The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.
Emor
Leviticus 21:1–24:23
In “The Big Book of Jewish Humor,” editors Moshe Waldoks and William Novak share one of my favorite Jewish jokes:
“A Jew who has been shipwrecked on a deserted island for three years is finally reached by rescuers. Proudly he shows them around the island, pointing out the irrigation system, the pastures and orchards, the barn, the house, and all his other constructions. At the end of the island tour he announces, ‘Here are two small buildings — the synagogues.’
‘Two of them?’ he is asked. ‘But you’re alone here!’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘this is the one I pray in — and the other one I wouldn’t go into if you paid me!’”
Jews — may we live and be well — do love to kvetch.
While the following circumstance doesn’t apply to Congregation B’nai Shalom where I serve, many synagogues that take the word “shalom” — “peace” — as part of their name trace their origins to a communal quarrel and place their aspirations for renewed peace among their primary goals.
Splits and schisms have been around as long as there have been Jews. Korach rebelled against Moses. The Jews who returned from the Babylonian exile quarreled with those who had remained in the land. The rabbis of the Second Temple period had substantial disagreements with one another, and even larger disputes with the priesthood.
Perhaps, though, the most famous dispute before the rise of modern denominations took place in Babylonia, more than 1,000 years ago. During the period of Persian and Muslim rule, the Jewish community was led by two distinct officials: the head of the academy (the gaon) and the political head of the community (the resh galuta — or, in incomprehensible English, the exilarch). Around 760–770 CE, an argument appeared about who should be the rightful political leader. The official community rejected Anan ben David, a popular candidate who traced his lineage to King David.
In the wake of this rejection, Anan offered a full-throated critique of the rabbinic leadership of his day. He accused them of perverting the written word of Torah through baroque overreading. Perhaps under the influence of Muslim cleric Abu Hanifa, Anan argued for a return to the literal meaning of the Torah.
Karaite Jews, following this approach, read the commandment not to cook a kid in its mother’s milk literally. As a result, they allow the mixing of meat and dairy more broadly. While rabbinic Jews rarely bow to the ground, Karaite Jews observe the frequent mentions of prostration throughout Scripture, bowing and kneeling all the way with their heads on the floor multiple times during prayer services.
The most famous disagreement centers around Shabbat. Rabbinic Jews understand the Torah’s injunction in Exodus 35 — “You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the Sabbath day” — to refer to new fire and allow flames kindled before Shabbat to remain lit. In fact, they require light, noting that spiritually it recalls creation and practically it keeps you from stubbing your toe. Karaite Jews, however, read the verse plainly and prohibit any fire on the Sabbath.
This dispute may have produced Judaism’s most important symbol: the two candles, mentioned nowhere in the Torah, that we light before Shabbat. Some scholars suggest they became a public sign of rabbinic affiliation in contrast to Karaite literalism.
In this week’s portion, Emor, we encounter another famous dispute. The portion describes the counting of the Omer — the seven-week season of grain offerings that links Passover to Shavuot. The Torah writes that the offerings are to begin “on the day after the Sabbath.” Rabbinic Jews interpret this to mean the day after the festival of Passover, when work is similarly prohibited. As a result, we begin counting on the second night of Passover — those with a second seder may recall the instructions to count the Omer found in many haggadahs.
Karaite Jews, however, offer what might seem a more straightforward reading: They understand “Sabbath” to mean Saturday and begin counting the Omer on the Sunday following the onset of Passover. Thus, Shavuot always falls on a Sunday in the Karaite tradition.
The dispute between rabbinic Jews and Karaite Jews endured for nearly 1,000 years. Karaites frequently serve as foils in Maimonides’ writings, and their presence lingered in rabbinic imagination. Ultimately, though, Karaite Jews became a minority voice within the Jewish tradition.
You can imagine my delight, then, when I came to the Bay Area nearly a decade ago and discovered it to be home to the largest, most dynamic Karaite community outside of Israel. Even more remarkable was learning that there were Karaites within my own congregation — sharing their deep devotion to Torah and their rich cultural heritage with us all.
In a 1984 paper encouraging Conservative congregations to welcome Egyptian Karaites, Rabbi David H. Lincoln quotes the 13th-century Rabbi Elijah of Negropont, who expressed hope that “all Israel might once more become one union of brethren.” In our remarkably divided world, that hope speaks with force. Even if — like in the old joke — we still have many synagogues, we can take pride in knowing we are joyfully welcomed in each other’s spaces.