LOVE GOD
This week’s Torah portion, Ve’atchenan, might be entitled “Judaism’s greatest hits,” because it contains some of the most fundamental proclamations of the Jewish faith: The Ten Commandments, the Shema, and the Ve’ahavta. This evening, I’d like to focus on the last directive: “You shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.” Many commentaries over the centuries, including the following passage from the Talmud, have sought to parse the three-fold prescription for loving God: “ ‘You shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.’ What does this mean? ‘With all thy heart’ means you shall love God with both your inclinations, with the yetzer tov, your good inclination, and the yetzer hara, your bad inclination. ‘With all thy soul’ means you shall love God even if it entails giving up your soul. ‘With all thy might’ means you shall love God with all of your worldly resources.” (mBerachot 9:5) However, the Me’or Einayim, an early Chassidic sage, asks a more basic question: how is it possible to love God to begin with? As he puts it: “how it is possible to love something whose essence is unknown (and unknowable)?” (Me’or Einayim, Va’etchanan)
The Me’or Einayim asks us to ponder the basic nature of love. Which is easier to love—the tangible or the intangible, the physical or the spiritual, a material object or a person? A person who is very close to me often teases me for my promiscuous use of the word “love” in casual conversation. I’ll say: “Oh, I love this arugula salad,” or “I love the porcelain I brought back from South Africa,” or even “I love Vermont,” or “I love Chloe (the cat),” and he’ll say: “How can you say you love all those things? You’re cheapening the word ‘love’ by applying it so widely.” This same person knows intimately my foibles and obsessions. He sees how I go into tizzy when I get a scratch on my new car or I shrink my new shirt in the dryer. He calls it idolatry. He says I worship things, and when I worship things, I am in violation of the Second Commandment: “you shall have no other gods before Me.”
How is it possible to love God, who is incorporeal, whom we cannot see, cannot touch, and cannot possess? Must we refrain from getting attached to worldly desires and acquisitions? Here is the Me’or Einayim’s astounding answer: “The world that the Holy One created has symbols through which we can apprehend that which the symbols represent. The symbols are all the carnal pleasures, such as eating, drinking, sex, and so on,” to which I would add: money, wealth, cherished possessions, and anything else that we claim to want. (As I think about it, maybe the Me’or Einayim did not extend his list to include items of monetary value because, in the shtetls of 18th century Poland, unlike 21st century America, nobody owned any valuable items!) The Me’or Einayim continues: “What is the basis for loving such a thing as eating, drinking, sex, [or a material object]? It is because every worldly desire is merely fallen love from the World of Love. Therefore, all the more so, shouldn’t you love the Lord your God, who is the Source of all desires?”
In other words, the way to love God is not by forsaking physical attachments in order to focus on the purely spiritual. To the contrary, the only way to know the spiritual is through the physical. Every creation on the earthly plane is a pale reflection of God, and every temporal craving is a pale reflection of the ultimate craving for God. The Me’or Einayim’s conception is reminiscent of Plato’s Theory of Forms, which posits a transcendent realm of abstract universals, of which all the variegated actualities of this world are but imperfect projections. If I love an arugula salad, or if I love a porcelain statuette from South Africa, it’s an attenuated love from the ethereal World of Love—but it’s still love. How else am I to know pure Love, except by extrapolating from the loves that I have already known?
The Me’or Einayim states: “The world that the Holy One created has symbols (in Hebrew: mashal), such as eating, drinking, sex, and so on, through which we can apprehend that which the symbols represent.” I struggled with how to translate the word mashal from the original Hebrew. I eventually came up with “symbol,” but mashal generally means “parable.” Shakespeare wrote: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” as if to say, the drama of our lives isn’t real, none of us are real, we’re each just playing assigned roles, and when the curtain falls, we’ll take off our masks and exit this world of fiction and illusion. The nursery rhyme “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat” expresses a similar sentiment: “life is but a dream,” that is to say, someday we will all wake up and realize that none of what we did or experienced in life amounted anything. In contrast, the Me’or Einayim invites us to view life not as a play, and not as a dream, but as a parable. A parable is a story that teaches a moral lesson. Imagine there were an Aesop’s fable that began: “once upon a time, there was a man named Brian…” Wouldn’t I want that fable to deliver an uplifting message? Wouldn’t I want the Brian in that fable to represent virtue, rather than vice? Wouldn’t I want the fabled Brian to love in a manner that was reflective of pure Love? It’s not that this world is myth, and there’s another world that’s reality. Rather, this world is reality, but there is another, ultimate reality that underlies this reality.
I woke up this morning pining after my cat, Chloe, who stopped eating and was rapidly losing weight. Now I am in tears, because I just learned she has severe kidney disease, and may have days to live. Am I a vain person to love a cat like that—a simple creature, no more consequential, in the scheme of things, than road kill on the highway? Am I a blameworthy person to yearn like that for a cat —when I just buried Jane last week, a beloved member of the congregation? No! I will not deny the pit in my stomach. I will not deny the hole in my heart. Besides, one love does not negate the other, and I know that Jane would forgive me (she loved dogs as if they were her own children). The prayer we read this evening for Maariv reads: “In all life, there is longing. Creation is itself but a longing, a kind of prayer to the Almighty. What are the clouds, the rising and the setting of the sun, the soft radiance of the moon, and the gentleness of the night? What are the flashes of the human mind and the storms of the human heart? They are all prayers—the outpouring of boundless longing for God.” (Siddur Hadash, p. 790) All desire, however profane, is a reflection of spiritual desire. All love, however banal, is a reflection of Divine Love.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
August 10, 2011: Tisha B'Av
TISHA B’AV AND THE JEWISH CALENDAR
In last week’s sermon, I mentioned the ingenious correspondence between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. This week, I’d like to focus directly on the Jewish ritual calendar itself. I used to think that the holidays were thrown together hodgepodge, that their positions and sequence during different seasons was an accident of history and tradition. If Hanukkah fell in the dead of winter, it was because the festival celebrated a military victory that happened to take place on the 25th of the month of Kislev. If Tisha B’Av came around at the height of summer, it was because it commemorated a specific historical tragedy, the destruction of the Temple, which happened to take place on the 9th of Av. In fact, however, the entire Jewish year is exquisitely designed and balanced. Not only do the holidays and festivals correlate with the seasons, they also correlate with each other. Let me describe how Tisha B’Av fits into the largest possible frame.
Tisha B’Av is a day of fasting and mourning. Its rituals mirror those of Shiva: shaving, bathing, wearing leather or jewelry, sexual relations, work, and even the study of Torah are all forbidden; mirrors are covered; adherents sit on the floor or low stools. Actually, Tisha B’Av marks the culmination of an escalating period of mourning that begins three weeks earlier, on the 16th of Tammuz. Throughout the three weeks, one may not get married and, according to Ashkenazi custom, one may not shave or cut one's hair. Beginning with the first day of Av, Ashkenazim refrain from eating meat, drinking wine, attending parties, going to the movies, etc.
Tisha B’Av is the nadir, the lowest point of sadness in a period of sadness. Like the lowest point of the tide, which ebbs to its fullest extent and begins to flow back, Tisha B’Av is also the turn-around point. A new period of uplift and renewal begins during the afternoon. Worshippers put on tallit and tefillin, sit in chairs, and begin to sing once again. The chanter repeats the climactic line of the Book of Lamentations using a new, upbeat trope in the major key: hashiveinu Adonai eileicha venashuvah, chadesh yameinu kekedem, “return us to You, O God, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.” Hashiveinu anticipates Teshuvah, the fundamental theme of the High Holidays, which is repentance. Hashiveinu becomes the refrain throughout the so-called “seven weeks of consolation,” which connects Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah. Thus, Tisha B’Av is the gateway to the High Holiday season.
How, exactly, does Tisha B’Av relate to Rosh Hashanah? The theological premise underlying Tisha B’Av is the idea that our unethical behavior as a people brought about our own demise. The Rabbis of the Talmudic era viewed all of Jewish history through the lens of our relationship with God. Historians may assert that Assyria, Babylonia, Greece and Rome conquered the Land of Israel (along with many other politically insignificant territories) due to their overwhelming might as the world superpowers of their day. For the Rabbis, these empires were merely agents of God’s will. I daresay most of us have trouble with the Rabbinic interpretation of history. However, think for a moment of its implication. According to the Rabbinic view, since we are responsible for the tragedies that befall us, it means that we also have the capability to overcome them. If the Talmudic sages, who witnessed the destruction of the Temple, had considered the Jewish nation as the unfortunate victim of history with no recourse, we would have expired as a people then and there. Instead, their insistence that we, not the Romans, were responsible for what happened to us rendered us the agents of our own future and ensured our survival. The Rabbinic insight that ethical behavior translates into real-world consequences—for better or for worse—provides the basic link between Tisha B’Av and the Rosh Hashanah. Mourning leads to introspection; introspection leads to atonement; atonement leads to moral improvement.
In This is Real, and You are Completely Unprepared, Rabbi Alan Lew traces the significance of Tisha B’Av beyond Rosh Hashanah, all the way to the end of Sukkot. I highly recommend this beautiful book for your High Holiday preparations. The entire period from Tisha B’Av through Sukkot is set aside for intense spiritual reflection and transformation, akin to Lent for Christians or Ramadan for Muslims. (By the way, the month of Ramadan is taking place right now.) Two contrasting structures bracket the extended time frame. The Holy Temple, built of stone, but destroyed, marks its beginning; the Sukkah, built from flimsy material and open to the elements, marks its end. Rabbi Lew derives great symbolic meaning from the juxtaposition of these two frameworks. Paradoxically, there is no permanence in that which is meant to last, the great Temple of Jerusalem, but there is true permanence in that which is meant not to last, the dwelling booths of the wilderness. The most enduring human constructs are precisely those creations that are the least material.
Finally, we can extend the meaning of Tisha B’Av within the largest possible time frame, the annual seasons of the natural world. In the fullness of summer, when the earth basks in luxurious warmth, we might be tempted to forget that anything can come along to disturb our ease and tranquility. Like the glass that the groom shatters underfoot at the climax of the wedding ceremony, Tisha B’Av comes along to remind us that we are not invincible. Conversely, in the dead of winter, when all of nature lies dormant beneath the snows, we might give up hope that we will ever arise again from gloom and despair. In the darkest moment, Hanukkah arrives to remind us that light will shine again. Tisha B’Av, calling to mind the destruction of the Temple, and Hanukkah, marking its rededication, are opposite poles on the same spectrum. Thus, the Jewish holidays, and Tisha B’Av in particular, reinforce the paradoxical yin yang of human existence.
In last week’s sermon, I mentioned the ingenious correspondence between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. This week, I’d like to focus directly on the Jewish ritual calendar itself. I used to think that the holidays were thrown together hodgepodge, that their positions and sequence during different seasons was an accident of history and tradition. If Hanukkah fell in the dead of winter, it was because the festival celebrated a military victory that happened to take place on the 25th of the month of Kislev. If Tisha B’Av came around at the height of summer, it was because it commemorated a specific historical tragedy, the destruction of the Temple, which happened to take place on the 9th of Av. In fact, however, the entire Jewish year is exquisitely designed and balanced. Not only do the holidays and festivals correlate with the seasons, they also correlate with each other. Let me describe how Tisha B’Av fits into the largest possible frame.
Tisha B’Av is a day of fasting and mourning. Its rituals mirror those of Shiva: shaving, bathing, wearing leather or jewelry, sexual relations, work, and even the study of Torah are all forbidden; mirrors are covered; adherents sit on the floor or low stools. Actually, Tisha B’Av marks the culmination of an escalating period of mourning that begins three weeks earlier, on the 16th of Tammuz. Throughout the three weeks, one may not get married and, according to Ashkenazi custom, one may not shave or cut one's hair. Beginning with the first day of Av, Ashkenazim refrain from eating meat, drinking wine, attending parties, going to the movies, etc.
Tisha B’Av is the nadir, the lowest point of sadness in a period of sadness. Like the lowest point of the tide, which ebbs to its fullest extent and begins to flow back, Tisha B’Av is also the turn-around point. A new period of uplift and renewal begins during the afternoon. Worshippers put on tallit and tefillin, sit in chairs, and begin to sing once again. The chanter repeats the climactic line of the Book of Lamentations using a new, upbeat trope in the major key: hashiveinu Adonai eileicha venashuvah, chadesh yameinu kekedem, “return us to You, O God, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.” Hashiveinu anticipates Teshuvah, the fundamental theme of the High Holidays, which is repentance. Hashiveinu becomes the refrain throughout the so-called “seven weeks of consolation,” which connects Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah. Thus, Tisha B’Av is the gateway to the High Holiday season.
How, exactly, does Tisha B’Av relate to Rosh Hashanah? The theological premise underlying Tisha B’Av is the idea that our unethical behavior as a people brought about our own demise. The Rabbis of the Talmudic era viewed all of Jewish history through the lens of our relationship with God. Historians may assert that Assyria, Babylonia, Greece and Rome conquered the Land of Israel (along with many other politically insignificant territories) due to their overwhelming might as the world superpowers of their day. For the Rabbis, these empires were merely agents of God’s will. I daresay most of us have trouble with the Rabbinic interpretation of history. However, think for a moment of its implication. According to the Rabbinic view, since we are responsible for the tragedies that befall us, it means that we also have the capability to overcome them. If the Talmudic sages, who witnessed the destruction of the Temple, had considered the Jewish nation as the unfortunate victim of history with no recourse, we would have expired as a people then and there. Instead, their insistence that we, not the Romans, were responsible for what happened to us rendered us the agents of our own future and ensured our survival. The Rabbinic insight that ethical behavior translates into real-world consequences—for better or for worse—provides the basic link between Tisha B’Av and the Rosh Hashanah. Mourning leads to introspection; introspection leads to atonement; atonement leads to moral improvement.
In This is Real, and You are Completely Unprepared, Rabbi Alan Lew traces the significance of Tisha B’Av beyond Rosh Hashanah, all the way to the end of Sukkot. I highly recommend this beautiful book for your High Holiday preparations. The entire period from Tisha B’Av through Sukkot is set aside for intense spiritual reflection and transformation, akin to Lent for Christians or Ramadan for Muslims. (By the way, the month of Ramadan is taking place right now.) Two contrasting structures bracket the extended time frame. The Holy Temple, built of stone, but destroyed, marks its beginning; the Sukkah, built from flimsy material and open to the elements, marks its end. Rabbi Lew derives great symbolic meaning from the juxtaposition of these two frameworks. Paradoxically, there is no permanence in that which is meant to last, the great Temple of Jerusalem, but there is true permanence in that which is meant not to last, the dwelling booths of the wilderness. The most enduring human constructs are precisely those creations that are the least material.
Finally, we can extend the meaning of Tisha B’Av within the largest possible time frame, the annual seasons of the natural world. In the fullness of summer, when the earth basks in luxurious warmth, we might be tempted to forget that anything can come along to disturb our ease and tranquility. Like the glass that the groom shatters underfoot at the climax of the wedding ceremony, Tisha B’Av comes along to remind us that we are not invincible. Conversely, in the dead of winter, when all of nature lies dormant beneath the snows, we might give up hope that we will ever arise again from gloom and despair. In the darkest moment, Hanukkah arrives to remind us that light will shine again. Tisha B’Av, calling to mind the destruction of the Temple, and Hanukkah, marking its rededication, are opposite poles on the same spectrum. Thus, the Jewish holidays, and Tisha B’Av in particular, reinforce the paradoxical yin yang of human existence.
August 3, 2011: Israel
THE PEOPLE OF ISRAEL AND THE LAND OF ISRAEL
This evening, I am going to stray from my usual subject matter. My favorite topics for sermonizing tend to deal with personal spiritual growth. Occasionally, they might address a current social or political issue, viewing it through a Jewish lens without, I hope, necessarily taking sides. However, there is one area of discourse that I generally don’t touch with a ten-foot pole, which is the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel is, indeed, the elephant in the middle of the room—always on our minds, but never discussed openly in mixed company without generating fireworks. The invisible rifts are only going to deepen and widen as we all become more entrenched in our polarized positions. Despite my fears of splitting our generally cohesive community over one hot-button issue, shouldn’t I, from time to time, express something more substantial regarding a deeply Jewish issue about which we all care so deeply, besides the concordant, but somewhat anodyne, “prayer for peace,” which we all desire? This evening, therefore, I’d like to offer two closely related perspectives on the relationship between us, as Jews, and the land of Israel to which we are tied so closely—one, Talmudic, and the other, Biblical.
This Shabbat falls right in the middle of the period between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av, known as the three “Weeks of the Destruction” (Shavuot ha-Churban). The 17th of Tammuz commemorates the date when the Roman legions first breached the outer walls of Jerusalem; three weeks later, on the 9th of Av, they finally reached the Temple and set it ablaze. According to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed because of gratuitous hatred (sin’at chinam) among the people. (bYoma 9a) Throughout history from Biblical until modern times, the concept of am Yisra’eil has shaped how we Jews think of ourselves—the notion that no matter where we live, what language we speak, what theology we believe, what observances we follow, we still constitute one nation, the Nation of Israel, bound together by a common heritage, bound together by covenant. Only, as the Roman enemy gathered forces to invade the province of Palestine, they found the resident population torn apart by civil war: one Jewish faction pitted against the other, the Pharisees against the Sadducees, the Zealots against both Pharisees and Sadducees, and the Sicarii against everyone else. The Jewish inhabitants forgot that they were am Yisra’eil, one nation, and for this, according to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed.
I am forever amazed at the uncanny correlation at different times during the year between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. The three Torah portions that correspond to the three Weeks of the Destruction describe the initial Israelite conquest of the Promised Land that will take place under Joshua. Matot, last week’s portion, deals with the Israelite settlements east of the Jordan; Mas’ei, this week’s portion, delineates the boundaries of the Israelite territory and its internal division into tribal allotments; Devarim, which we’ll read next week, concerns coming into the Land and occupying it. At the center of the nearly continuous narrative of conquest and occupation—in fact, at the center of this week’s Torah portion—the text interrupts itself with commandments regarding cases of murder and bloodshed that may arise among the Israelites in their newly settled Land. The intervening passage culminates with the following harsh warning: “You shall not pollute the land in which you live; for blood pollutes the land, and the land shall have no atonement for blood that is shed upon it… You shall not profane the land in which you settle, and in which I dwell, because I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” (Numbers 33:33-34)
From the Biblical perspective, the claim of the People of Israel to the Land of Israel is not unconditional. God refers to the land that the Israelites will settle as “the land in which I dwell,” asher ani shochein betocha. The word shochein is related to “Shechinah.” At first glance, it appears that the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, inheres within the Holy Land. Indeed, many Jews experience a special sense of homecoming when they first arrive in Israel, even if they’ve never been there before. However, the Torah verse continues: “because, I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” Focusing on the verse’s conclusion, “in the midst of the children of Israel,” the medieval commentator Ibn Ezra writes: “thus we see that the commandment not to pollute the Land is not a commandment about the Land, but a commandment about the people. The People are holy, not the Land.” Ibn Ezra makes clear that the protective presence of God among the People and, thus, the People’s continued presence upon the Land, are both contingent upon the People’s holiness.
Every year on this Shabbat, two narratives convey similar lessons. From the Torah, we learn that the Israelites’ prerogative to settle the Promised Land is related to their ethical conduct. As the great twentieth century Israeli intellectual Yeshayahu Leibowitz discusses in his Torah commentary: “Now we see why the injunction against contaminating the Land through violence and bloodshed is embedded in the story of its conquest and settlement. The people may remain in the Land only as long as they hew to their fundamental mission to be a holy nation.” (Chagei Yisra’eil u-Mo’adav, p. 123-125) From the annals of history, we learn that it actually happened that the people were exiled because they descended into fractious violence. Here’s how I would combine the Biblical and historical lessons to apply to us today. We are first of all Jews. We are settlers in the Land of Israel only second. The second is dependent upon the first. We must remain unified as Jews, and we must adhere to the highest ethical principles of Judaism, or else we will lose not only our unity and our ethics, but our Land as well. As our internal discussions about the future of the State of Israel and its relations with the Palestinians become more passionate and more intense, above all else, let us adhere to our collective identity as am Yisra’eil, a People bound together and dedicated to the primary mission of living a life of holiness, so that we may continue to dwell in the Land, and so that the Shechinah may continue to dwell among us.
This evening, I am going to stray from my usual subject matter. My favorite topics for sermonizing tend to deal with personal spiritual growth. Occasionally, they might address a current social or political issue, viewing it through a Jewish lens without, I hope, necessarily taking sides. However, there is one area of discourse that I generally don’t touch with a ten-foot pole, which is the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel is, indeed, the elephant in the middle of the room—always on our minds, but never discussed openly in mixed company without generating fireworks. The invisible rifts are only going to deepen and widen as we all become more entrenched in our polarized positions. Despite my fears of splitting our generally cohesive community over one hot-button issue, shouldn’t I, from time to time, express something more substantial regarding a deeply Jewish issue about which we all care so deeply, besides the concordant, but somewhat anodyne, “prayer for peace,” which we all desire? This evening, therefore, I’d like to offer two closely related perspectives on the relationship between us, as Jews, and the land of Israel to which we are tied so closely—one, Talmudic, and the other, Biblical.
This Shabbat falls right in the middle of the period between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av, known as the three “Weeks of the Destruction” (Shavuot ha-Churban). The 17th of Tammuz commemorates the date when the Roman legions first breached the outer walls of Jerusalem; three weeks later, on the 9th of Av, they finally reached the Temple and set it ablaze. According to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed because of gratuitous hatred (sin’at chinam) among the people. (bYoma 9a) Throughout history from Biblical until modern times, the concept of am Yisra’eil has shaped how we Jews think of ourselves—the notion that no matter where we live, what language we speak, what theology we believe, what observances we follow, we still constitute one nation, the Nation of Israel, bound together by a common heritage, bound together by covenant. Only, as the Roman enemy gathered forces to invade the province of Palestine, they found the resident population torn apart by civil war: one Jewish faction pitted against the other, the Pharisees against the Sadducees, the Zealots against both Pharisees and Sadducees, and the Sicarii against everyone else. The Jewish inhabitants forgot that they were am Yisra’eil, one nation, and for this, according to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed.
I am forever amazed at the uncanny correlation at different times during the year between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. The three Torah portions that correspond to the three Weeks of the Destruction describe the initial Israelite conquest of the Promised Land that will take place under Joshua. Matot, last week’s portion, deals with the Israelite settlements east of the Jordan; Mas’ei, this week’s portion, delineates the boundaries of the Israelite territory and its internal division into tribal allotments; Devarim, which we’ll read next week, concerns coming into the Land and occupying it. At the center of the nearly continuous narrative of conquest and occupation—in fact, at the center of this week’s Torah portion—the text interrupts itself with commandments regarding cases of murder and bloodshed that may arise among the Israelites in their newly settled Land. The intervening passage culminates with the following harsh warning: “You shall not pollute the land in which you live; for blood pollutes the land, and the land shall have no atonement for blood that is shed upon it… You shall not profane the land in which you settle, and in which I dwell, because I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” (Numbers 33:33-34)
From the Biblical perspective, the claim of the People of Israel to the Land of Israel is not unconditional. God refers to the land that the Israelites will settle as “the land in which I dwell,” asher ani shochein betocha. The word shochein is related to “Shechinah.” At first glance, it appears that the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, inheres within the Holy Land. Indeed, many Jews experience a special sense of homecoming when they first arrive in Israel, even if they’ve never been there before. However, the Torah verse continues: “because, I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” Focusing on the verse’s conclusion, “in the midst of the children of Israel,” the medieval commentator Ibn Ezra writes: “thus we see that the commandment not to pollute the Land is not a commandment about the Land, but a commandment about the people. The People are holy, not the Land.” Ibn Ezra makes clear that the protective presence of God among the People and, thus, the People’s continued presence upon the Land, are both contingent upon the People’s holiness.
Every year on this Shabbat, two narratives convey similar lessons. From the Torah, we learn that the Israelites’ prerogative to settle the Promised Land is related to their ethical conduct. As the great twentieth century Israeli intellectual Yeshayahu Leibowitz discusses in his Torah commentary: “Now we see why the injunction against contaminating the Land through violence and bloodshed is embedded in the story of its conquest and settlement. The people may remain in the Land only as long as they hew to their fundamental mission to be a holy nation.” (Chagei Yisra’eil u-Mo’adav, p. 123-125) From the annals of history, we learn that it actually happened that the people were exiled because they descended into fractious violence. Here’s how I would combine the Biblical and historical lessons to apply to us today. We are first of all Jews. We are settlers in the Land of Israel only second. The second is dependent upon the first. We must remain unified as Jews, and we must adhere to the highest ethical principles of Judaism, or else we will lose not only our unity and our ethics, but our Land as well. As our internal discussions about the future of the State of Israel and its relations with the Palestinians become more passionate and more intense, above all else, let us adhere to our collective identity as am Yisra’eil, a People bound together and dedicated to the primary mission of living a life of holiness, so that we may continue to dwell in the Land, and so that the Shechinah may continue to dwell among us.
July 27, 2011: Vows
VOWS
Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution? Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution and kept it? Now for an even more uncomfortable question: have you ever made a resolution to a spouse or loved one, and violated it? What were the consequences?
This week’s Torah portion Matot begins: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” (Numbers 30:3) Lo yacheil devaro; “he shall not break his word.” Yacheil is related to the word chol, which means “profane,” as opposed to qadosh, “holy.” For example, Shabbat is called qadosh, and the work week is chol. Lo yacheil really means: “he shall not profane, he shall not defile, that which is sacred.” Our word is sacred. Our speech is holy. Violating our speech is profanity.
Making promises to begin with is serious business. It’s the reason for the solemnity of the Kol Nidre prayer, placed at the top of the liturgy for the Day of Atonement. It’s the reason for the habit of pious Jews to mutter bli neder under their breath whenever they say they’re going to do something, because they’re so afraid to express an untruth. For example, one might tell a friend: “I’ll meet you for coffee at Harvest Market tomorrow morning at 9, bli neder.” It’s the reason why one of my Rabbinic colleagues vociferously protests against the declaration of wedding vows in a Jewish ceremony. He writes: “There are no wedding vows in Judaism, and the use of that term is a major red flag to me. The Jewish construct of marriage is contractual, not ‘vow-able.’ I understand that it is emotionally powerful to make a pledge to ‘love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part…,’ but I have come to the conclusion that such statements are halachically forbidden. Nobody can promise to feel a certain way, or even to act a certain way in all circumstances. The only honest commitment we can make is to try to act a certain way in the future, and the only honest statement we can make is about our current hopes and desires. That's why the ketubah is a contract and not a vow.”
“If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul…” The Hebrew word for vow is neder, as in “Kol Nidre;” the Hebrew word for oath is shevu’ah. The Talmud distinguishes the two terms as follows: a neder is a pledge upon a material object, whereas a shevu’ah is a pledge upon oneself. So, for example, if you say: “I promise never to drink more than one vodka per night,” that’s a neder, a vow regarding a material substance, but if you say to your parent: “I promise to say kaddish for you every day for the full halachically ordained period of eleven months,” that’s a shevu’ah, an oath regarding personal behavior. One can also make the distinction between a negative promise, i.e., the vow to abstain from vodka, and a positive promise, i.e. the oath to say kaddish. Finally, one can make the distinction between a pledge that involves nobody else besides God, or conscience—the vow to abstain from vodka—and a pledge that involves other people—the oath to say kaddish. Just as the Day of Atonement only absolves personal transgressions against God and cannot absolve interpersonal transgressions until the transgressor has sought forgiveness from the injured parties and made restitution, so, too, Kol Nidre only annuls vows made to God and cannot annul oaths made to other individuals.
The question arises, given that the consequences of breaking a promise are so grave, why doesn’t the Torah prohibit promises altogether? It could have contained the categorical commandment: “you shall not make a vow to God or swear an oath that binds an obligation upon your soul,” period. The answer is that oral pledges are useful and even necessary in society. An oath to another person to perform a task or fulfill a responsibility engenders trust and good will. A witness’s sworn testimony in a court of law underlies the reliability of the entire legal system. A vow to oneself can induce proper behavior and self-improvement, such as the vow to go on a diet or go to the gym, or, in the religious sphere, to study Torah every week or lay tefillin every day. Concerning such personal pledges, Maimonides writes: “when a person undertakes vows in order to establish her character or correct her conduct, she is considered eager and praiseworthy.” (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Nedarim 13:23)
On the other hand, the Rabbis generally take a dim view of self-imposed obligation and excessive piety: “are not the Torah’s prohibitions enough for you that you come to add other prohibitions?!” (Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 41b) Jewish tradition treats speech the way it considers food, sex, and all other elements of proper human functioning—as necessary, God-given gifts, but nevertheless in need of regulation. For Maimonides, the overriding principle is balance—enjoyment from food and drink, but not overindulgence, pleasure from sexual relations, but only with one’s spouse, chatter and casual conversation, but not gossip, slander, or deceit. With regard to vows, he concludes: “although they may be in service to God, a person should not take too many. Instead one should abstain from those things from which one should abstain, and perform those things one should perform, without taking a vow.” (Hilchot Nedarim 13;24)
In Chassidic thought, the naked human soul is pure, but in order to function in the world, it is clothed in three layers. The innermost layer, closest to the soul, is the garment of thought; the outermost layer, exposed to external reality, is the garment of deeds; in between lies the middle layer, the garment of speech. Our speech separates our thoughts from our deeds, and yet, it is the medium that connects them as well. We can say one thing, and do another. We can certainly think one thing, and say another at the same time. However, righteous living entails alignment among the three garments of the soul, that deeds may match our speech, and our words may match our thoughts. In light of the Chassidic conception, let’s take one final look at the verse from our Torah portion: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” It’s instructive that a false declaration becomes a broken promise only when it passes one’s lips, only when it rises to the level of verbal articulation; a mental resolve or intention has no binding force. The passage recognizes that is enormously difficult, if not impossible, to control what goes on inside our heads, but we can certainly control what comes out of our mouths. In terms of the three garments of the soul, we may be ultimately striving for harmony, but in the meantime, let’s concern ourselves most of all with the outermost garments. It is through our words and through our deeds that we present ourselves to the world; it is by our words and by our deeds that we will be judged.
Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution? Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution and kept it? Now for an even more uncomfortable question: have you ever made a resolution to a spouse or loved one, and violated it? What were the consequences?
This week’s Torah portion Matot begins: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” (Numbers 30:3) Lo yacheil devaro; “he shall not break his word.” Yacheil is related to the word chol, which means “profane,” as opposed to qadosh, “holy.” For example, Shabbat is called qadosh, and the work week is chol. Lo yacheil really means: “he shall not profane, he shall not defile, that which is sacred.” Our word is sacred. Our speech is holy. Violating our speech is profanity.
Making promises to begin with is serious business. It’s the reason for the solemnity of the Kol Nidre prayer, placed at the top of the liturgy for the Day of Atonement. It’s the reason for the habit of pious Jews to mutter bli neder under their breath whenever they say they’re going to do something, because they’re so afraid to express an untruth. For example, one might tell a friend: “I’ll meet you for coffee at Harvest Market tomorrow morning at 9, bli neder.” It’s the reason why one of my Rabbinic colleagues vociferously protests against the declaration of wedding vows in a Jewish ceremony. He writes: “There are no wedding vows in Judaism, and the use of that term is a major red flag to me. The Jewish construct of marriage is contractual, not ‘vow-able.’ I understand that it is emotionally powerful to make a pledge to ‘love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part…,’ but I have come to the conclusion that such statements are halachically forbidden. Nobody can promise to feel a certain way, or even to act a certain way in all circumstances. The only honest commitment we can make is to try to act a certain way in the future, and the only honest statement we can make is about our current hopes and desires. That's why the ketubah is a contract and not a vow.”
“If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul…” The Hebrew word for vow is neder, as in “Kol Nidre;” the Hebrew word for oath is shevu’ah. The Talmud distinguishes the two terms as follows: a neder is a pledge upon a material object, whereas a shevu’ah is a pledge upon oneself. So, for example, if you say: “I promise never to drink more than one vodka per night,” that’s a neder, a vow regarding a material substance, but if you say to your parent: “I promise to say kaddish for you every day for the full halachically ordained period of eleven months,” that’s a shevu’ah, an oath regarding personal behavior. One can also make the distinction between a negative promise, i.e., the vow to abstain from vodka, and a positive promise, i.e. the oath to say kaddish. Finally, one can make the distinction between a pledge that involves nobody else besides God, or conscience—the vow to abstain from vodka—and a pledge that involves other people—the oath to say kaddish. Just as the Day of Atonement only absolves personal transgressions against God and cannot absolve interpersonal transgressions until the transgressor has sought forgiveness from the injured parties and made restitution, so, too, Kol Nidre only annuls vows made to God and cannot annul oaths made to other individuals.
The question arises, given that the consequences of breaking a promise are so grave, why doesn’t the Torah prohibit promises altogether? It could have contained the categorical commandment: “you shall not make a vow to God or swear an oath that binds an obligation upon your soul,” period. The answer is that oral pledges are useful and even necessary in society. An oath to another person to perform a task or fulfill a responsibility engenders trust and good will. A witness’s sworn testimony in a court of law underlies the reliability of the entire legal system. A vow to oneself can induce proper behavior and self-improvement, such as the vow to go on a diet or go to the gym, or, in the religious sphere, to study Torah every week or lay tefillin every day. Concerning such personal pledges, Maimonides writes: “when a person undertakes vows in order to establish her character or correct her conduct, she is considered eager and praiseworthy.” (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Nedarim 13:23)
On the other hand, the Rabbis generally take a dim view of self-imposed obligation and excessive piety: “are not the Torah’s prohibitions enough for you that you come to add other prohibitions?!” (Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 41b) Jewish tradition treats speech the way it considers food, sex, and all other elements of proper human functioning—as necessary, God-given gifts, but nevertheless in need of regulation. For Maimonides, the overriding principle is balance—enjoyment from food and drink, but not overindulgence, pleasure from sexual relations, but only with one’s spouse, chatter and casual conversation, but not gossip, slander, or deceit. With regard to vows, he concludes: “although they may be in service to God, a person should not take too many. Instead one should abstain from those things from which one should abstain, and perform those things one should perform, without taking a vow.” (Hilchot Nedarim 13;24)
In Chassidic thought, the naked human soul is pure, but in order to function in the world, it is clothed in three layers. The innermost layer, closest to the soul, is the garment of thought; the outermost layer, exposed to external reality, is the garment of deeds; in between lies the middle layer, the garment of speech. Our speech separates our thoughts from our deeds, and yet, it is the medium that connects them as well. We can say one thing, and do another. We can certainly think one thing, and say another at the same time. However, righteous living entails alignment among the three garments of the soul, that deeds may match our speech, and our words may match our thoughts. In light of the Chassidic conception, let’s take one final look at the verse from our Torah portion: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” It’s instructive that a false declaration becomes a broken promise only when it passes one’s lips, only when it rises to the level of verbal articulation; a mental resolve or intention has no binding force. The passage recognizes that is enormously difficult, if not impossible, to control what goes on inside our heads, but we can certainly control what comes out of our mouths. In terms of the three garments of the soul, we may be ultimately striving for harmony, but in the meantime, let’s concern ourselves most of all with the outermost garments. It is through our words and through our deeds that we present ourselves to the world; it is by our words and by our deeds that we will be judged.
July 20, 2011: The Reward of a Mitzvah
THE REWARD OF A MITZVAH
A famous Rabbinic quotation from Ethics of the Fathers reads: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah.” I always took this saying to mean that deeds feed on themselves—for better of for worse. We get into routines; we get into ruts. If we bend the rules in one instance, then the next time, we may go a little further, until we have flagrantly transgressed. However, if we go out of our way for someone once, it’s easier to do so again, until pretty soon we are habitually helpful. This week, I read an exquisite teaching of the Me’or Einayim, one of the earliest Chasidic sages. The Me’or Einayim interprets the Rabbinic saying differently. He writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. This means that the commandment is rewarded by the [pleasure] that the one who performs it feels, the joy of spirit that lies within the deed.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 4)
Recently, a member of our Chesed Committee went to see a JCOGS member in rehab. She reported back to the group: “My visit yesterday was the quintessential experience of doing something that you hope will benefit another, when it turns out that, in the end, you benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased that I went.” It got me to thinking: why did I become a Rabbi anyway? Leading the congregation for Ne’ilah, my favorite worship service of the year—what a thrill, what a rush (particularly on an empty stomach)! Then there are the quieter occasions, the moments of immense satisfaction when someone in pain reaches out to me for help. Would I be doing this if I didn’t love it? I mentioned these musings to my Rabbinic colleague and best friend. She replied: “My twenty-year-old son, cynical college student that he is, maintains that there’s no such thing as true altruism. There’s always an ulterior motive.” She paused, and then added: “I think it’s because he’s never really been in love yet.” “How will you know?” I asked. “The day he gives a gift to his girlfriend and, rather than priding himself on the gift itself, he takes pleasure in the look on her face as she unwraps it, that’s when I’ll know.” “Yes, but it’s still taking personal pleasure, so it’s still not completely selfless,” I added, a little mischievously.
In its origins, Chasidism was a countercultural spiritual revival movement. It developed in late 18th century Poland in reaction to a prevailing Judaism that had grown increasingly perfunctory, sterile, and devoid of meaning. What was the point of following commandments if there was no vitality in them? The great rallying cry became ivdu et ha-Shem be-simcha, “serve God in gladness, come into God’s Presence with shouts of joy.” (Psalm 100:2) For the early Chasidim, there is no higher pleasure that one can ever hope to attain than ecstatic communion with the Transcendent. According to Chassidic teaching, the human body comes from the earth, but the human soul is part of God above. Religious devotion stems from the longing of the soul to be reunited with its Source. Nor is worship relegated only to prayer. Commenting on the Me’or Einayim, Rabbi Nancy Flam writes: “we learn [from him] that to be actively engaged in the world through Mitzvot and other acts of chesed is a high level of worship. In the midst of these very actions, we experience our inner divine substance and we connect with the Soul of the universe.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 6)
The Me’or Einayim’s paradigmatic model for experiencing the pleasure of spiritual union through ordinary action is the story of Abraham welcoming the angels (only Abraham doesn’t know that his mysterious guests are angels). According to the narrative in Genesis, Abraham is sitting at the entrance to his tent in the hot midday sun, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He exclaims: “Pass not away, I pray you, from your servant,” (Genesis 18:3) meaning: “wait here, while I run and fetch some refreshments for you.” Only in the Me’or Einayim’s imaginative re-rendering of the tale, Abraham is not just sitting in his tent at high noon, he is engaged in intense communion with God, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He entreats, not his guests, but God, saying: “Pass not away, I pray You, from your servant,” meaning: “please, God, don’t leave me while I go and attend to my guests. Let me stay connected to You even while I go about serving others.”
In a real sense, we human beings will always pursue happiness when given the chance. It’s the way we are constituted. By the pleasure/pain principle, we are hardwired to avoid pain and seek pleasure. The question the Me’or Einayim asks of us is: what is our focus? Are we focused only on ourselves, or are we focused outside of ourselves? When we perform a good deed, does our satisfaction derive from feeding a narcissistic image of our own righteousness, or does it derive from attaching ourselves to a higher purpose? It’s the difference between Abraham turning away from God in order to serve his guests, and Abraham remaining attached to God even while he is attending to his guests. It’s the difference between fulfilling a Mitzvah out of obligation and “coming into God’s presence with shouts of joy.” It’s the difference between taking pride in a gift and taking pleasure in its recipient. To use another analogy, it’s the difference between having sex and making love. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure. After all, Judaism frowns upon asceticism, and Chasidism in particular encourages joy. Only let the joy penetrate us from outside ourselves. Let it derive from our connection to the souls of others and to the Soul of the universe.
The Me’or Einayim writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. The good deed is rewarded by the joy of spirit that lies within it.” My blessing for you, and for all of us, is that which the JCOGS Chesed Committee member received, when she wrote: “I did something that I hoped would benefit another, and it turned out that, in the end, I benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased.” May we experience such pleasure in all that we do.
A famous Rabbinic quotation from Ethics of the Fathers reads: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah.” I always took this saying to mean that deeds feed on themselves—for better of for worse. We get into routines; we get into ruts. If we bend the rules in one instance, then the next time, we may go a little further, until we have flagrantly transgressed. However, if we go out of our way for someone once, it’s easier to do so again, until pretty soon we are habitually helpful. This week, I read an exquisite teaching of the Me’or Einayim, one of the earliest Chasidic sages. The Me’or Einayim interprets the Rabbinic saying differently. He writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. This means that the commandment is rewarded by the [pleasure] that the one who performs it feels, the joy of spirit that lies within the deed.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 4)
Recently, a member of our Chesed Committee went to see a JCOGS member in rehab. She reported back to the group: “My visit yesterday was the quintessential experience of doing something that you hope will benefit another, when it turns out that, in the end, you benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased that I went.” It got me to thinking: why did I become a Rabbi anyway? Leading the congregation for Ne’ilah, my favorite worship service of the year—what a thrill, what a rush (particularly on an empty stomach)! Then there are the quieter occasions, the moments of immense satisfaction when someone in pain reaches out to me for help. Would I be doing this if I didn’t love it? I mentioned these musings to my Rabbinic colleague and best friend. She replied: “My twenty-year-old son, cynical college student that he is, maintains that there’s no such thing as true altruism. There’s always an ulterior motive.” She paused, and then added: “I think it’s because he’s never really been in love yet.” “How will you know?” I asked. “The day he gives a gift to his girlfriend and, rather than priding himself on the gift itself, he takes pleasure in the look on her face as she unwraps it, that’s when I’ll know.” “Yes, but it’s still taking personal pleasure, so it’s still not completely selfless,” I added, a little mischievously.
In its origins, Chasidism was a countercultural spiritual revival movement. It developed in late 18th century Poland in reaction to a prevailing Judaism that had grown increasingly perfunctory, sterile, and devoid of meaning. What was the point of following commandments if there was no vitality in them? The great rallying cry became ivdu et ha-Shem be-simcha, “serve God in gladness, come into God’s Presence with shouts of joy.” (Psalm 100:2) For the early Chasidim, there is no higher pleasure that one can ever hope to attain than ecstatic communion with the Transcendent. According to Chassidic teaching, the human body comes from the earth, but the human soul is part of God above. Religious devotion stems from the longing of the soul to be reunited with its Source. Nor is worship relegated only to prayer. Commenting on the Me’or Einayim, Rabbi Nancy Flam writes: “we learn [from him] that to be actively engaged in the world through Mitzvot and other acts of chesed is a high level of worship. In the midst of these very actions, we experience our inner divine substance and we connect with the Soul of the universe.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 6)
The Me’or Einayim’s paradigmatic model for experiencing the pleasure of spiritual union through ordinary action is the story of Abraham welcoming the angels (only Abraham doesn’t know that his mysterious guests are angels). According to the narrative in Genesis, Abraham is sitting at the entrance to his tent in the hot midday sun, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He exclaims: “Pass not away, I pray you, from your servant,” (Genesis 18:3) meaning: “wait here, while I run and fetch some refreshments for you.” Only in the Me’or Einayim’s imaginative re-rendering of the tale, Abraham is not just sitting in his tent at high noon, he is engaged in intense communion with God, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He entreats, not his guests, but God, saying: “Pass not away, I pray You, from your servant,” meaning: “please, God, don’t leave me while I go and attend to my guests. Let me stay connected to You even while I go about serving others.”
In a real sense, we human beings will always pursue happiness when given the chance. It’s the way we are constituted. By the pleasure/pain principle, we are hardwired to avoid pain and seek pleasure. The question the Me’or Einayim asks of us is: what is our focus? Are we focused only on ourselves, or are we focused outside of ourselves? When we perform a good deed, does our satisfaction derive from feeding a narcissistic image of our own righteousness, or does it derive from attaching ourselves to a higher purpose? It’s the difference between Abraham turning away from God in order to serve his guests, and Abraham remaining attached to God even while he is attending to his guests. It’s the difference between fulfilling a Mitzvah out of obligation and “coming into God’s presence with shouts of joy.” It’s the difference between taking pride in a gift and taking pleasure in its recipient. To use another analogy, it’s the difference between having sex and making love. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure. After all, Judaism frowns upon asceticism, and Chasidism in particular encourages joy. Only let the joy penetrate us from outside ourselves. Let it derive from our connection to the souls of others and to the Soul of the universe.
The Me’or Einayim writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. The good deed is rewarded by the joy of spirit that lies within it.” My blessing for you, and for all of us, is that which the JCOGS Chesed Committee member received, when she wrote: “I did something that I hoped would benefit another, and it turned out that, in the end, I benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased.” May we experience such pleasure in all that we do.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
July 13, 2011: What Makes Community Healthy and Strong
Dear Friends:
I am happy to share with you my sermon from this past week, July 8.
Have a great week,
R Brian
When Joe and I came to Vermont, we closed on the house in April, but did not actually move in until June. The first day, If went down to pick up all the accumulated junk mail. I started to explain that we were newcomers to the area, but before I could give my address, the postmistress cut me off and said: “OK, so which one are you, Brian or Joe?” I have to admit: Joe and I were a little concerned, as two men living together in the woods, coming from the big city. How would our closest neighbors down the dirt road treat us? What about the other townspeople? Several months later, some grease spilled inside the oven and set off the smoke detector. Within minutes, the chief of the volunteer fire department, whom we had never met, appeared on our doorstep: “Ayeh… ah see you burned yer brekfest.” We soon learned that in rural Vermont, especially out where we are, everyone may know your business, and no one will pry into your affairs uninvited. However, as soon as an emergency arises, there they are in a flash, ready to help.
In this week’s Torah portion, Balak, King of Moab, wishes to destroy Israel. Balak sends for Bilaam, the most renowned pagan sorcerer of his day, to cast a hex upon the Israelites. Bilaam ascends the mountain overlooking their desert encampment, ready to denounce them. He opens his mouth, but instead of damnation, out comes some of the most glorious poetry in the entire Bible, beginning with the famous verse: Mah tovu ohaleicha Yaakov mishkenotecha Yiraeil, “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24:5) What is it that Bilaam beholds that transforms his censure into praise? The text reads: “Bilaam raised his eye and saw Israel dwelling tribe by tribe, and the spirit of God came upon him.” (Numbers 24:2) What is it about the scene that transports him so, that the spirit of God comes upon him?
Mah tovu, Bilaam exclaims, “how goodly are your tents, O Jacob.” He could have said: “how fair are your tents, Jacob;” instead, he says: mah tovu, “how goodly,” as in, hinei mah tov u-manayim shevet achim gam yachad. (Psalm 133:1) The word tov, “good,” points not to exterior beauty, but to interior beauty, not to aesthetic loveliness, but to ethical good. Reading further along in the verse, we arrive at two parallel phrases: “how goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel.” Biblical poetry generally employs the literary device of parallelism to heighten or underline a particular meaning. In this case, what does the second line, “your dwellings O Israel,” add to the first, “your tents O Jacob?” The word “tents” has no special connotation, whereas the word for “dwellings” in Hebrew, mishkenot, immediately conjures up the Mishkan, the desert sanctuary wherein dwells the Presence of God. As for the contrasting terms, Jacob and Israel, they both refer to the same person. Jacob is his commonplace name, whereas Israel is the name conferred upon him after he wrestles with the angel, indicative of profound spiritual transformation. Taken as a whole, the parallel construction of the verse directs the listener’s attention away from a merely physical description of the Israelite camp and toward the underlying spiritual condition of the Israelite community and its connection to God.
What feature of Israelite society renders it so ethically good, so spiritually healthy, that Bilaam’s curse changes instantly to blessing? According to the Talmud, “Bilaam saw that the portals of their tents were not aligned one opposite another, so he said, these people are worthy that the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, should rest upon them.” (bBaba Batra 60a) (By the way, note the lovely word play the Talmud makes between Shechinah and mishkenotecha in the phrase mishkenotecha Yisra’eil, “your dwellings O Israel.”) Let’s remember that the Israelite camp must have resembled a modern-day RV park. You would have to erect your tent inches away from your neighbor’s, but you positioned your doorway so that it was impossible to look directly inside hers. That’s what Bilaam notices. He notices that the encampment’s layout is configured to preserve the privacy of its residents, despite the close quarters they live in. The Israelite community, like its small-town counterpart in rural Vermont, finds a way to respect the dignity of each family. Everyone may know everyone’s business, but everyone maintains a “live and let live” attitude. Let’s look again at the two parallel phrases: “your tents, O Jacob,” and “your dwellings, O Israel.” In this context, “tent” may refer to the physical exterior of the home, whereas “dwelling” may refer to what goes on inside the home. “Jacob” refers to the individual, whereas “Israel” refers to the people at large. Taken as a whole, “how goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel,” extols the society for balancing its public needs and the private welfare of its citizens. Therein lies its ethical and spiritual wholesomeness.
Actually, I think we can take the Talmud’s image of the Israelite compound one step further. By reading the Talmud’s description metaphorically, we come up with an even more basic determination of what makes a community spiritually strong—besides the fact that it upholds modesty and discretion as supreme virtues. The Talmud states: “the portals of their tents were not aligned one opposite another.” In Hebrew, the word for aligned is mechuvvanim, which also means “directed” or “intended,” as in the word kivvun, “direction [of a compass],” and kavvanah, “intention.” The description ein mechuvvanim, “not aligned,” connotes a group of people with different directions in life, different intentions. In English we might use the expression: “they do not see eye to eye.” Nevertheless, the members still band together to form community. That is what strikes Bilaam as so praiseworthy. According to the symbolic interpretation of “the portals of their tents were not aligned,” Bilaam perceives that a motley collection of separate individuals with disparate demands and desires can still come together for the common good. Respect for privacy is merely the outward manifestation of a much more fundamental value, namely, appreciation for nonconformity. We have here the essence of pluralism.
My blessing for JCOGS, for this community as well as for every community in which we may take part, is not only the ethical goodliness that comes from a “live and let live” attitude but the spiritual strength that comes from real diversity. May we not merely tolerate our differences; may we celebrate them.
I am happy to share with you my sermon from this past week, July 8.
Have a great week,
R Brian
When Joe and I came to Vermont, we closed on the house in April, but did not actually move in until June. The first day, If went down to pick up all the accumulated junk mail. I started to explain that we were newcomers to the area, but before I could give my address, the postmistress cut me off and said: “OK, so which one are you, Brian or Joe?” I have to admit: Joe and I were a little concerned, as two men living together in the woods, coming from the big city. How would our closest neighbors down the dirt road treat us? What about the other townspeople? Several months later, some grease spilled inside the oven and set off the smoke detector. Within minutes, the chief of the volunteer fire department, whom we had never met, appeared on our doorstep: “Ayeh… ah see you burned yer brekfest.” We soon learned that in rural Vermont, especially out where we are, everyone may know your business, and no one will pry into your affairs uninvited. However, as soon as an emergency arises, there they are in a flash, ready to help.
In this week’s Torah portion, Balak, King of Moab, wishes to destroy Israel. Balak sends for Bilaam, the most renowned pagan sorcerer of his day, to cast a hex upon the Israelites. Bilaam ascends the mountain overlooking their desert encampment, ready to denounce them. He opens his mouth, but instead of damnation, out comes some of the most glorious poetry in the entire Bible, beginning with the famous verse: Mah tovu ohaleicha Yaakov mishkenotecha Yiraeil, “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24:5) What is it that Bilaam beholds that transforms his censure into praise? The text reads: “Bilaam raised his eye and saw Israel dwelling tribe by tribe, and the spirit of God came upon him.” (Numbers 24:2) What is it about the scene that transports him so, that the spirit of God comes upon him?
Mah tovu, Bilaam exclaims, “how goodly are your tents, O Jacob.” He could have said: “how fair are your tents, Jacob;” instead, he says: mah tovu, “how goodly,” as in, hinei mah tov u-manayim shevet achim gam yachad. (Psalm 133:1) The word tov, “good,” points not to exterior beauty, but to interior beauty, not to aesthetic loveliness, but to ethical good. Reading further along in the verse, we arrive at two parallel phrases: “how goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel.” Biblical poetry generally employs the literary device of parallelism to heighten or underline a particular meaning. In this case, what does the second line, “your dwellings O Israel,” add to the first, “your tents O Jacob?” The word “tents” has no special connotation, whereas the word for “dwellings” in Hebrew, mishkenot, immediately conjures up the Mishkan, the desert sanctuary wherein dwells the Presence of God. As for the contrasting terms, Jacob and Israel, they both refer to the same person. Jacob is his commonplace name, whereas Israel is the name conferred upon him after he wrestles with the angel, indicative of profound spiritual transformation. Taken as a whole, the parallel construction of the verse directs the listener’s attention away from a merely physical description of the Israelite camp and toward the underlying spiritual condition of the Israelite community and its connection to God.
What feature of Israelite society renders it so ethically good, so spiritually healthy, that Bilaam’s curse changes instantly to blessing? According to the Talmud, “Bilaam saw that the portals of their tents were not aligned one opposite another, so he said, these people are worthy that the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, should rest upon them.” (bBaba Batra 60a) (By the way, note the lovely word play the Talmud makes between Shechinah and mishkenotecha in the phrase mishkenotecha Yisra’eil, “your dwellings O Israel.”) Let’s remember that the Israelite camp must have resembled a modern-day RV park. You would have to erect your tent inches away from your neighbor’s, but you positioned your doorway so that it was impossible to look directly inside hers. That’s what Bilaam notices. He notices that the encampment’s layout is configured to preserve the privacy of its residents, despite the close quarters they live in. The Israelite community, like its small-town counterpart in rural Vermont, finds a way to respect the dignity of each family. Everyone may know everyone’s business, but everyone maintains a “live and let live” attitude. Let’s look again at the two parallel phrases: “your tents, O Jacob,” and “your dwellings, O Israel.” In this context, “tent” may refer to the physical exterior of the home, whereas “dwelling” may refer to what goes on inside the home. “Jacob” refers to the individual, whereas “Israel” refers to the people at large. Taken as a whole, “how goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel,” extols the society for balancing its public needs and the private welfare of its citizens. Therein lies its ethical and spiritual wholesomeness.
Actually, I think we can take the Talmud’s image of the Israelite compound one step further. By reading the Talmud’s description metaphorically, we come up with an even more basic determination of what makes a community spiritually strong—besides the fact that it upholds modesty and discretion as supreme virtues. The Talmud states: “the portals of their tents were not aligned one opposite another.” In Hebrew, the word for aligned is mechuvvanim, which also means “directed” or “intended,” as in the word kivvun, “direction [of a compass],” and kavvanah, “intention.” The description ein mechuvvanim, “not aligned,” connotes a group of people with different directions in life, different intentions. In English we might use the expression: “they do not see eye to eye.” Nevertheless, the members still band together to form community. That is what strikes Bilaam as so praiseworthy. According to the symbolic interpretation of “the portals of their tents were not aligned,” Bilaam perceives that a motley collection of separate individuals with disparate demands and desires can still come together for the common good. Respect for privacy is merely the outward manifestation of a much more fundamental value, namely, appreciation for nonconformity. We have here the essence of pluralism.
My blessing for JCOGS, for this community as well as for every community in which we may take part, is not only the ethical goodliness that comes from a “live and let live” attitude but the spiritual strength that comes from real diversity. May we not merely tolerate our differences; may we celebrate them.
July 6, 2011: Seeing the World in a New Light
Dear Friends:
I am happy to share with you my sermon from this summer’s kick-off Shabbat service, July 1.
Have a great week,
R Brian
The title of this week's Torah portion, Chukat, comes from its first verse: zot chukat ha-Torah asher tzivah Adonai..., "this is the law of Torah that God has commanded..." The passage proceeds to instruct the people in the intricacies of the baffling ritual known as the Law of the Red Heifer. The ceremony involves slaughtering an unblemished red cow that "has never borne a yoke," sacrificing it upon the altar, then taking the ashes and combining them with pure water, and sprinkling the mixture upon a person who has become contaminated in order to purify him or her. Rabbis have struggled for centuries to come up with a rational basis for this bizarre procedure.
The word chok literally means "law." When the Knesset enacts new legislation, it is called a chok. A near synonym, mishpat, can be translated: “rule” or “judgment.” The Mitzvot, the commandments, are traditionally divided into two categories: chok and mishpat, as in the Biblical verse: shma el ha-chukim ve'el h-amishpatim asher Anochi melameid etchem, "Hear, [O Israel,] all the laws and all the rules which Adonai is teaching you." (Deuteronomy 4:1) The Rabbis distinguish them as follows: a mishpat is a rule that has an evident basis in reason; you can understand the rationale; it's a rule that makes sense. For example, "Thou shalt not murder" is a mishpat. It's self-evident that society wouldn't work very well if people ran around killing one another. Similarly, "Thou shalt not commit adultery," "Thou shalt not steal," and so on. Another group of Mitzvot are called chukim. A chok is a law that seems to be random, lacking any logical basis, making no sense at all. There are four canonical examples of chukim: “the commandment of the levirate,” which is a man’s obligation to marry his brother's widow (Deuteronomy 25:5), “the law of shaatnez," which is the prohibition of mixing wool and linen in the same garment (Deuteronomy 22:11), the law of the scapegoat on the Day of Atonement (Leviticus 16:26), and the law of the Red Heifer. As the Midrash states: "King Solomon was wiser than all men, but when it came to the portion of the Red Cow, he said: I have attained great wisdom, but this, I cannot grasp."
Is there value for observing a commandment that we cannot comprehend? Is there benefit in continuing to perform an action, even though there is no rational basis for it? One common traditional response can be summed up by the medieval sage, who said: "These laws cannot be explained by human reason, but, being of divine origin, they demand implicit obedience. Know by performing them that it was the Creator of the world, the One and Only, who instituted them." You did it, simply because God commanded it, and that was enough.
However, the pious attitude of unquestioning devotion may alienate us in our modern day and age. After all, we live in America! We live in the Age of Science! We require rationale, we require proof, before we agree to do something. I would like to suggest that there is a touch of presumption in our attitude. I would like to suggest that we may not have all the answers to everything, and that perhaps, we should do certain things… just because.
Let me give you an example. One of the most cherished of Jewish rituals is to light candles on Friday night. I remember once when Joe and I were vacationing in Arizona, we happened to meet a friendly Jewish couple at a restaurant. The four of us hit it off immediately. On our final day in the Southwest, they invited us to their home for Friday evening. Tamara is a secular Israeli, who has lived in America for twenty years. Glenn grew up during the 1960s in a typical suburban family, much like myself. Early on, the sterile atmosphere of his synagogue turned him off to religion. They are both what I would call cultural Jews, non-practicing but strongly Jewish-identified. But there is one religious practice that they continue to observe without fail—they light candles every week.
If you think about it, what is the reason we light candles on Shabbat evening? The original basis—the need for light to facilitate our lives and to allow us to enjoy full rest—is long gone, no longer applicable when light now comes at the flick of a switch. So why should we continue to practice the candle lighting ritual?
Since I was their special guest (and a Rabbinical student!), Tamara asked me to do the honors. I chanted the blessing with more feeling than usual. I could perceive that they were moved. Neither of them believe in God, but something magical seemed to be happening, nevertheless. A week later, I received an E-mail back in Vermont. Glenn thanked me for transforming a dry, repetitive routine into a special moment. Tamara wrote: “you have the neshamah.”
I strike the match, I light the wick, I blow out the match, I close my eyes, I draw the flame towards me three times with the cups of my hands, and… not always, not even most of the time, but very occasionally, something happens, I can't explain, I can't quite put into words, but I reopen my eyes and see the candles, and I see my family and the people around me, and suddenly all the world appears in a new light. I don't know that science can explain the experience.
We all “have the neshamah.” It’s just that the neshamah cannot be reasoned intellectually, or proven by science. Sometimes the purpose for performing a certain action is not evident the first time. Sometimes the benefit becomes apparent only later, after myriad repetitions, like the benefit from working out daily at the gym. And sometimes the benefit never becomes apparent. In the Jewish mystical tradition, when we fulfill a Mitzvah, we may not change our own situation, but we influence the cosmic order in ways that we cannot even imagine.
Actually, in a way it's egocentric to assert that we will only perform an action if we can demonstrate a specific reason for it. I'm not saying that we should all run out and shop around for unblemished red cows to slaughter! But I am asking us not to restrict ourselves to the mishpatim in life, the rules whose purpose we can comprehend, but rather to open ourselves up to the chukim, to the magic and mystery of the world around us. My prayer for all of us: may we allow ourselves, occasionally, to do certain things…. just because. And may we emerge from the experience by reopening our eyes and seeing all the world in a new light.
I am happy to share with you my sermon from this summer’s kick-off Shabbat service, July 1.
Have a great week,
R Brian
The title of this week's Torah portion, Chukat, comes from its first verse: zot chukat ha-Torah asher tzivah Adonai..., "this is the law of Torah that God has commanded..." The passage proceeds to instruct the people in the intricacies of the baffling ritual known as the Law of the Red Heifer. The ceremony involves slaughtering an unblemished red cow that "has never borne a yoke," sacrificing it upon the altar, then taking the ashes and combining them with pure water, and sprinkling the mixture upon a person who has become contaminated in order to purify him or her. Rabbis have struggled for centuries to come up with a rational basis for this bizarre procedure.
The word chok literally means "law." When the Knesset enacts new legislation, it is called a chok. A near synonym, mishpat, can be translated: “rule” or “judgment.” The Mitzvot, the commandments, are traditionally divided into two categories: chok and mishpat, as in the Biblical verse: shma el ha-chukim ve'el h-amishpatim asher Anochi melameid etchem, "Hear, [O Israel,] all the laws and all the rules which Adonai is teaching you." (Deuteronomy 4:1) The Rabbis distinguish them as follows: a mishpat is a rule that has an evident basis in reason; you can understand the rationale; it's a rule that makes sense. For example, "Thou shalt not murder" is a mishpat. It's self-evident that society wouldn't work very well if people ran around killing one another. Similarly, "Thou shalt not commit adultery," "Thou shalt not steal," and so on. Another group of Mitzvot are called chukim. A chok is a law that seems to be random, lacking any logical basis, making no sense at all. There are four canonical examples of chukim: “the commandment of the levirate,” which is a man’s obligation to marry his brother's widow (Deuteronomy 25:5), “the law of shaatnez," which is the prohibition of mixing wool and linen in the same garment (Deuteronomy 22:11), the law of the scapegoat on the Day of Atonement (Leviticus 16:26), and the law of the Red Heifer. As the Midrash states: "King Solomon was wiser than all men, but when it came to the portion of the Red Cow, he said: I have attained great wisdom, but this, I cannot grasp."
Is there value for observing a commandment that we cannot comprehend? Is there benefit in continuing to perform an action, even though there is no rational basis for it? One common traditional response can be summed up by the medieval sage, who said: "These laws cannot be explained by human reason, but, being of divine origin, they demand implicit obedience. Know by performing them that it was the Creator of the world, the One and Only, who instituted them." You did it, simply because God commanded it, and that was enough.
However, the pious attitude of unquestioning devotion may alienate us in our modern day and age. After all, we live in America! We live in the Age of Science! We require rationale, we require proof, before we agree to do something. I would like to suggest that there is a touch of presumption in our attitude. I would like to suggest that we may not have all the answers to everything, and that perhaps, we should do certain things… just because.
Let me give you an example. One of the most cherished of Jewish rituals is to light candles on Friday night. I remember once when Joe and I were vacationing in Arizona, we happened to meet a friendly Jewish couple at a restaurant. The four of us hit it off immediately. On our final day in the Southwest, they invited us to their home for Friday evening. Tamara is a secular Israeli, who has lived in America for twenty years. Glenn grew up during the 1960s in a typical suburban family, much like myself. Early on, the sterile atmosphere of his synagogue turned him off to religion. They are both what I would call cultural Jews, non-practicing but strongly Jewish-identified. But there is one religious practice that they continue to observe without fail—they light candles every week.
If you think about it, what is the reason we light candles on Shabbat evening? The original basis—the need for light to facilitate our lives and to allow us to enjoy full rest—is long gone, no longer applicable when light now comes at the flick of a switch. So why should we continue to practice the candle lighting ritual?
Since I was their special guest (and a Rabbinical student!), Tamara asked me to do the honors. I chanted the blessing with more feeling than usual. I could perceive that they were moved. Neither of them believe in God, but something magical seemed to be happening, nevertheless. A week later, I received an E-mail back in Vermont. Glenn thanked me for transforming a dry, repetitive routine into a special moment. Tamara wrote: “you have the neshamah.”
I strike the match, I light the wick, I blow out the match, I close my eyes, I draw the flame towards me three times with the cups of my hands, and… not always, not even most of the time, but very occasionally, something happens, I can't explain, I can't quite put into words, but I reopen my eyes and see the candles, and I see my family and the people around me, and suddenly all the world appears in a new light. I don't know that science can explain the experience.
We all “have the neshamah.” It’s just that the neshamah cannot be reasoned intellectually, or proven by science. Sometimes the purpose for performing a certain action is not evident the first time. Sometimes the benefit becomes apparent only later, after myriad repetitions, like the benefit from working out daily at the gym. And sometimes the benefit never becomes apparent. In the Jewish mystical tradition, when we fulfill a Mitzvah, we may not change our own situation, but we influence the cosmic order in ways that we cannot even imagine.
Actually, in a way it's egocentric to assert that we will only perform an action if we can demonstrate a specific reason for it. I'm not saying that we should all run out and shop around for unblemished red cows to slaughter! But I am asking us not to restrict ourselves to the mishpatim in life, the rules whose purpose we can comprehend, but rather to open ourselves up to the chukim, to the magic and mystery of the world around us. My prayer for all of us: may we allow ourselves, occasionally, to do certain things…. just because. And may we emerge from the experience by reopening our eyes and seeing all the world in a new light.
June 30, 2011: The Three Stages of Positive Engagement
In last week’s column, I reflected on what makes an encounter between two people, or two groups of people, holy. I was thinking specifically of interfaith dialogue, but the question is relevant whenever two different parties speak to each other, which is to say, all the time. I applied the Jewish paradigms of Korach, who advanced his own position without regard for the other, and of Hillel, who gave preeminence to his opponent’s position before articulating his own view. This week, I would like to offer another model for inter-religious engagement, based upon the ideas of Amy Eilberg’s Muslims and Jews in America and the practice of Rabbi Nancy Fuchs Kreimer. The model consists of three stages.
Stage 1: “Entering the Threshold.” In this stage, adherents of different religions discover areas of commonality. They delight in sharing beliefs, practices, linguistic connections, arts, music, food, etc. For example, a Jew and a Muslim might recognize together that the laws of kashrut and halal food are nearly identical, or a Jew and Christian might exclaim: “we both have the Golden Rule!”
Stage 2: “Embracing Pluralism.” In this stage, the two parties explore their differences. Each faction learns the other’s religious and historical narrative, which may sometimes conflict painfully with one’s own. Nevertheless, they remain at the table, accept their divergent perspectives, and strengthen their relationship in the face of them. For example, a Christian might recognize the anti-Semitic violence perpetrated throughout the centuries by the “deicide charge,” the claim that the Jews killed Jesus, and, by the same token, a Jew might acknowledge that the story of the Crucifixion is not just a myth, but the foundational bedrock upon which the Christian faithful structure their lives. In a less overtly religious context, a Palestinian and an Israeli might come to realize that they each hold vastly different experiences and historical memories of the events of 1948.
Stage 3: “Risking Transformation.” In this stage, each adherent reassesses and reevaluates her own beliefs and practices in light of the other. Because she has passed over to a different viewpoint and returned to her own, she is no longer the same. She appreciates that her spiritual life is not rigid, but constantly in flux in response to daily experiences and interactions. I can offer an example from personal practice. Growing up as a Jew, I used to be uncomfortable spontaneously pouring out my heart to God, while at the same time envious of Christians who spoke to Jesus as their friend. Later on, in hospital chaplaincy work, my non-Jewish peers taught me how to compose personal prayers on the spot. These days, I too sometimes find myself “having conversations” with God.
Rabbi Kreimer emphasizes that every encounter is different and should be approached on its own terms. It is not always necessary, or even warranted, to complete all three steps for the encounter to be productive. “While one might label these as stages 1, 2, and 3, as in many developmental schema, later is not necessarily better.” The underlying key principle is that positive engagement is based upon mutual trust. The more we feel valued and respected equally with each other, the more we will be willing to expose and share our differences.
Stage 1: “Entering the Threshold.” In this stage, adherents of different religions discover areas of commonality. They delight in sharing beliefs, practices, linguistic connections, arts, music, food, etc. For example, a Jew and a Muslim might recognize together that the laws of kashrut and halal food are nearly identical, or a Jew and Christian might exclaim: “we both have the Golden Rule!”
Stage 2: “Embracing Pluralism.” In this stage, the two parties explore their differences. Each faction learns the other’s religious and historical narrative, which may sometimes conflict painfully with one’s own. Nevertheless, they remain at the table, accept their divergent perspectives, and strengthen their relationship in the face of them. For example, a Christian might recognize the anti-Semitic violence perpetrated throughout the centuries by the “deicide charge,” the claim that the Jews killed Jesus, and, by the same token, a Jew might acknowledge that the story of the Crucifixion is not just a myth, but the foundational bedrock upon which the Christian faithful structure their lives. In a less overtly religious context, a Palestinian and an Israeli might come to realize that they each hold vastly different experiences and historical memories of the events of 1948.
Stage 3: “Risking Transformation.” In this stage, each adherent reassesses and reevaluates her own beliefs and practices in light of the other. Because she has passed over to a different viewpoint and returned to her own, she is no longer the same. She appreciates that her spiritual life is not rigid, but constantly in flux in response to daily experiences and interactions. I can offer an example from personal practice. Growing up as a Jew, I used to be uncomfortable spontaneously pouring out my heart to God, while at the same time envious of Christians who spoke to Jesus as their friend. Later on, in hospital chaplaincy work, my non-Jewish peers taught me how to compose personal prayers on the spot. These days, I too sometimes find myself “having conversations” with God.
Rabbi Kreimer emphasizes that every encounter is different and should be approached on its own terms. It is not always necessary, or even warranted, to complete all three steps for the encounter to be productive. “While one might label these as stages 1, 2, and 3, as in many developmental schema, later is not necessarily better.” The underlying key principle is that positive engagement is based upon mutual trust. The more we feel valued and respected equally with each other, the more we will be willing to expose and share our differences.
June 23, 2011: Argument for the Sake of Heaven
Dear Friends:
I am spending a few days at a Rabbi’s retreat entitled “Our Others, Our Selves—Jewish Identity and Practice in a Multi-religious Age.” Case studies include thorny dilemmas. How should the Jewish chaplain respond to grieving family members in the hospital waiting room who ask him to pray for their dying mother in the name of Jesus? How should the Holocaust Studies professor reply when, after she displays historical Nazi propaganda images to the class featuring grotesque Jewish caricatures, a young black student raises his hand and remarks: “if I showed that in my church, that would be pretty much how they see Jews?” What should the Rabbi do about the banner in the foyer reading “We Support Israel,” when Muslim guests have been invited to celebrate the feast of Ramadan at the synagogue and he knows they will be offended?
The themes we are exploring in the conference arise not just in interfaith relations, but in all interpersonal relations. Not only religious groups conflict with each other, but individuals clash. No two people are alike. The key to healthy interaction is the right balance between passion and tolerance, between personal integrity and interpersonal connection, between telling my truth and convincing you to come around to my way of thinking. Ultimately, it’s a matter of negotiating the boundary between Self and Other.
A well-known Talmudic aphorism offers guidance for dialogue and debate: “Any argument for the sake of heaven is destined to endure; any argument not for the sake of heaven is not destined to endure. What is an argument for the sake of heaven? This is the one between Hillel and Shammai. What is an argument not for the sake of heaven? This is the one of Korach and his company.” (Pirkei Avot 5:17) The first case refers to two foundational sages of the Rabbinic period who often disagree on matters both practical and philosophical. The second case refers to this week’s Torah portion: “[Korach, Dathan and Abiram, together with two hundred and fifty chieftains,] gathered against Moses and Aaron, and said to them: ‘All the community are holy, all of them, and Adonai is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above Adonai’s congregation?’” (Numbers 16:2-3) The example of Korach’s controversy as an improper one is troublesome, because on the face of it, his argument is eminently reasonable. After all, God makes the same claim elsewhere in the Torah: “You shall be to me… a holy people.” (Exodus 19:6) So why is Korach’s argument “not for the sake of heaven?”
In my view, Korach’s transgression lies not in the content of his argument, but in its formulation. It’s not what Korach says that’s wrong, but how he says it. Korach is not interested in hearing the other side of the argument; he is only interested in spouting his own position. As the great Biblical commentator Rashi puts it: “Korach took himself to one side in order to split off from the community.” (Rashi on Numbers 16:1) In contrast, in the dispute between Hillel and Shammai, the Talmud indicates great civility and deference accorded to the opposing faction: “The disciples of Hillel were kind and modest. They would teach both the words of Shammai and the words of Hillel, and, not only that, they would give Shammai’s position preeminence over their own.” (bEruvim 13b) Moreover, even if we knew nothing about the personalities and viewpoints of the particular protagonists Korach, Hillel, and Shammai, the syntax of the aphorism itself would reveal the essential lesson. “An argument for the sake of heaven? The one between Hillel and Shammai”—here, both parties are named, recognized, and honored. “An argument not for the sake of heaven? The one of Korach and his company”—here, only one party is named, and the other (consisting of Moses and Aaron) remains silent, unacknowledged, and therefore disrespected.
Any exchange, whether it takes place between individuals, between groups, between nations, or between religions, is based upon relationship. The greater the degree to which opinions expressed in the exchange diverge, the greater the need for mutual trust and empathy in the underlying relationship. Talking to someone who thinks as we do is easy. Engaging meaningfully with someone who thinks contrarily requires humility and openness. The example of Hillel encourages us to cultivate the art of walking in another’s shoes. Or, failing that, the example of Korach impels us at least to acknowledge that the boundary of Self does not encompass and subsume the Other. The Other is a Self in his or her own right. All the community, all of us, are holy—even those with whom we disagree. May we not raise ourselves above the rest, but may God live in our midst—as part of every interaction.
I am spending a few days at a Rabbi’s retreat entitled “Our Others, Our Selves—Jewish Identity and Practice in a Multi-religious Age.” Case studies include thorny dilemmas. How should the Jewish chaplain respond to grieving family members in the hospital waiting room who ask him to pray for their dying mother in the name of Jesus? How should the Holocaust Studies professor reply when, after she displays historical Nazi propaganda images to the class featuring grotesque Jewish caricatures, a young black student raises his hand and remarks: “if I showed that in my church, that would be pretty much how they see Jews?” What should the Rabbi do about the banner in the foyer reading “We Support Israel,” when Muslim guests have been invited to celebrate the feast of Ramadan at the synagogue and he knows they will be offended?
The themes we are exploring in the conference arise not just in interfaith relations, but in all interpersonal relations. Not only religious groups conflict with each other, but individuals clash. No two people are alike. The key to healthy interaction is the right balance between passion and tolerance, between personal integrity and interpersonal connection, between telling my truth and convincing you to come around to my way of thinking. Ultimately, it’s a matter of negotiating the boundary between Self and Other.
A well-known Talmudic aphorism offers guidance for dialogue and debate: “Any argument for the sake of heaven is destined to endure; any argument not for the sake of heaven is not destined to endure. What is an argument for the sake of heaven? This is the one between Hillel and Shammai. What is an argument not for the sake of heaven? This is the one of Korach and his company.” (Pirkei Avot 5:17) The first case refers to two foundational sages of the Rabbinic period who often disagree on matters both practical and philosophical. The second case refers to this week’s Torah portion: “[Korach, Dathan and Abiram, together with two hundred and fifty chieftains,] gathered against Moses and Aaron, and said to them: ‘All the community are holy, all of them, and Adonai is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above Adonai’s congregation?’” (Numbers 16:2-3) The example of Korach’s controversy as an improper one is troublesome, because on the face of it, his argument is eminently reasonable. After all, God makes the same claim elsewhere in the Torah: “You shall be to me… a holy people.” (Exodus 19:6) So why is Korach’s argument “not for the sake of heaven?”
In my view, Korach’s transgression lies not in the content of his argument, but in its formulation. It’s not what Korach says that’s wrong, but how he says it. Korach is not interested in hearing the other side of the argument; he is only interested in spouting his own position. As the great Biblical commentator Rashi puts it: “Korach took himself to one side in order to split off from the community.” (Rashi on Numbers 16:1) In contrast, in the dispute between Hillel and Shammai, the Talmud indicates great civility and deference accorded to the opposing faction: “The disciples of Hillel were kind and modest. They would teach both the words of Shammai and the words of Hillel, and, not only that, they would give Shammai’s position preeminence over their own.” (bEruvim 13b) Moreover, even if we knew nothing about the personalities and viewpoints of the particular protagonists Korach, Hillel, and Shammai, the syntax of the aphorism itself would reveal the essential lesson. “An argument for the sake of heaven? The one between Hillel and Shammai”—here, both parties are named, recognized, and honored. “An argument not for the sake of heaven? The one of Korach and his company”—here, only one party is named, and the other (consisting of Moses and Aaron) remains silent, unacknowledged, and therefore disrespected.
Any exchange, whether it takes place between individuals, between groups, between nations, or between religions, is based upon relationship. The greater the degree to which opinions expressed in the exchange diverge, the greater the need for mutual trust and empathy in the underlying relationship. Talking to someone who thinks as we do is easy. Engaging meaningfully with someone who thinks contrarily requires humility and openness. The example of Hillel encourages us to cultivate the art of walking in another’s shoes. Or, failing that, the example of Korach impels us at least to acknowledge that the boundary of Self does not encompass and subsume the Other. The Other is a Self in his or her own right. All the community, all of us, are holy—even those with whom we disagree. May we not raise ourselves above the rest, but may God live in our midst—as part of every interaction.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
June 15, 2011: Reflections at Fifty
(Dear Friends: I would like to share with you the personal reflection that I wrote last week. I wish you blessings for your own journeys, as we all make our way through life. R Brian)
I am turning fifty today, and for the first time I can remember, my birthday falls on the first day of Shavuot—the fiftieth day after the Exodus. By prescribing the Omer period, during which we count every day between the moment of liberation on Passover and the moment of receiving the Law on Shavuot, our tradition links the birth of the nation with the birth of the nation’s covenantal relationship with God. The main idea is that freedom means nothing unless it is freedom circumscribed by service, by avodat ha-Shem.
I spent many of my first fifty years in a desperate pursuit of freedom—desperate, because my appetite was insatiable. I wanted the freedom to do as I pleased, with whomever I pleased, without responsibility, without consequences. Like the Israelites before they reached Sinai, I soon discovered that freedom without responsibility led to emptiness and despair. The first covenantal relationship I entered was my lifelong commitment to Joe, my life partner; the second was my commitment to the Rabbinate, another marriage of sorts. Both have afforded me a freedom I never thought possible.
There is another fundamental example of fifty within our tradition—the Jubilee. Every fiftieth year of the Jubilee, all debts were cancelled and all landed property reverted back to its original ownership. No matter how much material wealth or liability an individual accumulated, the Jubilee came along to level society, to wipe the slate clean, to return conditions to their original state. The Jubilee is based upon the idea that ultimately, we are all temporary sojourners upon the Earth, and nothing that we acquire in life really belongs to us. We come into the world with nothing, and we leave with nothing; only our actions, the good deeds that we perform while we are alive, possess permanent value and meaning. It is a lesson I want to take to heart as I enter the second Jubilee cycle of my life, an opportunity that was by no means guaranteed.
Both the Jubilee and Shavuot mark not the culmination of the old era, but the inauguration of a brand new one. The Jubilee takes place in the year after the completion of the seventh cycle of seven years; likewise, Shavuot takes place on the next day after the completion of the counting off of seven weeks. They both signal rebirth. But in what sense are we reborn? Does the clock turn back to the time of our infancy? Is it as if the intervening period never took place?
It is striking that the Jubilee is closely associated with Yom Kippur. “You shall count off seven times seven years… Then shall you sound the Shofar loud; in the seventh month, on the 10th day of the month—yom ha-kippurim, the Day of Atonement—you shall sound the shofar throughout the land, and you shall sanctify the fiftieth year.” (Lev. 25:8-9) The Day of Atonement—and, by extension, the fiftieth year—arrive to absolve us of our past misdeeds so that we may begin again, but they do not arrive so that we may forget them. To the contrary, not only must we make restitution, but we cannot achieve full repentance, says Maimonides, until we find ourselves in the position to commit the same transgression as before, but this time we choose a different course of action. Implicitly, we must remember everything that has ever happened, so that we can learn from it.
In his great poem cycle “Songs of Innocence and Experience,” William Blake delineates three stages in the course of human life: innocence, experience, and then back to innocence. When an infant is born, everything he does is new, exciting, and joyful. Sooner or later, however, he will come to experience pain and suffering—they are the inevitable consequences of human existence. Many never emerge from this second stage and fill out the rest of their lives in bitterness and disillusionment. But there are some especially sensitive, motivated, spiritually aware individuals, says Blake, who are lucky enough to reenter a stage of innocence, in which they can recapture the gratitude and wonder of childhood. At the same time, this is not the original innocence, ignorant of experience; it is a new innocence informed by experience, tempered by experience, incorporating experience. It is the freedom given to us on Shavuot—not the original, irresponsible freedom of the Exodus, but a new freedom to commit ourselves to deeds of lasting value and meaning. It is the rebirth afforded us on the Jubilee—not shutting the door on all the past, but growing from the past. It is the object of my prayer today, on my fiftieth birthday, as I enter this next phase in my life: may I merit, and may God grant me, the new innocence of experience.
R Brian
I am turning fifty today, and for the first time I can remember, my birthday falls on the first day of Shavuot—the fiftieth day after the Exodus. By prescribing the Omer period, during which we count every day between the moment of liberation on Passover and the moment of receiving the Law on Shavuot, our tradition links the birth of the nation with the birth of the nation’s covenantal relationship with God. The main idea is that freedom means nothing unless it is freedom circumscribed by service, by avodat ha-Shem.
I spent many of my first fifty years in a desperate pursuit of freedom—desperate, because my appetite was insatiable. I wanted the freedom to do as I pleased, with whomever I pleased, without responsibility, without consequences. Like the Israelites before they reached Sinai, I soon discovered that freedom without responsibility led to emptiness and despair. The first covenantal relationship I entered was my lifelong commitment to Joe, my life partner; the second was my commitment to the Rabbinate, another marriage of sorts. Both have afforded me a freedom I never thought possible.
There is another fundamental example of fifty within our tradition—the Jubilee. Every fiftieth year of the Jubilee, all debts were cancelled and all landed property reverted back to its original ownership. No matter how much material wealth or liability an individual accumulated, the Jubilee came along to level society, to wipe the slate clean, to return conditions to their original state. The Jubilee is based upon the idea that ultimately, we are all temporary sojourners upon the Earth, and nothing that we acquire in life really belongs to us. We come into the world with nothing, and we leave with nothing; only our actions, the good deeds that we perform while we are alive, possess permanent value and meaning. It is a lesson I want to take to heart as I enter the second Jubilee cycle of my life, an opportunity that was by no means guaranteed.
Both the Jubilee and Shavuot mark not the culmination of the old era, but the inauguration of a brand new one. The Jubilee takes place in the year after the completion of the seventh cycle of seven years; likewise, Shavuot takes place on the next day after the completion of the counting off of seven weeks. They both signal rebirth. But in what sense are we reborn? Does the clock turn back to the time of our infancy? Is it as if the intervening period never took place?
It is striking that the Jubilee is closely associated with Yom Kippur. “You shall count off seven times seven years… Then shall you sound the Shofar loud; in the seventh month, on the 10th day of the month—yom ha-kippurim, the Day of Atonement—you shall sound the shofar throughout the land, and you shall sanctify the fiftieth year.” (Lev. 25:8-9) The Day of Atonement—and, by extension, the fiftieth year—arrive to absolve us of our past misdeeds so that we may begin again, but they do not arrive so that we may forget them. To the contrary, not only must we make restitution, but we cannot achieve full repentance, says Maimonides, until we find ourselves in the position to commit the same transgression as before, but this time we choose a different course of action. Implicitly, we must remember everything that has ever happened, so that we can learn from it.
In his great poem cycle “Songs of Innocence and Experience,” William Blake delineates three stages in the course of human life: innocence, experience, and then back to innocence. When an infant is born, everything he does is new, exciting, and joyful. Sooner or later, however, he will come to experience pain and suffering—they are the inevitable consequences of human existence. Many never emerge from this second stage and fill out the rest of their lives in bitterness and disillusionment. But there are some especially sensitive, motivated, spiritually aware individuals, says Blake, who are lucky enough to reenter a stage of innocence, in which they can recapture the gratitude and wonder of childhood. At the same time, this is not the original innocence, ignorant of experience; it is a new innocence informed by experience, tempered by experience, incorporating experience. It is the freedom given to us on Shavuot—not the original, irresponsible freedom of the Exodus, but a new freedom to commit ourselves to deeds of lasting value and meaning. It is the rebirth afforded us on the Jubilee—not shutting the door on all the past, but growing from the past. It is the object of my prayer today, on my fiftieth birthday, as I enter this next phase in my life: may I merit, and may God grant me, the new innocence of experience.
R Brian
June 8, 2011: Love and Law
What is the connection between the Book of Ruth and the Festival of Shavuot? The Sages assigned the five Biblical Megillot (Scrolls) to the holidays throughout the year. Most of the designations are innately obvious. The Book of Esther recounts the first Purim. The Book of Lamentations commemorates the events of Tisha B’Av. Ecclesiastes, which broods on the transience of existence, is well suited for the autumnal festival of Sukkot, the season of decay. The Song of Songs, celebrating the budding of young love, fits with the vernal festival of Pesach, the season of rebirth. But what of the Book of Ruth, a domestic story concerning women, and what’s more—what makes it stand out among all the books of the Bible—a story told from the perspective of women? Here, Ruth and Naomi are not secondary characters. The internal emotional conditions of the two women drive the entire narrative. In contrast, Shavuot centers on the giving of the Torah to Moses on Mount Sinai amid thunderous, public display, and—let’s admit it—the Halachic (legal) system he acquires is essentially patriarchal. At first glance, the Book of Ruth and Shavuot could not oppose each other more strongly.
Various superficial links have been suggested over the centuries. For example, it is recorded that Ruth and Naomi return to Bethlehem, Naomi’s ancestral home, “at the beginning of the barley harvest” (Ruth 1:22), and Shavuot marks the culmination of the barley harvest. The Book’s final verse notes that Ruth is the great-grandmother of King David, and, according to Midrash, King David was born, and died, on Shavuot. Furthermore, Ruth’s famous declaration of loyalty to Naomi, “wherever you go, I shall go; wherever you lodge, I shall lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God,” (Ruth 1:16) renders Ruth the paradigmatic “righteous convert,” a model for all of us as we reaffirm our own commitment to Torah on Shavuot. However, these traditional explanations rely upon incidental verses in the text; they do not attempt to relate the basic themes of the story and the festival.
The Book of Ruth is fundamentally about the power of hesed, lovingkindness. Hesed is defined as unconditional love, free-flowing generosity, care and concern for another that go beyond mere legal obligation. Hesed is a quintessentially feminine human attribute. It is exemplified by Ruth’s unstinting devotion to Naomi. When Ruth the Moabite promises to follow her Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi, she expects nothing for herself—no prospects, no fortune, no husband. To the contrary, she expects to be a stranger in a strange land (for Moab and Israel were ancient enemies). She is motivated solely by pure love. The power of Ruth’s hesed activates the latent hesed within others, even within men. When Boaz first acts kindly toward Ruth while she is gleaning grain in his field, he cites her example of kindness toward her widowed mother-in-law as his motivator. (Ruth 2:11) Later on, when Boaz’s inner compassion propels him to want to marry Ruth, again he cites her own generous behavior as his model: “your latest deed of hesed is greater than the first!” (Ruth 3:10)
Legal systems are designed to enable human beings to live together in peace and security. Torah not only enforces rules that ensure social harmony, it promotes ethical conduct that transcends legal obligation. Torah stands out among other codes of law not because of “You shall not murder” and “You shall not steal,” which are common to all, but because of commandments such as: “You shall not oppress the stranger, because you know the heart of the stranger.” It takes the women to remind the men of the Torah’s distinguishing core value of hesed. It takes precisely the most vulnerable members of society to remind the rest of us of our moral responsibility to care for the most vulnerable members of society. As my teacher Dr. Judith Kates writes: “These women (Ruth and Naomi)—literally the poor, the widow, the stranger—reveal the very heart of the biblical vision of human society and of God. They arouse the community to live up to its own ideals.” (Reading Ruth, p. 198) For this reason the story of Ruth instantiates the Torah’s central message of compassion and empathy. Just as the Law is soulless without Love, just as halachah is incomplete without hesed, the Festival of Shavuot and the Book of Ruth are inextricably bound together.
Chag sameach.
Various superficial links have been suggested over the centuries. For example, it is recorded that Ruth and Naomi return to Bethlehem, Naomi’s ancestral home, “at the beginning of the barley harvest” (Ruth 1:22), and Shavuot marks the culmination of the barley harvest. The Book’s final verse notes that Ruth is the great-grandmother of King David, and, according to Midrash, King David was born, and died, on Shavuot. Furthermore, Ruth’s famous declaration of loyalty to Naomi, “wherever you go, I shall go; wherever you lodge, I shall lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God,” (Ruth 1:16) renders Ruth the paradigmatic “righteous convert,” a model for all of us as we reaffirm our own commitment to Torah on Shavuot. However, these traditional explanations rely upon incidental verses in the text; they do not attempt to relate the basic themes of the story and the festival.
The Book of Ruth is fundamentally about the power of hesed, lovingkindness. Hesed is defined as unconditional love, free-flowing generosity, care and concern for another that go beyond mere legal obligation. Hesed is a quintessentially feminine human attribute. It is exemplified by Ruth’s unstinting devotion to Naomi. When Ruth the Moabite promises to follow her Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi, she expects nothing for herself—no prospects, no fortune, no husband. To the contrary, she expects to be a stranger in a strange land (for Moab and Israel were ancient enemies). She is motivated solely by pure love. The power of Ruth’s hesed activates the latent hesed within others, even within men. When Boaz first acts kindly toward Ruth while she is gleaning grain in his field, he cites her example of kindness toward her widowed mother-in-law as his motivator. (Ruth 2:11) Later on, when Boaz’s inner compassion propels him to want to marry Ruth, again he cites her own generous behavior as his model: “your latest deed of hesed is greater than the first!” (Ruth 3:10)
Legal systems are designed to enable human beings to live together in peace and security. Torah not only enforces rules that ensure social harmony, it promotes ethical conduct that transcends legal obligation. Torah stands out among other codes of law not because of “You shall not murder” and “You shall not steal,” which are common to all, but because of commandments such as: “You shall not oppress the stranger, because you know the heart of the stranger.” It takes the women to remind the men of the Torah’s distinguishing core value of hesed. It takes precisely the most vulnerable members of society to remind the rest of us of our moral responsibility to care for the most vulnerable members of society. As my teacher Dr. Judith Kates writes: “These women (Ruth and Naomi)—literally the poor, the widow, the stranger—reveal the very heart of the biblical vision of human society and of God. They arouse the community to live up to its own ideals.” (Reading Ruth, p. 198) For this reason the story of Ruth instantiates the Torah’s central message of compassion and empathy. Just as the Law is soulless without Love, just as halachah is incomplete without hesed, the Festival of Shavuot and the Book of Ruth are inextricably bound together.
Chag sameach.
June 1, 2011: Torah of the Heart
In preparation for Shavuot, which begins this coming Tuesday evening, June 7, here is a modern Midrash about Torah, adapted from a story by Ricky Hoyt.
Once upon a time a father lived with his son. The father hoped that his son would become a great scholar, like the famous Rabbi of their village. When the boy was old enough, the father took him to the Rabbi, and the Rabbi agreed to teach him Torah. Although the Rabbi’s fee was expensive, the father happily paid in advance for the lessons, because of the privilege of studying with such a renowned teacher.
The first day, the Rabbi greeted the boy at the door, wearing walking shoes and carrying a stick. "It's a beautiful day," the Rabbi said. "We’re going for a walk.” "But I'm here for my Torah lesson," the surprised boy explained. “Yes, I know,” said the Rabbi. As they walked through the forest, the Rabbi explained to the boy all about the different trees and flowers and insects and birds and animals they came across. When the boy returned home that evening, his father asked him about his first day, and the boy had to admit that they hadn’t even opened the Scriptures. His father reminded him the lessons were very expensive and urged him not to waste his time walking, when he should be studying.
The next day when the boy arrived, the Rabbi met him at the door in a hurry to leave. "We must go immediately to the home of a woman whose health is failing. Her husband died years ago and her children have all moved away.” The boy didn't want to be rude, but he found the courage to remind the Rabbi that he was there to study the Torah. "Of course you are," answered the Rabbi. The woman greeted them happily and when the boy told her his name, she replied that she knew his parents and his grandparents and even his great-grandparents. They spent all afternoon listening to the woman tell story after story about his forbears and the ancient traditions of the village. Once again, the boy returned home before he realized that for the second day in a row he hadn't opened the Torah. His father was angrier now. “If you don’t begin the Torah by tomorrow, I’m going to have a word with the Rabbi myself!”
The next day, the boy arrived at the Rabbi’s house, resolved to insist that they begin their lessons. This time, there was no need for an argument, because the Rabbi was already seated at the table waiting for him. Just as they were about to begin, however, there was a knock at the door. A man stood there, exhausted and dirty. His clothes were ragged and his shoes were nearly worn off. The Rabbi invited him in and sent the boy to the kitchen to fetch water and a bowl of soup. The man was from the next country where he and his people were forced to work in terrible conditions. Realizing that he would never be treated fairly, he had fled and traveled on foot all the way to the Rabbi's door. He hoped he could find good work and a new start on life, but he was also worried over his friends and family left behind. The boy listened as the Rabbi discussed with the visitor what they could do to help his compatriots. The day was slipping away, but there was nothing the boy could do. Needless to say, when the boy returned home, the boy’s father was furious.
Immediately, the two marched off to confront the Rabbi. The father could barely maintain a respectful tone: "Rabbi! I've sent my son to you to learn the Torah, but he tells me that in three days you haven't even opened the book. Now return to me the money I've paid you, and I'll find another teacher." The Rabbi smiled placidly. "Of course, you can find another teacher if you like, but your son has already learned more Torah, and in greater depth, than many students learn in a year." “What?” said the father, astonished. “Well, the first day we began with ‘You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might,’ (Deuteronomy 6:5) and continued with ‘How majestic is Your name throughout the earth.’ (Psalm 8:2) The second day, we studied ‘Defend the cause of the widow,’ (Isaiah 1:17) ‘Honor your father and your mother,’ (Exodus 20:12) and the commandment to visit the sick. (from Genesis 17:1) Finally, today we studied: ‘You know the heart of the stranger, because you were strangers in Egypt,’ (Exodus 23:9) and also: ‘Remove the chains of oppression and the yoke of injustice, and let the oppressed go free.’” (Isaiah 58:6)
The Rabbi concluded: "It is not the Torah that is known in the mind, but the Torah that is practiced in life, that is the true Torah of the heart.” The father nodded in agreement. "So tomorrow morning," said the Rabbi, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, "Let us continue our studies."
Chag sameach. May your own lifelong study of Torah be fruitful and fulfilling.
Once upon a time a father lived with his son. The father hoped that his son would become a great scholar, like the famous Rabbi of their village. When the boy was old enough, the father took him to the Rabbi, and the Rabbi agreed to teach him Torah. Although the Rabbi’s fee was expensive, the father happily paid in advance for the lessons, because of the privilege of studying with such a renowned teacher.
The first day, the Rabbi greeted the boy at the door, wearing walking shoes and carrying a stick. "It's a beautiful day," the Rabbi said. "We’re going for a walk.” "But I'm here for my Torah lesson," the surprised boy explained. “Yes, I know,” said the Rabbi. As they walked through the forest, the Rabbi explained to the boy all about the different trees and flowers and insects and birds and animals they came across. When the boy returned home that evening, his father asked him about his first day, and the boy had to admit that they hadn’t even opened the Scriptures. His father reminded him the lessons were very expensive and urged him not to waste his time walking, when he should be studying.
The next day when the boy arrived, the Rabbi met him at the door in a hurry to leave. "We must go immediately to the home of a woman whose health is failing. Her husband died years ago and her children have all moved away.” The boy didn't want to be rude, but he found the courage to remind the Rabbi that he was there to study the Torah. "Of course you are," answered the Rabbi. The woman greeted them happily and when the boy told her his name, she replied that she knew his parents and his grandparents and even his great-grandparents. They spent all afternoon listening to the woman tell story after story about his forbears and the ancient traditions of the village. Once again, the boy returned home before he realized that for the second day in a row he hadn't opened the Torah. His father was angrier now. “If you don’t begin the Torah by tomorrow, I’m going to have a word with the Rabbi myself!”
The next day, the boy arrived at the Rabbi’s house, resolved to insist that they begin their lessons. This time, there was no need for an argument, because the Rabbi was already seated at the table waiting for him. Just as they were about to begin, however, there was a knock at the door. A man stood there, exhausted and dirty. His clothes were ragged and his shoes were nearly worn off. The Rabbi invited him in and sent the boy to the kitchen to fetch water and a bowl of soup. The man was from the next country where he and his people were forced to work in terrible conditions. Realizing that he would never be treated fairly, he had fled and traveled on foot all the way to the Rabbi's door. He hoped he could find good work and a new start on life, but he was also worried over his friends and family left behind. The boy listened as the Rabbi discussed with the visitor what they could do to help his compatriots. The day was slipping away, but there was nothing the boy could do. Needless to say, when the boy returned home, the boy’s father was furious.
Immediately, the two marched off to confront the Rabbi. The father could barely maintain a respectful tone: "Rabbi! I've sent my son to you to learn the Torah, but he tells me that in three days you haven't even opened the book. Now return to me the money I've paid you, and I'll find another teacher." The Rabbi smiled placidly. "Of course, you can find another teacher if you like, but your son has already learned more Torah, and in greater depth, than many students learn in a year." “What?” said the father, astonished. “Well, the first day we began with ‘You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might,’ (Deuteronomy 6:5) and continued with ‘How majestic is Your name throughout the earth.’ (Psalm 8:2) The second day, we studied ‘Defend the cause of the widow,’ (Isaiah 1:17) ‘Honor your father and your mother,’ (Exodus 20:12) and the commandment to visit the sick. (from Genesis 17:1) Finally, today we studied: ‘You know the heart of the stranger, because you were strangers in Egypt,’ (Exodus 23:9) and also: ‘Remove the chains of oppression and the yoke of injustice, and let the oppressed go free.’” (Isaiah 58:6)
The Rabbi concluded: "It is not the Torah that is known in the mind, but the Torah that is practiced in life, that is the true Torah of the heart.” The father nodded in agreement. "So tomorrow morning," said the Rabbi, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, "Let us continue our studies."
Chag sameach. May your own lifelong study of Torah be fruitful and fulfilling.
May 25, 2011: Wilderness
This Shabbat, we enter a new book in the cycle of weekly Torah readings, entitled Bemidbar, literally “In the Wilderness” (in English, the Book of Numbers). Although the Bible generally considers the wilderness as a purgatory, and the forty years that the Children of Israel wandered in the desert as a period of purgation, occasionally the Bible presents a countervailing view of wilderness as a refuge: “He (God) found him (Israel) in a desert region, in an empty, howling wasteland; He surrounded him, watched over him, guarded him, like the pupil of His eye. Like an eagle who rouses his nestlings, gliding down to his young, He spread His wings and took him, and bore him aloft on His pinions.” (Deuteronomy 32:9-10; cf. also Hosea 2:16)
For me, wilderness is a blessing. I spent one day last week—Monday, to be exact—exploring Silver Creek, a dry tributary of the Escalante River in the desert of Southern Utah. I walked for hours up the dry riverbed under soaring red sandstone cliffs. I crossed paths with no one; the only evidence of humanity was a carved inscription by a Mormon pioneer, G. L. Hobbs, dated 1882. The breeze howled through the empty canyon (“empty, howling wasteland…”); the occasionally cry of ravens circling overhead produced the only other sound (“like an eagle… gliding down…”). I said to myself with a smile: maybe they’re eyeing me for dinner? A shiver ran up my spine, but I was not afraid. In fact, I felt completely at home.
Rabbi Jamie Korngold, the self-proclaimed “Adventure Rabbi,” esteems Nature as a spiritual haven. In her book God in the Wilderness, she compares an excursion into the Grand Canyon to an encounter with one’s true self: “Geologists tell us that the inner gorge of black schist is the oldest exposed rock in the world… With each switchback of the trail, you descend through… the sequential layers of limestone, sandstone, and shale, now red, yellow, and purple, toward the very beginning of time. Those of us who love wilderness know that hiking also exposes the layers of the soul… With each mile of distance from civilization, we look progressively inward to what is essential in our lives, we reawaken to the core of our being.” (pp. 3-4)
The Sages ask: “Why was Torah given in the wilderness? Because just as wilderness is ownerless, so you must make yourself ownerless, like the wilderness, in order to be able to acquire the Torah’s wisdom.” (Bemidbar Rabbah 1:7) What does it mean “to make oneself ownerless?” For me, it means stripping away all the psychological barriers and social defenses that normally keep me distracted and confused, so that God’s wisdom can shine through directly. Some clear their heads with strenuous physical exercise. Others center themselves through prayer and meditation. I engage in these activities, as well. However, of all methods I have ever tried, I find it easiest to get in touch with the core of my being, to enable the still, small voice of God to speak to me, bamidbar, in the wilderness.
For me, wilderness is a blessing. I spent one day last week—Monday, to be exact—exploring Silver Creek, a dry tributary of the Escalante River in the desert of Southern Utah. I walked for hours up the dry riverbed under soaring red sandstone cliffs. I crossed paths with no one; the only evidence of humanity was a carved inscription by a Mormon pioneer, G. L. Hobbs, dated 1882. The breeze howled through the empty canyon (“empty, howling wasteland…”); the occasionally cry of ravens circling overhead produced the only other sound (“like an eagle… gliding down…”). I said to myself with a smile: maybe they’re eyeing me for dinner? A shiver ran up my spine, but I was not afraid. In fact, I felt completely at home.
Rabbi Jamie Korngold, the self-proclaimed “Adventure Rabbi,” esteems Nature as a spiritual haven. In her book God in the Wilderness, she compares an excursion into the Grand Canyon to an encounter with one’s true self: “Geologists tell us that the inner gorge of black schist is the oldest exposed rock in the world… With each switchback of the trail, you descend through… the sequential layers of limestone, sandstone, and shale, now red, yellow, and purple, toward the very beginning of time. Those of us who love wilderness know that hiking also exposes the layers of the soul… With each mile of distance from civilization, we look progressively inward to what is essential in our lives, we reawaken to the core of our being.” (pp. 3-4)
The Sages ask: “Why was Torah given in the wilderness? Because just as wilderness is ownerless, so you must make yourself ownerless, like the wilderness, in order to be able to acquire the Torah’s wisdom.” (Bemidbar Rabbah 1:7) What does it mean “to make oneself ownerless?” For me, it means stripping away all the psychological barriers and social defenses that normally keep me distracted and confused, so that God’s wisdom can shine through directly. Some clear their heads with strenuous physical exercise. Others center themselves through prayer and meditation. I engage in these activities, as well. However, of all methods I have ever tried, I find it easiest to get in touch with the core of my being, to enable the still, small voice of God to speak to me, bamidbar, in the wilderness.
May 4, 2011: Rejoicing Over the Downfall of Our Enemies
What was your initial reaction when you turned on your computer Monday morning and saw the banner headline emblazed across the screen: “Bin Laden Dead!?” What was your subsequent reaction? Many American citizens streamed into Ground Zero and laid wreaths in sober commemoration and reflection. Others partied wildly in front of the White House, passing out cigars and shouting “USA! USA!” Time magazine featured the face of Bin Laden with a bloody red X scrawled over it. The last time the magazine exhibited the same layout on its front cover was 1945—and the face was Hitler’s. (In an ironic twist, Bin Laden was killed on Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.)
Because of the supreme sanctity of human life, Jewish tradition generally condemns victory celebrations over slayings, even necessary slayings. “Do not exult when your enemy falls; do not let your heart rejoice when your enemy stumbles.” (Proverbs 24:17) However, there is one notable exception: Amalek. With regard to Amalek, the Biblical paragon of pure evil, the Torah commands obliteration: “You shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heavens.” (Deuteronomy 25:19) For this reason, we drown out the name of Haman with the blare of groggers on Purim—because Haman descended from Amalek. Indeed, Amalek is said to reappear throughout history: “in every generation, they rise up against us and seek to destroy us.” (Vehi She’amdah, from the Passover Haggadah) For many in the middle of the 20th century, the incarnation of Amalek was Hitler. Perhaps in our day, the incarnation of Amalek is Bin Laden. If that is the case, we are not only permitted to rejoice over his death, we are commanded to do so.
Does unadulterated evil actually exist in the real world, any more than unadulterated good? A well-known Midrash describes the scene in heaven at the same time that Moses and Miriam led the Children of Israel in their victory dance at the shore of the Red Sea, after the defeat of the Egyptians: “At that time, the angels wanted to sing a song of hallelujah, but the Holy One rebuked them, saying: ‘My children are drowning in the sea, and you want to sing praises??’” (bSanhedrin 39b) Now, I have read this Midrash dozens of times, and I have always taken it to mean one thing: “Do not exult when your enemy falls.” This time, however, I noticed something obvious, which I had nevertheless always overlooked. God rebukes the angels for their merrymaking, not the human beings in the story (i.e. not Moses and Miriam). Taking angels as a symbolic representation for moral conscience,* my new observation leads to a subtler lesson. Exultation over the downfall of our enemies is an understandable human response, and we should not blame ourselves for indulging in it. However, if we are to reach for higher ground, if we are to rise above our baser instincts, if we are to take the path of the angels, as it were, then we must reject the natural tendency to rejoice. Instead, we must reflect with sadness on the necessary evil of slaying the enemy. Ultimately, we ennoble ourselves by reacting from a place of compassion, rather than from a place of revenge.
*In the story of the Binding of Isaac (Genesis 22), I have always interpreted the angel, who descends from heaven to stay Abraham’s hand just as Abraham is about to slay his son upon the altar with the sacrificial knife, as a symbol of Abraham’s higher moral consciousness.
Because of the supreme sanctity of human life, Jewish tradition generally condemns victory celebrations over slayings, even necessary slayings. “Do not exult when your enemy falls; do not let your heart rejoice when your enemy stumbles.” (Proverbs 24:17) However, there is one notable exception: Amalek. With regard to Amalek, the Biblical paragon of pure evil, the Torah commands obliteration: “You shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heavens.” (Deuteronomy 25:19) For this reason, we drown out the name of Haman with the blare of groggers on Purim—because Haman descended from Amalek. Indeed, Amalek is said to reappear throughout history: “in every generation, they rise up against us and seek to destroy us.” (Vehi She’amdah, from the Passover Haggadah) For many in the middle of the 20th century, the incarnation of Amalek was Hitler. Perhaps in our day, the incarnation of Amalek is Bin Laden. If that is the case, we are not only permitted to rejoice over his death, we are commanded to do so.
Does unadulterated evil actually exist in the real world, any more than unadulterated good? A well-known Midrash describes the scene in heaven at the same time that Moses and Miriam led the Children of Israel in their victory dance at the shore of the Red Sea, after the defeat of the Egyptians: “At that time, the angels wanted to sing a song of hallelujah, but the Holy One rebuked them, saying: ‘My children are drowning in the sea, and you want to sing praises??’” (bSanhedrin 39b) Now, I have read this Midrash dozens of times, and I have always taken it to mean one thing: “Do not exult when your enemy falls.” This time, however, I noticed something obvious, which I had nevertheless always overlooked. God rebukes the angels for their merrymaking, not the human beings in the story (i.e. not Moses and Miriam). Taking angels as a symbolic representation for moral conscience,* my new observation leads to a subtler lesson. Exultation over the downfall of our enemies is an understandable human response, and we should not blame ourselves for indulging in it. However, if we are to reach for higher ground, if we are to rise above our baser instincts, if we are to take the path of the angels, as it were, then we must reject the natural tendency to rejoice. Instead, we must reflect with sadness on the necessary evil of slaying the enemy. Ultimately, we ennoble ourselves by reacting from a place of compassion, rather than from a place of revenge.
*In the story of the Binding of Isaac (Genesis 22), I have always interpreted the angel, who descends from heaven to stay Abraham’s hand just as Abraham is about to slay his son upon the altar with the sacrificial knife, as a symbol of Abraham’s higher moral consciousness.
April 27, 2011: Einstein's God, and Mine
Note: This week’s column is dedicated to beloved JCOGS member, Amy Rubinstein. Zichronah livrachah. May her memory be for a blessing.
There are two reasons why I believe in God. The first is the overwhelming sensation that floods my entire being when I stand on a mountaintop or look up at the sky on a moonless night. It’s all so huge, but, somehow, it’s not frightening. I’m so insignificant, but, somehow, I feel that I belong. The second is my deep longing for Someone to watch over me and to care about every little choice that I make. Even when no one else is looking, even when I could “get away with it,” I need to know that some actions are fundamentally wrong and others are fundamentally right.
In a recent article in Reform Judaism magazine (“Einstein’s God,” Winter 2010), I was intrigued to read that Albert Einstein also formulated his religious views within two separate domains, the natural world and the ethical world. His scientific investigation of the laws of physics instilled lifelong feelings of devotion in the domain of Nature: “The fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true science… is the experience of the mysterious… It is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity; in this sense, and in this sense alone, I am a deeply religious man.” (Einstein, Ideas and Opinions)
On the other hand, his religious views in the ethical domain were conflicted. Early in his career, he wrote that “a person with cosmic religious feeling has no use for social or moral religion.” Later on, no doubt in reaction to the atrocities committed by the most “scientifically advanced” society in the world—Nazi Germany, he came to embrace the need for religion to regulating human conduct: “Scientific method can teach us nothing beyond how facts are related to and conditioned by each other… [It] cannot teach us [how to live]… The highest principles are given to us in the Jewish-Christian tradition.”* Of course, there is a vast difference between religion and God. Einstein eventually valued organized religion as a moral force, but it is unclear whether he ever believed in God as the ultimate moral authority.
From the Bible onward, Jewish thought has always linked the God of Creation and the God of Revelation. No text expresses divine unity between the natural and ethical realms more beautifully than Psalm 19:
“The heavens declare the glory of God;
the sky proclaims His handiwork.
Day after day they continue to speak;
night after night they make Him known…
The Torah (teaching) of God is perfect,
renewing life;
the precepts of God are just,
rejoicing the heart.” (Psalm 19:2-3, 8-9)
A contemporary rendition in our prayer book elaborates upon the psalm:
“The heavens proclaim Your glory,
and we, Your creatures on earth,
behold in wonder Your endless miracles.
Help us to recognize Your guiding power
in distant galaxies and in our own souls.
Teach us Your law of righteousness and love,
so that Your spirit may govern our lives
[as it governs the stars].” (Siddur Hadash, p. 51)
I don’t think the human race will ever unravel the mysteries of the universe. Einstein spent his life in a vain search for the so-called “unified field theory,” which would explain all of the forces of nature within a single, coherent set of principles. In the last few years, physicists have developed a comprehensive framework known as “M-Theory.” M-Theory appears to approximate the grand solution that eluded Einstein, according to Brian Greene in his new bestseller The Hidden Reality. I’m intrigued, but I remain dubious. In science, the answer to one question always spawns a dozen more. Instead, I believe in God, as the repository of the answers to all the questions we will ever think to ask and to all the questions we will never ask.
Likewise, I don’t think the human race will ever advance to a perfectly just society. As I have argued in a previous column, “the Evolution of Justice,” (January 26, 2011) the accepted norm of one generation becomes the outlawed practice of the next. Even the Torah, which I venerate, is flawed as a statement of ethical principles. Instead, I believe in God, as the transcendent source of absolute, and eternal, Truth.
*It’s interesting to compare Einstein’s views on ethics with those of Spinoza, whom Einstein greatly admired as the first proponent of rational positivism, a way of thinking that still dominates our modern outlook today. In contrast to Einstein, Spinoza argued that the Laws of Ethics could be derived scientifically, like the Laws of Nature.
There are two reasons why I believe in God. The first is the overwhelming sensation that floods my entire being when I stand on a mountaintop or look up at the sky on a moonless night. It’s all so huge, but, somehow, it’s not frightening. I’m so insignificant, but, somehow, I feel that I belong. The second is my deep longing for Someone to watch over me and to care about every little choice that I make. Even when no one else is looking, even when I could “get away with it,” I need to know that some actions are fundamentally wrong and others are fundamentally right.
In a recent article in Reform Judaism magazine (“Einstein’s God,” Winter 2010), I was intrigued to read that Albert Einstein also formulated his religious views within two separate domains, the natural world and the ethical world. His scientific investigation of the laws of physics instilled lifelong feelings of devotion in the domain of Nature: “The fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true science… is the experience of the mysterious… It is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity; in this sense, and in this sense alone, I am a deeply religious man.” (Einstein, Ideas and Opinions)
On the other hand, his religious views in the ethical domain were conflicted. Early in his career, he wrote that “a person with cosmic religious feeling has no use for social or moral religion.” Later on, no doubt in reaction to the atrocities committed by the most “scientifically advanced” society in the world—Nazi Germany, he came to embrace the need for religion to regulating human conduct: “Scientific method can teach us nothing beyond how facts are related to and conditioned by each other… [It] cannot teach us [how to live]… The highest principles are given to us in the Jewish-Christian tradition.”* Of course, there is a vast difference between religion and God. Einstein eventually valued organized religion as a moral force, but it is unclear whether he ever believed in God as the ultimate moral authority.
From the Bible onward, Jewish thought has always linked the God of Creation and the God of Revelation. No text expresses divine unity between the natural and ethical realms more beautifully than Psalm 19:
“The heavens declare the glory of God;
the sky proclaims His handiwork.
Day after day they continue to speak;
night after night they make Him known…
The Torah (teaching) of God is perfect,
renewing life;
the precepts of God are just,
rejoicing the heart.” (Psalm 19:2-3, 8-9)
A contemporary rendition in our prayer book elaborates upon the psalm:
“The heavens proclaim Your glory,
and we, Your creatures on earth,
behold in wonder Your endless miracles.
Help us to recognize Your guiding power
in distant galaxies and in our own souls.
Teach us Your law of righteousness and love,
so that Your spirit may govern our lives
[as it governs the stars].” (Siddur Hadash, p. 51)
I don’t think the human race will ever unravel the mysteries of the universe. Einstein spent his life in a vain search for the so-called “unified field theory,” which would explain all of the forces of nature within a single, coherent set of principles. In the last few years, physicists have developed a comprehensive framework known as “M-Theory.” M-Theory appears to approximate the grand solution that eluded Einstein, according to Brian Greene in his new bestseller The Hidden Reality. I’m intrigued, but I remain dubious. In science, the answer to one question always spawns a dozen more. Instead, I believe in God, as the repository of the answers to all the questions we will ever think to ask and to all the questions we will never ask.
Likewise, I don’t think the human race will ever advance to a perfectly just society. As I have argued in a previous column, “the Evolution of Justice,” (January 26, 2011) the accepted norm of one generation becomes the outlawed practice of the next. Even the Torah, which I venerate, is flawed as a statement of ethical principles. Instead, I believe in God, as the transcendent source of absolute, and eternal, Truth.
*It’s interesting to compare Einstein’s views on ethics with those of Spinoza, whom Einstein greatly admired as the first proponent of rational positivism, a way of thinking that still dominates our modern outlook today. In contrast to Einstein, Spinoza argued that the Laws of Ethics could be derived scientifically, like the Laws of Nature.
April 14, 2011: Celebrating the Journey
As some of you know, I completed the greatest physical challenge of my life during the summer of 1988, when I walked the entire length of the Pacific Crest Trail over the course of six months. I vividly remember starting out at the Mexican border; the 2600 miles to Canada seemed like an incomprehensible distance. But I soon forgot about that. Instead, I would open my tent fly each morning, and say to myself, “OK. How many miles can I make today? Where am I going to replenish my water? What’s a good place to make camp this evening?” Some days were exhilarating, but most days were grueling. Through it all, I put one foot in front of the other, but never counted upon completing the trek, until one crystal clear afternoon in early autumn, I stood on a mountaintop peering into a valley thousands of feet below me. The valley was in British Columbia. I had arrived.
Now I have retold the story a number of times over the years just this way, always leaving a piece out. But today I’m going to let you in on the sequel. The day after the momentous day that I crossed into Canada, I took a bus back to San Francisco, and sank into a deep depression. I didn’t know what to do next. I wandered aimlessly from one job to another. It took me many years to be that happy again, to be as happy as I was trudging northward on the trail, day in day out. I can’t say I completely emerged from my listlessness until I entered Rabbinical school.
We think we will be satisfied once we have reached our goal. Once we get that pay raise, once we get recognition for our work, once we marry, once we move, once we have children, once the children are out of the house… then we’ll be content. My experience from the Pacific Crest Trail taught me a different lesson. The satisfaction of achievement is short-lived at best. True satisfaction comes from working toward a goal, not from reaching it.
What’s true in our personal lives is all the more true when it comes to societal change. Even the most dramatic revolutions are not ultimate victories, but merely milestones along the way on the long march toward freedom. The United States abolished slavery in 1865, but it took a century and a half to elect the first African American president. South Africa dismantled apartheid twenty years ago, but on my recent trip to Cape Town, I noticed its legacy alive and well in the squalor of the surrounding townships and the opulence of some exclusive suburban enclaves. Even today, we are witnessing the waves of social upheaval washing over the Arab world, but it remains unclear whether they will leave in their wake enduring advances toward the cause of liberty.
The Passover Seder characterizes the precariousness of freedom. Passover is supposed to be zman ge’ulateinu, the time of our redemption; but are we truly redeemed? The Seder liturgy itself is ambiguous. At one point, we sing: avadim hayinu, atah bnei chorin, “once we were slaves, now we are free;” elsewhere, we pray: “this year we are slaves, next year may we be free.” Even the meaning of Passover’s most important symbol, matzah, is unclear. Is it lechem oni, “the bread of affliction,” a sign of oppression, or is it zecher le-g’ulah, “in commemoration of redemption?” (Rashi on bPesachim 108a)
The other day I came across a Talmudic ruling that made me reassess what it means to celebrate freedom, which, after all, is the fundamental purpose of Passover. I always figured that the point was to celebrate how far the world has progressed in the eradication of oppression, starting with the Exodus from Egypt, even as we acknowledge that it still has a long way to go. Then I read Rabbi Nachman’s opinion concerning the obligation to recline at the Seder table, as a symbolic act of liberty (since only free men and women are at leisure to recline). Rabbi Nachman says that one should recline at the beginning of the telling of the Passover story, when the Exodus is taking place, but not recline at the end of the story, when the Exodus has already happened. (bPesachim 108a) Mai de-havah havah! “What’s done is done,” he says. Accordingly, we should celebrate the blossoming of liberation as it unfolds in the present, not commemorate the historical retelling of liberation once it is over and done with in the past. True celebration, therefore, is in the act of participating in the never-ending process of tikkun olam, not so much in the vaunting of past victories.
God seems to have hard-wired the human being for taking on new challenges. No sooner do we achieve one goal than we are on to the next. To be alive means to be grow; to grow means to strive. When offering encouragement to those facing enormous challenges—anyone from the newly diagnosed patient coming to terms with life-threatening illness to the social worker dealing with crushing poverty and homelessness among her clientele—Rabbis often cite the saying from Pirkei Avot, lo aleicha ha-mamlachah ligmor v’ein atah bein chorin libateil mimenah, “it is not upon you to complete the work, but neither are you free to be idle from it.” (Pirkei Avot 2:21) What jumps out at me is the same term for indicating freedom that is so prominent on Passover: bein chorin. In light of Rabbi Nachman’s lesson, I want to read Pirkei Avot’s famous adage in a new way: “you are not free, so long as you are idle from the work; you are really only free when you are engaged in it (even if you never complete it).”
Honestly, I would have been very disappointed if the early September snows of central Washington state had forced me off the trail so near to the Canadian border, as nearly happened. But Canada wasn’t really the point. The point was the constant march, day in and day out. That is the point of all our life journeys. So I leave you with the blessing of the Irish: “May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back.” May you experience the true freedom, satisfaction and joy that come not by reaching the end of the road, but only by traveling along it.
“May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”
-- Irish blessing
Note: This week’s column is the text of my sermon, delivered Friday, April 15. Happy Pesach!
Now I have retold the story a number of times over the years just this way, always leaving a piece out. But today I’m going to let you in on the sequel. The day after the momentous day that I crossed into Canada, I took a bus back to San Francisco, and sank into a deep depression. I didn’t know what to do next. I wandered aimlessly from one job to another. It took me many years to be that happy again, to be as happy as I was trudging northward on the trail, day in day out. I can’t say I completely emerged from my listlessness until I entered Rabbinical school.
We think we will be satisfied once we have reached our goal. Once we get that pay raise, once we get recognition for our work, once we marry, once we move, once we have children, once the children are out of the house… then we’ll be content. My experience from the Pacific Crest Trail taught me a different lesson. The satisfaction of achievement is short-lived at best. True satisfaction comes from working toward a goal, not from reaching it.
What’s true in our personal lives is all the more true when it comes to societal change. Even the most dramatic revolutions are not ultimate victories, but merely milestones along the way on the long march toward freedom. The United States abolished slavery in 1865, but it took a century and a half to elect the first African American president. South Africa dismantled apartheid twenty years ago, but on my recent trip to Cape Town, I noticed its legacy alive and well in the squalor of the surrounding townships and the opulence of some exclusive suburban enclaves. Even today, we are witnessing the waves of social upheaval washing over the Arab world, but it remains unclear whether they will leave in their wake enduring advances toward the cause of liberty.
The Passover Seder characterizes the precariousness of freedom. Passover is supposed to be zman ge’ulateinu, the time of our redemption; but are we truly redeemed? The Seder liturgy itself is ambiguous. At one point, we sing: avadim hayinu, atah bnei chorin, “once we were slaves, now we are free;” elsewhere, we pray: “this year we are slaves, next year may we be free.” Even the meaning of Passover’s most important symbol, matzah, is unclear. Is it lechem oni, “the bread of affliction,” a sign of oppression, or is it zecher le-g’ulah, “in commemoration of redemption?” (Rashi on bPesachim 108a)
The other day I came across a Talmudic ruling that made me reassess what it means to celebrate freedom, which, after all, is the fundamental purpose of Passover. I always figured that the point was to celebrate how far the world has progressed in the eradication of oppression, starting with the Exodus from Egypt, even as we acknowledge that it still has a long way to go. Then I read Rabbi Nachman’s opinion concerning the obligation to recline at the Seder table, as a symbolic act of liberty (since only free men and women are at leisure to recline). Rabbi Nachman says that one should recline at the beginning of the telling of the Passover story, when the Exodus is taking place, but not recline at the end of the story, when the Exodus has already happened. (bPesachim 108a) Mai de-havah havah! “What’s done is done,” he says. Accordingly, we should celebrate the blossoming of liberation as it unfolds in the present, not commemorate the historical retelling of liberation once it is over and done with in the past. True celebration, therefore, is in the act of participating in the never-ending process of tikkun olam, not so much in the vaunting of past victories.
God seems to have hard-wired the human being for taking on new challenges. No sooner do we achieve one goal than we are on to the next. To be alive means to be grow; to grow means to strive. When offering encouragement to those facing enormous challenges—anyone from the newly diagnosed patient coming to terms with life-threatening illness to the social worker dealing with crushing poverty and homelessness among her clientele—Rabbis often cite the saying from Pirkei Avot, lo aleicha ha-mamlachah ligmor v’ein atah bein chorin libateil mimenah, “it is not upon you to complete the work, but neither are you free to be idle from it.” (Pirkei Avot 2:21) What jumps out at me is the same term for indicating freedom that is so prominent on Passover: bein chorin. In light of Rabbi Nachman’s lesson, I want to read Pirkei Avot’s famous adage in a new way: “you are not free, so long as you are idle from the work; you are really only free when you are engaged in it (even if you never complete it).”
Honestly, I would have been very disappointed if the early September snows of central Washington state had forced me off the trail so near to the Canadian border, as nearly happened. But Canada wasn’t really the point. The point was the constant march, day in and day out. That is the point of all our life journeys. So I leave you with the blessing of the Irish: “May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back.” May you experience the true freedom, satisfaction and joy that come not by reaching the end of the road, but only by traveling along it.
“May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”
-- Irish blessing
Note: This week’s column is the text of my sermon, delivered Friday, April 15. Happy Pesach!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
April 6, 2011: The Lesson of Passover?
Dear Chevre (Friends):
Many American Jews, including myself, are watching the upheavals sweeping the Arab world with a mixture of hope (as we genuinely want conditions to improve for oppressed people everywhere) and dread (as we ponder the implications for the future security of the State of Israel). For me, the dilemma is highlighted as we approach Passover. The parallel between the recent popular uprising against a corrupt Egyptian government and Moses’s ancient challenge to the oppression of Pharaoh seems too obvious to ignore. Just how, as a Rabbi, am I supposed to apply the seasonal lessons of the Exodus to these current events?
As always, when confronted with a dilemma, my impulse is to turn to Jewish texts. But, which texts? The Bible comprises multiple voices. On the one hand, the Book of Exodus itself links liberation with God’s specific promise to make Israel His treasured possession among all peoples: “I will bring you out from the oppression of the Egyptians and save you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and take you to be My people.” (Exodus 6:6-7)* Therefore, God’s deliverance was merely a precursor to the particular covenant He made with Israel, and we should not apply the Passover story as a blueprint for the deliverance of other oppressed peoples. This line of thinking permitted a few American Jews in the antebellum Deep South to own African American slaves, a phenomenon highlighted by the drama recently playing on Broadway, “the Whipping Man.”
On the other hand, many of the Biblical prophets universalize the ethical principles of Torah. For example, we find the following astounding assertion in the Book of Amos: “To me, O Children of Israel, you are just like the Ethiopians—declares Adonai. True: I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, but I also brought the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir.” (Amos 9:7) In other words, “don’t think you’re so special, just because of the Exodus. It turns out I delivered other nations as well, and I care about them just as much as I care about you!”
The dialectic between particularism and universalism runs deep within Judaism, and it’s not going away anytime soon. When pondering the doctrine of Jewish chosenness, I often think of the basic principle of the Jewish religion, as formulated by my teacher, Rabbi Arthur Green: “Our most essential teaching, that for the sake of which Judaism still needs to exist, is our insistence that each human being is the unique image of God.” Radical Judaism, p. 121) Ironically, carrying Rabbi Green’s statement to its logical conclusion, if we as Jews succeed in implanting our message of universal human dignity throughout all corners of the world, then we will have written ourselves out of history. We have a long way to go. Until then, “what does Adonai ask of you? Only to do justice, to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
*The four divine promises in these verses, “I will bring you out… I will save you… I will redeem you… I will take you…,” provide the basis for drinking four cups of wine at the Seder.
Many American Jews, including myself, are watching the upheavals sweeping the Arab world with a mixture of hope (as we genuinely want conditions to improve for oppressed people everywhere) and dread (as we ponder the implications for the future security of the State of Israel). For me, the dilemma is highlighted as we approach Passover. The parallel between the recent popular uprising against a corrupt Egyptian government and Moses’s ancient challenge to the oppression of Pharaoh seems too obvious to ignore. Just how, as a Rabbi, am I supposed to apply the seasonal lessons of the Exodus to these current events?
As always, when confronted with a dilemma, my impulse is to turn to Jewish texts. But, which texts? The Bible comprises multiple voices. On the one hand, the Book of Exodus itself links liberation with God’s specific promise to make Israel His treasured possession among all peoples: “I will bring you out from the oppression of the Egyptians and save you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and take you to be My people.” (Exodus 6:6-7)* Therefore, God’s deliverance was merely a precursor to the particular covenant He made with Israel, and we should not apply the Passover story as a blueprint for the deliverance of other oppressed peoples. This line of thinking permitted a few American Jews in the antebellum Deep South to own African American slaves, a phenomenon highlighted by the drama recently playing on Broadway, “the Whipping Man.”
On the other hand, many of the Biblical prophets universalize the ethical principles of Torah. For example, we find the following astounding assertion in the Book of Amos: “To me, O Children of Israel, you are just like the Ethiopians—declares Adonai. True: I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, but I also brought the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir.” (Amos 9:7) In other words, “don’t think you’re so special, just because of the Exodus. It turns out I delivered other nations as well, and I care about them just as much as I care about you!”
The dialectic between particularism and universalism runs deep within Judaism, and it’s not going away anytime soon. When pondering the doctrine of Jewish chosenness, I often think of the basic principle of the Jewish religion, as formulated by my teacher, Rabbi Arthur Green: “Our most essential teaching, that for the sake of which Judaism still needs to exist, is our insistence that each human being is the unique image of God.” Radical Judaism, p. 121) Ironically, carrying Rabbi Green’s statement to its logical conclusion, if we as Jews succeed in implanting our message of universal human dignity throughout all corners of the world, then we will have written ourselves out of history. We have a long way to go. Until then, “what does Adonai ask of you? Only to do justice, to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
*The four divine promises in these verses, “I will bring you out… I will save you… I will redeem you… I will take you…,” provide the basis for drinking four cups of wine at the Seder.
March 30, 2011: All-Encompassing Judaism
Dear Chevre (Friends):
In the same way that Judaism tends to stress righteous deeds over proper belief, I often prioritize the Ve’ahavta over the Shema. The Ve’ahavta passage: “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might…,” immediately follows the Shema, “Hear O Israel, Adonai your God, Adonai is One” (both in the Torah and in the prayer book). Each element of the Ve’ahavta gives rise to a basic Jewish practice, but it symbolizes much more. “You shall write [these words] upon the doorposts of your house” is the reason for the Mezuzah, but to me the instruction is a reminder to make my home a place of love and respect. “You shall bind them as a sign upon your arms and between your eyes” produces the ritual of “laying Tefillin,” but to me it means that all my actions (“upon my arms”) should be for good, and all my thoughts (“between my eyes”) should be benevolent and constructive. “You shall speak of them when you sit in your house, when you walk on the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up” underlies the specific religious requirement to recite the Shema during the morning and evening worship services, but the verse, taken as a whole, encourages me to seek out meaning throughout my waking hours, every minute of every day, even in the most mundane tasks.
In the Bible, there is no distinction between the physical and the spiritual, or between “secular” activities and “religious” activities. Just as one can go to synagogue and feel nothing, one can transform doing the household laundry into an expression of love. No action is so trivial that it cannot be rendered holy. Pleasure does not have to be relegated to certain peak experiences. Every moment affords the opportunity for contentment. Even more relevant to achieving fulfillment for ourselves than the Shema’s declaration of the all-encompassing nature of God is the Ve’ahavta’s declaration of the all-encompassing nature of the Jewish way of life.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
In the same way that Judaism tends to stress righteous deeds over proper belief, I often prioritize the Ve’ahavta over the Shema. The Ve’ahavta passage: “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might…,” immediately follows the Shema, “Hear O Israel, Adonai your God, Adonai is One” (both in the Torah and in the prayer book). Each element of the Ve’ahavta gives rise to a basic Jewish practice, but it symbolizes much more. “You shall write [these words] upon the doorposts of your house” is the reason for the Mezuzah, but to me the instruction is a reminder to make my home a place of love and respect. “You shall bind them as a sign upon your arms and between your eyes” produces the ritual of “laying Tefillin,” but to me it means that all my actions (“upon my arms”) should be for good, and all my thoughts (“between my eyes”) should be benevolent and constructive. “You shall speak of them when you sit in your house, when you walk on the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up” underlies the specific religious requirement to recite the Shema during the morning and evening worship services, but the verse, taken as a whole, encourages me to seek out meaning throughout my waking hours, every minute of every day, even in the most mundane tasks.
In the Bible, there is no distinction between the physical and the spiritual, or between “secular” activities and “religious” activities. Just as one can go to synagogue and feel nothing, one can transform doing the household laundry into an expression of love. No action is so trivial that it cannot be rendered holy. Pleasure does not have to be relegated to certain peak experiences. Every moment affords the opportunity for contentment. Even more relevant to achieving fulfillment for ourselves than the Shema’s declaration of the all-encompassing nature of God is the Ve’ahavta’s declaration of the all-encompassing nature of the Jewish way of life.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
March 23, 2011: We Confirm!
Dear Chevre (Friends):
In this column last week, I noted the natural human urge to change course only when our backs are against the wall. We recognize this tendency in our personal lives and in the political arena; the Talmudic Rabbis recognized it in religious matters, as well.
A remarkable Midrash imagines that the Children of Israel accepted the Torah on Mount Sinai under duress: “The Holy, Blessed One turned the mountain upside down and dangled it over their heads, saying: ‘if you accept the Torah, fine, but if you do not, then you will lie buried there!’” (bShabbat 88a) If you think about it, the Midrash makes sense. After all, why should the Jews voluntarily accept the burdensome yoke of the Commandments, a way of life that demands serious self-sacrifice? Personally, I put a positive spin on Midrash by reading it as a metaphorical description of the exalted experience of theophany. Whether the people agreed to the Torah in ecstasy or out of terror, either way, it is not binding, because according to Jewish law, an oath or contract is valid only if one undertakes it voluntarily and with a clear mind. Fortunately, the Midrash continues: “later on, in the days [of Queen Esther,] the Jews confirmed that which they had accepted long ago.” This time, they reaffirmed their earlier commitment to in free circumstances, without obligation or fanfare. Why does the Midrash associate the ratification of the Torah specifically with Purim? I think, partially, in order to stress the absence of divine intervention from the people’s decision. (The Jewish leaders, Mordechai and Esther, acted on their own, and the scroll of Esther does not mention God’s name even once.) I think, furthermore, in order to place ownership and authority over the Torah squarely on earth, as opposed to in heaven. The events of Purim coincide with a watershed moment in the development of the Jewish religion—the end of the era of prophecy and the beginning of the era of interpretation. From then on, God’s Word was no longer going to be revealed through the mouths of prophets, but through the minds of men and women.
Why should we care about Torah? Why should we maintain our devotion to Judaism? Why should we confirm our religious commitments? When we were children, we had to act the way our parents compelled us, just as the Children of Israel had to act the way their Parent compelled them. Even today, desire for approval or fear of reprisal often motivates us. It’s only in the unexceptional, everyday choices we make in secular living that our ethical choices indicate our true character. To be a Jew means to “do the right thing” even when no one’s looking, even when there’s no calculus of pain or gain, and even when God is absent.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
In this column last week, I noted the natural human urge to change course only when our backs are against the wall. We recognize this tendency in our personal lives and in the political arena; the Talmudic Rabbis recognized it in religious matters, as well.
A remarkable Midrash imagines that the Children of Israel accepted the Torah on Mount Sinai under duress: “The Holy, Blessed One turned the mountain upside down and dangled it over their heads, saying: ‘if you accept the Torah, fine, but if you do not, then you will lie buried there!’” (bShabbat 88a) If you think about it, the Midrash makes sense. After all, why should the Jews voluntarily accept the burdensome yoke of the Commandments, a way of life that demands serious self-sacrifice? Personally, I put a positive spin on Midrash by reading it as a metaphorical description of the exalted experience of theophany. Whether the people agreed to the Torah in ecstasy or out of terror, either way, it is not binding, because according to Jewish law, an oath or contract is valid only if one undertakes it voluntarily and with a clear mind. Fortunately, the Midrash continues: “later on, in the days [of Queen Esther,] the Jews confirmed that which they had accepted long ago.” This time, they reaffirmed their earlier commitment to in free circumstances, without obligation or fanfare. Why does the Midrash associate the ratification of the Torah specifically with Purim? I think, partially, in order to stress the absence of divine intervention from the people’s decision. (The Jewish leaders, Mordechai and Esther, acted on their own, and the scroll of Esther does not mention God’s name even once.) I think, furthermore, in order to place ownership and authority over the Torah squarely on earth, as opposed to in heaven. The events of Purim coincide with a watershed moment in the development of the Jewish religion—the end of the era of prophecy and the beginning of the era of interpretation. From then on, God’s Word was no longer going to be revealed through the mouths of prophets, but through the minds of men and women.
Why should we care about Torah? Why should we maintain our devotion to Judaism? Why should we confirm our religious commitments? When we were children, we had to act the way our parents compelled us, just as the Children of Israel had to act the way their Parent compelled them. Even today, desire for approval or fear of reprisal often motivates us. It’s only in the unexceptional, everyday choices we make in secular living that our ethical choices indicate our true character. To be a Jew means to “do the right thing” even when no one’s looking, even when there’s no calculus of pain or gain, and even when God is absent.
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
March 16, 2011: Who Knows?
Dear Chevre (Friends):
I used to consider vecha’asher avadti avadti, “if I perish, I perish,” (Esther 4:16) the most powerful line of the Megilah. Esther knows that she risks death if she enters the king’s presence unbidden, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s come to the end of her rope and she has nothing more to lose. How well I relate! Once, not too long ago, I faced a life-and-death challenge right at Purim, and those words, vecha’asher avadti avadti, gave me the courage and strength to persevere.
Have you ever heard the apocryphal story about the frog in the pot of water? Apparently, if you throw a frog in a pot of boiling water, he will jump out immediately, but if you place him in a cool pot of water and slowly turn up the heat, he will die. In observing human nature—and, especially, in observing myself—I see that we are the same. We are rarely ready to make lifesaving changes until we are in crisis. Addicts in recovery call it “hitting rock bottom.” Esther calls it “vecha’asher avadti avadti.”
I now consider the words that appear a few verses prior: mi yodei’a, “who knows?,” (Esther 4:14) to be at least as important. It turns out that the Book of Esther was highly controversial, and its inclusion in the Biblical canon was hotly contested in the Talmud. Why? Because not once does the scroll mention the name of God. In fact, religious faith seems completely absent from the story. You can read it as the tale of a few courageous leaders (Mordecai and Esther) who saved their people from annihilation, relying on wit, courage, and considerable luck to succeed. Or, you can read it as the Talmudic Rabbis do, in which God orchestrated victory behind the scenes, inspiring the leaders with ru’ach haqodesh, Holy Spirit. (bMegilah 7a)
I don’t know why, after forty years, the entrenched system of apartheid in South Africa toppled overnight. I don’t know whether the revolution sweeping the Arab world today is a good thing or a bad thing. I don’t know whether Israel and Palestine will ever live at peace. I don’t even know whether God exists. (Years after the death of Mother Theresa, her own severe religious doubts came to light when her personal correspondence was published. She used to begin all her prayers: “Dear God—if there is one—…”) It’s all a mystery. All I know is that our Jewish religion fundamentally demands of us that we fight oppression and preserve life wherever they may exist. Addicts in recovery call it “acting as if.” Mordecai calls it: “Mi yodei’a? Who knows? Who knows if you weren’t placed in this exact position at this exact moment in time for this very purpose?”
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
I used to consider vecha’asher avadti avadti, “if I perish, I perish,” (Esther 4:16) the most powerful line of the Megilah. Esther knows that she risks death if she enters the king’s presence unbidden, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s come to the end of her rope and she has nothing more to lose. How well I relate! Once, not too long ago, I faced a life-and-death challenge right at Purim, and those words, vecha’asher avadti avadti, gave me the courage and strength to persevere.
Have you ever heard the apocryphal story about the frog in the pot of water? Apparently, if you throw a frog in a pot of boiling water, he will jump out immediately, but if you place him in a cool pot of water and slowly turn up the heat, he will die. In observing human nature—and, especially, in observing myself—I see that we are the same. We are rarely ready to make lifesaving changes until we are in crisis. Addicts in recovery call it “hitting rock bottom.” Esther calls it “vecha’asher avadti avadti.”
I now consider the words that appear a few verses prior: mi yodei’a, “who knows?,” (Esther 4:14) to be at least as important. It turns out that the Book of Esther was highly controversial, and its inclusion in the Biblical canon was hotly contested in the Talmud. Why? Because not once does the scroll mention the name of God. In fact, religious faith seems completely absent from the story. You can read it as the tale of a few courageous leaders (Mordecai and Esther) who saved their people from annihilation, relying on wit, courage, and considerable luck to succeed. Or, you can read it as the Talmudic Rabbis do, in which God orchestrated victory behind the scenes, inspiring the leaders with ru’ach haqodesh, Holy Spirit. (bMegilah 7a)
I don’t know why, after forty years, the entrenched system of apartheid in South Africa toppled overnight. I don’t know whether the revolution sweeping the Arab world today is a good thing or a bad thing. I don’t know whether Israel and Palestine will ever live at peace. I don’t even know whether God exists. (Years after the death of Mother Theresa, her own severe religious doubts came to light when her personal correspondence was published. She used to begin all her prayers: “Dear God—if there is one—…”) It’s all a mystery. All I know is that our Jewish religion fundamentally demands of us that we fight oppression and preserve life wherever they may exist. Addicts in recovery call it “acting as if.” Mordecai calls it: “Mi yodei’a? Who knows? Who knows if you weren’t placed in this exact position at this exact moment in time for this very purpose?”
Rabbi Brian
rabbi.brian.besser@gmail.com
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