LOVE GOD
This week’s Torah portion, Ve’atchenan, might be entitled “Judaism’s greatest hits,” because it contains some of the most fundamental proclamations of the Jewish faith: The Ten Commandments, the Shema, and the Ve’ahavta. This evening, I’d like to focus on the last directive: “You shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.” Many commentaries over the centuries, including the following passage from the Talmud, have sought to parse the three-fold prescription for loving God: “ ‘You shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.’ What does this mean? ‘With all thy heart’ means you shall love God with both your inclinations, with the yetzer tov, your good inclination, and the yetzer hara, your bad inclination. ‘With all thy soul’ means you shall love God even if it entails giving up your soul. ‘With all thy might’ means you shall love God with all of your worldly resources.” (mBerachot 9:5) However, the Me’or Einayim, an early Chassidic sage, asks a more basic question: how is it possible to love God to begin with? As he puts it: “how it is possible to love something whose essence is unknown (and unknowable)?” (Me’or Einayim, Va’etchanan)
The Me’or Einayim asks us to ponder the basic nature of love. Which is easier to love—the tangible or the intangible, the physical or the spiritual, a material object or a person? A person who is very close to me often teases me for my promiscuous use of the word “love” in casual conversation. I’ll say: “Oh, I love this arugula salad,” or “I love the porcelain I brought back from South Africa,” or even “I love Vermont,” or “I love Chloe (the cat),” and he’ll say: “How can you say you love all those things? You’re cheapening the word ‘love’ by applying it so widely.” This same person knows intimately my foibles and obsessions. He sees how I go into tizzy when I get a scratch on my new car or I shrink my new shirt in the dryer. He calls it idolatry. He says I worship things, and when I worship things, I am in violation of the Second Commandment: “you shall have no other gods before Me.”
How is it possible to love God, who is incorporeal, whom we cannot see, cannot touch, and cannot possess? Must we refrain from getting attached to worldly desires and acquisitions? Here is the Me’or Einayim’s astounding answer: “The world that the Holy One created has symbols through which we can apprehend that which the symbols represent. The symbols are all the carnal pleasures, such as eating, drinking, sex, and so on,” to which I would add: money, wealth, cherished possessions, and anything else that we claim to want. (As I think about it, maybe the Me’or Einayim did not extend his list to include items of monetary value because, in the shtetls of 18th century Poland, unlike 21st century America, nobody owned any valuable items!) The Me’or Einayim continues: “What is the basis for loving such a thing as eating, drinking, sex, [or a material object]? It is because every worldly desire is merely fallen love from the World of Love. Therefore, all the more so, shouldn’t you love the Lord your God, who is the Source of all desires?”
In other words, the way to love God is not by forsaking physical attachments in order to focus on the purely spiritual. To the contrary, the only way to know the spiritual is through the physical. Every creation on the earthly plane is a pale reflection of God, and every temporal craving is a pale reflection of the ultimate craving for God. The Me’or Einayim’s conception is reminiscent of Plato’s Theory of Forms, which posits a transcendent realm of abstract universals, of which all the variegated actualities of this world are but imperfect projections. If I love an arugula salad, or if I love a porcelain statuette from South Africa, it’s an attenuated love from the ethereal World of Love—but it’s still love. How else am I to know pure Love, except by extrapolating from the loves that I have already known?
The Me’or Einayim states: “The world that the Holy One created has symbols (in Hebrew: mashal), such as eating, drinking, sex, and so on, through which we can apprehend that which the symbols represent.” I struggled with how to translate the word mashal from the original Hebrew. I eventually came up with “symbol,” but mashal generally means “parable.” Shakespeare wrote: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” as if to say, the drama of our lives isn’t real, none of us are real, we’re each just playing assigned roles, and when the curtain falls, we’ll take off our masks and exit this world of fiction and illusion. The nursery rhyme “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat” expresses a similar sentiment: “life is but a dream,” that is to say, someday we will all wake up and realize that none of what we did or experienced in life amounted anything. In contrast, the Me’or Einayim invites us to view life not as a play, and not as a dream, but as a parable. A parable is a story that teaches a moral lesson. Imagine there were an Aesop’s fable that began: “once upon a time, there was a man named Brian…” Wouldn’t I want that fable to deliver an uplifting message? Wouldn’t I want the Brian in that fable to represent virtue, rather than vice? Wouldn’t I want the fabled Brian to love in a manner that was reflective of pure Love? It’s not that this world is myth, and there’s another world that’s reality. Rather, this world is reality, but there is another, ultimate reality that underlies this reality.
I woke up this morning pining after my cat, Chloe, who stopped eating and was rapidly losing weight. Now I am in tears, because I just learned she has severe kidney disease, and may have days to live. Am I a vain person to love a cat like that—a simple creature, no more consequential, in the scheme of things, than road kill on the highway? Am I a blameworthy person to yearn like that for a cat —when I just buried Jane last week, a beloved member of the congregation? No! I will not deny the pit in my stomach. I will not deny the hole in my heart. Besides, one love does not negate the other, and I know that Jane would forgive me (she loved dogs as if they were her own children). The prayer we read this evening for Maariv reads: “In all life, there is longing. Creation is itself but a longing, a kind of prayer to the Almighty. What are the clouds, the rising and the setting of the sun, the soft radiance of the moon, and the gentleness of the night? What are the flashes of the human mind and the storms of the human heart? They are all prayers—the outpouring of boundless longing for God.” (Siddur Hadash, p. 790) All desire, however profane, is a reflection of spiritual desire. All love, however banal, is a reflection of Divine Love.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
August 10, 2011: Tisha B'Av
TISHA B’AV AND THE JEWISH CALENDAR
In last week’s sermon, I mentioned the ingenious correspondence between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. This week, I’d like to focus directly on the Jewish ritual calendar itself. I used to think that the holidays were thrown together hodgepodge, that their positions and sequence during different seasons was an accident of history and tradition. If Hanukkah fell in the dead of winter, it was because the festival celebrated a military victory that happened to take place on the 25th of the month of Kislev. If Tisha B’Av came around at the height of summer, it was because it commemorated a specific historical tragedy, the destruction of the Temple, which happened to take place on the 9th of Av. In fact, however, the entire Jewish year is exquisitely designed and balanced. Not only do the holidays and festivals correlate with the seasons, they also correlate with each other. Let me describe how Tisha B’Av fits into the largest possible frame.
Tisha B’Av is a day of fasting and mourning. Its rituals mirror those of Shiva: shaving, bathing, wearing leather or jewelry, sexual relations, work, and even the study of Torah are all forbidden; mirrors are covered; adherents sit on the floor or low stools. Actually, Tisha B’Av marks the culmination of an escalating period of mourning that begins three weeks earlier, on the 16th of Tammuz. Throughout the three weeks, one may not get married and, according to Ashkenazi custom, one may not shave or cut one's hair. Beginning with the first day of Av, Ashkenazim refrain from eating meat, drinking wine, attending parties, going to the movies, etc.
Tisha B’Av is the nadir, the lowest point of sadness in a period of sadness. Like the lowest point of the tide, which ebbs to its fullest extent and begins to flow back, Tisha B’Av is also the turn-around point. A new period of uplift and renewal begins during the afternoon. Worshippers put on tallit and tefillin, sit in chairs, and begin to sing once again. The chanter repeats the climactic line of the Book of Lamentations using a new, upbeat trope in the major key: hashiveinu Adonai eileicha venashuvah, chadesh yameinu kekedem, “return us to You, O God, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.” Hashiveinu anticipates Teshuvah, the fundamental theme of the High Holidays, which is repentance. Hashiveinu becomes the refrain throughout the so-called “seven weeks of consolation,” which connects Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah. Thus, Tisha B’Av is the gateway to the High Holiday season.
How, exactly, does Tisha B’Av relate to Rosh Hashanah? The theological premise underlying Tisha B’Av is the idea that our unethical behavior as a people brought about our own demise. The Rabbis of the Talmudic era viewed all of Jewish history through the lens of our relationship with God. Historians may assert that Assyria, Babylonia, Greece and Rome conquered the Land of Israel (along with many other politically insignificant territories) due to their overwhelming might as the world superpowers of their day. For the Rabbis, these empires were merely agents of God’s will. I daresay most of us have trouble with the Rabbinic interpretation of history. However, think for a moment of its implication. According to the Rabbinic view, since we are responsible for the tragedies that befall us, it means that we also have the capability to overcome them. If the Talmudic sages, who witnessed the destruction of the Temple, had considered the Jewish nation as the unfortunate victim of history with no recourse, we would have expired as a people then and there. Instead, their insistence that we, not the Romans, were responsible for what happened to us rendered us the agents of our own future and ensured our survival. The Rabbinic insight that ethical behavior translates into real-world consequences—for better or for worse—provides the basic link between Tisha B’Av and the Rosh Hashanah. Mourning leads to introspection; introspection leads to atonement; atonement leads to moral improvement.
In This is Real, and You are Completely Unprepared, Rabbi Alan Lew traces the significance of Tisha B’Av beyond Rosh Hashanah, all the way to the end of Sukkot. I highly recommend this beautiful book for your High Holiday preparations. The entire period from Tisha B’Av through Sukkot is set aside for intense spiritual reflection and transformation, akin to Lent for Christians or Ramadan for Muslims. (By the way, the month of Ramadan is taking place right now.) Two contrasting structures bracket the extended time frame. The Holy Temple, built of stone, but destroyed, marks its beginning; the Sukkah, built from flimsy material and open to the elements, marks its end. Rabbi Lew derives great symbolic meaning from the juxtaposition of these two frameworks. Paradoxically, there is no permanence in that which is meant to last, the great Temple of Jerusalem, but there is true permanence in that which is meant not to last, the dwelling booths of the wilderness. The most enduring human constructs are precisely those creations that are the least material.
Finally, we can extend the meaning of Tisha B’Av within the largest possible time frame, the annual seasons of the natural world. In the fullness of summer, when the earth basks in luxurious warmth, we might be tempted to forget that anything can come along to disturb our ease and tranquility. Like the glass that the groom shatters underfoot at the climax of the wedding ceremony, Tisha B’Av comes along to remind us that we are not invincible. Conversely, in the dead of winter, when all of nature lies dormant beneath the snows, we might give up hope that we will ever arise again from gloom and despair. In the darkest moment, Hanukkah arrives to remind us that light will shine again. Tisha B’Av, calling to mind the destruction of the Temple, and Hanukkah, marking its rededication, are opposite poles on the same spectrum. Thus, the Jewish holidays, and Tisha B’Av in particular, reinforce the paradoxical yin yang of human existence.
In last week’s sermon, I mentioned the ingenious correspondence between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. This week, I’d like to focus directly on the Jewish ritual calendar itself. I used to think that the holidays were thrown together hodgepodge, that their positions and sequence during different seasons was an accident of history and tradition. If Hanukkah fell in the dead of winter, it was because the festival celebrated a military victory that happened to take place on the 25th of the month of Kislev. If Tisha B’Av came around at the height of summer, it was because it commemorated a specific historical tragedy, the destruction of the Temple, which happened to take place on the 9th of Av. In fact, however, the entire Jewish year is exquisitely designed and balanced. Not only do the holidays and festivals correlate with the seasons, they also correlate with each other. Let me describe how Tisha B’Av fits into the largest possible frame.
Tisha B’Av is a day of fasting and mourning. Its rituals mirror those of Shiva: shaving, bathing, wearing leather or jewelry, sexual relations, work, and even the study of Torah are all forbidden; mirrors are covered; adherents sit on the floor or low stools. Actually, Tisha B’Av marks the culmination of an escalating period of mourning that begins three weeks earlier, on the 16th of Tammuz. Throughout the three weeks, one may not get married and, according to Ashkenazi custom, one may not shave or cut one's hair. Beginning with the first day of Av, Ashkenazim refrain from eating meat, drinking wine, attending parties, going to the movies, etc.
Tisha B’Av is the nadir, the lowest point of sadness in a period of sadness. Like the lowest point of the tide, which ebbs to its fullest extent and begins to flow back, Tisha B’Av is also the turn-around point. A new period of uplift and renewal begins during the afternoon. Worshippers put on tallit and tefillin, sit in chairs, and begin to sing once again. The chanter repeats the climactic line of the Book of Lamentations using a new, upbeat trope in the major key: hashiveinu Adonai eileicha venashuvah, chadesh yameinu kekedem, “return us to You, O God, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.” Hashiveinu anticipates Teshuvah, the fundamental theme of the High Holidays, which is repentance. Hashiveinu becomes the refrain throughout the so-called “seven weeks of consolation,” which connects Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah. Thus, Tisha B’Av is the gateway to the High Holiday season.
How, exactly, does Tisha B’Av relate to Rosh Hashanah? The theological premise underlying Tisha B’Av is the idea that our unethical behavior as a people brought about our own demise. The Rabbis of the Talmudic era viewed all of Jewish history through the lens of our relationship with God. Historians may assert that Assyria, Babylonia, Greece and Rome conquered the Land of Israel (along with many other politically insignificant territories) due to their overwhelming might as the world superpowers of their day. For the Rabbis, these empires were merely agents of God’s will. I daresay most of us have trouble with the Rabbinic interpretation of history. However, think for a moment of its implication. According to the Rabbinic view, since we are responsible for the tragedies that befall us, it means that we also have the capability to overcome them. If the Talmudic sages, who witnessed the destruction of the Temple, had considered the Jewish nation as the unfortunate victim of history with no recourse, we would have expired as a people then and there. Instead, their insistence that we, not the Romans, were responsible for what happened to us rendered us the agents of our own future and ensured our survival. The Rabbinic insight that ethical behavior translates into real-world consequences—for better or for worse—provides the basic link between Tisha B’Av and the Rosh Hashanah. Mourning leads to introspection; introspection leads to atonement; atonement leads to moral improvement.
In This is Real, and You are Completely Unprepared, Rabbi Alan Lew traces the significance of Tisha B’Av beyond Rosh Hashanah, all the way to the end of Sukkot. I highly recommend this beautiful book for your High Holiday preparations. The entire period from Tisha B’Av through Sukkot is set aside for intense spiritual reflection and transformation, akin to Lent for Christians or Ramadan for Muslims. (By the way, the month of Ramadan is taking place right now.) Two contrasting structures bracket the extended time frame. The Holy Temple, built of stone, but destroyed, marks its beginning; the Sukkah, built from flimsy material and open to the elements, marks its end. Rabbi Lew derives great symbolic meaning from the juxtaposition of these two frameworks. Paradoxically, there is no permanence in that which is meant to last, the great Temple of Jerusalem, but there is true permanence in that which is meant not to last, the dwelling booths of the wilderness. The most enduring human constructs are precisely those creations that are the least material.
Finally, we can extend the meaning of Tisha B’Av within the largest possible time frame, the annual seasons of the natural world. In the fullness of summer, when the earth basks in luxurious warmth, we might be tempted to forget that anything can come along to disturb our ease and tranquility. Like the glass that the groom shatters underfoot at the climax of the wedding ceremony, Tisha B’Av comes along to remind us that we are not invincible. Conversely, in the dead of winter, when all of nature lies dormant beneath the snows, we might give up hope that we will ever arise again from gloom and despair. In the darkest moment, Hanukkah arrives to remind us that light will shine again. Tisha B’Av, calling to mind the destruction of the Temple, and Hanukkah, marking its rededication, are opposite poles on the same spectrum. Thus, the Jewish holidays, and Tisha B’Av in particular, reinforce the paradoxical yin yang of human existence.
August 3, 2011: Israel
THE PEOPLE OF ISRAEL AND THE LAND OF ISRAEL
This evening, I am going to stray from my usual subject matter. My favorite topics for sermonizing tend to deal with personal spiritual growth. Occasionally, they might address a current social or political issue, viewing it through a Jewish lens without, I hope, necessarily taking sides. However, there is one area of discourse that I generally don’t touch with a ten-foot pole, which is the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel is, indeed, the elephant in the middle of the room—always on our minds, but never discussed openly in mixed company without generating fireworks. The invisible rifts are only going to deepen and widen as we all become more entrenched in our polarized positions. Despite my fears of splitting our generally cohesive community over one hot-button issue, shouldn’t I, from time to time, express something more substantial regarding a deeply Jewish issue about which we all care so deeply, besides the concordant, but somewhat anodyne, “prayer for peace,” which we all desire? This evening, therefore, I’d like to offer two closely related perspectives on the relationship between us, as Jews, and the land of Israel to which we are tied so closely—one, Talmudic, and the other, Biblical.
This Shabbat falls right in the middle of the period between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av, known as the three “Weeks of the Destruction” (Shavuot ha-Churban). The 17th of Tammuz commemorates the date when the Roman legions first breached the outer walls of Jerusalem; three weeks later, on the 9th of Av, they finally reached the Temple and set it ablaze. According to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed because of gratuitous hatred (sin’at chinam) among the people. (bYoma 9a) Throughout history from Biblical until modern times, the concept of am Yisra’eil has shaped how we Jews think of ourselves—the notion that no matter where we live, what language we speak, what theology we believe, what observances we follow, we still constitute one nation, the Nation of Israel, bound together by a common heritage, bound together by covenant. Only, as the Roman enemy gathered forces to invade the province of Palestine, they found the resident population torn apart by civil war: one Jewish faction pitted against the other, the Pharisees against the Sadducees, the Zealots against both Pharisees and Sadducees, and the Sicarii against everyone else. The Jewish inhabitants forgot that they were am Yisra’eil, one nation, and for this, according to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed.
I am forever amazed at the uncanny correlation at different times during the year between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. The three Torah portions that correspond to the three Weeks of the Destruction describe the initial Israelite conquest of the Promised Land that will take place under Joshua. Matot, last week’s portion, deals with the Israelite settlements east of the Jordan; Mas’ei, this week’s portion, delineates the boundaries of the Israelite territory and its internal division into tribal allotments; Devarim, which we’ll read next week, concerns coming into the Land and occupying it. At the center of the nearly continuous narrative of conquest and occupation—in fact, at the center of this week’s Torah portion—the text interrupts itself with commandments regarding cases of murder and bloodshed that may arise among the Israelites in their newly settled Land. The intervening passage culminates with the following harsh warning: “You shall not pollute the land in which you live; for blood pollutes the land, and the land shall have no atonement for blood that is shed upon it… You shall not profane the land in which you settle, and in which I dwell, because I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” (Numbers 33:33-34)
From the Biblical perspective, the claim of the People of Israel to the Land of Israel is not unconditional. God refers to the land that the Israelites will settle as “the land in which I dwell,” asher ani shochein betocha. The word shochein is related to “Shechinah.” At first glance, it appears that the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, inheres within the Holy Land. Indeed, many Jews experience a special sense of homecoming when they first arrive in Israel, even if they’ve never been there before. However, the Torah verse continues: “because, I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” Focusing on the verse’s conclusion, “in the midst of the children of Israel,” the medieval commentator Ibn Ezra writes: “thus we see that the commandment not to pollute the Land is not a commandment about the Land, but a commandment about the people. The People are holy, not the Land.” Ibn Ezra makes clear that the protective presence of God among the People and, thus, the People’s continued presence upon the Land, are both contingent upon the People’s holiness.
Every year on this Shabbat, two narratives convey similar lessons. From the Torah, we learn that the Israelites’ prerogative to settle the Promised Land is related to their ethical conduct. As the great twentieth century Israeli intellectual Yeshayahu Leibowitz discusses in his Torah commentary: “Now we see why the injunction against contaminating the Land through violence and bloodshed is embedded in the story of its conquest and settlement. The people may remain in the Land only as long as they hew to their fundamental mission to be a holy nation.” (Chagei Yisra’eil u-Mo’adav, p. 123-125) From the annals of history, we learn that it actually happened that the people were exiled because they descended into fractious violence. Here’s how I would combine the Biblical and historical lessons to apply to us today. We are first of all Jews. We are settlers in the Land of Israel only second. The second is dependent upon the first. We must remain unified as Jews, and we must adhere to the highest ethical principles of Judaism, or else we will lose not only our unity and our ethics, but our Land as well. As our internal discussions about the future of the State of Israel and its relations with the Palestinians become more passionate and more intense, above all else, let us adhere to our collective identity as am Yisra’eil, a People bound together and dedicated to the primary mission of living a life of holiness, so that we may continue to dwell in the Land, and so that the Shechinah may continue to dwell among us.
This evening, I am going to stray from my usual subject matter. My favorite topics for sermonizing tend to deal with personal spiritual growth. Occasionally, they might address a current social or political issue, viewing it through a Jewish lens without, I hope, necessarily taking sides. However, there is one area of discourse that I generally don’t touch with a ten-foot pole, which is the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel is, indeed, the elephant in the middle of the room—always on our minds, but never discussed openly in mixed company without generating fireworks. The invisible rifts are only going to deepen and widen as we all become more entrenched in our polarized positions. Despite my fears of splitting our generally cohesive community over one hot-button issue, shouldn’t I, from time to time, express something more substantial regarding a deeply Jewish issue about which we all care so deeply, besides the concordant, but somewhat anodyne, “prayer for peace,” which we all desire? This evening, therefore, I’d like to offer two closely related perspectives on the relationship between us, as Jews, and the land of Israel to which we are tied so closely—one, Talmudic, and the other, Biblical.
This Shabbat falls right in the middle of the period between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av, known as the three “Weeks of the Destruction” (Shavuot ha-Churban). The 17th of Tammuz commemorates the date when the Roman legions first breached the outer walls of Jerusalem; three weeks later, on the 9th of Av, they finally reached the Temple and set it ablaze. According to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed because of gratuitous hatred (sin’at chinam) among the people. (bYoma 9a) Throughout history from Biblical until modern times, the concept of am Yisra’eil has shaped how we Jews think of ourselves—the notion that no matter where we live, what language we speak, what theology we believe, what observances we follow, we still constitute one nation, the Nation of Israel, bound together by a common heritage, bound together by covenant. Only, as the Roman enemy gathered forces to invade the province of Palestine, they found the resident population torn apart by civil war: one Jewish faction pitted against the other, the Pharisees against the Sadducees, the Zealots against both Pharisees and Sadducees, and the Sicarii against everyone else. The Jewish inhabitants forgot that they were am Yisra’eil, one nation, and for this, according to the Talmud, the Temple was destroyed.
I am forever amazed at the uncanny correlation at different times during the year between the liturgical calendar and the cycle of Torah readings that overlays it. The three Torah portions that correspond to the three Weeks of the Destruction describe the initial Israelite conquest of the Promised Land that will take place under Joshua. Matot, last week’s portion, deals with the Israelite settlements east of the Jordan; Mas’ei, this week’s portion, delineates the boundaries of the Israelite territory and its internal division into tribal allotments; Devarim, which we’ll read next week, concerns coming into the Land and occupying it. At the center of the nearly continuous narrative of conquest and occupation—in fact, at the center of this week’s Torah portion—the text interrupts itself with commandments regarding cases of murder and bloodshed that may arise among the Israelites in their newly settled Land. The intervening passage culminates with the following harsh warning: “You shall not pollute the land in which you live; for blood pollutes the land, and the land shall have no atonement for blood that is shed upon it… You shall not profane the land in which you settle, and in which I dwell, because I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” (Numbers 33:33-34)
From the Biblical perspective, the claim of the People of Israel to the Land of Israel is not unconditional. God refers to the land that the Israelites will settle as “the land in which I dwell,” asher ani shochein betocha. The word shochein is related to “Shechinah.” At first glance, it appears that the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, inheres within the Holy Land. Indeed, many Jews experience a special sense of homecoming when they first arrive in Israel, even if they’ve never been there before. However, the Torah verse continues: “because, I, Adonai, dwell in the midst of the children of Israel.” Focusing on the verse’s conclusion, “in the midst of the children of Israel,” the medieval commentator Ibn Ezra writes: “thus we see that the commandment not to pollute the Land is not a commandment about the Land, but a commandment about the people. The People are holy, not the Land.” Ibn Ezra makes clear that the protective presence of God among the People and, thus, the People’s continued presence upon the Land, are both contingent upon the People’s holiness.
Every year on this Shabbat, two narratives convey similar lessons. From the Torah, we learn that the Israelites’ prerogative to settle the Promised Land is related to their ethical conduct. As the great twentieth century Israeli intellectual Yeshayahu Leibowitz discusses in his Torah commentary: “Now we see why the injunction against contaminating the Land through violence and bloodshed is embedded in the story of its conquest and settlement. The people may remain in the Land only as long as they hew to their fundamental mission to be a holy nation.” (Chagei Yisra’eil u-Mo’adav, p. 123-125) From the annals of history, we learn that it actually happened that the people were exiled because they descended into fractious violence. Here’s how I would combine the Biblical and historical lessons to apply to us today. We are first of all Jews. We are settlers in the Land of Israel only second. The second is dependent upon the first. We must remain unified as Jews, and we must adhere to the highest ethical principles of Judaism, or else we will lose not only our unity and our ethics, but our Land as well. As our internal discussions about the future of the State of Israel and its relations with the Palestinians become more passionate and more intense, above all else, let us adhere to our collective identity as am Yisra’eil, a People bound together and dedicated to the primary mission of living a life of holiness, so that we may continue to dwell in the Land, and so that the Shechinah may continue to dwell among us.
July 27, 2011: Vows
VOWS
Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution? Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution and kept it? Now for an even more uncomfortable question: have you ever made a resolution to a spouse or loved one, and violated it? What were the consequences?
This week’s Torah portion Matot begins: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” (Numbers 30:3) Lo yacheil devaro; “he shall not break his word.” Yacheil is related to the word chol, which means “profane,” as opposed to qadosh, “holy.” For example, Shabbat is called qadosh, and the work week is chol. Lo yacheil really means: “he shall not profane, he shall not defile, that which is sacred.” Our word is sacred. Our speech is holy. Violating our speech is profanity.
Making promises to begin with is serious business. It’s the reason for the solemnity of the Kol Nidre prayer, placed at the top of the liturgy for the Day of Atonement. It’s the reason for the habit of pious Jews to mutter bli neder under their breath whenever they say they’re going to do something, because they’re so afraid to express an untruth. For example, one might tell a friend: “I’ll meet you for coffee at Harvest Market tomorrow morning at 9, bli neder.” It’s the reason why one of my Rabbinic colleagues vociferously protests against the declaration of wedding vows in a Jewish ceremony. He writes: “There are no wedding vows in Judaism, and the use of that term is a major red flag to me. The Jewish construct of marriage is contractual, not ‘vow-able.’ I understand that it is emotionally powerful to make a pledge to ‘love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part…,’ but I have come to the conclusion that such statements are halachically forbidden. Nobody can promise to feel a certain way, or even to act a certain way in all circumstances. The only honest commitment we can make is to try to act a certain way in the future, and the only honest statement we can make is about our current hopes and desires. That's why the ketubah is a contract and not a vow.”
“If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul…” The Hebrew word for vow is neder, as in “Kol Nidre;” the Hebrew word for oath is shevu’ah. The Talmud distinguishes the two terms as follows: a neder is a pledge upon a material object, whereas a shevu’ah is a pledge upon oneself. So, for example, if you say: “I promise never to drink more than one vodka per night,” that’s a neder, a vow regarding a material substance, but if you say to your parent: “I promise to say kaddish for you every day for the full halachically ordained period of eleven months,” that’s a shevu’ah, an oath regarding personal behavior. One can also make the distinction between a negative promise, i.e., the vow to abstain from vodka, and a positive promise, i.e. the oath to say kaddish. Finally, one can make the distinction between a pledge that involves nobody else besides God, or conscience—the vow to abstain from vodka—and a pledge that involves other people—the oath to say kaddish. Just as the Day of Atonement only absolves personal transgressions against God and cannot absolve interpersonal transgressions until the transgressor has sought forgiveness from the injured parties and made restitution, so, too, Kol Nidre only annuls vows made to God and cannot annul oaths made to other individuals.
The question arises, given that the consequences of breaking a promise are so grave, why doesn’t the Torah prohibit promises altogether? It could have contained the categorical commandment: “you shall not make a vow to God or swear an oath that binds an obligation upon your soul,” period. The answer is that oral pledges are useful and even necessary in society. An oath to another person to perform a task or fulfill a responsibility engenders trust and good will. A witness’s sworn testimony in a court of law underlies the reliability of the entire legal system. A vow to oneself can induce proper behavior and self-improvement, such as the vow to go on a diet or go to the gym, or, in the religious sphere, to study Torah every week or lay tefillin every day. Concerning such personal pledges, Maimonides writes: “when a person undertakes vows in order to establish her character or correct her conduct, she is considered eager and praiseworthy.” (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Nedarim 13:23)
On the other hand, the Rabbis generally take a dim view of self-imposed obligation and excessive piety: “are not the Torah’s prohibitions enough for you that you come to add other prohibitions?!” (Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 41b) Jewish tradition treats speech the way it considers food, sex, and all other elements of proper human functioning—as necessary, God-given gifts, but nevertheless in need of regulation. For Maimonides, the overriding principle is balance—enjoyment from food and drink, but not overindulgence, pleasure from sexual relations, but only with one’s spouse, chatter and casual conversation, but not gossip, slander, or deceit. With regard to vows, he concludes: “although they may be in service to God, a person should not take too many. Instead one should abstain from those things from which one should abstain, and perform those things one should perform, without taking a vow.” (Hilchot Nedarim 13;24)
In Chassidic thought, the naked human soul is pure, but in order to function in the world, it is clothed in three layers. The innermost layer, closest to the soul, is the garment of thought; the outermost layer, exposed to external reality, is the garment of deeds; in between lies the middle layer, the garment of speech. Our speech separates our thoughts from our deeds, and yet, it is the medium that connects them as well. We can say one thing, and do another. We can certainly think one thing, and say another at the same time. However, righteous living entails alignment among the three garments of the soul, that deeds may match our speech, and our words may match our thoughts. In light of the Chassidic conception, let’s take one final look at the verse from our Torah portion: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” It’s instructive that a false declaration becomes a broken promise only when it passes one’s lips, only when it rises to the level of verbal articulation; a mental resolve or intention has no binding force. The passage recognizes that is enormously difficult, if not impossible, to control what goes on inside our heads, but we can certainly control what comes out of our mouths. In terms of the three garments of the soul, we may be ultimately striving for harmony, but in the meantime, let’s concern ourselves most of all with the outermost garments. It is through our words and through our deeds that we present ourselves to the world; it is by our words and by our deeds that we will be judged.
Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution? Have you ever made a New Year’s resolution and kept it? Now for an even more uncomfortable question: have you ever made a resolution to a spouse or loved one, and violated it? What were the consequences?
This week’s Torah portion Matot begins: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” (Numbers 30:3) Lo yacheil devaro; “he shall not break his word.” Yacheil is related to the word chol, which means “profane,” as opposed to qadosh, “holy.” For example, Shabbat is called qadosh, and the work week is chol. Lo yacheil really means: “he shall not profane, he shall not defile, that which is sacred.” Our word is sacred. Our speech is holy. Violating our speech is profanity.
Making promises to begin with is serious business. It’s the reason for the solemnity of the Kol Nidre prayer, placed at the top of the liturgy for the Day of Atonement. It’s the reason for the habit of pious Jews to mutter bli neder under their breath whenever they say they’re going to do something, because they’re so afraid to express an untruth. For example, one might tell a friend: “I’ll meet you for coffee at Harvest Market tomorrow morning at 9, bli neder.” It’s the reason why one of my Rabbinic colleagues vociferously protests against the declaration of wedding vows in a Jewish ceremony. He writes: “There are no wedding vows in Judaism, and the use of that term is a major red flag to me. The Jewish construct of marriage is contractual, not ‘vow-able.’ I understand that it is emotionally powerful to make a pledge to ‘love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part…,’ but I have come to the conclusion that such statements are halachically forbidden. Nobody can promise to feel a certain way, or even to act a certain way in all circumstances. The only honest commitment we can make is to try to act a certain way in the future, and the only honest statement we can make is about our current hopes and desires. That's why the ketubah is a contract and not a vow.”
“If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul…” The Hebrew word for vow is neder, as in “Kol Nidre;” the Hebrew word for oath is shevu’ah. The Talmud distinguishes the two terms as follows: a neder is a pledge upon a material object, whereas a shevu’ah is a pledge upon oneself. So, for example, if you say: “I promise never to drink more than one vodka per night,” that’s a neder, a vow regarding a material substance, but if you say to your parent: “I promise to say kaddish for you every day for the full halachically ordained period of eleven months,” that’s a shevu’ah, an oath regarding personal behavior. One can also make the distinction between a negative promise, i.e., the vow to abstain from vodka, and a positive promise, i.e. the oath to say kaddish. Finally, one can make the distinction between a pledge that involves nobody else besides God, or conscience—the vow to abstain from vodka—and a pledge that involves other people—the oath to say kaddish. Just as the Day of Atonement only absolves personal transgressions against God and cannot absolve interpersonal transgressions until the transgressor has sought forgiveness from the injured parties and made restitution, so, too, Kol Nidre only annuls vows made to God and cannot annul oaths made to other individuals.
The question arises, given that the consequences of breaking a promise are so grave, why doesn’t the Torah prohibit promises altogether? It could have contained the categorical commandment: “you shall not make a vow to God or swear an oath that binds an obligation upon your soul,” period. The answer is that oral pledges are useful and even necessary in society. An oath to another person to perform a task or fulfill a responsibility engenders trust and good will. A witness’s sworn testimony in a court of law underlies the reliability of the entire legal system. A vow to oneself can induce proper behavior and self-improvement, such as the vow to go on a diet or go to the gym, or, in the religious sphere, to study Torah every week or lay tefillin every day. Concerning such personal pledges, Maimonides writes: “when a person undertakes vows in order to establish her character or correct her conduct, she is considered eager and praiseworthy.” (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Nedarim 13:23)
On the other hand, the Rabbis generally take a dim view of self-imposed obligation and excessive piety: “are not the Torah’s prohibitions enough for you that you come to add other prohibitions?!” (Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 41b) Jewish tradition treats speech the way it considers food, sex, and all other elements of proper human functioning—as necessary, God-given gifts, but nevertheless in need of regulation. For Maimonides, the overriding principle is balance—enjoyment from food and drink, but not overindulgence, pleasure from sexual relations, but only with one’s spouse, chatter and casual conversation, but not gossip, slander, or deceit. With regard to vows, he concludes: “although they may be in service to God, a person should not take too many. Instead one should abstain from those things from which one should abstain, and perform those things one should perform, without taking a vow.” (Hilchot Nedarim 13;24)
In Chassidic thought, the naked human soul is pure, but in order to function in the world, it is clothed in three layers. The innermost layer, closest to the soul, is the garment of thought; the outermost layer, exposed to external reality, is the garment of deeds; in between lies the middle layer, the garment of speech. Our speech separates our thoughts from our deeds, and yet, it is the medium that connects them as well. We can say one thing, and do another. We can certainly think one thing, and say another at the same time. However, righteous living entails alignment among the three garments of the soul, that deeds may match our speech, and our words may match our thoughts. In light of the Chassidic conception, let’s take one final look at the verse from our Torah portion: “If a person makes a vow to God or swears an oath that binds an obligation upon his soul, then he shall not break his word; all that passes his lips he shall do.” It’s instructive that a false declaration becomes a broken promise only when it passes one’s lips, only when it rises to the level of verbal articulation; a mental resolve or intention has no binding force. The passage recognizes that is enormously difficult, if not impossible, to control what goes on inside our heads, but we can certainly control what comes out of our mouths. In terms of the three garments of the soul, we may be ultimately striving for harmony, but in the meantime, let’s concern ourselves most of all with the outermost garments. It is through our words and through our deeds that we present ourselves to the world; it is by our words and by our deeds that we will be judged.
July 20, 2011: The Reward of a Mitzvah
THE REWARD OF A MITZVAH
A famous Rabbinic quotation from Ethics of the Fathers reads: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah.” I always took this saying to mean that deeds feed on themselves—for better of for worse. We get into routines; we get into ruts. If we bend the rules in one instance, then the next time, we may go a little further, until we have flagrantly transgressed. However, if we go out of our way for someone once, it’s easier to do so again, until pretty soon we are habitually helpful. This week, I read an exquisite teaching of the Me’or Einayim, one of the earliest Chasidic sages. The Me’or Einayim interprets the Rabbinic saying differently. He writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. This means that the commandment is rewarded by the [pleasure] that the one who performs it feels, the joy of spirit that lies within the deed.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 4)
Recently, a member of our Chesed Committee went to see a JCOGS member in rehab. She reported back to the group: “My visit yesterday was the quintessential experience of doing something that you hope will benefit another, when it turns out that, in the end, you benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased that I went.” It got me to thinking: why did I become a Rabbi anyway? Leading the congregation for Ne’ilah, my favorite worship service of the year—what a thrill, what a rush (particularly on an empty stomach)! Then there are the quieter occasions, the moments of immense satisfaction when someone in pain reaches out to me for help. Would I be doing this if I didn’t love it? I mentioned these musings to my Rabbinic colleague and best friend. She replied: “My twenty-year-old son, cynical college student that he is, maintains that there’s no such thing as true altruism. There’s always an ulterior motive.” She paused, and then added: “I think it’s because he’s never really been in love yet.” “How will you know?” I asked. “The day he gives a gift to his girlfriend and, rather than priding himself on the gift itself, he takes pleasure in the look on her face as she unwraps it, that’s when I’ll know.” “Yes, but it’s still taking personal pleasure, so it’s still not completely selfless,” I added, a little mischievously.
In its origins, Chasidism was a countercultural spiritual revival movement. It developed in late 18th century Poland in reaction to a prevailing Judaism that had grown increasingly perfunctory, sterile, and devoid of meaning. What was the point of following commandments if there was no vitality in them? The great rallying cry became ivdu et ha-Shem be-simcha, “serve God in gladness, come into God’s Presence with shouts of joy.” (Psalm 100:2) For the early Chasidim, there is no higher pleasure that one can ever hope to attain than ecstatic communion with the Transcendent. According to Chassidic teaching, the human body comes from the earth, but the human soul is part of God above. Religious devotion stems from the longing of the soul to be reunited with its Source. Nor is worship relegated only to prayer. Commenting on the Me’or Einayim, Rabbi Nancy Flam writes: “we learn [from him] that to be actively engaged in the world through Mitzvot and other acts of chesed is a high level of worship. In the midst of these very actions, we experience our inner divine substance and we connect with the Soul of the universe.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 6)
The Me’or Einayim’s paradigmatic model for experiencing the pleasure of spiritual union through ordinary action is the story of Abraham welcoming the angels (only Abraham doesn’t know that his mysterious guests are angels). According to the narrative in Genesis, Abraham is sitting at the entrance to his tent in the hot midday sun, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He exclaims: “Pass not away, I pray you, from your servant,” (Genesis 18:3) meaning: “wait here, while I run and fetch some refreshments for you.” Only in the Me’or Einayim’s imaginative re-rendering of the tale, Abraham is not just sitting in his tent at high noon, he is engaged in intense communion with God, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He entreats, not his guests, but God, saying: “Pass not away, I pray You, from your servant,” meaning: “please, God, don’t leave me while I go and attend to my guests. Let me stay connected to You even while I go about serving others.”
In a real sense, we human beings will always pursue happiness when given the chance. It’s the way we are constituted. By the pleasure/pain principle, we are hardwired to avoid pain and seek pleasure. The question the Me’or Einayim asks of us is: what is our focus? Are we focused only on ourselves, or are we focused outside of ourselves? When we perform a good deed, does our satisfaction derive from feeding a narcissistic image of our own righteousness, or does it derive from attaching ourselves to a higher purpose? It’s the difference between Abraham turning away from God in order to serve his guests, and Abraham remaining attached to God even while he is attending to his guests. It’s the difference between fulfilling a Mitzvah out of obligation and “coming into God’s presence with shouts of joy.” It’s the difference between taking pride in a gift and taking pleasure in its recipient. To use another analogy, it’s the difference between having sex and making love. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure. After all, Judaism frowns upon asceticism, and Chasidism in particular encourages joy. Only let the joy penetrate us from outside ourselves. Let it derive from our connection to the souls of others and to the Soul of the universe.
The Me’or Einayim writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. The good deed is rewarded by the joy of spirit that lies within it.” My blessing for you, and for all of us, is that which the JCOGS Chesed Committee member received, when she wrote: “I did something that I hoped would benefit another, and it turned out that, in the end, I benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased.” May we experience such pleasure in all that we do.
A famous Rabbinic quotation from Ethics of the Fathers reads: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah.” I always took this saying to mean that deeds feed on themselves—for better of for worse. We get into routines; we get into ruts. If we bend the rules in one instance, then the next time, we may go a little further, until we have flagrantly transgressed. However, if we go out of our way for someone once, it’s easier to do so again, until pretty soon we are habitually helpful. This week, I read an exquisite teaching of the Me’or Einayim, one of the earliest Chasidic sages. The Me’or Einayim interprets the Rabbinic saying differently. He writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. This means that the commandment is rewarded by the [pleasure] that the one who performs it feels, the joy of spirit that lies within the deed.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 4)
Recently, a member of our Chesed Committee went to see a JCOGS member in rehab. She reported back to the group: “My visit yesterday was the quintessential experience of doing something that you hope will benefit another, when it turns out that, in the end, you benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased that I went.” It got me to thinking: why did I become a Rabbi anyway? Leading the congregation for Ne’ilah, my favorite worship service of the year—what a thrill, what a rush (particularly on an empty stomach)! Then there are the quieter occasions, the moments of immense satisfaction when someone in pain reaches out to me for help. Would I be doing this if I didn’t love it? I mentioned these musings to my Rabbinic colleague and best friend. She replied: “My twenty-year-old son, cynical college student that he is, maintains that there’s no such thing as true altruism. There’s always an ulterior motive.” She paused, and then added: “I think it’s because he’s never really been in love yet.” “How will you know?” I asked. “The day he gives a gift to his girlfriend and, rather than priding himself on the gift itself, he takes pleasure in the look on her face as she unwraps it, that’s when I’ll know.” “Yes, but it’s still taking personal pleasure, so it’s still not completely selfless,” I added, a little mischievously.
In its origins, Chasidism was a countercultural spiritual revival movement. It developed in late 18th century Poland in reaction to a prevailing Judaism that had grown increasingly perfunctory, sterile, and devoid of meaning. What was the point of following commandments if there was no vitality in them? The great rallying cry became ivdu et ha-Shem be-simcha, “serve God in gladness, come into God’s Presence with shouts of joy.” (Psalm 100:2) For the early Chasidim, there is no higher pleasure that one can ever hope to attain than ecstatic communion with the Transcendent. According to Chassidic teaching, the human body comes from the earth, but the human soul is part of God above. Religious devotion stems from the longing of the soul to be reunited with its Source. Nor is worship relegated only to prayer. Commenting on the Me’or Einayim, Rabbi Nancy Flam writes: “we learn [from him] that to be actively engaged in the world through Mitzvot and other acts of chesed is a high level of worship. In the midst of these very actions, we experience our inner divine substance and we connect with the Soul of the universe.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 6)
The Me’or Einayim’s paradigmatic model for experiencing the pleasure of spiritual union through ordinary action is the story of Abraham welcoming the angels (only Abraham doesn’t know that his mysterious guests are angels). According to the narrative in Genesis, Abraham is sitting at the entrance to his tent in the hot midday sun, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He exclaims: “Pass not away, I pray you, from your servant,” (Genesis 18:3) meaning: “wait here, while I run and fetch some refreshments for you.” Only in the Me’or Einayim’s imaginative re-rendering of the tale, Abraham is not just sitting in his tent at high noon, he is engaged in intense communion with God, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He entreats, not his guests, but God, saying: “Pass not away, I pray You, from your servant,” meaning: “please, God, don’t leave me while I go and attend to my guests. Let me stay connected to You even while I go about serving others.”
In a real sense, we human beings will always pursue happiness when given the chance. It’s the way we are constituted. By the pleasure/pain principle, we are hardwired to avoid pain and seek pleasure. The question the Me’or Einayim asks of us is: what is our focus? Are we focused only on ourselves, or are we focused outside of ourselves? When we perform a good deed, does our satisfaction derive from feeding a narcissistic image of our own righteousness, or does it derive from attaching ourselves to a higher purpose? It’s the difference between Abraham turning away from God in order to serve his guests, and Abraham remaining attached to God even while he is attending to his guests. It’s the difference between fulfilling a Mitzvah out of obligation and “coming into God’s presence with shouts of joy.” It’s the difference between taking pride in a gift and taking pleasure in its recipient. To use another analogy, it’s the difference between having sex and making love. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure. After all, Judaism frowns upon asceticism, and Chasidism in particular encourages joy. Only let the joy penetrate us from outside ourselves. Let it derive from our connection to the souls of others and to the Soul of the universe.
The Me’or Einayim writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. The good deed is rewarded by the joy of spirit that lies within it.” My blessing for you, and for all of us, is that which the JCOGS Chesed Committee member received, when she wrote: “I did something that I hoped would benefit another, and it turned out that, in the end, I benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased.” May we experience such pleasure in all that we do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)