Psalm 24 asks (verse 3), mi ya’aleh b’har HaShem, “Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord?” The answer (verse 4) is threefold: the person who has clean hands and a pure heart, and has not sworn deceitfully.

Three human faculties are the sign of a good person – their hand, their heart and their mouth. What you do, what you feel, and what you say, are the key to ascending the Divine mountain – and like the four elements in the arba’ah minim on Sukkot, all must be taken together. As Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) says at the end of his book, sof davar, hakkol nishma – “The end of the matter (is) that hakkol, ‘everything’ is heard”.

A person can’t be good with only one or two parts of their being. The whole person is what is assessed from On High – the whole person working together as one. The heart feels, the mouth articulates the thought, the hand carries it out. The holistic life is the way up the mountain.

If an ignoramus says such things we can put it down to lack of knowledge of the Bible. But anyone who reads the Bible, however cursorily, must have noticed how often the sacred text interweaves law and land. This week’s sidra for example. “When you come into the land which I give you – note that phrase, ‘which I give you’: we didn’t just invent our tie to the Holy Land – the land shall keep a Sabbath unto the Lord” (Lev. 25:1-2). Just as the human being must have a 7th-day Sabbath, so the land must have a time to lie fallow.

Pinhas Peli points out in his book, “Torah Today” (1987, page 148) that Judaism is concerned both with soul and with soil. It is particularly galling to see that though countless Christians are well aware that Zion is an integral part of the Bible, few official Christian voices say this in public. We know they are afraid for the Christian communities and churches in the Middle East, and that is indeed a major problem, but where is the moral courage, the defence of the truth, which is part of being a Christian?

The Torah is concerned with donating to the sanctuary the valuation placed upon the person and their family. This valuation ranged from five to fifty shekels a person depending on whether they were male or female, old or young. The criterion was social usefulness, putting a figure on one’s value to the community.

All very interesting, but there is another approach to the question suggested by a passage in Shakespeare: “What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In action how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!” In this sense a person’s value is far too high to be estimated merely in material terms.

This dichotomy between man’s worth in monetary and spiritual terms often came to my mind when I had the sad duty of speaking at a funeral. Should I say that a person was a nobody because he hardly had a cent in the bank? Or that he was a gem of a human being and his death made the world a little darker?

You already know what I would have said. Hopefully we are all precious in the eyes of God regardless of what the bank manager thinks.

What an interesting idea. We’re not simply expected to carry out the mitzvot but to be part and parcel of them. What that entails is having a conversation with the mitzvah, engaging with it in such a fashion that at that moment nothing else exists.

The writer Chaim Potok once said that he arrived in an American city just before Xmas in order to address a meeting under Chabad auspices. A Chabadnik met him at the airport, put his arm around him and hummed a Chassidic melody. Immersed in the Chassidic tune, Chaim Potok was no longer aware of the seasonal carols that were relayed over the public address system.

That’s what’s meant by being immersed in the mitzvah… Nothing else exists, only you and the mitzvah.

A. From the Torah (Deut. 12:3-4) we learn that it is forbidden to erase the name of God. Hence, anything containing the Divine name must be treated with respect and not erased, destroyed or discarded. Worn-out religious texts and scrolls are therefore saved and eventually given reverent burial.

In strict law the prohibition is limited to the actual names of God in Hebrew but not to renderings in other languages such as Gott in German or God in English. However, many authorities extend the law to cover Divine names in any language, which is how the practice of writing “G-d” began; if something bearing this defective spelling is discarded it is not viewed as seriously as if the full spelling is used.

The practice I employ is to write simply “G” in notes, etc., but in books, articles and in OzTorah I spell the word in full – “God”, “Lord”, etc.

A. There was a difference of opinion amongst the sages as to whether the m’zuzah should be placed in a vertical or perpendicular position. Adopting a slanting position with the top facing inwards was a compromise. The rule therefore is that a m’zuzah is affixed to the right-hand doorpost of the front door and every room except the bathroom and toilet, within the top third of the doorpost, and with the top slanting inwards.

Some discern in this law a principle of human conduct. Everywhere in society, but especially at home, human relationships need to be built upon give and take – i.e. compromise. Adamantly insisting that you – and only you – are right makes life impossible. Entering a room, a person is reminded of how to be a mensch by looking at the m’zuzah.

Jacob Danglow in his time was the leading rabbinical figure of Australian Jewry. Born in London in 1880, he became minister of the St Kilda Hebrew Congregation in 1905 and stayed for 52 years. He and St Kilda were intertwined for all that amazingly long period, and generations of congregants grew up regarding him as the fixed point of reference in their lives. He did not actually establish the St Kilda tradition – that was the achievement of the founders and of the first minister, his predecessor, Rev Elias Blaubaum, who served for 30 years before his untimely death in his 50s – but it was Danglow that moulded the congregation into a leading exemplar of integrated British patriotism and Jewish urbanity.

He served the Jewish community as a whole, not without episodes of considerable controversy. He was involved in countless civic and national causes, where his view was increasingly recognised as the voice of reason, tolerance and wisdom. Everybody fully expected that he would go on for ever. His death in 1962, exactly fifty years ago, was almost a surprise: all of a sudden, it seemed, we had come to the end of an era – in more ways than one.

He lived a long life that in some respects remained set in an Edwardian time warp. People regarded him as the quintessential British gentleman. He was the embodiment of an Anglo-Jewish ministerial tradition that had few such admired exponents. The model of a British patriot for whom utmost loyalty to the Empire was totally axiomatic. The chaplain who could minister to all faiths. The orthodox rabbi who was constitutionally unable to go to extremes. The army colonel with a commanding officer’s dignity but none of the egotism and ostentation that sometimes go with high rank. The proponent of Jewish education who was not sure about Jewish day schools. The lover of Zion who sternly opposed political Zionism. Above all, the commanding personality and presence.

There are aspects of his opinions which others did not always support, but there was also a record of solid achievement that went far beyond St Kilda and even beyond his considerable military service. To him is owed much of the structure of the Jewish community – institutions for youth like the Jewish scouts and the Jewish Young People’s Association (the “Jippa”); for the old, like various endeavours of the Montefiore Homes; not only for the living but for the dead, such as the Melbourne Chevra Kadisha. Many years on the Melbourne Beth Din, where for a time he was chairman; for the United Jewish Education Board; for almost every Jewish communal organisation you can name – he supported the creation of the Association of Jewish Ministers, of the Melbourne Jewish Advisory Board, which became the Board of Deputies… and even of the Kadimah. Move outside the Jewish community and you find him giving solid service to countless public bodies and holding high office in Freemasonry. Nowhere was he just a name on a letterhead but a presence, a heart and mind, a voice and a vote – a man of eminence.

This was Rabbi Danglow – great in his time, but gone these fifty years, and hardly remembered except by the remnants of a now almost vanished age. While he lived, one thought he would be eternal or at least immortal, but now there is a new generation that knew not Danglow. St Kilda has recast itself in a more modern image, the Jewish community has radically changed and diversified, the Empire has gone and the Commonwealth is groping for a role, the monarchy amuses more people than it impresses, Australia is moving in new directions, and Israel is there to stay. And the “establishment” rabbinate is more concerned with traditional learning and practice than used to be the case.

I hope I may be permitted to be rather personal in the rest of these remarks. A septuagenarian who was a boy when Danglow was in his prime, I recall my infant feeling that the grand figure in the synagogue pulpit was larger than human. The boy was not quite certain what God was, but he rather thought that God was the rabbi or the rabbi was God. He had no idea what theological tangles his childish belief represented.

By his teenage years he probably had a more realistic view of the rabbi, and though he no longer confused Danglow and the Almighty, he thought that every rabbi was or should be in the Danglow image – clerical collar, officer’s stride, hardly needing much Talmud but strong on derech eretz, an ecclesiastical personage who stood for reason and rationality. The boy remembers coming home from shule one day quoting Danglow’s doubts about Zionism, and finding that his parents had doubts about Danglow. He remembers, though, that when family tragedy struck, Danglow, with the faithful Rev Kowadlo at his side, was the consummate pastor.

He recalls consulting Danglow about the choice of a career. The conversation centred on the law and/or the diplomatic service, and the boy did indeed proceed to study law. At the same time he came closer to orthodoxy, and though he did not discuss this development with Danglow (possibly feeling that deep orthodoxy was better raised with others), the eventual decision to enter the rabbinate received Danglow’s approval and his practical assistance including collecting funds to help financially. During his rabbinical studies in London he renewed acquaintance with Danglow, who was in England on a visit. He had already made the acquaintance of some of Danglow’s ministerial contemporaries, and whilst he suspected that they, and Danglow, thought of him as a protégé, he knew his style of ministry would not entirely be theirs.

Yet over the years he realised how much he owed to that rabbi whom he now knew was even greater than Divine in being eminently human. He often found himself doing things in Danglow’s way, and when the decades had passed and he retired from the active ministry he wondered if the word “wise” which some people flatteringly attached to him in retrospect was not part of the Danglow heritage. This ceremony is partly about that heritage, and I am proud to have a part in the proceedings, albeit from afar.

Danglow’s name is attached to various buildings and institutions in the Melbourne Jewish community. More importantly, his memory still moves those who were part of the generations that grew up under his eye, who as children somewhat hesitantly came up to the rabbi’s seat in the synagogue and found on the table that was installed there a book to read and enjoy during what was a sometimes lengthy service. Today there are better books and a new rabbi, but the present is always built on the past. In St Kilda, Danglow is now the past, but in his time he unreservedly loved his congregants – especially the children – and was unreservedly loved by them.

Today is a tribute of love. His foibles forgotten, his doubts dispelled, his gift to the lives of so many members of the community is honoured and cherished… and sometimes even embellished a little. May his name be a blessing.

More articles by Rabbi Apple about Rabbi Jacob Danglow appear here, here and here.

Like every other Jew he recognised the truth of the Psalmist’s words, Veyayin yesammach l’vav enosh – “wine gladdens the heart of man” (Psalm 104:15). This principle led to every Jewish celebration entailing a cup of wine – Shabbat, festivals, b’rit milah, marriage, etc. Each day was special, and the wine enhanced the joy. But all in moderation – no going overboard with the wine, no going overboard with the excitement. Result: drunkenness was always rare amongst Jews, and Jews were known for their clear heads.

Some groups, notably the kohanim, had to be particularly careful. There is a Talmudic saying, Nichnas yayin, yatzah sod – “when wine comes in, discretion departs” (Eruv. 45b). In one sense it means, when applied to the priests, that because of alcohol one can become too clumsy and careless to perform the Temple ritual.

But sod also means a secret: in particular, one of the Divine mysteries. A drunken priest cannot think straight. He loses his instinctive understanding of the inner meanings of the words of worship and the ritual actions that are his sacred task. When the priest cannot minister properly, the whole people are spiritually diminished.

How many times have people told me over the years, “I’m not so froom – but I keep the festivals”?

I used to have various ways of responding to such statements. “You keep the festivals – I’m so delighted!” “You keep the festivals – I hope you include Pesach, Shavu’ot and Sukkot, not just Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur!” “I’m sure you’re telling the truth about not being froom… and you must also be telling the truth about keeping the festivals!”

Once or twice, when I was feeling less than charitable, I was tempted to say, “You keep the festivals? I don’t believe a word of it. I don’t see you in shule, I don’t believe you take the day off work, I don’t believe your children stay away from school, I don’t believe you make Kiddush, I don’t believe you have a sukkah, I don’t believe you even have a machzor… Do me a favour. Just say you’re not froom and leave it at that!”

Every time we read Parashat Emor with its guidelines for the festivals I think of these conversations. The fact is that the whole Jewish year is punctuated, enlivened and enriched by the sacred round of festivals, and life without them must be dull indeed.

A. The environmentalist movement is admirable, but not when it begins to threaten normal human needs.

The world was made for man, not man for the world. Divine creation reached its peak with the emergence of man, to whom was given the right to enjoy, inhabit and utilise nature (Gen. 1:28). According to the Midrash, God told Adam, “See how lovely and worthy of praise are My works. All are there for your sake.” (Midrash to Kohelet 7:13)

Man has priority over nature. He is no interloper or latecomer on the stage of history. His creation was part of the Divine plan. The world was brought into being as an arena for human action – but God warned, “Take care not to spoil or destroy My world”. Samson Raphael Hirsch comments, “If you destroy, you are not a man; you have no right to the things around you, and you sin against Me” (commentary to Deut. 20:20; Horeb, ch. 56).

The sources seem to imply four principles about man and nature:
• If man threatens nature, nature has to be protected against human greed and negligence.
• If nature threatens man, man has to be protected.
• If nature wreaks tsunamis, man must battle nature’s ferocity.
• In the last analysis, if man and nature become enemies, man’s rights must be upheld, and the champions of the environment must not diminish or ignore reasonable human need.

I was once involved in a situation in Australia in which a set of ethnic and religious groups nominated me to put their case to the government. At Rookwood Cemetery in Sydney, the use of undeveloped areas reserved for burial purposes was being opposed by environmentalists who argued that burying people in the cemetery might mean uprooting significant species of vegetation. I argued that legitimate human need should override the case for the vegetation. I insisted that nature was made for man, not man for nature.

Normally a healthy relationship is possible between man and nature, and the needs of nature are in the long run the interests of man too. But in a situation of conflict, reasonable human need must prevail. I said that the dead cannot be left lying in the street until the environmentalists come to their senses.