(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
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
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!
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