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.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
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.
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