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.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
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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