I’ve been feeling very irreverent in my writing lately, “bashing” Torah a bit and…Judaism, too? I’m not sure about the second part, but maybe Torah and Judaism are inextricably intertwined.

Actually, I’m not sure about either of these two things. Does being critical of Torah and questioning God constitute “bashing?”

But it is related to a question that repeatedly comes up for me, which is: how do I justify being Jewish, following Jewish law, (or at least some of it), when so much of my Holy Book and prayer books are full of so much that challenges my moral compass?

In other words, how do I claim that Judaism is beautiful when so much of it is ugly?

I wouldn’t be the first or the last to ask this question about my religious heritage—Jewish or otherwise.

Also, can we separate “Judaism” from “Jewish people” the way we might want to separate Israeli people from the Israeli government and its actions?

Perhaps “cultural” Jews would say there’s no connection between one and the other of any of the above-mentioned—at least not for them. I would say I was one of those Jews at one time, and though I identify as more than a “cultural Jew” now, I still think it’s important to continue to think about such ideas and bring them out in the open.

Like for me, the relationship between being Jewish and Israel, as I already mentioned. When I was growing up, there was absolutely no emotional attachment at all to such a concept because of the way I was raised.

When kids in school found out I was Jewish, after a moment of surprise, often (stereotypes about Jews not having blonde hair?), the ensuing questions were always, “Oh! Have you been to Israel?” and, “Do you speak Hebrew?”

To these I would answer indignantly, “Why would I go there? And why would I know Hebrew? My grandparents spoke Yiddish!”

In addition, though neither God nor synagogue ritual were a part of my vocabulary or experience, I still felt very Jewish and very proud.

That brings us to this week’s Torah portion, Va’etchanan.

The parsha begins with Moses publicly retelling how he pleaded, or more literally, asked for grace from God, (for which the portion is named) by letting him see the Promised Land, to which God answers, “Enough already! Stop asking! In fact, never ask me again!” In Hebrew, it’s Rav L’cha—which is like saying, you’re too much!

God has made his decision and is not going back on it.

Moses blames God’s decision on the waywardness of the Israelite people and their lack of faith and cooperation. (Who else can he blame?)

When you read it, your heart sort of breaks for Moses—at least, mine did. After all that Moses has done! After all his dedication! He just wants to see it. He just wants a little peak. In his pain, he throws the blame out onto someone else.

Here again, we are faced with a God that’s supposedly unending in compassion. Yet here his compassion has clearly come to an end. And he’s unbending about it.

It’s not the first time we’ve seen God in this light.

Yet God is supposed to be perfect.

Lucky for me, our tradition allows for criticism, and here’s the problem: it seems that so many people are afraid to do this; if we admit that there’s much to criticize, then others will be justified in rejecting our religion and us as a people?

On the other hand, if we jump the gun and are the first to reject and criticize, then we can’t be blamed; we’ve joined the Modern World; we’re not so stupid after all.

For me, criticizing Israel falls into the same category.

On Tisha B’Av this past Sunday, I attended a bunch of workshops through Hadar, and I heard some beautiful ancient commentary on this holy day.

One was a story of someone challenging God, accusing God of having been absent during the suffering, and abandoning his “Treasured People” during the destruction. God answers, “I was there, but I couldn’t do anything!” (What? The Great and Powerful couldn’t do anything?)

Another story makes God into a sibling as opposed to the traditional king or parent, and accuses “Him” of being not even as good as a sibling because: look at how Joseph forgave his brothers who had treated him so poorly, throwing him into a pit and abandoning him for dead; you, God, don’t possess the compassion even of Joseph, who was a mere human.

The amazing and beautiful thing about these commentaries, or midrashim, is that it was rabbis from, what, more than a thousand years ago, who wrote these things—rabbis that our tradition takes very seriously.

In my mind, this should give us at least a little bit of permission, if we’re waiting on someone else or on an ancient text (which I’m not) to give us permission to be critical of Judaism, of our Torah, of our god.

We could extend that to permission to be critical of the government of our beloved Holy Land.

And we could hope that by having such permission, we might not be called anti-Semites or self-hating Jews for such criticism.

This coming Saturday, the Shabbat after Tisha B’Av, is called Shabbat Nachamu—the Sabbath of Comfort.

May we take comfort in the beauty of the traditions we have, and may we gather the strength to put fears aside, and be unbending and unending in both our commitment to Judaism, our pride in being Jewish, and also in the ability to look critically at ourselves—like our tradition invites us to do—in order to create a Judaism and a Jewish world to match the world we want to live in.

Because—enough already! It’s too much!