you how unhappy the results are with just a little too much of this or a little too little of that. 
 
It may wind up being a burnt offering, but it is not of pleasing odor. 
 
When the founders of our country wrenched the government from the hands of kings and despots, they wrote out the recipe for the plain old citizens who entered public service to follow.  To be sure, government has gotten considerably more complicated since Alexander Hamilton decided not to throw away his shot, but there are no ingredients that can be left out of the Constitution.  Lots of people have held office so successfully that they make it look easy.  Of course, if we could ask Washington or Lincoln, Shirley Chisholm or Barbara Jordan, Oliver Wendell Homes or Thurgood Marshall if their leadership was as effortless in providing as it appeared in the result, they would laugh.  Anyone who came to that conclusion by observing only the result of careful preparation and methodical effort would likely be as superficial as that perception. 
 
And yet, there remain people who look at positions of great responsibility for the nation and its citizens and ask, “How hard can it be?”  Willfully ignorant of the Constitution and stubbornly uninformed, they believe the quick-start guide is for incompetents and the user’s manual is for morons.  
 
I don’t want to sit on the chair assembled by the guy who skipped the directions.  I don’t want to suffer through a concert by the person whose vocal training is a morning shower.  I don’t want to ski behind a boat navigated by someone who learned on a Schwinn.  Maybe they have the natural talent of my cousin Ben, but if it turns out they don’t, and they are endangering us all, someone should take away  
the hammer, the mic or the keys. 
 
In the process, we just might restore the Constitution. 

 The Numbers:13 Project
 
of Zerah, the clan of the Zerahites; of Saul, the clan of the Saulites.        Numbers 26:13
 
I know I am giving away both my age and my sense of humor when I mention Allan Sherman.  The spiritual mentor of Weird Al Yankovic, Sherman elevated the song parody to a national phenomenon.  He mostly (in his early work) parodied the songs of the first half of the twentieth century – not surprising, since he grew up then.
 
I knew most of the originals from the parodies.  Songs like “You Went the Wrong Way, Old King Louis” and “Streets of Miami” made such an impression on me that I was surprised to learn there were original lyrics.  (I had to ask my parents what was so funny about the line “he was trampling through the warehouse where the drapes of Roth are stored,” a skewer of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”)
 
But no song tickled me as much as “Shake Hands with Your Uncle Max.”  It is a riff on “Dear Old Donegal,” an Irish pop tune about a man who returns to Donegal after trying out America and is reintroduced to his neighbors Branigan, Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan and all sorts of others.  But I never heard the original until much later.  Instead, I committed to memory the Allan Sherman version about a salesman who returns to Brooklyn (so that’s where Ocean Parkway is!) after his long and lonesome season on the road. His mother is there to reintroduce Levin, Levinsky, Levine and Levi…Stein with an "e-i" and Styne with a "y."
 
Aside from being a play on the Irish ditty, the song is a not-so-subtle reference to the proclivity of Jews (and others, I suspect) to try to draw connections with people they meet.  Stand near two Jewish strangers at a social gathering and eventually you will hear an exploration that begins either with “do you know” or “are you related to.”  My last name is pretty unusual in the Jewish community (but familiar to Swedes), so it’s not so farfetched for someone who knows my siblings or cousins to ask me if I am connected to another Moline.  But Stein with an “e-i” and Styne with a “y” (from Brooklyn) can provoke an adventure of six degrees or fewer of separation.
 
Maybe this behavior is a benign parody of the long section of the second census in the Book of Numbers.  The twelve tribes of Israel are called by the name of their patriarchs, and afterward the then-current chieftain and then his sons. The families (clans) of the sons are each noted by the name of the current patriarch.  Those descended from Zerah, the Zerahites.  Those descended from Saul, the Saulites.  Well…duh.
 
The tribes had their territory and the clans had their homesteads.  The merchant who returned with his caravan could shake hands with his Uncle Zerah and meet cousins from other tribes – Naphtali, Issachar, Judah and Gad.  Jewish geography may not be quite the modern phenomenon we think it is.
 
A well-known rabbi, so well-known that I won’t identify him, once said that the only false words in the prayer book are chaveirim kol yisrael, which means (a little too literally) “all Jews are friends.”  But taking that notion more literally than it is meant brings me back to Allan Sherman’s song.  He may not have been so happy to see cousin Isabel (that’s Irving’s oldest girl) or the Tishman twins, Gerald and Jerome, but they all came out to greet him and to wish him welcome home.
 
Maybe that’s part of the intrigue of the DNA-mapping technology that various companies market.  So far, my sample has identified 1216 relatives, about five of which I knew about.  Sooner or later I will find out if I am a Zerahite or a Saulite or any of the other -ites who left Egypt.  (I already know I am 99% Ashkenazi Jew.)  Until then, are you related to……?

The Numbers:13 Project
 
It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time, because he took impassioned action for his God, thus making expiation for the Israelites.   Numbers 25:13
 
When I think about all the people I knew when I was a kid, it is pretty amazing to me how many of them had parents – fathers, most usually – who were businessmen.  In the small neighbor where I grew up, there was a doctor, a cop and an ad exec, but mostly the dads owned businesses.  Our middle-class community depended on the market for glass containers, lighting, kosher meat, uniforms, gemstones and, in our family, office supplies and furniture.
 
Almost all of my friends went to college and almost none of them entered the family business.  Some (like my sister) tried for a while, but most (like my brother and me) never had much interest in the “shop.” 
 
I never did a scientific survey (nor even an unscientific one), but my two grandfathers made their way through this world working with their hands, and their children showed no particular interest or aptitude for that aspect of securing a livelihood.  I am certain that you live in circumstances that benefit from my grandfathers’ trades, but I am equally certain almost none of you have contemporaries who followed in their footsteps.
 
The notion that children would follow their parents into the family business used to be pretty usual.  You only need to look to the last names conferred on families with working-class origins when surnames began to emerge to know how prevalent it was to be defined by the family business.  Smith, Porter, Wagner, Carpenter – these are very transparent English names.  Schechter (butcher), Schumacher (cobbler), Weiner (vintner), Dayan (judge) are names common in the Jewish community with origins in European languages.
 
(Of course, there are other origins of surnames.  Slaves often had their enslavers’ names imposed on them.  Many cultures, including Jewish culture, used the name of a family elder as the last name.  Geography often identified a family. And so many others.)
 
The process of choosing a profession has changed multiple times over the thousand years or more of identifying family names. But it is a pretty radical notion to consider that my livelihood could be defined by family heritage.  My ancestors landed on these shores with the surname “Melamedmen.”  It is a Hebrew-Yiddish mash-up that means, literally, “teacher-man.”  In the hierarchy of Jewish scholarship, the “teacher-man” was a generalist, usually providing the foundation of basic Jewish literacy to children.  While we have plenty of Jewish educators in our extended family, none of us wound up in the (honorable!) profession of teaching Bible to fourth-graders.
 
Speaking of the Bible, I imagine the “pact of priesthood for all time” mentioned above seemed like a pretty sweet deal back then.  For certain, the responsibility of tending to the ritual life of the people by maintaining their right relationship with God was profound.  But the priests were sustained by the rest of the people (as part of their home tribe of Levites) and enjoyed the privileges of office.  They were limited in their choices for marriage and could not own real property, but the family business was secure and sustained.
 
But “all time” continues today.  The designation of “priest” is preserved among the Jewish population by surnames that are remarkably accurate, diluted though the lineage may be.  Any variation of Cohen, Kahn or Katz (an abbreviation of “righteous priest”) indicates a legacy of priesthood.  Unless the name was adopted to replace an undesired surname, anyone whose family legacy includes this name is in some way presumed to be in the pact of priesthood for all time – the family business.
 
We live in an entrepreneurial world.  Though work has undeniable dignity, the notion that you are assigned a form of labor by something or someone external to your own efforts is the stuff of tyranny or dystopian novels.  My parents and grandparents were proud of the family businesses, but they never expressed the expectation that any of their offspring would follow in their footsteps.
 
I carry a title that reveals my career choice to the world. I can’t tell you how many times I have been asked if any of my children were going to follow me into the rabbinate, the “family business.”  I never responded as many rabbis do with “I hope so” or as some rabbis do with “I hope not.”  They followed the values they learned from my wife and me and have found a way to serve and sustain, each in their own idiom, as the generations did before them.
 
Our American culture sometimes tries to assign expectation to the children on the basis of their parents’ professions.  In entertainment, politics, big businesses and sports especially, a marquee name is not only bankable, but definitive.  But having a parent who was a senator, a point guard or a real estate magnate is no guarantee of anything other than fame.  There are no more pacts of profession for all time.

The Numbers:13 Project 
 
‘Though Balak were to give me his house full of silver and gold, I could not of my own accord do anything good or bad contrary to the LORD’s command. What the LORD says, that I must say.’     Numbers 24:13 
 
What constitutes integrity?  I try not to get too theological in these columns, but sometimes it is unavoidable, as you will see. 
 
I have always imagined integrity to be connected to integration, which is to say, the opposite of compartmentalization.  I think it is impossible to live life without some measure of cordoning off certain experiences from others.  I learned it as a rabbi a long time ago on the day I walked from one room in the synagogue where I conducted the naming for the first child and granddaughter of a multi-generational family to another room where I conducted a funeral after the sudden death of a young father of two toddlers.  The emotion in each room could not have been different, but I could not afford to be swept away by either joy or grief. 
 
The contrasts in our lives are not always that severe, of course.  Yet, some measure of separation between work and home, responsibility and indulgence, birth and death, reaping and sowing, embracing and refraining from embracing -- you know the list -- is the experience of everyone who has been around the block even just once. 
 
Still, the person who segments every experience and lives always and only in the moment seems (at least to me) to live without integrity.  Integration involves connecting the various aspects of any system (in our case, a life) into some kind of comprehensive and comprehensible whole. 
 
As a person of faith, I have one more criterion I think cannot be overlooked.  Lots of folks find a way to knit together the parts of their internal landscape as they process their sojourn through life.  Using the compass of conscience, however defined, or of self-interest (in its extreme expression known as narcissism), they mistake self-satisfaction for integrity.  People whose sense of integrity is limited to what happens inside themselves are guilty of compartmentalization writ large. 
 
The person of integrity is connected with something larger and external.  For me, that’s God.  I am not smug about that faith (nor even the version of it to which I adhere), but I believe deeply that anyone who answers to no standard but an internal standard is, in the end, a scoundrel. The reason: every decision, most especially those we like to call “moral,” is based on serving the self.  It is not necessarily the case that the self-serving moral decision is bad or wrong -- not everyone is completely selfish -- but it is not transferable to other people who do not share the same internal landscape.  Which, of course, is everyone else. 
 
We are living in times in which integrity is pretty easily compromised.  The parade of public figures who seem to have traded their principles for access to power or money (mostly to find themselves exposed and/or under a bus) is constant.  You do not need to subscribe to the external values to which an individual has pledged allegiance to feel the pain and disappointment when integrity has disintegrated.  Compulsively clinging to that external standard comes with its own set of problems, but letting it go entirely almost always leads to tragedy, whether it is misconduct, opprobrium or plain old loneliness. 
 
The oft-maligned Bilaam (aka Baalam) seems to appreciate this truth when he is offered a fortune to use his oracular talents to condemn the Israelites. He is, at least at this moment, a man of integrity, that is, answering both to his internal and external values.  It is a high point in his life (which precedes the low point -- being outsmarted by a talking donkey).  He is not an Israelite/Jew, which teaches the lesson that integrity is not tribe-dependent (and allows the Bible to make his fall less personal to Jewish readers). 
 
Maybe some other time I will muse about how to balance the internal compass and the external standards.  For the moment, I will stop with the suggestion that adage “no one is an island” should inspire us not only to intertwined relationships, but also to a life of integrity,