Dear Chevre (Friends):
In this week’s Torah portion, God summons Moses out of the burning bush to go forth and redeem the Children of Israel. “Who is this God?,” the reluctant and skeptical prophet wonders: “Who shall I say has sent me?” (Exodus 3:14) God simply responds: ehyeh asher ehyeh. What, exactly, do the words signify? Ehyeh is the verb “to be” in the imperfect tense, which can be translated either as present or future tense in English; asher is the relative pronoun “what” (or “who”). Therefore, there are at least four possible translations: “I am what I am,” “I will be what I will be,” “I am what I will be,” and “I will be what I am.” Is this just smoke and mirrors? Is God just toying with Moses? Is God reprimanding him for inquiring into the unknowable, as when God pronounces later on: “No person may see My face and live!” (Exodus 33:20) Or, does ehyeh asher ehyeh convey a more positive, profound message about the Jewish conception of the deity whom we worship?
Many Rabbinic commentators point to the occurrence of the very same word ehyeh just two verses before: ehyeh imach, “I will be with you [when you free the Israelites from Egyptian bondage].” (Exodus 3:12) Accordingly, they interpret ehyeh asher ehyeh as divine reassurance: “Who shall you say has sent you? The One who has already promised: ‘I will be with you.’” Rabbi Michael Lerner goes further. For him, God not only comprises the ultimate Source of comfort, but the ultimate Source of transformation. “‘I shall be what I shall be’… God is the Force that pulls all Being to move beyond what it is to what it ought to be.” (Jewish Renewal, p. 65) Lerner derives his interpretation from the context, which is the moment of liberation. “At its heart, Judaism is a proclamation to the world that the way things are is not the way things have to be.” (p. 66) The Jewish God stands for the capacity within us to transform the present world of oppression and cruelty we see around us into a future world of justice and kindness.
The Midrash writes: “the burning bush is like the human heart. They burn, but are not consumed.” The human heart is the storage tank for love, strength, determination, courage, creativity, and purpose. Thanks to God, the tank never runs dry.
Rabbi Brian
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
December 15, 2010: Human Blessings
Dear Chevre (Friends):
Last week, I discussed human miracles (as opposed to divine miracles). Today, I would like to discuss human blessing (as opposed to divine blessing).
During our worship, we bless God (“Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe…”) or we ask God to bless us (“May the One who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, bless…”) Rarely do we articulate blessings to one another. In this week’s Torah portion, at the close of the Book of Genesis, Jacob gathers his children around him in order to bless them before he dies. His words combine admonishment with encouragement, connect past and future, and situate the individual life stories of his listeners within the larger context of peoplehood. Every week to this day, Jews repeat the words of Jacob’s blessing to their own children just after the Shabbat candlelighting.
Blessing is more powerful than prayer. In prayer, we ask God to accomplish a task that we by ourselves cannot complete. In blessing, we become God’s agent in accomplishing the task. When we embrace our children and recite: “may God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh, who carried forward the life our people,” we are, in fact, pledging ourselves to our children that we will not fail them in the responsibility to carry forward Jewish tradition. By binding the recipient and the giver to a common purpose, blessing strengthens both of them.
My blessing for the JCOGS community is that it may continue to carry forward the life of our people.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Last week, I discussed human miracles (as opposed to divine miracles). Today, I would like to discuss human blessing (as opposed to divine blessing).
During our worship, we bless God (“Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe…”) or we ask God to bless us (“May the One who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, bless…”) Rarely do we articulate blessings to one another. In this week’s Torah portion, at the close of the Book of Genesis, Jacob gathers his children around him in order to bless them before he dies. His words combine admonishment with encouragement, connect past and future, and situate the individual life stories of his listeners within the larger context of peoplehood. Every week to this day, Jews repeat the words of Jacob’s blessing to their own children just after the Shabbat candlelighting.
Blessing is more powerful than prayer. In prayer, we ask God to accomplish a task that we by ourselves cannot complete. In blessing, we become God’s agent in accomplishing the task. When we embrace our children and recite: “may God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh, who carried forward the life our people,” we are, in fact, pledging ourselves to our children that we will not fail them in the responsibility to carry forward Jewish tradition. By binding the recipient and the giver to a common purpose, blessing strengthens both of them.
My blessing for the JCOGS community is that it may continue to carry forward the life of our people.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
December 8, 2011: Praying for a Human Miracle
Dear Chevre (Friends):
Last week, at the height of the deadliest and most catastrophic wildfire in the history of the modern State of Israel, President Shimon Peres said: “We are praying for the fire to end; we are praying for a miracle.” What miracle, exactly? Hanukkah commemorates the miracle “of those days at this time of the year.” What miracle, exactly? Was it the supernatural miracle—that a single day’s supply of oil lasted for eight? Or was it, rather, the human miracle—that an outnumbered band of freedom fighters mustered the courage and determination to overthrow their mighty oppressors… against all odds to the contrary.
The blaze reportedly broke out from an illegal landfill, but the devastation really stemmed from tinder-dry conditions due to the worst multi-year drought on record. Climate change affects different regions of the globe disproportionately, and, unfortunately, Israel is particularly vulnerable. The water level of the Sea of Galilee has dropped to within fifteen inches of “the black line,” below which the lake will dry up completely, like the Aral Sea. Last month, alarmed Israeli ornithologists reported the first ever sighting of the desert swallow in the streets of Jerusalem, an ominous sign that the Negev is beginning to creep up the Judean hills. On November 16, the Chief Rabbi of Israel declared a public day of fasting and prayer for rain to restore the natural order.
The Chief Rabbi was not off-base—on condition that we direct our prayers and fasts to ourselves, as well as to God. One of the prayers for redemption in our Siddur maintains: “we cannot only pray to You, O God, to end starvation; for You have already given us the resources with which to feed the entire world, if we would only use them wisely.” (Rabbi Jack Reimer) Similarly, the prophet Isaiah proclaims on Yom Kippur, the most solemn of fast days: “Is not this the fast I desire? To break off every yoke.” (Isaiah 58:6) So, yes, I, like Shimon Peres, am praying for a miracle. I am praying for a human miracle—that we, citizens of the earth, break off every yoke of greed for short-term gain, overthrow our mighty disregard for environmental degradation, use our God-given resources wisely, and learn to live within, not above, the natural order… against all incentives to the contrary.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Last week, at the height of the deadliest and most catastrophic wildfire in the history of the modern State of Israel, President Shimon Peres said: “We are praying for the fire to end; we are praying for a miracle.” What miracle, exactly? Hanukkah commemorates the miracle “of those days at this time of the year.” What miracle, exactly? Was it the supernatural miracle—that a single day’s supply of oil lasted for eight? Or was it, rather, the human miracle—that an outnumbered band of freedom fighters mustered the courage and determination to overthrow their mighty oppressors… against all odds to the contrary.
The blaze reportedly broke out from an illegal landfill, but the devastation really stemmed from tinder-dry conditions due to the worst multi-year drought on record. Climate change affects different regions of the globe disproportionately, and, unfortunately, Israel is particularly vulnerable. The water level of the Sea of Galilee has dropped to within fifteen inches of “the black line,” below which the lake will dry up completely, like the Aral Sea. Last month, alarmed Israeli ornithologists reported the first ever sighting of the desert swallow in the streets of Jerusalem, an ominous sign that the Negev is beginning to creep up the Judean hills. On November 16, the Chief Rabbi of Israel declared a public day of fasting and prayer for rain to restore the natural order.
The Chief Rabbi was not off-base—on condition that we direct our prayers and fasts to ourselves, as well as to God. One of the prayers for redemption in our Siddur maintains: “we cannot only pray to You, O God, to end starvation; for You have already given us the resources with which to feed the entire world, if we would only use them wisely.” (Rabbi Jack Reimer) Similarly, the prophet Isaiah proclaims on Yom Kippur, the most solemn of fast days: “Is not this the fast I desire? To break off every yoke.” (Isaiah 58:6) So, yes, I, like Shimon Peres, am praying for a miracle. I am praying for a human miracle—that we, citizens of the earth, break off every yoke of greed for short-term gain, overthrow our mighty disregard for environmental degradation, use our God-given resources wisely, and learn to live within, not above, the natural order… against all incentives to the contrary.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
December 1, 2010: The "December Dilemma"
Dear Chevre (Friends):
It’s called the “December Dilemma.” Every year we go through it. We are bombarded on the radio, on television, on the road, in the malls. How do we avoid getting caught up in the general frenzy of the season? How do we teach our children to appreciate their own Jewish heritage when the entire world is celebrating something else? How can we possibly compete with the undeniable magnificence of the bedecked Christmas tree, the loveliness of the Christmas carols, and the enjoyment of the Christmas feast?
The solution is not to elevate Hanukkah to the same stature as Christmas. The attempt to do so is deceptive and disingenuous. Hanukkah is a peripheral festival within Jewish observance, whereas Christmas is one of two fundamental holidays for Christians. Hanukkah (pardon the pun) cannot hold a candle to Christmas. The solution, I think, is to celebrate the richness and diversity of the entire Jewish ritual calendar. There’s Hanukkah, but there’s also the cornucopia of fruits and nuts on Tu B’Shevat, the carnival on Purim, the family Seder on Passover, the blast of the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah, the decorations in the Sukkah on Sukkot, dancing with the Torah on Simchat Torah, and on and on—not to mention Shabbat. Christian families may come home to the magical beauty of the Christmas lights once a year, but Jewish families come home to the magical beauty of the lights of Shabbat every week.
In truth, we should appreciate every major religion for its unique constellation of customs and traditions. The fallacy of the December Dilemma is that it tries to compare individual slices of the entire Jewish and Christian pies. Taken as a whole, however, each religion offers its adherents a joyous, celebratory and richly rewarding path through life.
Happy Hanukkah! (And, more importantly, Shabbat Shalom)
R. Brian
It’s called the “December Dilemma.” Every year we go through it. We are bombarded on the radio, on television, on the road, in the malls. How do we avoid getting caught up in the general frenzy of the season? How do we teach our children to appreciate their own Jewish heritage when the entire world is celebrating something else? How can we possibly compete with the undeniable magnificence of the bedecked Christmas tree, the loveliness of the Christmas carols, and the enjoyment of the Christmas feast?
The solution is not to elevate Hanukkah to the same stature as Christmas. The attempt to do so is deceptive and disingenuous. Hanukkah is a peripheral festival within Jewish observance, whereas Christmas is one of two fundamental holidays for Christians. Hanukkah (pardon the pun) cannot hold a candle to Christmas. The solution, I think, is to celebrate the richness and diversity of the entire Jewish ritual calendar. There’s Hanukkah, but there’s also the cornucopia of fruits and nuts on Tu B’Shevat, the carnival on Purim, the family Seder on Passover, the blast of the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah, the decorations in the Sukkah on Sukkot, dancing with the Torah on Simchat Torah, and on and on—not to mention Shabbat. Christian families may come home to the magical beauty of the Christmas lights once a year, but Jewish families come home to the magical beauty of the lights of Shabbat every week.
In truth, we should appreciate every major religion for its unique constellation of customs and traditions. The fallacy of the December Dilemma is that it tries to compare individual slices of the entire Jewish and Christian pies. Taken as a whole, however, each religion offers its adherents a joyous, celebratory and richly rewarding path through life.
Happy Hanukkah! (And, more importantly, Shabbat Shalom)
R. Brian
November 24, 2010: Thanksgiving’s Jewish Roots
Dear Chevre (Friends):
Thanksgiving is the only American holiday with religious overtones to which Jews can easily relate. This is not surprising, since there is strong historical evidence that, originally, Thanksgiving was consciously modeled on the Jewish festival of Sukkot.
The Pilgrims were well acquainted with Jewish history and culture. After fleeing England and before sailing for America, they spent a dozen years in Amsterdam, where they came into contact with the bustling Sephardic Jewish community that had recently been expelled from Spain. The Pilgrims identified their own journey to seek religious freedom in the New World with the Israelite Exodus from Egypt. The wigwams that they built, with help from Native Americans, for their first harsh winter on American soil resembled the temporary booths (“sukkot”) that sheltered the Children of Israel in the wilderness. The Pilgrims established Thanksgiving for the same basic religious purpose as Sukkot—to express gratitude to God for the fall harvest. With respect to timing and duration, the first Thanksgiving at Plymouth in 1621 resembled Sukkot far more than our modern celebration. The Pilgrim’s Thanksgiving took place over the course of many days in early October, not, as today, during a few hours in late November. In fact, Thanksgiving most likely coincided with Sukkot that year. (It was not until President Roosevelt, many centuries later, when the holiday was instituted on the last Thursday of November.)
In our era, Thanksgiving is truly an interfaith celebration of freedom and bounty, which Jews, Christians, Muslims, and all other Americans can share equally. Its roots, however, are distinctly Jewish.
I offer you the following prayer for use, if you wish, at your Thanksgiving tables. It was written specifically for Thanksgiving by the well-known liturgist, Rabbi Naomi Levy:
For the laughter of the children,
For my own life breath,
For the abundance of food on this table,
For the ones who prepared this sumptuous feast,
For the roof over our heads,
The clothes on our backs,
For our health,
And our wealth of blessings,
For this opportunity to celebrate with family and friends,
For the freedom to pray these words
Without fear,
In any language,
In any faith,
In this great country,
Whose landscape is as vast and beautiful as her inhabitants.
Thank You, God, for giving us all these. Amen.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Thanksgiving is the only American holiday with religious overtones to which Jews can easily relate. This is not surprising, since there is strong historical evidence that, originally, Thanksgiving was consciously modeled on the Jewish festival of Sukkot.
The Pilgrims were well acquainted with Jewish history and culture. After fleeing England and before sailing for America, they spent a dozen years in Amsterdam, where they came into contact with the bustling Sephardic Jewish community that had recently been expelled from Spain. The Pilgrims identified their own journey to seek religious freedom in the New World with the Israelite Exodus from Egypt. The wigwams that they built, with help from Native Americans, for their first harsh winter on American soil resembled the temporary booths (“sukkot”) that sheltered the Children of Israel in the wilderness. The Pilgrims established Thanksgiving for the same basic religious purpose as Sukkot—to express gratitude to God for the fall harvest. With respect to timing and duration, the first Thanksgiving at Plymouth in 1621 resembled Sukkot far more than our modern celebration. The Pilgrim’s Thanksgiving took place over the course of many days in early October, not, as today, during a few hours in late November. In fact, Thanksgiving most likely coincided with Sukkot that year. (It was not until President Roosevelt, many centuries later, when the holiday was instituted on the last Thursday of November.)
In our era, Thanksgiving is truly an interfaith celebration of freedom and bounty, which Jews, Christians, Muslims, and all other Americans can share equally. Its roots, however, are distinctly Jewish.
I offer you the following prayer for use, if you wish, at your Thanksgiving tables. It was written specifically for Thanksgiving by the well-known liturgist, Rabbi Naomi Levy:
For the laughter of the children,
For my own life breath,
For the abundance of food on this table,
For the ones who prepared this sumptuous feast,
For the roof over our heads,
The clothes on our backs,
For our health,
And our wealth of blessings,
For this opportunity to celebrate with family and friends,
For the freedom to pray these words
Without fear,
In any language,
In any faith,
In this great country,
Whose landscape is as vast and beautiful as her inhabitants.
Thank You, God, for giving us all these. Amen.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
November 17, 2010: Hallowed Ground
Dear Chevre (Friends):
(Note: these comments constitute the final installment in a series on the JCOGS cemetery. Thank you for all the questions and comments I have received!)
The more I think about it, we should not call next Sunday’s inauguration of our new cemetery a consecration. From its Latin roots, “to consecrate” means to make holy. But how can we make a plot of ground holy, simply by walking around its perimeter reciting psalms? What is hallowed ground anyway?
According to the religious anthropologist Mercia Eliade, ancient cultures believed that certain specific sites provided direct access to the divine. (The Sacred and the Profane, p. 37) For example, in last week’s Torah portion: “Jacob awoke from his sleep and said: ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God, and this is the gateway to heaven.’” (Genesis 28:16-17) God’s presence rendered the place holy. For the ancient Israelites, one location upon earth was supercharged with holiness above all others—the Foundation Stone underneath the Temple at Jerusalem (which they associated with Jacob’s headrest). However, after the Temple was destroyed, it became necessary to be able to invoke God anywhere: “Once, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was leaving Jerusalem with his disciple Rabbi Joshua. Seeing the Temple in ruins, Rabbi Joshua cried out: ‘Woe to us for the place where Israel once drew close to God!’ Rabbi Yochanan replied: ‘Do not be distressed, my son. We have another way of drawing close to God just as effective—through deeds of lovingkindness.’” (Avot de-Rabbi Natan 11a) Nowadays, places are not considered to be intrinsically holy; rather, they become holy by virtue of the righteous human activity that takes place there.
Instead of a consecration, let’s call Sunday’s ceremony a dedication. The Hebrew word for “dedication” is chanukkah. Just as our ancestors rededicated themselves to Jewish tradition on Chanukkah, we dedicate ourselves to upholding the honor of the dead among us, an action that, as I stated in a previous column, constitutes one of Jewish tradition’s supreme examples of a deed of lovingkindness. It is not what we say that matters, but what we do. Abraham Lincoln said it best: “We have come to dedicate a portion of [this] field as a final resting place… But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The dead… have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note… what we say here… It is for us…, rather, to be dedicated here to [their] unfinished work …” (from the Gettysburg Address)
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
(Note: these comments constitute the final installment in a series on the JCOGS cemetery. Thank you for all the questions and comments I have received!)
The more I think about it, we should not call next Sunday’s inauguration of our new cemetery a consecration. From its Latin roots, “to consecrate” means to make holy. But how can we make a plot of ground holy, simply by walking around its perimeter reciting psalms? What is hallowed ground anyway?
According to the religious anthropologist Mercia Eliade, ancient cultures believed that certain specific sites provided direct access to the divine. (The Sacred and the Profane, p. 37) For example, in last week’s Torah portion: “Jacob awoke from his sleep and said: ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God, and this is the gateway to heaven.’” (Genesis 28:16-17) God’s presence rendered the place holy. For the ancient Israelites, one location upon earth was supercharged with holiness above all others—the Foundation Stone underneath the Temple at Jerusalem (which they associated with Jacob’s headrest). However, after the Temple was destroyed, it became necessary to be able to invoke God anywhere: “Once, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was leaving Jerusalem with his disciple Rabbi Joshua. Seeing the Temple in ruins, Rabbi Joshua cried out: ‘Woe to us for the place where Israel once drew close to God!’ Rabbi Yochanan replied: ‘Do not be distressed, my son. We have another way of drawing close to God just as effective—through deeds of lovingkindness.’” (Avot de-Rabbi Natan 11a) Nowadays, places are not considered to be intrinsically holy; rather, they become holy by virtue of the righteous human activity that takes place there.
Instead of a consecration, let’s call Sunday’s ceremony a dedication. The Hebrew word for “dedication” is chanukkah. Just as our ancestors rededicated themselves to Jewish tradition on Chanukkah, we dedicate ourselves to upholding the honor of the dead among us, an action that, as I stated in a previous column, constitutes one of Jewish tradition’s supreme examples of a deed of lovingkindness. It is not what we say that matters, but what we do. Abraham Lincoln said it best: “We have come to dedicate a portion of [this] field as a final resting place… But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The dead… have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note… what we say here… It is for us…, rather, to be dedicated here to [their] unfinished work …” (from the Gettysburg Address)
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
November 10, 2010: The Ways of Peace
Dear Chevre (Friends):
(Note: these comments constitute the third installment in a series.)
The JCOGS Cemetery Rules and Regulations document reads: “There are two sections: Chesed and Emet. The Chesed Section is for those who are Jewish… The Emet Section is for those who are Jewish, non-Jewish members of JCOGS and non-Jewish spouses or relatives of JCOGS members, or their cremated remains*.”
The historical trajectory tracing the Jewish burial of non-Jews provides a brief lesson in the evolution of Jewish law, illustrating that social circumstances sometimes influence the adoption of legal rulings to a greater degree than precedent. The practice of excluding non-Jews from Jewish cemeteries is recent by Jewish standards—only eight hundred years old, or so! Originally, the injunction carried the force of minhag (custom), rather than halachah (law)—although it is a truism that minhag followed over the course of generations quickly obtains the force of halachah. In fact, the Talmud expresses the exact opposite of current practice: “We bury the dead of the Gentiles along with the dead of Israel for the sake of the ways of peace…” (bGittin 61a) Rashi, the preeminent sage from 11th century France, was the first to prohibit the burial of Gentiles among Jews. Rashi adds an additional phrase to the text in his interpretation, the one in italics: “We bury the dead of the Gentiles along with the dead of Israel for the sake of the ways of peace… but not in Jewish graves.” (Later commentators explain Rashi to mean that if Jewish and non-Jewish corpses are found piled together on the ground, after a battle or natural disaster, for example, then it is permitted to help non-Jews bury their own in non-Jewish cemeteries, but not in Jewish ones.) Because Rashi’s comprehensive commentary on the Talmud became authoritative throughout the world, and has remained so to this day**, Jewish law quickly embraced his legal opinions (although some sages, such as Rabbi Joel Sirkes of Poland, continued to rule in favor of the presence of non-Jews within Jewish cemeteries, as late as the 16th century). But why did Rashi seemingly gratuitously tack on a few words that appear to contravene the plain meaning of the Talmudic text? I surmise that Rashi reacted from deep-seated mistrust of the dominant Gentile population, since he lived during a period of intense persecution, when marauding Crusaders were constantly threatening Jewish inhabitants with death and destruction.
Having provided some historical background on the burial of non-Jews, I now return to our own cemetery policy. It is one of those fault-line issues that threatens to divide an umbrella community such as JCOGS, similar to our kosher kitchen policy—and perhaps even more so. Death, by its very nature, stirs up passion. My own observation is that even relatively unobservant practitioners of Jewish traditions revert to orthodoxy when confronted with matters of grave concern, so to speak. I respect the deep-seated feelings of devotion, loyalty and kinship that compel many of us to abide by the practice of burial among other Jews only. Just as one may feel strongly about spending eternity next to one’s beloved spouse, one may feel just as strongly about spending eternity with one’s own people. The question, whether non-Jews may be buried in a Jewish cemetery, is analogous to the question, whether a mosque may be built near Ground Zero. In both cases, although there might be legal grounds for lenience, nevertheless, in deference to the highly charged emotions of those who have (or will have) died and their mourners, separation should be maintained. Such was the predominant consideration that motivated our decision at JCOGS, recognizing the extraordinary sensitivity of the matter on all sides.
The final clause in the relevant subsection of the JCOGS Cemetery Rules and Regulations document deliberately hearkens back to the basic Talmudic source, quoted above. At the same time, it reflects our highest aspirations for accommodating the diversity of our community, which embraces Jews and non-Jews, and which embraces Jews of all beliefs and persuasions. The clause reads: “The two sections are separated by a path called Derech Shalom, the way of peace.”
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
*This article deals only with the issue of non-Jewish burials, not the issue of cremation.
**When I studied Talmud at Yeshivat Simchat Shlomo in Jerusalem, the baseline text and its embedded Rashi commentary were equally revered as sacrosanct and unerring.
(Note: these comments constitute the third installment in a series.)
The JCOGS Cemetery Rules and Regulations document reads: “There are two sections: Chesed and Emet. The Chesed Section is for those who are Jewish… The Emet Section is for those who are Jewish, non-Jewish members of JCOGS and non-Jewish spouses or relatives of JCOGS members, or their cremated remains*.”
The historical trajectory tracing the Jewish burial of non-Jews provides a brief lesson in the evolution of Jewish law, illustrating that social circumstances sometimes influence the adoption of legal rulings to a greater degree than precedent. The practice of excluding non-Jews from Jewish cemeteries is recent by Jewish standards—only eight hundred years old, or so! Originally, the injunction carried the force of minhag (custom), rather than halachah (law)—although it is a truism that minhag followed over the course of generations quickly obtains the force of halachah. In fact, the Talmud expresses the exact opposite of current practice: “We bury the dead of the Gentiles along with the dead of Israel for the sake of the ways of peace…” (bGittin 61a) Rashi, the preeminent sage from 11th century France, was the first to prohibit the burial of Gentiles among Jews. Rashi adds an additional phrase to the text in his interpretation, the one in italics: “We bury the dead of the Gentiles along with the dead of Israel for the sake of the ways of peace… but not in Jewish graves.” (Later commentators explain Rashi to mean that if Jewish and non-Jewish corpses are found piled together on the ground, after a battle or natural disaster, for example, then it is permitted to help non-Jews bury their own in non-Jewish cemeteries, but not in Jewish ones.) Because Rashi’s comprehensive commentary on the Talmud became authoritative throughout the world, and has remained so to this day**, Jewish law quickly embraced his legal opinions (although some sages, such as Rabbi Joel Sirkes of Poland, continued to rule in favor of the presence of non-Jews within Jewish cemeteries, as late as the 16th century). But why did Rashi seemingly gratuitously tack on a few words that appear to contravene the plain meaning of the Talmudic text? I surmise that Rashi reacted from deep-seated mistrust of the dominant Gentile population, since he lived during a period of intense persecution, when marauding Crusaders were constantly threatening Jewish inhabitants with death and destruction.
Having provided some historical background on the burial of non-Jews, I now return to our own cemetery policy. It is one of those fault-line issues that threatens to divide an umbrella community such as JCOGS, similar to our kosher kitchen policy—and perhaps even more so. Death, by its very nature, stirs up passion. My own observation is that even relatively unobservant practitioners of Jewish traditions revert to orthodoxy when confronted with matters of grave concern, so to speak. I respect the deep-seated feelings of devotion, loyalty and kinship that compel many of us to abide by the practice of burial among other Jews only. Just as one may feel strongly about spending eternity next to one’s beloved spouse, one may feel just as strongly about spending eternity with one’s own people. The question, whether non-Jews may be buried in a Jewish cemetery, is analogous to the question, whether a mosque may be built near Ground Zero. In both cases, although there might be legal grounds for lenience, nevertheless, in deference to the highly charged emotions of those who have (or will have) died and their mourners, separation should be maintained. Such was the predominant consideration that motivated our decision at JCOGS, recognizing the extraordinary sensitivity of the matter on all sides.
The final clause in the relevant subsection of the JCOGS Cemetery Rules and Regulations document deliberately hearkens back to the basic Talmudic source, quoted above. At the same time, it reflects our highest aspirations for accommodating the diversity of our community, which embraces Jews and non-Jews, and which embraces Jews of all beliefs and persuasions. The clause reads: “The two sections are separated by a path called Derech Shalom, the way of peace.”
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
*This article deals only with the issue of non-Jewish burials, not the issue of cremation.
**When I studied Talmud at Yeshivat Simchat Shlomo in Jerusalem, the baseline text and its embedded Rashi commentary were equally revered as sacrosanct and unerring.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
November 3, 2010: Values Embodied by Our Cemetery, and Our Community
Dear Chevre (Friends):
(Note: these comments constitute the second installment in a series.)
The community and its cemetery are mirrors for each other. It’s not merely that those interred in the cemetery are members of the community. It’s that the structure and composition of the cemetery itself reflects the community’s highest values.
In the case of JCOGS, I like to think that we stand for openness, warmth, and inclusiveness. As a denominationally unaffiliated institution, we aim to provide a home for anyone journeying along a recognized Jewish path. It’s important to acknowledge that Judaism is not monolithic, and never has been. In modernity, of course, Judaism includes Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, and other movements, but even in earlier times, the Jewish world embraced widely divergent streams, such as Ashkenazi, Sephardi, and Mizrachi. To speak of “Jewish tradition” is misleading; it is more accurate to speak of “Jewish traditions.” In keeping with this observation, we at JCOGS avoided the labels “traditional” and “non-traditional,” or “Orthodox” and “non-Orthodox,” for the two sections of our cemetery. Instead, we chose neutral, descriptive designations, Chesed (“lovingkindness”) and Emet (“truth”). The names convey equal respect for the traditions of all those included, and they also encapsulate the character of the cemetery—and the community—that we are trying to build here in Stowe.
Chesed and Emet are meant to evoke the fundamental Rabbinic concept of chesed shel emet, literally, “true lovingkindness,” which denotes the noblest type of action to which we may aspire as human beings. Chesed shel emet is a deed of kindness that can never be repaid. Burying the dead constitutes the classic example. Because there can be no expectation attached to the act—a corpse is not even capable of recognition—it is “true” lovingkindness, absolute and everlasting. Chesed shel emet is love proffered not out of obligation, loyalty, or even sentiment, but simply love for love’s sake. By labeling our cemetery with the rubrics Chesed and Emet, we pay homage to the supreme devotion that the responsibility to bury our loved ones demands of us. Moreover, Chesed and Emet call to mind our basic JCOGS values of mutual caring and commitment, despite—or perhaps even because of—our diversity.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
(Note: these comments constitute the second installment in a series.)
The community and its cemetery are mirrors for each other. It’s not merely that those interred in the cemetery are members of the community. It’s that the structure and composition of the cemetery itself reflects the community’s highest values.
In the case of JCOGS, I like to think that we stand for openness, warmth, and inclusiveness. As a denominationally unaffiliated institution, we aim to provide a home for anyone journeying along a recognized Jewish path. It’s important to acknowledge that Judaism is not monolithic, and never has been. In modernity, of course, Judaism includes Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, and other movements, but even in earlier times, the Jewish world embraced widely divergent streams, such as Ashkenazi, Sephardi, and Mizrachi. To speak of “Jewish tradition” is misleading; it is more accurate to speak of “Jewish traditions.” In keeping with this observation, we at JCOGS avoided the labels “traditional” and “non-traditional,” or “Orthodox” and “non-Orthodox,” for the two sections of our cemetery. Instead, we chose neutral, descriptive designations, Chesed (“lovingkindness”) and Emet (“truth”). The names convey equal respect for the traditions of all those included, and they also encapsulate the character of the cemetery—and the community—that we are trying to build here in Stowe.
Chesed and Emet are meant to evoke the fundamental Rabbinic concept of chesed shel emet, literally, “true lovingkindness,” which denotes the noblest type of action to which we may aspire as human beings. Chesed shel emet is a deed of kindness that can never be repaid. Burying the dead constitutes the classic example. Because there can be no expectation attached to the act—a corpse is not even capable of recognition—it is “true” lovingkindness, absolute and everlasting. Chesed shel emet is love proffered not out of obligation, loyalty, or even sentiment, but simply love for love’s sake. By labeling our cemetery with the rubrics Chesed and Emet, we pay homage to the supreme devotion that the responsibility to bury our loved ones demands of us. Moreover, Chesed and Emet call to mind our basic JCOGS values of mutual caring and commitment, despite—or perhaps even because of—our diversity.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
October 27, 2010: Our Cemetery as the Enduring Centerpiece for Our Community
Dear Chevre (Friends):
After years of planning, the JCOGS cemetery project is moving into its final phase. In preparation for its consecration on Sunday, November 21, (see accompanying announcement) and in celebration of its completion thereafter, I am devoting several weekly columns to a discussion of relevant history, background and sources. I am proud of the informed and deliberate process through which the Cemetery Committee set ritual policy, respecting both Jewish traditions as well as the needs of our particular community. I would like to let you in on some of the important considerations we took into account.
As many of you know, historically, when a Jewish community established itself in a new location, its first priority was the requisition of land for the cemetery—even before the construction of a building for the synagogue. Why is that? Because Jews tended to be concerned more with their place in the eternal scheme than with their topical needs. They viewed themselves as a link in the chain of generations that extended far into the indefinite future. Someday, they themselves might disappear, but their markers would remain.
Although we of JCOGS did it backwards (by creating the building before the cemetery), we, too, think and care about our long-term future. Our motto ledor vador, “from generation to generation,” does not merely refer to the intergenerational composition of our existing congregation, which spans from toddlers in the religious school to the elderly. It also refers to members who will join us someday. By building this community, we are making our covenant “both with those who are standing here with us this day… and with those who are not with us here this day.” (Deuteronomy 29:11)
Indeed, our preoccupation with placing a permanent mark on the local landscape holds, if anything, even greater poignancy for us, because of our tarnished legacy from the past. Embedded in our cultural memory is the recollection that not too long ago, Jews were unwelcome in Stowe. In contrast, much of our pride today derives from the respect and appreciation we now garner within the wider community. Think of it! A hundred years from now, two hundred years from now, the Jewish cemetery with its weathered tombstones will proclaim in living testimony the existence of a proud and vibrant Jewish community in Stowe at the beginning of the twenty-first century, eclipsing and eviscerating the earlier memory of Jewish degradation. May it come to pass! For this reason alone, the completion of the cemetery will mark the completion of JCOGS.
(to be continued…)
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
After years of planning, the JCOGS cemetery project is moving into its final phase. In preparation for its consecration on Sunday, November 21, (see accompanying announcement) and in celebration of its completion thereafter, I am devoting several weekly columns to a discussion of relevant history, background and sources. I am proud of the informed and deliberate process through which the Cemetery Committee set ritual policy, respecting both Jewish traditions as well as the needs of our particular community. I would like to let you in on some of the important considerations we took into account.
As many of you know, historically, when a Jewish community established itself in a new location, its first priority was the requisition of land for the cemetery—even before the construction of a building for the synagogue. Why is that? Because Jews tended to be concerned more with their place in the eternal scheme than with their topical needs. They viewed themselves as a link in the chain of generations that extended far into the indefinite future. Someday, they themselves might disappear, but their markers would remain.
Although we of JCOGS did it backwards (by creating the building before the cemetery), we, too, think and care about our long-term future. Our motto ledor vador, “from generation to generation,” does not merely refer to the intergenerational composition of our existing congregation, which spans from toddlers in the religious school to the elderly. It also refers to members who will join us someday. By building this community, we are making our covenant “both with those who are standing here with us this day… and with those who are not with us here this day.” (Deuteronomy 29:11)
Indeed, our preoccupation with placing a permanent mark on the local landscape holds, if anything, even greater poignancy for us, because of our tarnished legacy from the past. Embedded in our cultural memory is the recollection that not too long ago, Jews were unwelcome in Stowe. In contrast, much of our pride today derives from the respect and appreciation we now garner within the wider community. Think of it! A hundred years from now, two hundred years from now, the Jewish cemetery with its weathered tombstones will proclaim in living testimony the existence of a proud and vibrant Jewish community in Stowe at the beginning of the twenty-first century, eclipsing and eviscerating the earlier memory of Jewish degradation. May it come to pass! For this reason alone, the completion of the cemetery will mark the completion of JCOGS.
(to be continued…)
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Lekh Lekha
Dear Chevre (Friends):
“Lekh lekha! Go forth from your native land, from your birthplace, from the house of your parents, to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1) First and foremost, Abraham was a wanderer. Abraham knew what he was leaving behind, but did he know where was he going? As Biblical scholar Aviva Zornberg notes, the indeterminacy of the journey is the most striking aspect of the command. Perhaps Canaan was not specified in God’s command because it was not Abraham’s final resting place. After all, throughout his life, Abraham was constantly on the move: back and forth among Shechem, Bethel, Hebron, and Be’er Sheva.
Self-transformation requires movement. The spiritual seeker never reaches the end of the road. As soon as one stops progressing, one stagnates and dies. Abraham’s eternal greatness lies in his ability and willingness to keep responding hineini, “I am ready,” to the call of God and to the call of his own inner urgings. In this, he endures as a model for us all. “Birth is a beginning and death a destination, but life itself is the journey—a sacred pilgrimage.” (Alvin Fine) May each one of us be blessed on our sacred pilgrimages.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
“Lekh lekha! Go forth from your native land, from your birthplace, from the house of your parents, to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1) First and foremost, Abraham was a wanderer. Abraham knew what he was leaving behind, but did he know where was he going? As Biblical scholar Aviva Zornberg notes, the indeterminacy of the journey is the most striking aspect of the command. Perhaps Canaan was not specified in God’s command because it was not Abraham’s final resting place. After all, throughout his life, Abraham was constantly on the move: back and forth among Shechem, Bethel, Hebron, and Be’er Sheva.
Self-transformation requires movement. The spiritual seeker never reaches the end of the road. As soon as one stops progressing, one stagnates and dies. Abraham’s eternal greatness lies in his ability and willingness to keep responding hineini, “I am ready,” to the call of God and to the call of his own inner urgings. In this, he endures as a model for us all. “Birth is a beginning and death a destination, but life itself is the journey—a sacred pilgrimage.” (Alvin Fine) May each one of us be blessed on our sacred pilgrimages.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
October 6, 2010: Keshet (Rainbow)
Dear Chevre (Friends):
An e-mail came into my inbox yesterday as Rabbi, asking me to urge my congregants to sign a pledge against gay bullying and harassment as a statement of religious commitment. It was sent by the Jewish social action organization Keshet (www.keshetonline.org), meaning “Rainbow Coalition,” in response to last week’s tragedy of the young man who hurled himself over the George Washington Bridge because his roommate allegedly videoed and broadcast over the Internet his intimate acts with another man. Many of us read the sensationalist news, shook our heads and said: “the world is going to seed,” and then went about our day.
Once, a long time ago, God said: “the world is going to seed”—as recorded in this week’s Torah portion: “And God saw that the earth was filled with corruption, that all human beings had corrupted their ways upon the earth. And God said to Noah: ‘I am about to blot out all human beings, for the earth is filled with violence through them.’” (Genesis 6:13-14) Of course, Keshet took its name from the well-known symbol connoting tolerance for diversity in American culture. However, Keshet also refers to the first Rainbow, the one that God set in the sky after the Flood, as a pledge that God would never again shake His head (figuratively speaking) in despair over human wickedness. We, too, must pledge not to shake our heads and not to remain idle. Please click on the following link and sign your name:
https://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=dHU3YXBuanZLOHB3Rk9WeGVmc1RYYUE6MQ
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
An e-mail came into my inbox yesterday as Rabbi, asking me to urge my congregants to sign a pledge against gay bullying and harassment as a statement of religious commitment. It was sent by the Jewish social action organization Keshet (www.keshetonline.org), meaning “Rainbow Coalition,” in response to last week’s tragedy of the young man who hurled himself over the George Washington Bridge because his roommate allegedly videoed and broadcast over the Internet his intimate acts with another man. Many of us read the sensationalist news, shook our heads and said: “the world is going to seed,” and then went about our day.
Once, a long time ago, God said: “the world is going to seed”—as recorded in this week’s Torah portion: “And God saw that the earth was filled with corruption, that all human beings had corrupted their ways upon the earth. And God said to Noah: ‘I am about to blot out all human beings, for the earth is filled with violence through them.’” (Genesis 6:13-14) Of course, Keshet took its name from the well-known symbol connoting tolerance for diversity in American culture. However, Keshet also refers to the first Rainbow, the one that God set in the sky after the Flood, as a pledge that God would never again shake His head (figuratively speaking) in despair over human wickedness. We, too, must pledge not to shake our heads and not to remain idle. Please click on the following link and sign your name:
https://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=dHU3YXBuanZLOHB3Rk9WeGVmc1RYYUE6MQ
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
September 29, 2010: I (We) Dropped the Torah
Dear Chevre (Friends):
You gotta laugh…or cry! Just as soon as the Tekiah Gedolah stopped sounding at the end of Neilah, signaling our attainment of complete atonement at last… and what happened?? I dropped the Torah. Never mind that only a few people saw it. Never mind that it didn’t fall on the ground, but slipped on its side in the ark. Never mind that it was an accident. (Of course, it was an accident! Who would drop the Torah on purpose?) Although the Talmud itself does not mention the case, most post-Talmudic rulings impose a fast as penance. What: am I supposed to fast again, on the heels of Yom Kippur?
Why did I drop it? I was tired. I was hungry. I was careless. I was hurrying to make way for Havdalah. There are no grooves for the Torahs within the ark, so they slip easily. To take my own cheshbon ha-nefesh for a second, my own moral inventory, the event is consistent with my general obliviousness of things entrusted to me. Those close to me are often faulting me for it: “you don’t pay attention!” To compound it, after the Torah fell, I was obsessed with the damaged rimonim, the silver ornaments, rather than with the act itself. “That,” said one person pointedly to me, “is idolatry” —and he was right on the mark. It is always idolatrous when I prioritize material concerns.
And, then, there is the social element of responsibility. It is axiomatic that the community is always involved in any public sin performed by one of its members—let alone by the Rabbi! For this reason, we recite the al cheit, the public confessional, in the plural. For this reason, too, the most stringent authorities require a 40-day fast, not just for the individual who dropped the Torah, but for everyone in the congregation. So I ask: as a community, to what degree do we show reverence for Torah and tradition? To what degree to do we inculcate reverence for Torah and tradition in our children?
The rationale for the form of penance is the general principle of middah ke-neged middah, “measure for measure.” Just as Moses ascended Mount Sinai without food or drink for a duration of forty days in order to receive the Law, while the Children of Israel waited below, so, too, the community should fast for forty days. Here’s what I propose for incorporating middah ke-neged middah into my personal, and our communal, atonement:
(1) I pay any costs for repair of the rimonim;
(2) we instruct our building manager to drill slots for holding the Torahs in place within the ark;
(3) we elevate the Torah physically, by dancing with it on Simchat Torah (this Thursday night, September 30, at 6 PM), in direct response to having dropped it last week;
(4) we elevate the Torah spiritually with a leil tikkun, a special Torah study session on the eve of Shavuot (Tuesday, June 7, 2011), for the first time ever at JCOGS.
It is instructive that I, and, therefore, we, sinned within seconds of the close of Yom Kippur. Sinning is perpetual. Fortunately, so is the opportunity for atonement.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
You gotta laugh…or cry! Just as soon as the Tekiah Gedolah stopped sounding at the end of Neilah, signaling our attainment of complete atonement at last… and what happened?? I dropped the Torah. Never mind that only a few people saw it. Never mind that it didn’t fall on the ground, but slipped on its side in the ark. Never mind that it was an accident. (Of course, it was an accident! Who would drop the Torah on purpose?) Although the Talmud itself does not mention the case, most post-Talmudic rulings impose a fast as penance. What: am I supposed to fast again, on the heels of Yom Kippur?
Why did I drop it? I was tired. I was hungry. I was careless. I was hurrying to make way for Havdalah. There are no grooves for the Torahs within the ark, so they slip easily. To take my own cheshbon ha-nefesh for a second, my own moral inventory, the event is consistent with my general obliviousness of things entrusted to me. Those close to me are often faulting me for it: “you don’t pay attention!” To compound it, after the Torah fell, I was obsessed with the damaged rimonim, the silver ornaments, rather than with the act itself. “That,” said one person pointedly to me, “is idolatry” —and he was right on the mark. It is always idolatrous when I prioritize material concerns.
And, then, there is the social element of responsibility. It is axiomatic that the community is always involved in any public sin performed by one of its members—let alone by the Rabbi! For this reason, we recite the al cheit, the public confessional, in the plural. For this reason, too, the most stringent authorities require a 40-day fast, not just for the individual who dropped the Torah, but for everyone in the congregation. So I ask: as a community, to what degree do we show reverence for Torah and tradition? To what degree to do we inculcate reverence for Torah and tradition in our children?
The rationale for the form of penance is the general principle of middah ke-neged middah, “measure for measure.” Just as Moses ascended Mount Sinai without food or drink for a duration of forty days in order to receive the Law, while the Children of Israel waited below, so, too, the community should fast for forty days. Here’s what I propose for incorporating middah ke-neged middah into my personal, and our communal, atonement:
(1) I pay any costs for repair of the rimonim;
(2) we instruct our building manager to drill slots for holding the Torahs in place within the ark;
(3) we elevate the Torah physically, by dancing with it on Simchat Torah (this Thursday night, September 30, at 6 PM), in direct response to having dropped it last week;
(4) we elevate the Torah spiritually with a leil tikkun, a special Torah study session on the eve of Shavuot (Tuesday, June 7, 2011), for the first time ever at JCOGS.
It is instructive that I, and, therefore, we, sinned within seconds of the close of Yom Kippur. Sinning is perpetual. Fortunately, so is the opportunity for atonement.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Monday, September 27, 2010
Yom Kippur 5771 Sermon: Between the Suns
“Between the Suns”
It is late afternoon. The sun is sinking. The shadows are lengthening. Our tradition ascribes special sanctity to the daily period of transition, the indeterminate time between day and night, neither day nor night, neither completely light nor completely dark, but somewhere in between. It is called bein ha-shemashot, “between the suns.” At such a time, the edge of the sea merges with the edge of the sky; at such a time, earth and heaven come very close; at such a time, borders of separation dissolve. It is said that souls pass between the worlds, and all things are possible.
The first twilight came at the end of the seventh day. When Adam saw the sun begin to sink, he grew frightened. He turned to Eve and said: “Because we disobeyed the divine command, darkness is enveloping the world. Soon the earth will become formless and void, as it was in the beginning, before the Holy One brought creation into existence.” Then he cried aloud to God: “Alas! Because of our sin, we are doomed. Have mercy upon us!” What did God do? God inspired Adam with wisdom from above. The human being arose, fetched two flints and rubbed one against the other. Fire sprang forth, and he exclaimed in astonishment: “Blessed are You, Eternal God, Ruler of the Universe, who creates the light of fire.” That is why each week at the conclusion of Shabbat to this day, we kindle the Havdallah candle and recite over it the very same words of blessing, in commemoration of that first Havdallah. (bAvodah Zara 8a; Breishit Rabbah 3:6)
We all live at every moment a hair’s breadth away from the terror of primordial darkness. We are constantly assailed by reports of tragic accidents and natural disasters—“acts of God” on the one hand, and of violence and cruelty—acts of evil on the other hand. We read about a random shooting in the newspaper, or, closer to home, a dear friend is newly diagnosed with life-threatening illness, and we secretly rejoice: “thank God, it didn’t happen to me.” We construct a life of seemingly secure surroundings and familiar routine, of work and play, of money and material comforts, but, in fact, we have much less control over what happens to us than we care to acknowledge. Rabbi Karen Silberman likens the existential human condition to hurtling through the depths of outer space on a spaceship. The spaceship is the veneer of order and stability that masks the endlessly black chaos just outside the window, threatening to break through the flimsy covering and engulf us at any moment. According to scholar Jon Levenson, even God is often Biblically portrayed as still engaged in combat against the powerful forces of darkness. “YHWH’s mastery is fragile,… Leviathan is still on the loose, and the absolute sovereignty of the absolutely just God lies ahead.” (Creation and the Persistence of Evil, pp. 47-48)
Occasionally, chaos and evil succeeds in piercing the veil. Extraordinary events momentarily rouse and shake us from our complacency. Something happens; we lose our job, we are given a medical diagnosis, a loved one dies—God forbid—and for a brief while, we remember the priorities and values that truly matter. This is our chance for Teshuvah—to take stock of our lives and to change direction—but too often we miss the opportunity. Instead, we rush to sweep away the pain, to reestablish the status quo as much as possible, and to return to normal.
In a documentary I watched the other night, AIDS activists rued the loss of the strong sense of mission that bonded them into tight fellowship during the early years of the health emergency. “People were dying right and left,” says one interviewee. “But, at the same time, we were there for one another, we looked out for each other. Nowadays, people no longer heed the warnings, and we old-timers, we are tired—or gone. HIV is still killing our young people, but I’m afraid if the early advocates of AIDS awareness were out in the community broadcasting their message of practicing safe sex today, nobody would stop to listen.” Similarly, an op-ed piece in last Sunday’s New York Times commented on the national response immediately after 9-11: “Emergencies are occasions for fresh starts and rethinking. Because they make death vivid for those who survive, they properly prompt people to appraise their [own] lives. [Thus,] we took September 11 as a wake-up call. We opened our minds to questions of how we could live better.” In contrast, a companion article reported on this year’s commemoration: “Posters and photographs held aloft bluntly injected politics into New York City’s annual ceremony. The once unifying day is now replete with tension and division.” (The New York Times, September 12, 2010)
It’s human nature to respond to crisis with vows of reform. The trick is to translate a single, extraordinary impetus for change into everyday renewal. In his pioneering early-twentieth-century work Varieties of Religious Experience, the psychologist-philosopher William James documented the phenomenon of sudden conversions, such as the life-altering experiences of born-again Christians or of alcoholics who hit rock bottom. He writes that radical transformations are difficult to sustain unless they are accompanied by permanent shifts in regular spiritual practice. Fortunately, softer interventions exist as well. Thank God we don’t have to wait for grand epiphanies or major catastrophes in order to effect long-lasting spiritual growth. We just need a little prodding sometimes, a periodic firm reminder of our higher purpose.
As I see it, the basic function of Yom Kippur is to remind us of our higher purpose—without the shock and pain of tragic circumstances. It is to shake us from our complacency, to re-instill in us a sense of urgency, and to reawaken our deeply buried primordial fear—or perhaps I should use the word “awe” instead of “fear,” as in the designation “Days of Awe,” yamim nora’im, which specifies the entire period of self-appraisal. Yom Kippur is considered a dress rehearsal for death. It is customary to wear the kittel, the white shroud that one will wear once again in her grave. The entire solemn liturgy and, in particular, the prayers of the day’s final service, Ne’ilah, reflect her final moments on earth. Ne’ilah culminates with the dramatic proclamation of the Shema, which our tradition also prescribes as the final words she recites just before she dies. But we do not die. We are resurrected. At the end of the day, the single blast of tekiah gedolah calls us back to life. We are not like Rabbi Harold Kushner’s dying parishioners whom I mentioned in my Rosh Hashanah sermon last week, “those who felt that they had [wasted] their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right.” We possibly have another two or three years. What will you do with your remaining two or three years?
I devoted last week’s sermon to the theme of holiness. I defined holiness as godliness projected downward into the world of human affairs, or, from a different perspective, the distillation of the noblest deeds and loftiest values of humankind projected upward into the spiritual realm. Within Judaism, qedushah, holiness, entails havdallah, separation. For example, the holiness of Yom Kippur resides in its singularity, separate from all other days. The Hassidic Alter Rebbe of Ger taught that anything that is holy exists not only for its own sake but, more importantly, for spreading its holiness outward. Accordingly, the purpose of Yom Kippur is not so much to spur self-reflection today, but to motivate self-improvement throughout the year. In a well-known Talmudic story, Rabbi Eliezer once admonished his disciple: “repent one day before you die.” “But Master,” replied the student, “does one then know the day on which one will die?” “Therefore, repent today, lest you die tomorrow,” said the Rabbi, “and so you will spend all your days in repentance.” (bShabbat 153a) When I was younger, I used to perform my annual rite of atonement by making grand New Year’s resolutions to myself and by mouthing stiff, generic apologies to others. I now believe that a quieter, more durable form of atonement demands, instead, a disposition toward humility and contrition in my daily interactions.
The first darkness fell at the end of the seventh day. It turns out that the Midrashic myth with which I began does not tell the full story. Have you ever wondered about the light of the first day of creation recorded in Genesis, when God said: “Let there be light,” and there was light? What light was this, when the sun, moon, and stars weren’t created until the fourth day of creation? The Rabbis also noticed the chronological discrepancy and explained it with the following, additional Midrash.
When the Holy One created light on the first day, it shone forever. For seven days, it shone continuously. It was light in the evening and in the morning. But as soon as Adam sinned, God looked into the generations and beheld the evil of humanity and the corruption of their ways. So God arose and hid the light from them, as it is written: “Light is withheld from the wicked.” (Job 38:15) And for whom did God reserve it? For the righteous in the time to come, as it is written: “Light is sown for the righteous.” (Psalm 97:11) (bHagigah 12a)
The two Midrashim, taken together, tell of two lights—one spiritual and the other physical, one created by God on the first day and the other created by the human being at the beginning of the eighth day, one that shone forever and the other that shines only as long as we continue to tend it. The second light shines for everyone, the righteous and wicked alike. The first light is reserved for the righteous. But, in the final hour of Yom Kippur, we all taste righteousness, as in the beginning.
The sun is sinking. The shadows are lengthening. The gates are closing. The trick is to respond to the gathering darkness by fetching our own flints and making our own fire, to translate our spiritual awareness into physical action, to extend the light of holiness into the eighth day, into tomorrow. The truth is, we are always bein ha-shemashot, “between the suns,” not just during these final moments of Yom Kippur, but every day. Or chadash al Tziyon ta’ir, venizkeh kulanu meheirah le’oro. “May a new light shine upon Zion, and may we all be worthy to bask in its light.” In the New Year, may the light of awareness shine through our thoughts, may the light of repentance shine through our deeds, and may the light of peace shine throughout the world.
It is late afternoon. The sun is sinking. The shadows are lengthening. Our tradition ascribes special sanctity to the daily period of transition, the indeterminate time between day and night, neither day nor night, neither completely light nor completely dark, but somewhere in between. It is called bein ha-shemashot, “between the suns.” At such a time, the edge of the sea merges with the edge of the sky; at such a time, earth and heaven come very close; at such a time, borders of separation dissolve. It is said that souls pass between the worlds, and all things are possible.
The first twilight came at the end of the seventh day. When Adam saw the sun begin to sink, he grew frightened. He turned to Eve and said: “Because we disobeyed the divine command, darkness is enveloping the world. Soon the earth will become formless and void, as it was in the beginning, before the Holy One brought creation into existence.” Then he cried aloud to God: “Alas! Because of our sin, we are doomed. Have mercy upon us!” What did God do? God inspired Adam with wisdom from above. The human being arose, fetched two flints and rubbed one against the other. Fire sprang forth, and he exclaimed in astonishment: “Blessed are You, Eternal God, Ruler of the Universe, who creates the light of fire.” That is why each week at the conclusion of Shabbat to this day, we kindle the Havdallah candle and recite over it the very same words of blessing, in commemoration of that first Havdallah. (bAvodah Zara 8a; Breishit Rabbah 3:6)
We all live at every moment a hair’s breadth away from the terror of primordial darkness. We are constantly assailed by reports of tragic accidents and natural disasters—“acts of God” on the one hand, and of violence and cruelty—acts of evil on the other hand. We read about a random shooting in the newspaper, or, closer to home, a dear friend is newly diagnosed with life-threatening illness, and we secretly rejoice: “thank God, it didn’t happen to me.” We construct a life of seemingly secure surroundings and familiar routine, of work and play, of money and material comforts, but, in fact, we have much less control over what happens to us than we care to acknowledge. Rabbi Karen Silberman likens the existential human condition to hurtling through the depths of outer space on a spaceship. The spaceship is the veneer of order and stability that masks the endlessly black chaos just outside the window, threatening to break through the flimsy covering and engulf us at any moment. According to scholar Jon Levenson, even God is often Biblically portrayed as still engaged in combat against the powerful forces of darkness. “YHWH’s mastery is fragile,… Leviathan is still on the loose, and the absolute sovereignty of the absolutely just God lies ahead.” (Creation and the Persistence of Evil, pp. 47-48)
Occasionally, chaos and evil succeeds in piercing the veil. Extraordinary events momentarily rouse and shake us from our complacency. Something happens; we lose our job, we are given a medical diagnosis, a loved one dies—God forbid—and for a brief while, we remember the priorities and values that truly matter. This is our chance for Teshuvah—to take stock of our lives and to change direction—but too often we miss the opportunity. Instead, we rush to sweep away the pain, to reestablish the status quo as much as possible, and to return to normal.
In a documentary I watched the other night, AIDS activists rued the loss of the strong sense of mission that bonded them into tight fellowship during the early years of the health emergency. “People were dying right and left,” says one interviewee. “But, at the same time, we were there for one another, we looked out for each other. Nowadays, people no longer heed the warnings, and we old-timers, we are tired—or gone. HIV is still killing our young people, but I’m afraid if the early advocates of AIDS awareness were out in the community broadcasting their message of practicing safe sex today, nobody would stop to listen.” Similarly, an op-ed piece in last Sunday’s New York Times commented on the national response immediately after 9-11: “Emergencies are occasions for fresh starts and rethinking. Because they make death vivid for those who survive, they properly prompt people to appraise their [own] lives. [Thus,] we took September 11 as a wake-up call. We opened our minds to questions of how we could live better.” In contrast, a companion article reported on this year’s commemoration: “Posters and photographs held aloft bluntly injected politics into New York City’s annual ceremony. The once unifying day is now replete with tension and division.” (The New York Times, September 12, 2010)
It’s human nature to respond to crisis with vows of reform. The trick is to translate a single, extraordinary impetus for change into everyday renewal. In his pioneering early-twentieth-century work Varieties of Religious Experience, the psychologist-philosopher William James documented the phenomenon of sudden conversions, such as the life-altering experiences of born-again Christians or of alcoholics who hit rock bottom. He writes that radical transformations are difficult to sustain unless they are accompanied by permanent shifts in regular spiritual practice. Fortunately, softer interventions exist as well. Thank God we don’t have to wait for grand epiphanies or major catastrophes in order to effect long-lasting spiritual growth. We just need a little prodding sometimes, a periodic firm reminder of our higher purpose.
As I see it, the basic function of Yom Kippur is to remind us of our higher purpose—without the shock and pain of tragic circumstances. It is to shake us from our complacency, to re-instill in us a sense of urgency, and to reawaken our deeply buried primordial fear—or perhaps I should use the word “awe” instead of “fear,” as in the designation “Days of Awe,” yamim nora’im, which specifies the entire period of self-appraisal. Yom Kippur is considered a dress rehearsal for death. It is customary to wear the kittel, the white shroud that one will wear once again in her grave. The entire solemn liturgy and, in particular, the prayers of the day’s final service, Ne’ilah, reflect her final moments on earth. Ne’ilah culminates with the dramatic proclamation of the Shema, which our tradition also prescribes as the final words she recites just before she dies. But we do not die. We are resurrected. At the end of the day, the single blast of tekiah gedolah calls us back to life. We are not like Rabbi Harold Kushner’s dying parishioners whom I mentioned in my Rosh Hashanah sermon last week, “those who felt that they had [wasted] their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right.” We possibly have another two or three years. What will you do with your remaining two or three years?
I devoted last week’s sermon to the theme of holiness. I defined holiness as godliness projected downward into the world of human affairs, or, from a different perspective, the distillation of the noblest deeds and loftiest values of humankind projected upward into the spiritual realm. Within Judaism, qedushah, holiness, entails havdallah, separation. For example, the holiness of Yom Kippur resides in its singularity, separate from all other days. The Hassidic Alter Rebbe of Ger taught that anything that is holy exists not only for its own sake but, more importantly, for spreading its holiness outward. Accordingly, the purpose of Yom Kippur is not so much to spur self-reflection today, but to motivate self-improvement throughout the year. In a well-known Talmudic story, Rabbi Eliezer once admonished his disciple: “repent one day before you die.” “But Master,” replied the student, “does one then know the day on which one will die?” “Therefore, repent today, lest you die tomorrow,” said the Rabbi, “and so you will spend all your days in repentance.” (bShabbat 153a) When I was younger, I used to perform my annual rite of atonement by making grand New Year’s resolutions to myself and by mouthing stiff, generic apologies to others. I now believe that a quieter, more durable form of atonement demands, instead, a disposition toward humility and contrition in my daily interactions.
The first darkness fell at the end of the seventh day. It turns out that the Midrashic myth with which I began does not tell the full story. Have you ever wondered about the light of the first day of creation recorded in Genesis, when God said: “Let there be light,” and there was light? What light was this, when the sun, moon, and stars weren’t created until the fourth day of creation? The Rabbis also noticed the chronological discrepancy and explained it with the following, additional Midrash.
When the Holy One created light on the first day, it shone forever. For seven days, it shone continuously. It was light in the evening and in the morning. But as soon as Adam sinned, God looked into the generations and beheld the evil of humanity and the corruption of their ways. So God arose and hid the light from them, as it is written: “Light is withheld from the wicked.” (Job 38:15) And for whom did God reserve it? For the righteous in the time to come, as it is written: “Light is sown for the righteous.” (Psalm 97:11) (bHagigah 12a)
The two Midrashim, taken together, tell of two lights—one spiritual and the other physical, one created by God on the first day and the other created by the human being at the beginning of the eighth day, one that shone forever and the other that shines only as long as we continue to tend it. The second light shines for everyone, the righteous and wicked alike. The first light is reserved for the righteous. But, in the final hour of Yom Kippur, we all taste righteousness, as in the beginning.
The sun is sinking. The shadows are lengthening. The gates are closing. The trick is to respond to the gathering darkness by fetching our own flints and making our own fire, to translate our spiritual awareness into physical action, to extend the light of holiness into the eighth day, into tomorrow. The truth is, we are always bein ha-shemashot, “between the suns,” not just during these final moments of Yom Kippur, but every day. Or chadash al Tziyon ta’ir, venizkeh kulanu meheirah le’oro. “May a new light shine upon Zion, and may we all be worthy to bask in its light.” In the New Year, may the light of awareness shine through our thoughts, may the light of repentance shine through our deeds, and may the light of peace shine throughout the world.
Rosh Hashanah 5771 Sermon: Holiness and Wholeness
Holiness and Wholeness (RH – 2010)
I would like to open with a story. Only it’s not a story in the conventional sense, with an exposition, a development, and a conclusion. Rather, it’s an impression, an experience, a realization. Ten days ago, on our way back to Santa Fe from Colorado, my partner and I stopped at Ghost Ranch, the summer home of artist Georgia O’Keefe, and walked the labyrinth. The labyrinth is a path to the interior of the soul. It is a tool for meditation, an experience for prayer, a trigger for growth. You start at the entrance, and, tracing a series of interlocking spirals, you walk toward the center. You cannot get lost; there is only one way. Billowing cumulus clouds sweep across the deep blue sky. The breeze blowing gently across my face also stirs a set of wind chimes nearby. I inhale the fragrance of a small piece of yellow sage that I pinch off as I pass. Each time the path bends, a new vista opens up: sandstone cliffs, a copse of cottonwoods, a few squat adobe buildings. I suddenly realize: “this is enough.” A poem comes to mind: “I do not have to walk on my knees for a hundred miles through the desert… I only have to let the soft animal of my body love what it loves.” (Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”) O’Keefe never owned Ghost Ranch, and, in fact, she was alarmed when it sold as a conference center in the 1950s. After awhile, however, she realized that she did not have to own her surroundings in order to adopt them. She once said about the mountains: “God told me that if I painted them, then they were mine.”
There are two ways to live. We can direct our energies toward the future, constantly creating, building, amassing, accumulating, improving, progressing toward a goal. Or we can imbibe deeply the draught of human experience, engage joyfully in every activity, and make every human interaction count for good. The wisdom of the sages admonishes: “do not say: ‘when I have time, I will [perform this Mitzvah], for perchance there will never come a time.” (Pirkei Avot 2:5) After all, now is the only time there is, and each moment is for giving.
In classical Jewish thought, the great divine process of Redemption is associated with the end of time. The ultimate destiny of humankind is the coming of the Messiah and the repair of the world. Accordingly, the 19th-century German Jewish philosopher Hermann Cohen championed the modernist view that human civilization was marching ineluctably toward salvation and that the Jewish faith, as a supreme expression of ethical monotheism, was an indispensable force for progress.
However, there’s another way to look at Redemption, not perennially deferred to a far-off utopian ideal, but rooted in present reality. In response to Hermann Cohen’s depiction of Judaism primarily as a vehicle for hastening the eventual perfection of society, Franz Rosenzweig developed a model of Jewish life that offered fulfillment here and now. By experiencing the richness of religious observance—through prayer, through study, in the cycle of the days of rest and the rhythm of the holy days that form the sacred calendar, in the practice of the commandments and deeds of lovingkindness—one could endow every fleeting moment with the dimension of eternity. As Rosenzweig himself wrote: “I do not seek salvation through reunification with my Father in Heaven someday, because I already live with Him today.”
I am not a Halachic Jew, bound by the commandments, as Rosenzweig aspired to be. (When he was once asked whether he prayed daily with tefillin, he famously replied: “not yet.”) Nevertheless, my prescription for obtaining salvation through everyday living is the same as Rosenzweig’s. For Rosenzweig, there is only one supreme commandment: ve’ahavta et Adonai Eloheicha, “you shall love Adonai your God,” and there is only one way to observe that commandment in the realm of human affairs, and that is: ve’ahavta le-rei’echa kamocha, “you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” A Jewish concept allows for eternity to inhabit the present. A Jewish concept allows for bringing God down to earth. The concept is called qedushah, holiness.
Kedoshim tiheyu, ki kadosh ani, Adonai Eloheichem. “Holy you shall be, for I, Adonai your God, am holy.” In his book of Jewish vocabulary These Are the Words, Rabbi Green remarks that qadosh “is the single attribute that properly belongs to God alone. We can be compassionate based upon our own value system, or because of good upbringing, or through empathy with victims of oppression. Similarly, we may be just, pure, powerful, or good. But we cannot be holy except in relation to God, who is the ultimate Source of holiness.” (p. 129) In other words, holiness is godliness made manifest within the world of human activity.
I agree with Rabbi Green, and I would go a step further. Just as holiness is godliness projected into the human world, godliness is holiness projected into the spiritual realm. I subscribe to predicate theology, as advanced by the Reconstructionist theologian Harold Schulweis. God is not a Subject, to whom we ascribe certain qualities, such as compassionate, just, or good. Rather, God is a Predicate encapsulating a set of human virtues, such as compassion, justice, and goodness. The crucial shift in orientation makes all the difference. For Rabbi Schulweis, it’s more important to believe in godliness than to believe in God. For instance, I’m not sure I believe that there’s a Being up there who “uplifts the fallen, heals the sick, and loosens the bonds of the oppressed,” as the liturgy expresses it. However, I do believe that the act of uplifting the fallen, the act of healing the sick, and the act of loosening the bonds of the oppressed are divine. Every time you pick up the phone and call your ailing friend to ask after her wellbeing, you draw divinity down into the world. In predicate theology, godliness is a container for the noblest deeds and loftiest values of humankind. In short, God is a name for holiness.
I contend that the key to individual happiness is to live a holy life, by which I mean caring for others, making a positive impact upon the world, and engaging fully in every moment. Rabbi Harold Kushner writes: “Trying to find [the] one Big Answer to the question of living is like trying to eat one Big Meal so that you will never… be hungry again. There is no Answer (with a capital A), but there answers: loving and being loved, enjoying your food and sitting in the sun rather than rushing through lunch and hurrying back to the office, savoring the… sunsets, the leaves turning color, the rare instances of true human communication, the little things that tend to get lost and trampled in the [frantic] search for the Grand Solution to the problem of Life and emerge, like the proverbial bluebird of happiness, only when we have stopped searching.” (pp. 142-143) Along similar lines, only one blessing in the entire Torah is promises happiness. It is found in Moses’s farewell words to the seafaring tribe of Zevulun: “May God grant you happiness on your journeys.” (Deuteronomy 33:18) Significantly, Moses does not say: “May God grant you happiness at the end of your journeys.” It is only possible to be happy upon the voyage.
I contend that the key to congregational success is to build a holy community, by which I mean, caring for one another, making a positive impact upon the world, and engaging fully in communal life. Twenty years ago, Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman spearheaded the Synagogue 2000 initiative, designed to transform and revitalize American Jewish communities for the twenty-first century. His work mirrors our own recent JCOGS needs assessment process, albeit on a massive scale. Hoffman surveyed hundreds of congregations. At first glance, they did not seem to be in trouble. Membership, finances, and programs were stable overall, even strengthening somewhat. Underneath the surface, however, Hoffman discovered widespread disengagement, apathy, and skepticism, together with a deep hunger for intellectual stimulation, spiritual renewal, and social fellowship. Things were chugging along with no real sense of purpose. In Hoffman’s mind, the missing element was holiness.
Here’s how Rabbi Hoffman introduces the concept: “There are two kinds of religious communities—market communities and holy communities. Most American synagogues today are market communities. A member pays her dues and expects that, in return, she will receive X number of tickets to the High Holiday services, religious schooling for her child, a Bat Mitzvah for her teenager, and so on. The worth of a holy community, on the other hand, is measured not by the cash value of its programs and services, nor even by the size of its membership, but by the sum total of the holy acts and relationships that it engenders. In Jewish terms, a holy act is a Mitzvah, and a holy relationship is one in which human beings relate to one another with integrity, compassion, and reverence. Holy acts and holy relationships are pursued for their own sake, not for utilitarian benefits, although benefits may accrue anyway. A synagogue that tries to become a holy community, rather than a market community, will not worry about the size of its membership—but it will find its membership increasing anyway, since people are naturally attracted to the sacred.”
Let me give a specific example of communal holiness. One benefit of participating in synagogue life is the opportunity to receive care from the community when we are ill. In a discussion on illness, the Talmud asks rhetorically: “do human beings have the right to subvert God’s will by caring for one whose disease comes from heaven? Maybe God is punishing her for her sins,” and then answers: “permission is given to heal.” Later commentators add: “it is not only permitted to heal, it is a Mitzvah, an obligation, to heal.” Furthermore, the obligation to care for the ailing rests equally upon the Rabbi as he discharges his pastoral duties, as well as upon all members of the community. It’s not simply that a person visits another while she is sick in the hope and expectation that she will return the favor someday; it’s that he is visiting her in order to fulfill his own spiritual need. Thus, there are actually two needs associated with illness. People need to heal, but people also need to be healers. A synagogue that functions as a holy community will satisfy both needs.
For another example, let me turn to the realm of Jewish education. People hope and expect to gain knowledge and intellectual satisfaction from synagogue classes and lectures. However, Torah entails more than passive participation; Torah demands active engagement. Torah comes alive only when the student brings all her life experience to bear upon it. My Rabbinic ordination document contains the declaration: “he did not stop his exertions until he created his own Torah out of his studies.” The phrase alludes to a beautiful Rabbinic exegesis of a verse in Psalms: “God’s Torah is his delight, and he meditates upon his Torah day and night.” The Talmud comments: when a person starts out learning, it is called “God’s Torah,” but in the end, it is called “his Torah,” meaning the learner’s own Torah.
The Talmudic view of Torah study corroborates the findings of the American social scientist Eduard Lindeman. Lindeman wrote: “The resource of highest value in adult education is the learner’s experience. If education is life, then life is also education… Aspiring adults who desire to keep their minds fresh and vigorous begin to learn by confronting pertinent situations in their own lives, dig down into the reservoirs of their experience before resorting to texts, and are led in the discussion by teachers who are also searchers after wisdom and not oracles.” (Adult Education, pp. 6-7) A synagogue that functions as a holy community will not stop its exertions until its members, clergy and laity alike, become teachers and students to each other.
My highest vision for JCOGS is that it become a holy community. I don’t mean a religious community. I don’t mean a community centered on God. I mean a community centered on godliness, that is, the container of human virtues of compassion, justice, goodness, reverence, and integrity. I envision a JCOGS whose worth is measured not by the size of its membership and the monetary value of its assets, nor even by the richness of its programs and the diversity of its offerings, but by the degree to which it fosters sacred acts and sacred relationships of mutual caring and interdependent learning that connect us one to another. Holiness is not a perennially deferred utopian ideal, but rooted in present reality. Holiness does not depend upon growth and progress. We can be a holy community today, by instilling values of holiness into what we already do.
To this day, the longest continuous stretch of time I ever attended any single synagogue occurred in childhood. Each year, my family would occupy our regular pews on Rosh Hashanah, look at the fellow worshippers around us and notice the slow, steady parade of generations. Babies grew into teenagers; teenagers returned with husbands and small babies; sadly, a smattering of new empty seats would attest to recent passings. It’s natural to become aware of the passage of time at this season, as the days begin to shorten noticeably, as the leaves begin to dry up and fall off the trees, as the natural world begins to prepare for hibernation. Even the preeminent scriptural reading assigned to the Days of Awe points us toward mortality: “See, I have set life and death before you this day, blessing and curse; therefore, choose life, that you and your generations my live!” (Deuteronomy 30:19)
I would suggest that what causes the most anxiety is not the lack of achievements. After all, we will all die without accomplishing everything we set out to do. Rather, I would suggest that what drives the deepest anxiety is the lack of fulfillment. “In my forty years as a Rabbi,” writes Harold Kushner, “I have tended to many people in the last moments of their lives. [I can say nearly without exception that] the people who had the most trouble with death were those who felt that they had [wasted] their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right.” (Living a Life that Matters, p. 6) Fear of death is really a mask for the fear that we are not fully alive while we have the chance.
In his book Who Dies?, Stephen Levine offers two measures of a person’s worth. The Western mind views life as a line that extends from one point to another—we are born, we pass certain milestones along the way, and then we die. In contrast, the Native American views life as a circle. The circle itself may expand as we progress through life, but at any given moment it is boundless and complete. Therefore, the Native American wakes up in the morning and says: “today is a good day to die”—not with morbidity, but with the serenity that comes from knowing that there is nothing more he needs in order to be whole. Now, I’m not saying that it’s always wrong to strive for achievements and only right to bask in the fullness of experience. Our tradition, in fact, prescribes a balance between doing and being, between the workweek and Shabbat. It’s just that only Shabbat is called holy. And only holiness can breed wholeness.
These are my Rosh Hashanah blessings: “holy you shall be,” and may this community be holy. May we care for one another, may we make a positive impact upon the world, and may we engage life fully in every moment. May we be filled to overflowing in the New Year with sacred deeds and sacred relationships. May God grant us happiness on our journeys—the happiness that comes from wholeness, holiness, and peace.
I would like to open with a story. Only it’s not a story in the conventional sense, with an exposition, a development, and a conclusion. Rather, it’s an impression, an experience, a realization. Ten days ago, on our way back to Santa Fe from Colorado, my partner and I stopped at Ghost Ranch, the summer home of artist Georgia O’Keefe, and walked the labyrinth. The labyrinth is a path to the interior of the soul. It is a tool for meditation, an experience for prayer, a trigger for growth. You start at the entrance, and, tracing a series of interlocking spirals, you walk toward the center. You cannot get lost; there is only one way. Billowing cumulus clouds sweep across the deep blue sky. The breeze blowing gently across my face also stirs a set of wind chimes nearby. I inhale the fragrance of a small piece of yellow sage that I pinch off as I pass. Each time the path bends, a new vista opens up: sandstone cliffs, a copse of cottonwoods, a few squat adobe buildings. I suddenly realize: “this is enough.” A poem comes to mind: “I do not have to walk on my knees for a hundred miles through the desert… I only have to let the soft animal of my body love what it loves.” (Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”) O’Keefe never owned Ghost Ranch, and, in fact, she was alarmed when it sold as a conference center in the 1950s. After awhile, however, she realized that she did not have to own her surroundings in order to adopt them. She once said about the mountains: “God told me that if I painted them, then they were mine.”
There are two ways to live. We can direct our energies toward the future, constantly creating, building, amassing, accumulating, improving, progressing toward a goal. Or we can imbibe deeply the draught of human experience, engage joyfully in every activity, and make every human interaction count for good. The wisdom of the sages admonishes: “do not say: ‘when I have time, I will [perform this Mitzvah], for perchance there will never come a time.” (Pirkei Avot 2:5) After all, now is the only time there is, and each moment is for giving.
In classical Jewish thought, the great divine process of Redemption is associated with the end of time. The ultimate destiny of humankind is the coming of the Messiah and the repair of the world. Accordingly, the 19th-century German Jewish philosopher Hermann Cohen championed the modernist view that human civilization was marching ineluctably toward salvation and that the Jewish faith, as a supreme expression of ethical monotheism, was an indispensable force for progress.
However, there’s another way to look at Redemption, not perennially deferred to a far-off utopian ideal, but rooted in present reality. In response to Hermann Cohen’s depiction of Judaism primarily as a vehicle for hastening the eventual perfection of society, Franz Rosenzweig developed a model of Jewish life that offered fulfillment here and now. By experiencing the richness of religious observance—through prayer, through study, in the cycle of the days of rest and the rhythm of the holy days that form the sacred calendar, in the practice of the commandments and deeds of lovingkindness—one could endow every fleeting moment with the dimension of eternity. As Rosenzweig himself wrote: “I do not seek salvation through reunification with my Father in Heaven someday, because I already live with Him today.”
I am not a Halachic Jew, bound by the commandments, as Rosenzweig aspired to be. (When he was once asked whether he prayed daily with tefillin, he famously replied: “not yet.”) Nevertheless, my prescription for obtaining salvation through everyday living is the same as Rosenzweig’s. For Rosenzweig, there is only one supreme commandment: ve’ahavta et Adonai Eloheicha, “you shall love Adonai your God,” and there is only one way to observe that commandment in the realm of human affairs, and that is: ve’ahavta le-rei’echa kamocha, “you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” A Jewish concept allows for eternity to inhabit the present. A Jewish concept allows for bringing God down to earth. The concept is called qedushah, holiness.
Kedoshim tiheyu, ki kadosh ani, Adonai Eloheichem. “Holy you shall be, for I, Adonai your God, am holy.” In his book of Jewish vocabulary These Are the Words, Rabbi Green remarks that qadosh “is the single attribute that properly belongs to God alone. We can be compassionate based upon our own value system, or because of good upbringing, or through empathy with victims of oppression. Similarly, we may be just, pure, powerful, or good. But we cannot be holy except in relation to God, who is the ultimate Source of holiness.” (p. 129) In other words, holiness is godliness made manifest within the world of human activity.
I agree with Rabbi Green, and I would go a step further. Just as holiness is godliness projected into the human world, godliness is holiness projected into the spiritual realm. I subscribe to predicate theology, as advanced by the Reconstructionist theologian Harold Schulweis. God is not a Subject, to whom we ascribe certain qualities, such as compassionate, just, or good. Rather, God is a Predicate encapsulating a set of human virtues, such as compassion, justice, and goodness. The crucial shift in orientation makes all the difference. For Rabbi Schulweis, it’s more important to believe in godliness than to believe in God. For instance, I’m not sure I believe that there’s a Being up there who “uplifts the fallen, heals the sick, and loosens the bonds of the oppressed,” as the liturgy expresses it. However, I do believe that the act of uplifting the fallen, the act of healing the sick, and the act of loosening the bonds of the oppressed are divine. Every time you pick up the phone and call your ailing friend to ask after her wellbeing, you draw divinity down into the world. In predicate theology, godliness is a container for the noblest deeds and loftiest values of humankind. In short, God is a name for holiness.
I contend that the key to individual happiness is to live a holy life, by which I mean caring for others, making a positive impact upon the world, and engaging fully in every moment. Rabbi Harold Kushner writes: “Trying to find [the] one Big Answer to the question of living is like trying to eat one Big Meal so that you will never… be hungry again. There is no Answer (with a capital A), but there answers: loving and being loved, enjoying your food and sitting in the sun rather than rushing through lunch and hurrying back to the office, savoring the… sunsets, the leaves turning color, the rare instances of true human communication, the little things that tend to get lost and trampled in the [frantic] search for the Grand Solution to the problem of Life and emerge, like the proverbial bluebird of happiness, only when we have stopped searching.” (pp. 142-143) Along similar lines, only one blessing in the entire Torah is promises happiness. It is found in Moses’s farewell words to the seafaring tribe of Zevulun: “May God grant you happiness on your journeys.” (Deuteronomy 33:18) Significantly, Moses does not say: “May God grant you happiness at the end of your journeys.” It is only possible to be happy upon the voyage.
I contend that the key to congregational success is to build a holy community, by which I mean, caring for one another, making a positive impact upon the world, and engaging fully in communal life. Twenty years ago, Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman spearheaded the Synagogue 2000 initiative, designed to transform and revitalize American Jewish communities for the twenty-first century. His work mirrors our own recent JCOGS needs assessment process, albeit on a massive scale. Hoffman surveyed hundreds of congregations. At first glance, they did not seem to be in trouble. Membership, finances, and programs were stable overall, even strengthening somewhat. Underneath the surface, however, Hoffman discovered widespread disengagement, apathy, and skepticism, together with a deep hunger for intellectual stimulation, spiritual renewal, and social fellowship. Things were chugging along with no real sense of purpose. In Hoffman’s mind, the missing element was holiness.
Here’s how Rabbi Hoffman introduces the concept: “There are two kinds of religious communities—market communities and holy communities. Most American synagogues today are market communities. A member pays her dues and expects that, in return, she will receive X number of tickets to the High Holiday services, religious schooling for her child, a Bat Mitzvah for her teenager, and so on. The worth of a holy community, on the other hand, is measured not by the cash value of its programs and services, nor even by the size of its membership, but by the sum total of the holy acts and relationships that it engenders. In Jewish terms, a holy act is a Mitzvah, and a holy relationship is one in which human beings relate to one another with integrity, compassion, and reverence. Holy acts and holy relationships are pursued for their own sake, not for utilitarian benefits, although benefits may accrue anyway. A synagogue that tries to become a holy community, rather than a market community, will not worry about the size of its membership—but it will find its membership increasing anyway, since people are naturally attracted to the sacred.”
Let me give a specific example of communal holiness. One benefit of participating in synagogue life is the opportunity to receive care from the community when we are ill. In a discussion on illness, the Talmud asks rhetorically: “do human beings have the right to subvert God’s will by caring for one whose disease comes from heaven? Maybe God is punishing her for her sins,” and then answers: “permission is given to heal.” Later commentators add: “it is not only permitted to heal, it is a Mitzvah, an obligation, to heal.” Furthermore, the obligation to care for the ailing rests equally upon the Rabbi as he discharges his pastoral duties, as well as upon all members of the community. It’s not simply that a person visits another while she is sick in the hope and expectation that she will return the favor someday; it’s that he is visiting her in order to fulfill his own spiritual need. Thus, there are actually two needs associated with illness. People need to heal, but people also need to be healers. A synagogue that functions as a holy community will satisfy both needs.
For another example, let me turn to the realm of Jewish education. People hope and expect to gain knowledge and intellectual satisfaction from synagogue classes and lectures. However, Torah entails more than passive participation; Torah demands active engagement. Torah comes alive only when the student brings all her life experience to bear upon it. My Rabbinic ordination document contains the declaration: “he did not stop his exertions until he created his own Torah out of his studies.” The phrase alludes to a beautiful Rabbinic exegesis of a verse in Psalms: “God’s Torah is his delight, and he meditates upon his Torah day and night.” The Talmud comments: when a person starts out learning, it is called “God’s Torah,” but in the end, it is called “his Torah,” meaning the learner’s own Torah.
The Talmudic view of Torah study corroborates the findings of the American social scientist Eduard Lindeman. Lindeman wrote: “The resource of highest value in adult education is the learner’s experience. If education is life, then life is also education… Aspiring adults who desire to keep their minds fresh and vigorous begin to learn by confronting pertinent situations in their own lives, dig down into the reservoirs of their experience before resorting to texts, and are led in the discussion by teachers who are also searchers after wisdom and not oracles.” (Adult Education, pp. 6-7) A synagogue that functions as a holy community will not stop its exertions until its members, clergy and laity alike, become teachers and students to each other.
My highest vision for JCOGS is that it become a holy community. I don’t mean a religious community. I don’t mean a community centered on God. I mean a community centered on godliness, that is, the container of human virtues of compassion, justice, goodness, reverence, and integrity. I envision a JCOGS whose worth is measured not by the size of its membership and the monetary value of its assets, nor even by the richness of its programs and the diversity of its offerings, but by the degree to which it fosters sacred acts and sacred relationships of mutual caring and interdependent learning that connect us one to another. Holiness is not a perennially deferred utopian ideal, but rooted in present reality. Holiness does not depend upon growth and progress. We can be a holy community today, by instilling values of holiness into what we already do.
To this day, the longest continuous stretch of time I ever attended any single synagogue occurred in childhood. Each year, my family would occupy our regular pews on Rosh Hashanah, look at the fellow worshippers around us and notice the slow, steady parade of generations. Babies grew into teenagers; teenagers returned with husbands and small babies; sadly, a smattering of new empty seats would attest to recent passings. It’s natural to become aware of the passage of time at this season, as the days begin to shorten noticeably, as the leaves begin to dry up and fall off the trees, as the natural world begins to prepare for hibernation. Even the preeminent scriptural reading assigned to the Days of Awe points us toward mortality: “See, I have set life and death before you this day, blessing and curse; therefore, choose life, that you and your generations my live!” (Deuteronomy 30:19)
I would suggest that what causes the most anxiety is not the lack of achievements. After all, we will all die without accomplishing everything we set out to do. Rather, I would suggest that what drives the deepest anxiety is the lack of fulfillment. “In my forty years as a Rabbi,” writes Harold Kushner, “I have tended to many people in the last moments of their lives. [I can say nearly without exception that] the people who had the most trouble with death were those who felt that they had [wasted] their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right.” (Living a Life that Matters, p. 6) Fear of death is really a mask for the fear that we are not fully alive while we have the chance.
In his book Who Dies?, Stephen Levine offers two measures of a person’s worth. The Western mind views life as a line that extends from one point to another—we are born, we pass certain milestones along the way, and then we die. In contrast, the Native American views life as a circle. The circle itself may expand as we progress through life, but at any given moment it is boundless and complete. Therefore, the Native American wakes up in the morning and says: “today is a good day to die”—not with morbidity, but with the serenity that comes from knowing that there is nothing more he needs in order to be whole. Now, I’m not saying that it’s always wrong to strive for achievements and only right to bask in the fullness of experience. Our tradition, in fact, prescribes a balance between doing and being, between the workweek and Shabbat. It’s just that only Shabbat is called holy. And only holiness can breed wholeness.
These are my Rosh Hashanah blessings: “holy you shall be,” and may this community be holy. May we care for one another, may we make a positive impact upon the world, and may we engage life fully in every moment. May we be filled to overflowing in the New Year with sacred deeds and sacred relationships. May God grant us happiness on our journeys—the happiness that comes from wholeness, holiness, and peace.
September 22, 2010: Be Only Joyous
Dear Chevre (Friends):
“After the ingathering of your grain and your wine, you shall hold the Feast of Sukkot for seven days. You shall rejoice in your festival… only be joyous!” (Deuteronomy 16:13-15) Of course, the joy of Sukkot reflects the abundance of the fall harvest. But still…what an impossible commandment: “only be joyous!” How can the Torah mandate happiness? Some of us live in constant pain and depression, and the rest of us are not usually capable of conjuring up feelings upon demand.
Another even more basic commandment seems to stipulate an emotional state: “love your neighbor as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:18) However, its fulfillment is predicated not upon adopting a certain attitude, but upon performing certain deeds, such as welcoming guests, visiting the sick, lending money, and giving charity. As Millard Fuller said: “It’s easier to act your way into a new of thinking than to think your way into a new way of acting.” So, what actions does the Torah prescribe to induce joy on Sukkot?
We are to wave a bundle of palm, myrtle, willow, and citron and we are to live outdoors in temporary, leafy structures. The Lulav and Etrog are a feast for the senses: the color of the leaves, the rustling of the fronds, the delicious aroma of the fruit. Their sexual imagery is unmistakable. As for the Sukkah, it represents life laid bare of all luxurious pretensions. “The special joy of Sukkot,” writes Rabbi Alan Lew, “is precisely the joy of being stripped naked, the joy of being flush with life, the joy of having nothing between our skin and the wind and the starlight, nothing between us and the world.”
It is no coincidence that Sukkot arrives on the heels of Yom Kippur. Feeling right with the world is the product of a clear conscience. The grand prize for the hard work of atonement is wholesale immersion in the simple pleasures of life. May we all taste the sheer joy of this festive season.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
“After the ingathering of your grain and your wine, you shall hold the Feast of Sukkot for seven days. You shall rejoice in your festival… only be joyous!” (Deuteronomy 16:13-15) Of course, the joy of Sukkot reflects the abundance of the fall harvest. But still…what an impossible commandment: “only be joyous!” How can the Torah mandate happiness? Some of us live in constant pain and depression, and the rest of us are not usually capable of conjuring up feelings upon demand.
Another even more basic commandment seems to stipulate an emotional state: “love your neighbor as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:18) However, its fulfillment is predicated not upon adopting a certain attitude, but upon performing certain deeds, such as welcoming guests, visiting the sick, lending money, and giving charity. As Millard Fuller said: “It’s easier to act your way into a new of thinking than to think your way into a new way of acting.” So, what actions does the Torah prescribe to induce joy on Sukkot?
We are to wave a bundle of palm, myrtle, willow, and citron and we are to live outdoors in temporary, leafy structures. The Lulav and Etrog are a feast for the senses: the color of the leaves, the rustling of the fronds, the delicious aroma of the fruit. Their sexual imagery is unmistakable. As for the Sukkah, it represents life laid bare of all luxurious pretensions. “The special joy of Sukkot,” writes Rabbi Alan Lew, “is precisely the joy of being stripped naked, the joy of being flush with life, the joy of having nothing between our skin and the wind and the starlight, nothing between us and the world.”
It is no coincidence that Sukkot arrives on the heels of Yom Kippur. Feeling right with the world is the product of a clear conscience. The grand prize for the hard work of atonement is wholesale immersion in the simple pleasures of life. May we all taste the sheer joy of this festive season.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Friday, September 17, 2010
September 15, 2010: The Merit of the Penitent
Dear Chevre (Friends):
“Rabbi Abahu said: in the place where the penitent stands, the perfectly righteous may not stand.” (bShabbat 34b) What is the basis for this beautiful, but counterintuitive, Talmudic teaching? According to one explanation, the righteous have it easier. They aren’t subjected to the usual vices, such as greed, envy, lust, and the like. But the sinner, whose moral constitution is weaker or who may have been subjected to greater temptations, must work harder to overcome them. The penitent has had the opportunity to fulfill all the Mitzvot that the righteous have fulfilled, plus one more—the Mitzvah of Teshuvah.
I would go a step further. Not only is repentance meritorious, but sin itself can become meritorious. “Reish Laqish said: great is repentance, for because of it, even willful transgressions turn into merits.” (bYoma 86b) (Reish Laqish was a living example of his own teaching. He started out as a Roman gladiator, robber, and murderer, but converted to Judaism and become one of the great Rabbis of the Talmud.) How can sin ever be redemptive? The businesswoman who serves her time for embezzlement and devotes the rest of her life to philanthropy, the teenager, in remorse for his role in public bullying and hazing, who decides to become a high school guidance counselor as an adult—these are examples of good that can stem from evil. There is no doubt in my mind—and my closed friends and loved ones can attest to it—that I would not be a Rabbi today if not for the waywardness of my past.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting that we should go out and indulge in transgression. The teaching is not: “the righteous may not stand with the sinner.” The teaching is: “the righteous may not stand with the penitent.” After all, we all sin, so the teaching is aimed at all of us. It prompts us to look for ways—no matter what we have done, no matter how dark our past—to make our misdeeds count for good.
G’mar chatimah tovah, may you be sealed for a year of repentance and meritorious deeds,
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
“Rabbi Abahu said: in the place where the penitent stands, the perfectly righteous may not stand.” (bShabbat 34b) What is the basis for this beautiful, but counterintuitive, Talmudic teaching? According to one explanation, the righteous have it easier. They aren’t subjected to the usual vices, such as greed, envy, lust, and the like. But the sinner, whose moral constitution is weaker or who may have been subjected to greater temptations, must work harder to overcome them. The penitent has had the opportunity to fulfill all the Mitzvot that the righteous have fulfilled, plus one more—the Mitzvah of Teshuvah.
I would go a step further. Not only is repentance meritorious, but sin itself can become meritorious. “Reish Laqish said: great is repentance, for because of it, even willful transgressions turn into merits.” (bYoma 86b) (Reish Laqish was a living example of his own teaching. He started out as a Roman gladiator, robber, and murderer, but converted to Judaism and become one of the great Rabbis of the Talmud.) How can sin ever be redemptive? The businesswoman who serves her time for embezzlement and devotes the rest of her life to philanthropy, the teenager, in remorse for his role in public bullying and hazing, who decides to become a high school guidance counselor as an adult—these are examples of good that can stem from evil. There is no doubt in my mind—and my closed friends and loved ones can attest to it—that I would not be a Rabbi today if not for the waywardness of my past.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting that we should go out and indulge in transgression. The teaching is not: “the righteous may not stand with the sinner.” The teaching is: “the righteous may not stand with the penitent.” After all, we all sin, so the teaching is aimed at all of us. It prompts us to look for ways—no matter what we have done, no matter how dark our past—to make our misdeeds count for good.
G’mar chatimah tovah, may you be sealed for a year of repentance and meritorious deeds,
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
September 8, 2010: Giving and Taking
Dear Chevre (Friends):
Mussar is a quintessentially Jewish approach to moral self-improvement. More than merely a stream of literature that constitutes a substantial portion of the corpus of Jewish knowledge, Mussar designates an entire way of life. Its domain encompasses all supererogatory behavior going beyond the letter of Jewish law, including how we relate to one another in business, in community, and in our daily lives. A central tenet of Mussar is that cheshbon ha-nefesh (moral inventory) and teshuvah (repentance) are not relegated to the High Holiday season, but are practiced daily throughout the year.
Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, a teacher and practitioner of Mussar from England in the early twentieth century, produced a treatise on human relationships entitled Giving and Taking. “These two powers,” he wrote, “form the roots of all character-traits and all actions. And note: there is no middle way… Every person is devoted, at the deepest level of his personality, to one or the other of the two sides—either to lovingkindness and giving or to grasping and taking.” For R. Dessler, selfless giving engenders love within the giver’s heart. Although R. Dessler acknowledges that a certain amount of taking is necessary for society to function, he considers unchecked taking to be the source of most of the world’s evil. The goal of pious living is to minimize taking and maximize giving in all our affairs.
Chevre, on the cusp of the New Year, my heart is full of gratitude for the acts of giving within our community. The work of the Needs Assessment Committee is wrapping up, its report will be written and disseminated within days, but one thing is already clear: JCOGS has entered a new phase in its growth into a stable, mature institution. We are placing more diverse expectations and more formidable demands upon JCOGS then ever before. We cannot take from JCOGS unless we also give to JCOGS. I’ve heard it expressed recently that a handful of members keeps JCOGS running, but my experience in recent months tells me otherwise. The Needs Assessment process, the Cemetery development, the weekly Friday night services, the Mashgiach training, the Chesed Committee work, the Israeli Scouts Caravan, the Nearly New Sale, the Yiddish club, the book club, the “August anniversaries” service, the High Holiday services, the choir, the Bar/Bat Mitzvah training, the Religious School planning, the office management, the website administration, the Executive Committee and Board leadership, the events coordination, the beautiful improvements to our sanctuary and building—none of these activities could have taken place without the exertion of dozens of givers.
My blessing for JCOGS for 5771 is as follows: may it be a year of continued growth, prosperity—and giving.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Mussar is a quintessentially Jewish approach to moral self-improvement. More than merely a stream of literature that constitutes a substantial portion of the corpus of Jewish knowledge, Mussar designates an entire way of life. Its domain encompasses all supererogatory behavior going beyond the letter of Jewish law, including how we relate to one another in business, in community, and in our daily lives. A central tenet of Mussar is that cheshbon ha-nefesh (moral inventory) and teshuvah (repentance) are not relegated to the High Holiday season, but are practiced daily throughout the year.
Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, a teacher and practitioner of Mussar from England in the early twentieth century, produced a treatise on human relationships entitled Giving and Taking. “These two powers,” he wrote, “form the roots of all character-traits and all actions. And note: there is no middle way… Every person is devoted, at the deepest level of his personality, to one or the other of the two sides—either to lovingkindness and giving or to grasping and taking.” For R. Dessler, selfless giving engenders love within the giver’s heart. Although R. Dessler acknowledges that a certain amount of taking is necessary for society to function, he considers unchecked taking to be the source of most of the world’s evil. The goal of pious living is to minimize taking and maximize giving in all our affairs.
Chevre, on the cusp of the New Year, my heart is full of gratitude for the acts of giving within our community. The work of the Needs Assessment Committee is wrapping up, its report will be written and disseminated within days, but one thing is already clear: JCOGS has entered a new phase in its growth into a stable, mature institution. We are placing more diverse expectations and more formidable demands upon JCOGS then ever before. We cannot take from JCOGS unless we also give to JCOGS. I’ve heard it expressed recently that a handful of members keeps JCOGS running, but my experience in recent months tells me otherwise. The Needs Assessment process, the Cemetery development, the weekly Friday night services, the Mashgiach training, the Chesed Committee work, the Israeli Scouts Caravan, the Nearly New Sale, the Yiddish club, the book club, the “August anniversaries” service, the High Holiday services, the choir, the Bar/Bat Mitzvah training, the Religious School planning, the office management, the website administration, the Executive Committee and Board leadership, the events coordination, the beautiful improvements to our sanctuary and building—none of these activities could have taken place without the exertion of dozens of givers.
My blessing for JCOGS for 5771 is as follows: may it be a year of continued growth, prosperity—and giving.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
September 1, 2010: Free Will, Accountability, and the Morning Blessings
Dear Friends:
This is the season—the weeks and days leading up to Rosh Hashanah—that our tradition designates for personal moral inventory. How do we behave toward others, toward God, and toward ourselves? What do we need to do to make amends? The entire spiritual exercise of cheshbon ha-nefesh, literally, “a reckoning of the soul,” is predicated upon Judaism’s core doctrine of free will, the insistence that the essential characteristic of the human being is her capability to make moral decisions.
Free will elevates us above all other creatures. Animals must obey their instincts, but we can transcend ours. In the Rabbinic imagination, we are higher in glory even than the angels. An angel has no choice but to fulfill the purpose that God assigns; we have a choice. As Maimonides puts it, if a person were compelled by reason of her nature to pursue a particular course of action, “how could God have commanded us to improve our ways? What room would there be for the entire Torah?” (Laws of Repentance 5:4)
For this reason, Judaism tends to avoid the maxim of “turning the other cheek.” By ignoring another’s offense against us, we deny his freedom of moral action. By holding him accountable for his wrongdoings, we uphold his essential humanity. (Does this statement contradict what I wrote last week about the need to forgive? I think not. Forgiving someone does not entail letting him off the hook.)
In light of cheshbon ha-nefesh, I pray the daily Morning Blessings in a new light. “Blessed are You, God, for making me in Your image,”—that is, with the capacity to know right from wrong. “Blessed are you, God, for making me free,”—that is, for giving me free will. And, finally, “Blessed are you, God, for making me one of Israel,” according to the original etymology of the name—that is, “one who struggles with God.” Indeed, it is often a struggle to do the right thing. However, even within the struggle, there is blessing.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
This is the season—the weeks and days leading up to Rosh Hashanah—that our tradition designates for personal moral inventory. How do we behave toward others, toward God, and toward ourselves? What do we need to do to make amends? The entire spiritual exercise of cheshbon ha-nefesh, literally, “a reckoning of the soul,” is predicated upon Judaism’s core doctrine of free will, the insistence that the essential characteristic of the human being is her capability to make moral decisions.
Free will elevates us above all other creatures. Animals must obey their instincts, but we can transcend ours. In the Rabbinic imagination, we are higher in glory even than the angels. An angel has no choice but to fulfill the purpose that God assigns; we have a choice. As Maimonides puts it, if a person were compelled by reason of her nature to pursue a particular course of action, “how could God have commanded us to improve our ways? What room would there be for the entire Torah?” (Laws of Repentance 5:4)
For this reason, Judaism tends to avoid the maxim of “turning the other cheek.” By ignoring another’s offense against us, we deny his freedom of moral action. By holding him accountable for his wrongdoings, we uphold his essential humanity. (Does this statement contradict what I wrote last week about the need to forgive? I think not. Forgiving someone does not entail letting him off the hook.)
In light of cheshbon ha-nefesh, I pray the daily Morning Blessings in a new light. “Blessed are You, God, for making me in Your image,”—that is, with the capacity to know right from wrong. “Blessed are you, God, for making me free,”—that is, for giving me free will. And, finally, “Blessed are you, God, for making me one of Israel,” according to the original etymology of the name—that is, “one who struggles with God.” Indeed, it is often a struggle to do the right thing. However, even within the struggle, there is blessing.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
August 25, 2011: The Space Between Apology and Forgiveness
Dear Friends:
After 45 days in rehab following allegations of infidelity, golf pro Tiger Woods appeared before the television cameras to issue a brief, tightly scripted statement: “I know that I have bitterly disappointed all of you… For all that I have done, I am so sorry…” For many listeners, however, his words were vapid and disingenuous. One blogger wrote: “By spoon feeding the public, he decides what they need to hear. Tiger still plays by Tiger’s rules.” 59 days into the largest oil-spill disaster in American history, BP chief executive Tony Hayward said to Congress: “I am deeply sorry for the lost lives and environmental damage” from his company’s doomed offshore rig. He was met with widespread cynicism and anger. A typical reaction: “Too little, too late! He is saying as little as possible to appease the public, but feels no remorse whatsoever.”
Are some apologies too vain to be accepted? Are some wrongs too grave to be forgiven? I know of no more profound exploration of the twin moral imperatives, to apologize and to forgive, than Maimonides’s classic Laws of Repentance, for its penetrating psychological insight and spiritual guidance. Maimonides’s injunctions are decidedly varied in tone. At times, he goes to extremes to encourage the fallen sinner: “If a person transgressed all of his life, but repented on the day of his death, all his transgressions are pardoned, as it is written: ‘Until his dying day, You wait for him; if he returns, you will straightway receive him.’” Elsewhere, his admonishments can turn quite harsh: “Sleepers, awake from your sleep! Slumberers, rouse yourselves from your slumbers! Examine your actions and repent!” On the subject of apologies, he mandates: “One must not show herself cruel by not accepting an apology; she should be easily pacified, and provoked with difficulty. When an offender asks her forgiveness, she should forgive wholeheartedly and with a willing spirit. Even if he has caused her much trouble wrongfully, she must not avenge herself, she must not bear a grudge.” On the other hand: “One who makes a verbal confession without resolving in his heart to abandon his sin is like one who takes a ritual bath while grasping a defiling reptile. The bath is useless unless he first casts the reptile away.”
As we approach the High Holidays, the season of repentance, here’s what I would say to the offender: “Beware of empty words and vain promises. Better no apology at all than hypocrisy.” But to the injured party I would say: “Meet your perpetrator with compassion and forgiveness. Resentment will destroy you much sooner than it will touch him.”
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
After 45 days in rehab following allegations of infidelity, golf pro Tiger Woods appeared before the television cameras to issue a brief, tightly scripted statement: “I know that I have bitterly disappointed all of you… For all that I have done, I am so sorry…” For many listeners, however, his words were vapid and disingenuous. One blogger wrote: “By spoon feeding the public, he decides what they need to hear. Tiger still plays by Tiger’s rules.” 59 days into the largest oil-spill disaster in American history, BP chief executive Tony Hayward said to Congress: “I am deeply sorry for the lost lives and environmental damage” from his company’s doomed offshore rig. He was met with widespread cynicism and anger. A typical reaction: “Too little, too late! He is saying as little as possible to appease the public, but feels no remorse whatsoever.”
Are some apologies too vain to be accepted? Are some wrongs too grave to be forgiven? I know of no more profound exploration of the twin moral imperatives, to apologize and to forgive, than Maimonides’s classic Laws of Repentance, for its penetrating psychological insight and spiritual guidance. Maimonides’s injunctions are decidedly varied in tone. At times, he goes to extremes to encourage the fallen sinner: “If a person transgressed all of his life, but repented on the day of his death, all his transgressions are pardoned, as it is written: ‘Until his dying day, You wait for him; if he returns, you will straightway receive him.’” Elsewhere, his admonishments can turn quite harsh: “Sleepers, awake from your sleep! Slumberers, rouse yourselves from your slumbers! Examine your actions and repent!” On the subject of apologies, he mandates: “One must not show herself cruel by not accepting an apology; she should be easily pacified, and provoked with difficulty. When an offender asks her forgiveness, she should forgive wholeheartedly and with a willing spirit. Even if he has caused her much trouble wrongfully, she must not avenge herself, she must not bear a grudge.” On the other hand: “One who makes a verbal confession without resolving in his heart to abandon his sin is like one who takes a ritual bath while grasping a defiling reptile. The bath is useless unless he first casts the reptile away.”
As we approach the High Holidays, the season of repentance, here’s what I would say to the offender: “Beware of empty words and vain promises. Better no apology at all than hypocrisy.” But to the injured party I would say: “Meet your perpetrator with compassion and forgiveness. Resentment will destroy you much sooner than it will touch him.”
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
August 18, 2011: Is Islam Inherently Violent?
Dear Friends:
I am troubled by the vitriolic verbal attacks that some opponents of Park51, the planned Islamic community center near Ground Zero, are waging against Muslims. Arguments against the project’s completion seem to fall into three main categories: (1) sensitivity: it would rub salt into the still raw wounds of the grieving families (this is the Anti-Defamation League’s thinking); (2) symbolism: it would represent a triumphant victory for the terrorists; (3) security: it would compromise national sovereignty. I believe the first rationale to be a noble attempt to balance the general constitutional principle of freedom of religious expression against the personal emotional needs of the victims in this particular case. (As the ADL national director put it: “it is not a question of rights, it is a question of what is right.”) I believe the second and third positions to be based upon deep-seated fear and mistrust. (As one demonstrator’s placard read in the pages of last week’s issue of Newsweek: “Islam Kills!”)
I am not an expert on Islam or the Quran, but I have devoted myself to Jewish living and Jewish learning. I am aware that Judaism, like all the great world religions, is not monolithic, but comprises many groups. A few of these groups, I am ashamed to say, advocate and perpetuate violence against non-Jews. Even the Torah contains certain bellicose verses that call for the extermination of the enemies of Israel. I would not want those groups and those verses to define the Judaism that I practice and preach. I see as my Rabbinic role to present a valid Jewish alternative to fundamentalism—through my theology, through my interpretations of Scripture, through my endorsements, and through the way I conduct my life. It is not my role to counteract fundamentalism among Muslims, but I can surely promote those moderate imams who do. Ultimately, that is the reason why I support Park51.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
I am troubled by the vitriolic verbal attacks that some opponents of Park51, the planned Islamic community center near Ground Zero, are waging against Muslims. Arguments against the project’s completion seem to fall into three main categories: (1) sensitivity: it would rub salt into the still raw wounds of the grieving families (this is the Anti-Defamation League’s thinking); (2) symbolism: it would represent a triumphant victory for the terrorists; (3) security: it would compromise national sovereignty. I believe the first rationale to be a noble attempt to balance the general constitutional principle of freedom of religious expression against the personal emotional needs of the victims in this particular case. (As the ADL national director put it: “it is not a question of rights, it is a question of what is right.”) I believe the second and third positions to be based upon deep-seated fear and mistrust. (As one demonstrator’s placard read in the pages of last week’s issue of Newsweek: “Islam Kills!”)
I am not an expert on Islam or the Quran, but I have devoted myself to Jewish living and Jewish learning. I am aware that Judaism, like all the great world religions, is not monolithic, but comprises many groups. A few of these groups, I am ashamed to say, advocate and perpetuate violence against non-Jews. Even the Torah contains certain bellicose verses that call for the extermination of the enemies of Israel. I would not want those groups and those verses to define the Judaism that I practice and preach. I see as my Rabbinic role to present a valid Jewish alternative to fundamentalism—through my theology, through my interpretations of Scripture, through my endorsements, and through the way I conduct my life. It is not my role to counteract fundamentalism among Muslims, but I can surely promote those moderate imams who do. Ultimately, that is the reason why I support Park51.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
August 11, 2011: Entering Talmud
Dear Friends:
It’s here! My gift from JCOGS to celebrate my ordination, something I’ve wanted for a long, long time, has arrived—a smacking new 72-volume set of “the Schottenstein Talmud.” The Schottenstein Talmud is a great study tool—with a facsimile of the original Aramaic page on one side and a parallel line-by-line translation and explanation on the other. (Adult education class anyone?) I had purchased this edition for the JCOGS library several years ago from the Rabbi’s Discretionary Fund. Now we both have one! Many thanks, especially, to Patti Rubin for organizing this gift, as well as to Lisa Carrick and Ron Feinstein for their support.
Mei’eimatai qorin et Shema b’aravit? “From when does one recite Shema in the evening?” The first line of the Talmud surprises us with its prosaic delivery and commonplace, seemingly trifling concern. We would expect the grand, opening chords of a magnum opus, such as Maimonides’s stately, philosophical pronouncement: “The foundation of foundations and the pillar of wisdom is to know that there is a Primary Reality who brought into existence all that exists,” (Mishneh Torah 1:1) or the Torah’s magnificent declamation: “In the beginning God created heaven and earth.” (Genesis 1;1) Instead, the Talmud starts in medias res, presupposing a context in which the entire community is already actively living a rich religious life, which includes the recitation of the Shema twice daily.
And the subject matter? The Shema is appropriate enough, since it is the fundamental declaration of Judaism, but why start with the detail: “from when does one recite Shema in the evening?” The text’s oblique answer is even more surprising: “From the time when the Kohanim enter to eat of their Trumah.” Who are the Kohanim? The Temple priests of old. What is the Trumah? The sanctified food reserved for the priests, who could partake of it only when they were ritually pure. What does this have to do with the anything? Because, even if they had immersed in a ritual bath, the priests still had to wait until three stars appeared in the sky before they were declared ritually pure. If so, why didn’t the Talmud answer its own question about the proper time for the evening recital of the Shema much more straightforwardly: “When three stars appear in the sky?” The text must be inviting us to draw conclusions from its literary allusion to the priests and their actions.
See how quickly we are off to the races! The answer to one question, leads to another, which leads to another, and before we know it, we are performing the ancient endeavor known as talmud Torah, sacred study. The Talmud does not spoon-feed its information to us, like a manual, a textbook, an encyclopedia, or a code of law. Rather, it forces us to derive our own wisdom from its pages through active engagement. What profound wisdom does the Talmud impart already in its first two lines? Just this: when we live a Jewish life we spread holiness into the world, just as the priests of old spread holiness; we are nourished by prayer, just as the priests were nourished by Trumah; finally, we should purify ourselves emotionally and spiritually in the evening from the stresses of the day, just as the priests purified themselves in the ritual bath. These three points strike me as I study the passage today; who knows what I might glean tomorrow? And you might come up with something entirely different.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
It’s here! My gift from JCOGS to celebrate my ordination, something I’ve wanted for a long, long time, has arrived—a smacking new 72-volume set of “the Schottenstein Talmud.” The Schottenstein Talmud is a great study tool—with a facsimile of the original Aramaic page on one side and a parallel line-by-line translation and explanation on the other. (Adult education class anyone?) I had purchased this edition for the JCOGS library several years ago from the Rabbi’s Discretionary Fund. Now we both have one! Many thanks, especially, to Patti Rubin for organizing this gift, as well as to Lisa Carrick and Ron Feinstein for their support.
Mei’eimatai qorin et Shema b’aravit? “From when does one recite Shema in the evening?” The first line of the Talmud surprises us with its prosaic delivery and commonplace, seemingly trifling concern. We would expect the grand, opening chords of a magnum opus, such as Maimonides’s stately, philosophical pronouncement: “The foundation of foundations and the pillar of wisdom is to know that there is a Primary Reality who brought into existence all that exists,” (Mishneh Torah 1:1) or the Torah’s magnificent declamation: “In the beginning God created heaven and earth.” (Genesis 1;1) Instead, the Talmud starts in medias res, presupposing a context in which the entire community is already actively living a rich religious life, which includes the recitation of the Shema twice daily.
And the subject matter? The Shema is appropriate enough, since it is the fundamental declaration of Judaism, but why start with the detail: “from when does one recite Shema in the evening?” The text’s oblique answer is even more surprising: “From the time when the Kohanim enter to eat of their Trumah.” Who are the Kohanim? The Temple priests of old. What is the Trumah? The sanctified food reserved for the priests, who could partake of it only when they were ritually pure. What does this have to do with the anything? Because, even if they had immersed in a ritual bath, the priests still had to wait until three stars appeared in the sky before they were declared ritually pure. If so, why didn’t the Talmud answer its own question about the proper time for the evening recital of the Shema much more straightforwardly: “When three stars appear in the sky?” The text must be inviting us to draw conclusions from its literary allusion to the priests and their actions.
See how quickly we are off to the races! The answer to one question, leads to another, which leads to another, and before we know it, we are performing the ancient endeavor known as talmud Torah, sacred study. The Talmud does not spoon-feed its information to us, like a manual, a textbook, an encyclopedia, or a code of law. Rather, it forces us to derive our own wisdom from its pages through active engagement. What profound wisdom does the Talmud impart already in its first two lines? Just this: when we live a Jewish life we spread holiness into the world, just as the priests of old spread holiness; we are nourished by prayer, just as the priests were nourished by Trumah; finally, we should purify ourselves emotionally and spiritually in the evening from the stresses of the day, just as the priests purified themselves in the ritual bath. These three points strike me as I study the passage today; who knows what I might glean tomorrow? And you might come up with something entirely different.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
August 4, 2011: Israel and the Model Society
Dear Friends:
Who wasn’t energized and transported by the Israeli scouts’ rocking performance at JCOGS on Sunday evening? (Many thanks to Miriam Rosenbloom and Rita Schneps for bringing them to us.) Afterwards, their leader asked me about the composition of our community. I explained to her that as an unaffiliated organization, we try to cater to all our Jewish constituents, those with spiritual as well as social needs. The two groups do not necessarily always intersect, I said, but they both came together for the scouts’ performance—for which I thanked her. She laughed, because my characterization reminded her of the much starker split in Israeli society. She told me, for instance, that most Israelis are entirely ignorant of the international controversy over the Knesset bill regulating conversion, because they have already ceded control over religious matters to the Orthodox minority. In Israel, you are either dati, religious, or you are chiloni, secular; there is next to no in-between.
For the most part, the troupe presented a glowing, “feel good” vision of the Israeli landscape. Therefore, I was particularly grateful when they interjected a segment highlighting their social action on behalf of at-risk youth in poverty stricken Israeli communities. You see, I grew up with the idealistic Zionist image of Israel as a model society; to this day it still jars me to encounter the country’s social challenges. As I wrote a few weeks ago in this column, I do not believe in the State of Israel as the “first flowering of (Messianic) Redemption.” Nevertheless, the State of Israel may still retain theological significance. It is the only place in the world where the opportunity exists to live and interact according to the fundamental values of Judaism—not just in the home or synagogue, but on all levels of society. As David Hartman writes: “the Torah was not given at Sinai for a messianic society; it was meant to be implemented and developed with an unredeemed world.” (in: Contemporary Jewish Theology, p. 438) Strikingly, this week’s Torah portion drives home the very same point, when it proclaims the end to poverty in one breath, “there will never be any needy among you…,” (Deuteronomy 15:4) and legislates protection for the poor in the next: “if there is a needy person among you, then you must open your hand…” (Deuteronomy 15:7-8) Even Israel has its problems. Shouldn’t we address them as Jews?
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Who wasn’t energized and transported by the Israeli scouts’ rocking performance at JCOGS on Sunday evening? (Many thanks to Miriam Rosenbloom and Rita Schneps for bringing them to us.) Afterwards, their leader asked me about the composition of our community. I explained to her that as an unaffiliated organization, we try to cater to all our Jewish constituents, those with spiritual as well as social needs. The two groups do not necessarily always intersect, I said, but they both came together for the scouts’ performance—for which I thanked her. She laughed, because my characterization reminded her of the much starker split in Israeli society. She told me, for instance, that most Israelis are entirely ignorant of the international controversy over the Knesset bill regulating conversion, because they have already ceded control over religious matters to the Orthodox minority. In Israel, you are either dati, religious, or you are chiloni, secular; there is next to no in-between.
For the most part, the troupe presented a glowing, “feel good” vision of the Israeli landscape. Therefore, I was particularly grateful when they interjected a segment highlighting their social action on behalf of at-risk youth in poverty stricken Israeli communities. You see, I grew up with the idealistic Zionist image of Israel as a model society; to this day it still jars me to encounter the country’s social challenges. As I wrote a few weeks ago in this column, I do not believe in the State of Israel as the “first flowering of (Messianic) Redemption.” Nevertheless, the State of Israel may still retain theological significance. It is the only place in the world where the opportunity exists to live and interact according to the fundamental values of Judaism—not just in the home or synagogue, but on all levels of society. As David Hartman writes: “the Torah was not given at Sinai for a messianic society; it was meant to be implemented and developed with an unredeemed world.” (in: Contemporary Jewish Theology, p. 438) Strikingly, this week’s Torah portion drives home the very same point, when it proclaims the end to poverty in one breath, “there will never be any needy among you…,” (Deuteronomy 15:4) and legislates protection for the poor in the next: “if there is a needy person among you, then you must open your hand…” (Deuteronomy 15:7-8) Even Israel has its problems. Shouldn’t we address them as Jews?
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
July 28, 2011: Who is a Jew?
Dear Friends:
The bill for regulating conversion to Judaism in Israel, recently introduced into the Knesset (Israeli parliament), inflamed Jewish passions all over the world. The bill has stalled while the Knesset takes its summer break. Maybe we can take advantage of the interim to delve more deeply into some of the complex issues raised, including the conflict between Zionism (Jewish nationalism) and the principles of democracy, the relationship between Diaspora Jewry and Israeli Jewry, and, most fundamentally, the definition of the word “Jewish.” Regardless of the outcome of this latest instance of an ongoing controversy, one thing is certain—it will not definitively resolve the question: “who is a Jew?”
Jewish leaders have debated the nature of Jewish identity at least since the time of the Talmud. We can discern two opposing streams of thought in the classic Rabbinic literature. The first, exemplified by the Mishnah, views the Jewish people as a tribe whose members trace their lineage back to the patriarchs—literally “the children of Israel.” (mBikkurim 1:4) The second, exemplified by the Midrash, views Jewish peoplehood more expansively—anyone who chooses to “enter beneath the wings of the Shechinah (divine Presence)” is considered Jewish. (Midrash Tna’im on Deuteronomy, 26:3) This beautifully poetic phrase quotes directly from the Biblical Book of Ruth, whose heroine epitomizes righteous conversion. Strikingly, far from being a descendant of Israel, Ruth was a Moabite, Israel’s traditional archenemy.
The status of the convert is a crucial test case for what it means to be Jewish, and no issue gets under the skin quite like questions of personal identity. The same dichotomy of attitudes that prevailed during the Talmudic era still lies at the heart of the modern debate. We are a strange breed—not quite a nation, not quite a religion, but combining aspects of both. Whatever we are, our bonds of attachment lie deep and strong.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
The bill for regulating conversion to Judaism in Israel, recently introduced into the Knesset (Israeli parliament), inflamed Jewish passions all over the world. The bill has stalled while the Knesset takes its summer break. Maybe we can take advantage of the interim to delve more deeply into some of the complex issues raised, including the conflict between Zionism (Jewish nationalism) and the principles of democracy, the relationship between Diaspora Jewry and Israeli Jewry, and, most fundamentally, the definition of the word “Jewish.” Regardless of the outcome of this latest instance of an ongoing controversy, one thing is certain—it will not definitively resolve the question: “who is a Jew?”
Jewish leaders have debated the nature of Jewish identity at least since the time of the Talmud. We can discern two opposing streams of thought in the classic Rabbinic literature. The first, exemplified by the Mishnah, views the Jewish people as a tribe whose members trace their lineage back to the patriarchs—literally “the children of Israel.” (mBikkurim 1:4) The second, exemplified by the Midrash, views Jewish peoplehood more expansively—anyone who chooses to “enter beneath the wings of the Shechinah (divine Presence)” is considered Jewish. (Midrash Tna’im on Deuteronomy, 26:3) This beautifully poetic phrase quotes directly from the Biblical Book of Ruth, whose heroine epitomizes righteous conversion. Strikingly, far from being a descendant of Israel, Ruth was a Moabite, Israel’s traditional archenemy.
The status of the convert is a crucial test case for what it means to be Jewish, and no issue gets under the skin quite like questions of personal identity. The same dichotomy of attitudes that prevailed during the Talmudic era still lies at the heart of the modern debate. We are a strange breed—not quite a nation, not quite a religion, but combining aspects of both. Whatever we are, our bonds of attachment lie deep and strong.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
July 21, 2011: Exile as the Human Condition
Dear Friends:
We live in a state of exile. I don’t mean politically—after all, we Jews have our homeland back after nearly two thousand years. I mean existentially. As individuals and societies, we will always fall short of perfection. I will never solve all of my problems, and—let’s face it—the world will never be at peace.
I am writing these words on Tisha B’Av, which commemorates the destruction of the Temple and the concomitant loss of Jewish sovereignty. It was a strange thing when I was in Israel two summers ago to be mourning the destruction of Jerusalem on Tisha B’Av—from the Hass promenade, festooned with Israeli flags, overlooking the magnificent Old City. The scene was resplendent—a far cry from the desolation described in the Book of Lamentations. Some say that the State of Israel is reshit tzemichat ge’ulateinu, “the first flowering of our redemption,” but I do not believe that redemption works that way. Redemption, as a theological category, is an unattainable ideal.
The opening word of Lamentations is eichah, which means “how”: “how the lonely city sits—she that was once great with people!” In one of its typical wordplays, the Midrash notes that the very first instance of eichah in the Bible is ayeka, “where are you?,” which God called out to Adam and Eve as they tried to hide after eating from the forbidden tree. (Genesis 3:9) The first exile was not the Jewish exile from Jerusalem; the first exile was humanity’s exile from Eden.
I do not despair that we will never get back to Eden. What would we ever do there? No: I prefer a world with problems to solve and growth to achieve. Isn’t that what life is all about?
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
We live in a state of exile. I don’t mean politically—after all, we Jews have our homeland back after nearly two thousand years. I mean existentially. As individuals and societies, we will always fall short of perfection. I will never solve all of my problems, and—let’s face it—the world will never be at peace.
I am writing these words on Tisha B’Av, which commemorates the destruction of the Temple and the concomitant loss of Jewish sovereignty. It was a strange thing when I was in Israel two summers ago to be mourning the destruction of Jerusalem on Tisha B’Av—from the Hass promenade, festooned with Israeli flags, overlooking the magnificent Old City. The scene was resplendent—a far cry from the desolation described in the Book of Lamentations. Some say that the State of Israel is reshit tzemichat ge’ulateinu, “the first flowering of our redemption,” but I do not believe that redemption works that way. Redemption, as a theological category, is an unattainable ideal.
The opening word of Lamentations is eichah, which means “how”: “how the lonely city sits—she that was once great with people!” In one of its typical wordplays, the Midrash notes that the very first instance of eichah in the Bible is ayeka, “where are you?,” which God called out to Adam and Eve as they tried to hide after eating from the forbidden tree. (Genesis 3:9) The first exile was not the Jewish exile from Jerusalem; the first exile was humanity’s exile from Eden.
I do not despair that we will never get back to Eden. What would we ever do there? No: I prefer a world with problems to solve and growth to achieve. Isn’t that what life is all about?
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
July 14, 2011: The Bedtime Blessing
Dear Friends:
Last week, I talked about waking up. There is an inverse blessing for going to bed, called hamapil, similar to the hashkiveinu prayer that is embedded in the evening service. In contrast to the communal hashkiveinu, which is a general supplication for divine protection and peace, hamapil is personal, urgent, and, frankly, a bit hysterical: “illuminate my eyes lest I sleep the sleep of death, for You, O God, illuminate the pupil of the eye.” (In Hebrew, there is a gorgeous alliteration between the word for “sleep,” ishan, and the word for “pupil,” ishon.)
Our ancestors were, of course, worried about falling to sleep and never waking up. However, I can’t help thinking that there is a figurative meaning, as well, to “illuminate my eyes.” You see, the Rabbis taught that, before retiring at night, we should take a moral inventory of the day we just lived. If we discover something problematic in our behavior, we should seek forgiveness and resolve to do better. “Peace means more than quiet,” as our prayer book puts it. (page 63) “If we are to be at peace at night, we must take heed how we live by day.”
I confess that I am often so tired at night that I usually just plop into bed. It’s hard enough to brush my teeth, let alone pause long enough to recite hamapil. I must remind myself: deep, untroubled sleep is not the product of exhaustion; it is the product of a clear conscience.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Last week, I talked about waking up. There is an inverse blessing for going to bed, called hamapil, similar to the hashkiveinu prayer that is embedded in the evening service. In contrast to the communal hashkiveinu, which is a general supplication for divine protection and peace, hamapil is personal, urgent, and, frankly, a bit hysterical: “illuminate my eyes lest I sleep the sleep of death, for You, O God, illuminate the pupil of the eye.” (In Hebrew, there is a gorgeous alliteration between the word for “sleep,” ishan, and the word for “pupil,” ishon.)
Our ancestors were, of course, worried about falling to sleep and never waking up. However, I can’t help thinking that there is a figurative meaning, as well, to “illuminate my eyes.” You see, the Rabbis taught that, before retiring at night, we should take a moral inventory of the day we just lived. If we discover something problematic in our behavior, we should seek forgiveness and resolve to do better. “Peace means more than quiet,” as our prayer book puts it. (page 63) “If we are to be at peace at night, we must take heed how we live by day.”
I confess that I am often so tired at night that I usually just plop into bed. It’s hard enough to brush my teeth, let alone pause long enough to recite hamapil. I must remind myself: deep, untroubled sleep is not the product of exhaustion; it is the product of a clear conscience.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
July 7, 2011: The Dawn Blessings
Dear Friends:
Waking up in the morning, my partner walks through his garden and I go onto the lawn to face the sun (East) and recite the Dawn Blessings. (These days it’s already 70 degrees by 7 AM!) Each in his own way, we spiritually center ourselves before delving into the day’s agenda.
The fifteen Dawn Blessings correspond to the successive stages of waking up. “Blessed are You, Eternal God, Ruler of the universe, who opens the eyes of the blind”—when opening one’s eyes; “…who clothes the naked”—when changing out of one’s nightclothes (in ancient times, they used to do that under the covers out of modesty!); “…who frees the bound”—when stretching in bed; “…who raises the bent”—when sitting up in bed; “…who establishes dry ground upon the waters”—when setting one’s feet upon the floor; “…who has provided for all my needs”—when putting on one’s shoes; “…who sets out the heroic path”—when taking the first steps of the day; etc. Amazing! The liturgy imbues every natural human act with social, ethical, even cosmic significance from the very first moment of consciousness.
How will my own human actions today further the divine process?
Don’t wake up and immediately plunge into your day. Do you have time to take a shower or brush your teeth? Then you have time to count your blessings and remind yourself that you are a human being.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
Waking up in the morning, my partner walks through his garden and I go onto the lawn to face the sun (East) and recite the Dawn Blessings. (These days it’s already 70 degrees by 7 AM!) Each in his own way, we spiritually center ourselves before delving into the day’s agenda.
The fifteen Dawn Blessings correspond to the successive stages of waking up. “Blessed are You, Eternal God, Ruler of the universe, who opens the eyes of the blind”—when opening one’s eyes; “…who clothes the naked”—when changing out of one’s nightclothes (in ancient times, they used to do that under the covers out of modesty!); “…who frees the bound”—when stretching in bed; “…who raises the bent”—when sitting up in bed; “…who establishes dry ground upon the waters”—when setting one’s feet upon the floor; “…who has provided for all my needs”—when putting on one’s shoes; “…who sets out the heroic path”—when taking the first steps of the day; etc. Amazing! The liturgy imbues every natural human act with social, ethical, even cosmic significance from the very first moment of consciousness.
How will my own human actions today further the divine process?
Don’t wake up and immediately plunge into your day. Do you have time to take a shower or brush your teeth? Then you have time to count your blessings and remind yourself that you are a human being.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
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