To modern sentiments, few things are more troubling about Judaism than its perceived chauvinism. This is often expressed in discomfort — both among Jews and non-Jews — with the concept that G-d chose the Jewish people for greatness, that Judaism requires a belief that Jews are somehow better than everyone else. What does it mean that the Jews are "the chosen people?"

The explanation of this "chosenness" is given explicitly in the Torah, in the Talmud, and in the Midrash. In the Torah, G-d tells Abraham (Genesis 12:3): "Through you shall the nations of the world be blessed. I shall bless those who bless you, and those who curse you I shall curse." So one aspect of our chosenness is that the blessings of G-d are bestowed upon the nations of the world by way of the Jewish people. Just as the Cohenim are the conduit for blessing the Jewish people, so too is the nation of Israel the conduit for blessing the other nations. Note that nothing about this makes Jews "better" than anyone else; rather, this is a description of our special mission in the world: to be a conduit for blessing for all nations of the world. This is a mission which may (or may not) be shared by others, but it is ours whether we want it or not.

In the Talmud, the blessings for the Torah are codified and they come to us in the Siddur as "Blessed are You, G-d, who has chosen us from among the nations by giving us the Torah." We are chosen among all the nations for bringing G-d's message of goodness and righteousness to the world as set down and defined by the mitzvot in the Torah. Hence so many of our blessings say, "...Who sanctified us with His commandments..." In Hebrew, the word "sanctified" can also be rendered as "set apart." Thus we have been "set apart" from the other nations by way of our receipt of the Torah and mitzvot. It is our duty in having been so chosen to bring the Holiness inherent therein to the nations of the world that they may be blessed through us. Again, note that our chosen state requires us to be cognizant of the burdens and responsibilities we have to others.

It is interesting to note that in the Midrash, the Torah was offered to each of the other nations before it was offered to the Jewish People. When offered the Torah, each nation asked, "What is in it?" Each nation rejected the Torah based on a distaste for a particular restriction imposed on behavior by a particular mitzvah. In contrast, the Jewish people when offered the Torah responded: "All that is therein we will do and we will listen." Thus G-d's choice of us as the Chosen People is as much a result of His action and ours as it is of the action (or inaction) of the other nations.

Notable in all of these sources is that there is nothing chauvinistic about our state as the Chosen People. There is nothing about it that makes us better. Our chosen status simply makes us distinct — but no more or less distinct than any other nation that fulfills its role in the world.

For a concise but thorough essay on this topic, see Jewthink, Chapter 17 by Rabbi Avi Shafran.

The simple answer to the question "Is Judaism sexist?" is an adamant "no." Unfortunately, those of us raised in these supposedly "enlightened" times are unable to see beyond the boundaries of mechitza (the partition dividing the men's and women's sections in synagogue) to appreciate what Judaism has to say about the sexes.

I am reminded of a column by Randy Cowen who writes "The Ethicist" for The New York Times on Sundays. Someone wrote in to ask the following question (I'm paraphrasing):

Dear Ethicist:

I recently closed a real estate transaction. The counterparty, an Orthodox Jewish man, refused to shake my hand because I am a woman. Should I accept this and go through with the deal, or is this lack of respect a deal breaker?

—Ms. Woman

The ethicist responded (I'm paraphrasing again.):

Dear Ms. Woman:

In our culture, the handshake represents the consummation of a deal, affirmation of agreement, and mutual consideration and respect between the parties. If the counterparty cannot respond to a simple handshake, there is no doubt that he is not trustworthy to go through with the deal. He doesn't respect you as an individual. Why would you do business with such a person?

The Ethicist

This column resulted in an outpouring of letters of protest to the Times. The Times and the Ethicist, the bastions of liberal tolerance and political correctness, were assailed for their closed-minded and possibly anti-Semitic views. While they are tolerant of every other culture's morals and values, they were accused of severe intolerance with regard to the ways of the Orthodox.

Unfortunately, Ms. Woman, the Ethicist, and all the letter writers missed the point. Mr. Orthodox did indeed refuse to shake Ms. Woman's hand because she was a woman. But that had nothing to do with his disrespect for her. In fact, it had to do with his utmost respect for women. Now, before you accuse me of "putting women on a pedestal," read on.

You see, we Orthodox have our own code of modesty which functions very differently from that of our surrounding society. It would have been immodest for Mr. Orthodox to shake Ms. Woman's hand — not immodest of her but immodest of him. How is that?

Well, an Orthodox man is only allowed physical contact with a very small set of girls and women. These include: his daughters, mother, sisters, and wife. Among these women, only one — his wife — is not a blood relative. As such, she is the only woman sexually available to him. (Women have a reciprocal set of restrictions placed upon them.) To touch any other woman outside of these boundaries is considered not only immodest behavior but insulting to his spouse.

It has been years since I had physical contact with any woman other than my wife. Being this careful about touch has made me dramatically sensitive to it. I am aware of minor brushes with strangers in subways and lines. Suddenly the sensuality of a casual stroke is electrifying, powerful, and highly potent. When the only legitimate outlet for such contact is your spouse, all of your desire for sensuality is channeled into marital intimacy. The results are simply explosive: my nearly 10-year-old marriage maintains all the passion of our first week. (No, that is not an exaggeration.)

In contrast, our American society — that same culture from which we gaze in at Judaism and label it "sexist" — has cheapened touch. Friends kiss each other's spouses hello. Married men and women dance with each other's spouses in ways which were rated "R" (or "X") when I was growing up. We raise our children on music videos so sexually explicit there is no longer any room for innuendo. Not only is all of this behavior immodest, it is downright degrading to those who engage in it — both men and women. I can't imagine my fury if I saw my spouse dancing close with another man. Such behavior would be tantamount to her having an affair. And G-d help me if she saw me do such a thing. How could we possibly degrade the importance of touch to the point where "one little kiss," hug, or dance with another is meaningless? And if it is so meaningless, so unimportant, why is it so desired among singles?

And yet it is from this point of view, the point of view of this "value system" in which women and men are free to pursue whatever sensual delights they choose, that we have the audacity to label Judaism "sexist" for maintining its utmost respect for the dignity of the sexes. Well, if I'm sexist for reserving myself for my wife, so be it. I would rather offer her the respect she deserves than be "liberated" enough to kiss every woman who comes my way.

I'll take Torah. Let the masses have MTV.

For concise but thorough essays on this topic, see:

• Jewthink, Chapter 11: Sex in Judaism by Rabbi Avi Shafran
• Jewthink, Chapter 19: Women in Judaism by Rabbi Avi Shafran

Taking Out the Trash: A Sacred Act of Commitment in Marriage

And G-d spoke to Moses saying: Command Aaron and his sons, saying: this is the law of the olah, the olah that burns on the alter all night until morning. And the Priest will don his linen garments and pants and take up the ashes that the fire left on the altar from the olah and he will put them next to the altar. And he will then change his clothes and take the ashes outside of the encampment to a pure place.

This text is found among a series of descriptions of the various sacrifices offered on the altar: sin offerings, guilt offerings, and then the olah ("burnt offering"). Why is the olah suddenly interrupted with the description of terumat hadeshen — the taking out of the ashes?

For starters, this is not a simple description but rather a proscription. The taking out of the ashes from the altar was a G-d-given commandment no different from the commandment to bring the sacrifice in the first place, and it was viewed as such by the priests.

We learn in the midrash that the priests fought over the opportunity to perform this mitzvah. There hardly seems to be a more inconsequential mitzvah than terumat hadeshen. After all, it's just a clean up of the leftovers from the burnt sacrifices — taking out the trash after the real work is complete. Yet the priests performed this mitzvah with the same zeal with which they brought the sacrifices. Why?

Chazal taught in Pirkei Avot that a Jew should be as careful in the performance of a seemingly minor mizvah as he is in the observance of an important one. The reason? We do not know the rewards of the mitzvot. Perhaps the seemingly minor mitzvah is greatly rewarded while the seemingly major mitzvah is not. One could even make the argument that the more mundane the mitzvah the greater its reward as the performance of such a mitzvah serves no clear purpose other than the service of G-d.

In my home (as in many homes no doubt), it has somehow become my responsibility to take out the garbage. In the early years of my marriage, I would bristle and protest when my wife would call me into the kitchen. "Can you empty the garbage?" Was it really necessary for me to get up from what I was doing just to empty the garbage? After all, she was right there, and taking out the kitchen trash requires no particular strength or skill. She is quite as capable as I. Taking the garbage become loaded with symbolism. If I took it out, I was giving in to my wife, letting her rule the house. If I stood my ground, no doubt an argument would ensue over who did more of the household tasks. After a few such arguments, I decided it wasn't worth fighting over and took out the trash when asked to do so — but the internal resentment remained.

Then last year I learned about the priests' approach to terumat hadeshen and taking out the trash came to have a whole new meaning. The priests fought for the chance to take out the trash, seeking to show their dedication and commitment to G-d by doing so with alacrity and zeal. L'havdil, I realized, I should take out the trash with zeal as an expression of my love for my wife and my commitment to our marriage.

My eagerness to empty the kitchen garbage is representative of my appreciation for all that my wife does for me. I await the opportunity with joy: it is a sacred act, an expression of love, representative of the holiness of our marriage.

For additional information on the mitzvah of terumat hadeshen, see The Weekly Parsha: Tzav.

Chanukah is coming and the advertisers won't let you miss it. By virtue of its accidental proximity to the major holiday of the dominant culture which surrounds us, this otherwise minor holiday has been elevated by American Judaism to the status of a great festival.

Chanukah is so minor that, unlike every other holiday, it has no dedicated tractate in the Talmud. It comes up incidentally in the second chapter of Masechet Shabbat (21a-21b) in a discussion about candle lighting. "What is Chanukah?" asks the Talmud. The explanation can be recited by any 5-year-old Hebrew school student: "The 25th day of Kislev begins eight days of Chanukah ("Dedication"). When the Greeks entered the Holy Sanctuary, they defiled all the oil there. But after the Hasmoneans (the Maccabbees) defeated them, they found only one jar of oil sealed with the High Priest's seal. It contained enough oil for only one day. A miracle occurred and they lit from it for eight days. The next year they set these days as a holiday with song and prayers of thanks."

So much for the history. The observance of Chanukah is similarly encapsulated in a few brief statements:

The mitzvah of Chanukah is for each person to light a candle [on behalf of his family] in his home. Those who wish to embellish the mitzvah light one candle for each person in the house. As for those who wish to observe the mitzvah in the fullest and most beautiful way... Hillel's School teaches to light one candle on the first day and to add one each day. (ibid.)

The Talmud adds in subsequent elaborations that Jews of high regard in the community light an extra candle — today we call it the shamash — in addition to their Chanukah lights. While the embellishments are commendable, the placement of one candle on a table in one's home is considered sufficient fulfillment of the mitzvah.

Have you ever heard of anyone lighting only one Chanukah candle!? In modern America, we find that the vast majority of America's Jews, even those who are most assimilated among us, observe Chanukah. And not only do we all observe Chanukah, we all observe it according to the most elaborate, adorned, and embellished mitzvah described in the Talmud. We even go beyond that and add an extra candle, affirming our importance as Jews of high regard. The Hasmoneans would rejoice in the strength with which we cling to their festival.

There is tremendous historical irony in our observance. The Hasmonian revolt was lead by the religious zealots of their day. They were as much against Jewish assimilation into Greek culture as they were against foreign rule in the Holy Land. Two millennia later, the most assimilated Jewish community — exactly those whom the Hasmonians rejected from political and religious leadership — cling to the legacy of the holiday declared by these same zealots.

And therein lies evidence of the dedication of American Jewry. While the pundits debate the meaning of the latest population survey and the assimilation rates of our disappearing community, we all observe the mitzvah of Chanukah to its fullest. There is no other mitzvah behind which American Jewry is so united. There is no other mitzvah that is upheld by so many to its highest degree.

There is a tradition that the lighting of Chanukah candles will bring parents the blessings of children who are steeped in Torah. (See Rav Huna's statement, Shabbos 23b, and Rashi's explanation.) As we light our candles, we manifest our dedication to Judaism. We affirm our Jewish roots with pride and joy. But we need not stop there. We can extend that pride and joy to the full affirmation Rav Huna's views and bless our children with an education steeped in Torah. Not only would the Hasmoneans rejoice in our observance of their festival, they would also smile on our affirmation of their values.

The idea behind this essay came when I first learned Mai Chanukah? in the Talmud back in the early 1990s, but I didn't actually write this essay until much later.