In this week’s Torah portion, we have moved from the extraordinary moment of the revelation at Sinai to the nitty gritty affairs of daily life. Mishpatim is filled with the details of such laws as those relating to damages.
     In my new book, Judaism Disrupted, A Spiritual Manifesto for the 21st Century, I suggest a paradigm shift from rabbinic Judaism’s notion of halakha as Jewish law. Crucial for the rabbis’ system of halakha was their emphasis on specifying exactly how a commandment was to be fulfilled (being yotze). In their system, intention/kavanah was not a requirement to fulfill a mitzvah. What if instead of being concerned about whether we should light the candles in our menorah from right to left or left to right, we focused on what  it means to find light amidst darkness and how might we do that for others and for ourselves? 

       The truth is that some of the most well known of the 613 commandments do not require specific actions for their fulfillment. Consider the mitzvah to love your neighbor as yourself (Lev. 19:18). The questions about fulfillment of this mitzvah are immediately obvious – what is love? I may like my neighbor but he is not in my top ten list of friends. When do I have to love him – all the time? Does love involve some action? How do I know when I have fulfilled the commandment? This kind of commandment stands outside the structure of fulfillment that is so fundamental to traditional Jewish law. Despite this, it is one of the 613 commandments. This is true of the other ethical commandments of Leviticus chapter 19, like the injunction not to put a stumbling block before the blind or carry hatred in your heart.

       Couldn’t these commandments serve as models for a different way to think about Judaism as a practice? We commit to observe them not because God commands them or in order to receive a reward from heaven. Rather we commit to observing them because that is how we want to live our lives. We think the world would be a better place if we love our neighbor. We would be in a better space if we didn’t hate people, even if only in our hearts. We can choose to live in a neighborhood constructed of envy, anger and hatred. Or we can live in a neighborhood constructed of compassion, forbearance, and love. In which neighborhood would we be happier-- a place of locked doors and locked hearts, or a place of open heartedness?

Adapted from Judaism Disrupted.  To be continued next week.