Ki Tavo and No More Either/Or
This week’s Torah portion begins with the rituals we are to perform when entering the land that God promises.
After harvesting the first fruits of the season the farmer performs a special ceremony. He brings a basket of fruit to the priest who then places it on the altar. The farmer then recites the following ritual formula: “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there… The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26:5-10)
In this brief formulaic encapsulation of Jewish history, the Torah emphasizes our journey from wandering to landedness. God brought us from slavery to freedom and from the wilderness to the land of Israel.
It is interesting, and perhaps curious, to note that when we live in the land, as this Torah portion foresees, we remember our other condition of wandering and when we are in the diaspora we long for the condition of nationhood.
At every Jewish wedding, for example, the ancient rabbis commanded us to sing, “O Lord our God, may there forever be heard in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem the voices of joy and gladness, bride and groom, the jubilant voices of those joined in marriage under the huppah, the voices of young people feasting and singing.” At every Seder we conclude with the words, “Next year in Jerusalem!”
There are two competing paradigms in Jewish history: on the one hand, wandering and the diaspora, and on the other, landedness and Jewish sovereignty. Throughout most of Jewish history our center was a diaspora community, as best exemplified by ancient Babylonia or pre-World War II Poland. There were other times when we enjoyed Jewish independence in Jerusalem, under for example, King David or the Maccabees.
We, however, live in a unique time when there is both a vibrant diaspora community and an equally vibrant, and powerful, Jewish state. Today we are blessed with both paradigms. Today it is not the diaspora or Jewish sovereignty, wandering or landedness. It is both. And so we lack historical parallels to emulate. How do we further our unique historical situation when we only know how to remember wandering or long for sovereignty?
How can we live in both the diaspora and the land of Israel? This is the question for our present age. How can we both affirm Jewish sovereignty in the State of Israel and assert the vibrancy of the Jewish diaspora? And it is this question that hides beneath nearly every Jewish debate, especially those about the modern State of Israel and its policies and most important its relationship with the United States. Democrats shout, “Hillary is best for Israel.” Republicans claim, “Trump will better defend Israel.”
We shout at each other. Those who affirm the vibrancy of wandering and criticize Israel’s reliance on power are called disloyal. Those who relish in the recently achieved Jewish sovereignty and call diaspora Jews’ defense of the stranger are described as weak.
Perhaps we require a new language. We must discover new rituals for this unique, and unparalleled time—if for no other reason than to quiet the shouts and cries at one another. It can no longer be either/or if we are to remain as one.
Wandering and sovereignty must be held together.
After harvesting the first fruits of the season the farmer performs a special ceremony. He brings a basket of fruit to the priest who then places it on the altar. The farmer then recites the following ritual formula: “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there… The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26:5-10)
In this brief formulaic encapsulation of Jewish history, the Torah emphasizes our journey from wandering to landedness. God brought us from slavery to freedom and from the wilderness to the land of Israel.
It is interesting, and perhaps curious, to note that when we live in the land, as this Torah portion foresees, we remember our other condition of wandering and when we are in the diaspora we long for the condition of nationhood.
At every Jewish wedding, for example, the ancient rabbis commanded us to sing, “O Lord our God, may there forever be heard in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem the voices of joy and gladness, bride and groom, the jubilant voices of those joined in marriage under the huppah, the voices of young people feasting and singing.” At every Seder we conclude with the words, “Next year in Jerusalem!”
There are two competing paradigms in Jewish history: on the one hand, wandering and the diaspora, and on the other, landedness and Jewish sovereignty. Throughout most of Jewish history our center was a diaspora community, as best exemplified by ancient Babylonia or pre-World War II Poland. There were other times when we enjoyed Jewish independence in Jerusalem, under for example, King David or the Maccabees.
We, however, live in a unique time when there is both a vibrant diaspora community and an equally vibrant, and powerful, Jewish state. Today we are blessed with both paradigms. Today it is not the diaspora or Jewish sovereignty, wandering or landedness. It is both. And so we lack historical parallels to emulate. How do we further our unique historical situation when we only know how to remember wandering or long for sovereignty?
How can we live in both the diaspora and the land of Israel? This is the question for our present age. How can we both affirm Jewish sovereignty in the State of Israel and assert the vibrancy of the Jewish diaspora? And it is this question that hides beneath nearly every Jewish debate, especially those about the modern State of Israel and its policies and most important its relationship with the United States. Democrats shout, “Hillary is best for Israel.” Republicans claim, “Trump will better defend Israel.”
We shout at each other. Those who affirm the vibrancy of wandering and criticize Israel’s reliance on power are called disloyal. Those who relish in the recently achieved Jewish sovereignty and call diaspora Jews’ defense of the stranger are described as weak.
Perhaps we require a new language. We must discover new rituals for this unique, and unparalleled time—if for no other reason than to quiet the shouts and cries at one another. It can no longer be either/or if we are to remain as one.
Wandering and sovereignty must be held together.
Fifteen Years Later: A Prayer
Lord our God, I offer this prayer fifteen years after the 9-11 attack.
On the morning of September 11, 2016, I felt once again the comfortable cool air of a late summer day and turned to look up at the deep blue sky. And all I could think about was that terrible, dark day of fifteen years ago. I thought of the fear and terror of that morning. I remembered those taken from our midst and how they were robbed of their futures. And I was robbed of their companionship. All I could think about were those smiling photographs looking up at me from our newspapers. They were torn from our families; they were stolen from our homes. My heart remains wounded. Now even so many years after that day, I strain to hear their voices. I long to feel their embrace....
On the morning of September 11, 2016, I felt once again the comfortable cool air of a late summer day and turned to look up at the deep blue sky. And all I could think about was that terrible, dark day of fifteen years ago. I thought of the fear and terror of that morning. I remembered those taken from our midst and how they were robbed of their futures. And I was robbed of their companionship. All I could think about were those smiling photographs looking up at me from our newspapers. They were torn from our families; they were stolen from our homes. My heart remains wounded. Now even so many years after that day, I strain to hear their voices. I long to feel their embrace....
9-11 and Making Holy War
The Bible’s Book of Deuteronomy, which Jews are in the midst of reading, details the laws about making war. It is worth noting that although we might prefer to cling to the words of the prophets and their lofty visions of peace: “Nation shall not lift up sword against nation” or “The wolf shall lie down with the lamb,” the Jewish tradition is not a pacifist tradition. It allows for war. The Book of Deuteronomy in fact recognizes that this will be the Jewish people’s lot when they cross the Jordan and conquer the land of the Canaanites. It most especially recognizes that sometimes we must fight wars of self-defense. Of course, before attacking an enemy terms of peace must be offered.
The Bible continues. The priest speaks to the troops and says: “Sh’ma Yisrael—Hear O Israel! You are about to join battle with your enemy. Let not your courage falter. Do not be in fear, or in panic, or in dread of them. For it is the Lord your God who marches with you to do battle…” (Deuteronomy 20) This refrain of “Don’t be afraid, God is with you” is often repeated. Such words make us uncomfortable. This week we are marking the 15th anniversary of 9-11, a day that continues to wound and a day in which our country, and our city, were attacked by people who believed that they were likewise doing God’s bidding, that their heinous acts had God’s blessing. So how do we read our holy books and not cringe at even such vague similarities?
The Bible continues. The priest speaks to the troops and says: “Sh’ma Yisrael—Hear O Israel! You are about to join battle with your enemy. Let not your courage falter. Do not be in fear, or in panic, or in dread of them. For it is the Lord your God who marches with you to do battle…” (Deuteronomy 20) This refrain of “Don’t be afraid, God is with you” is often repeated. Such words make us uncomfortable. This week we are marking the 15th anniversary of 9-11, a day that continues to wound and a day in which our country, and our city, were attacked by people who believed that they were likewise doing God’s bidding, that their heinous acts had God’s blessing. So how do we read our holy books and not cringe at even such vague similarities?
Shoftim and a Lynching Tree
What is so terrible about a tree?
In keeping with Deuteronomy’s near obsession with idolatry and its desire to eradicate all objects of foreign worship from the land of Israel, we read: “You shall not set up a sacred post (asherah)—any tree-like object beside the altar of the Lord your God that you make—or erect a stone pillar; for such the Lord your God detests.” (Deuteronomy 16:21-22) Last week’s theme continues through this week.
An asherah, sacred post, was apparently a standing wooden object erected at a place of worship. In other words it was a totem pole. It could have also been a particular type of tree that was deemed sacred by the ancient Canaanites. Or, perhaps it was a tree that was planted near their temples. Interestingly the name for a Canaanite goddess was Asherah. Trees, or wooden objects, were thus associated with this goddess and explicitly forbidden.
The sentiment is clear. Anything that even approaches Canaanite religion or worship is forbidden. The message is emphatic. We are going to do things differently, most especially in the land of Israel. And that begins with how we pray.
But a tree?
There are times when hiking in the deserts of Israel one is grateful for the shade of a tree. It is a welcome relief from the afternoon sun. In a hot, dry climate, shade can offer much relief. “And the Lord appeared to Abraham by the terebinths (oaks) of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot.” (Genesis 18:1) Given that this tree, or cluster of trees, had a particular name indicates that they were familiar to Abraham and his contemporaries. Perhaps they were used as a landmark. Then again perhaps these trees were also deemed sacred by his new neighbors.
During Abraham’s time there appears more comfort with the indigenous Canaanite religion. It was not that the patriarchs believed as the Canaanites did. But they do appear more at ease living side by side with competing religious practices and ideas. They allowed such religions to coexist alongside their own. Rather than uprooting these sacred trees Abraham redefines them. There he experiences his God. The Canaanites’ totem pole becomes the site of his covenant with God and the beginnings of our faith.
Deuteronomy sees such an approach as impossible. By this time the Israelites wish to become the dominant religion of the land. They are to be the majority of its inhabitants. Thus the Canaanites are no longer neighbors but enemies. In this week’s portion we sense the moment when the Israelites will reclaim the land for our entire nation. There can be no living side by side with their enemy’s ideas or even with their sacred objects.
Imagine a tall, stately tree that serves as a contemporary destination. Imagine as well that years ago this same beautiful tree was used to lynch an innocent man or even to hang a guilty criminal. Would you want such a tree to continue to serve as a landmark for the place you now call home? An ordinary tree can become deformed by the acts committed under its limbs. This is exactly how the Canaanites were seen. This is exactly how their sacred trees were viewed. In the imagination of the ancient Israelites the Canaanite religion was everywhere and always equated with such evils.
One always imagines an enemy doing horrific and unspeakable acts. (And sometimes they really do. But other times they do not. More often the evil-doers are fewer in number than we imagine.) The Israelites therefore believed that there was no choice but to eradicate even their trees.
Beware of seeing evil lurking under every tree.
The prophet proclaims: “Nation shall not take up sword against nation; they shall never again know war; every man shall sit under his grapevine or fig tree and no one shall make him afraid.” (Micah 4:4)
In keeping with Deuteronomy’s near obsession with idolatry and its desire to eradicate all objects of foreign worship from the land of Israel, we read: “You shall not set up a sacred post (asherah)—any tree-like object beside the altar of the Lord your God that you make—or erect a stone pillar; for such the Lord your God detests.” (Deuteronomy 16:21-22) Last week’s theme continues through this week.
An asherah, sacred post, was apparently a standing wooden object erected at a place of worship. In other words it was a totem pole. It could have also been a particular type of tree that was deemed sacred by the ancient Canaanites. Or, perhaps it was a tree that was planted near their temples. Interestingly the name for a Canaanite goddess was Asherah. Trees, or wooden objects, were thus associated with this goddess and explicitly forbidden.
The sentiment is clear. Anything that even approaches Canaanite religion or worship is forbidden. The message is emphatic. We are going to do things differently, most especially in the land of Israel. And that begins with how we pray.
But a tree?
There are times when hiking in the deserts of Israel one is grateful for the shade of a tree. It is a welcome relief from the afternoon sun. In a hot, dry climate, shade can offer much relief. “And the Lord appeared to Abraham by the terebinths (oaks) of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot.” (Genesis 18:1) Given that this tree, or cluster of trees, had a particular name indicates that they were familiar to Abraham and his contemporaries. Perhaps they were used as a landmark. Then again perhaps these trees were also deemed sacred by his new neighbors.
During Abraham’s time there appears more comfort with the indigenous Canaanite religion. It was not that the patriarchs believed as the Canaanites did. But they do appear more at ease living side by side with competing religious practices and ideas. They allowed such religions to coexist alongside their own. Rather than uprooting these sacred trees Abraham redefines them. There he experiences his God. The Canaanites’ totem pole becomes the site of his covenant with God and the beginnings of our faith.
Deuteronomy sees such an approach as impossible. By this time the Israelites wish to become the dominant religion of the land. They are to be the majority of its inhabitants. Thus the Canaanites are no longer neighbors but enemies. In this week’s portion we sense the moment when the Israelites will reclaim the land for our entire nation. There can be no living side by side with their enemy’s ideas or even with their sacred objects.
Imagine a tall, stately tree that serves as a contemporary destination. Imagine as well that years ago this same beautiful tree was used to lynch an innocent man or even to hang a guilty criminal. Would you want such a tree to continue to serve as a landmark for the place you now call home? An ordinary tree can become deformed by the acts committed under its limbs. This is exactly how the Canaanites were seen. This is exactly how their sacred trees were viewed. In the imagination of the ancient Israelites the Canaanite religion was everywhere and always equated with such evils.
One always imagines an enemy doing horrific and unspeakable acts. (And sometimes they really do. But other times they do not. More often the evil-doers are fewer in number than we imagine.) The Israelites therefore believed that there was no choice but to eradicate even their trees.
Beware of seeing evil lurking under every tree.
The prophet proclaims: “Nation shall not take up sword against nation; they shall never again know war; every man shall sit under his grapevine or fig tree and no one shall make him afraid.” (Micah 4:4)
Turning Home
A story by Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav, the unparalleled 18th century Hasidic rabbi.
There once was a Jew who lived in the great and tumultuous metropolis of New York. (Ok, I changed the city from Prague). One night he dreamed that he should journey to San Francisco (I think it works better than Vienna). There, at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, leading to the overpriced homes of that vibrant and bustling city, he would find a buried treasure.
Night after night he dreamed the same dream. The image of that glistening red bridge, shrouded in fog and connecting San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean, occupied his thoughts. He resolved, he must travel there. He left his family behind and traveled west to California. There he was certain he would find the treasure about which he dreamed.
There once was a Jew who lived in the great and tumultuous metropolis of New York. (Ok, I changed the city from Prague). One night he dreamed that he should journey to San Francisco (I think it works better than Vienna). There, at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, leading to the overpriced homes of that vibrant and bustling city, he would find a buried treasure.
Night after night he dreamed the same dream. The image of that glistening red bridge, shrouded in fog and connecting San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean, occupied his thoughts. He resolved, he must travel there. He left his family behind and traveled west to California. There he was certain he would find the treasure about which he dreamed.
Given the current age of terrorism in which we now find ourselves, the bridge is under constant surveillance. Finding the buried treasure might prove more difficult than he had planned and bargained for. And so, every day he walked the bridge’s expanse; he explored the rocky coastline; he wandered near the bridge’s supports. He wondered where exactly the treasure might be buried. The police began to take notice.
After two weeks an officer approached the man. He turned to run. The officer grabbed the man by his coat and shouted, “You are not from around here. What are you plotting? Why do you keep returning here, to this bridge, day after day?” The man grew afraid and nervous. He revealed his dream of the buried treasure. The officer burst out laughing. He brought other officers over. “Listen to this New York Jew’s tale,” he said.
After what seemed like hours of laughter and the exhausting repetition of his story to what felt like every San Francisco police officer, in particular the tale of his dream, and the travails of his journey from New York to California (Oy the traffic; the delays at LaGuardia) the officer said: “What a foolish man you are to believe in such dreams. If I lived my life by such visions, I would be well on my way to New York. In fact, last night I dreamed that a New York Jew has buried in his very own backyard a treasure waiting to be uncovered.”
The man returned to New York. He immediately began digging in his backyard and there in his perfectly manicured lawn, among the beautiful landscaping, he found untold gold and silver coins; he discovered unimaginable wealth. He sat down and reflected. “The treasure was always here; it was always in my possession. Why did I have to travel so far to discover this? It was always here within my reach?”
More often than not, treasures are found closer to home. They can be found in the tradition that carries us from place to place. They can be found in the homes where we laugh together at holiday meals. They can be found within our own hearts. So teaches Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav.
The High Holidays and the period of introspection they mark, begin with the first of the month of Elul. This day begins on Saturday. The task of turning begins not on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur but this weekend.
After two weeks an officer approached the man. He turned to run. The officer grabbed the man by his coat and shouted, “You are not from around here. What are you plotting? Why do you keep returning here, to this bridge, day after day?” The man grew afraid and nervous. He revealed his dream of the buried treasure. The officer burst out laughing. He brought other officers over. “Listen to this New York Jew’s tale,” he said.
After what seemed like hours of laughter and the exhausting repetition of his story to what felt like every San Francisco police officer, in particular the tale of his dream, and the travails of his journey from New York to California (Oy the traffic; the delays at LaGuardia) the officer said: “What a foolish man you are to believe in such dreams. If I lived my life by such visions, I would be well on my way to New York. In fact, last night I dreamed that a New York Jew has buried in his very own backyard a treasure waiting to be uncovered.”
The man returned to New York. He immediately began digging in his backyard and there in his perfectly manicured lawn, among the beautiful landscaping, he found untold gold and silver coins; he discovered unimaginable wealth. He sat down and reflected. “The treasure was always here; it was always in my possession. Why did I have to travel so far to discover this? It was always here within my reach?”
More often than not, treasures are found closer to home. They can be found in the tradition that carries us from place to place. They can be found in the homes where we laugh together at holiday meals. They can be found within our own hearts. So teaches Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav.
The High Holidays and the period of introspection they mark, begin with the first of the month of Elul. This day begins on Saturday. The task of turning begins not on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur but this weekend.
What are the treasures waiting to be discovered here and now, at home and at work, within reach of our very own arms and legs? What untold riches are standing here before our very eyes? This is the question we should focus on during these forty days of repentance. This is the gift of the month of Elul.
This is the question that might open our hearts to our tradition’s season of turning. It is not so much about the sermons, the prayers and even the chanting of Kol Nidre as much as the turning of our heart towards the treasures found within, to the riches found closest to home.
This is the question that might open our hearts to our tradition’s season of turning. It is not so much about the sermons, the prayers and even the chanting of Kol Nidre as much as the turning of our heart towards the treasures found within, to the riches found closest to home.
And, In memory of Gene Wilder, and to illustrate part of my inspiration, enjoy this clip from The Frisco Kid:
And take to heart some of his witty advice: “If you're not
gonna tell the truth, then why start talking?”
It is the perfect reminder about our tradition’s demand to speak honest
words.
Parent's Prayer Before College
For those who may be driving a son or daughter to college for the first time, perhaps you will find this creative prayer meaningful and helpful for that moment of letting go:
Adonai Eloheinu, Lord our God, keep my son/daughter safe as they learn more about the world, themselves, and I hope their Jewish inheritance, at college. Open their hearts to different people and their minds to new ideas. Let them acquire wisdom and skills to navigate life’s challenges and struggles without my prodding and help. Indeed, let them grow more independent. Restrain me from texting too often but let them remain certain I am always available to listen, advise and most of all offer words of love and comfort. Even though my sheltered embrace is now distant from their daily lives let them find protection in Your eternal care. Blessed are You, Adonai, who listens to prayer.
Adonai Eloheinu, Lord our God, keep my son/daughter safe as they learn more about the world, themselves, and I hope their Jewish inheritance, at college. Open their hearts to different people and their minds to new ideas. Let them acquire wisdom and skills to navigate life’s challenges and struggles without my prodding and help. Indeed, let them grow more independent. Restrain me from texting too often but let them remain certain I am always available to listen, advise and most of all offer words of love and comfort. Even though my sheltered embrace is now distant from their daily lives let them find protection in Your eternal care. Blessed are You, Adonai, who listens to prayer.
Ekev and God's Wealth
As we march through the portions of Deuteronomy, amidst the promises of reward and the threats of punishment in Moses’ lengthy warnings to the Israelites, we discover these words: “Remember it is the Lord your God who gives you the strength to make wealth…” (Deuteronomy 9:18)
The religious perspective insists that the foods we eat and the successes we earn are not our own but are instead owed to God. Even though I believe each of us deserves a measure of praise for our own successes I wonder how our world might be improved if we were to adopt this philosophy.
If my success is not my own, if my wealth is not because of my own strengths, intelligence and skills, then perhaps I am more willing to share with others and give to my community. I am less inclined to hold this wealth in my own hands because it is not owed to the work of my hands. Everything is a gift. Everything is blessing from God.
And that is the goal of the society the Torah wishes to create. It is about fashioning a sense of “our.” Its theory is that in order to do so, in order to train the soul to share, we must replace “It is mine.” with “It is because of God.”
If everything belongs to God, if the food I eat, if the successes I attain, are because of God then it becomes easier for me to share. Community can only be sustained by sharing.
That is the Torah’s goal. A holy community can only succeed because of God’s strength.
The religious perspective insists that the foods we eat and the successes we earn are not our own but are instead owed to God. Even though I believe each of us deserves a measure of praise for our own successes I wonder how our world might be improved if we were to adopt this philosophy.
If my success is not my own, if my wealth is not because of my own strengths, intelligence and skills, then perhaps I am more willing to share with others and give to my community. I am less inclined to hold this wealth in my own hands because it is not owed to the work of my hands. Everything is a gift. Everything is blessing from God.
And that is the goal of the society the Torah wishes to create. It is about fashioning a sense of “our.” Its theory is that in order to do so, in order to train the soul to share, we must replace “It is mine.” with “It is because of God.”
If everything belongs to God, if the food I eat, if the successes I attain, are because of God then it becomes easier for me to share. Community can only be sustained by sharing.
That is the Torah’s goal. A holy community can only succeed because of God’s strength.
What Old School Perspective Can Teach
What Old School Perspective Can Teach the Age of the Smartphone
Here is the theory: the people closest to us are actually growing more distant and the events farthest from our homes feel much too near. Two illustrations:
A recent phone conversation with my daughter.
“I heard from your uncle that you and your cousin had a lengthy conversation.”
“Yes. We texted for a while about her summer at camp.”
“I thought your uncle said you spoke.”
“Abba, for my generation texting is talking.”
You could almost hear as well, “You’re so old!”
I manage to text, inbox and even tweet. Still I wonder how these technological advances might hurt our relationships with each other and our world....
Here is the theory: the people closest to us are actually growing more distant and the events farthest from our homes feel much too near. Two illustrations:
A recent phone conversation with my daughter.
“I heard from your uncle that you and your cousin had a lengthy conversation.”
“Yes. We texted for a while about her summer at camp.”
“I thought your uncle said you spoke.”
“Abba, for my generation texting is talking.”
You could almost hear as well, “You’re so old!”
I manage to text, inbox and even tweet. Still I wonder how these technological advances might hurt our relationships with each other and our world....
Vaetchanan and Swimming Medals
Olympic swimmers break records every year. Their skills are extraordinary. Michael Phelps and Katie Ledecky amaze. Swimmers improve their times at every
Olympics.
The first medalist in Olympic swimming, in modern history,
was Alfred Hajos-Guttmann. And who was
Hajos-Guttman? A Jew. In fact he was a Hungarian Jew. He earned two gold medals at the 1896 games
in Athens. He won the 100-Meter and
1200-Meter Freestyle. His time for the
100-Meter was 1:22.2. By the way, this
year’s winner touched the wall at 47.58.
Granted Hajos-Guttman did not swim in a 50-Meter state of
the art pool but instead in the cool waters of the Mediterranean in which there
were the occasional 12-foot swells.
There is a big difference between swimming in a pool and an ocean! Even more noteworthy Hajos-Guttman also
earned titles in Hungary’s national competitions in running, hurdles, discus
and soccer. Later he coached Hungary’s
national soccer team.
And when he returned to the 1924 Olympics he competed not in
sports but the arts. Apparently back
then it was not just about sports, and sportsmanship (although there have been
both stirring and disturbing examples of this during these summer games), but
other disciplines. Hajos-Guttman earned
top honors in architecture.
And so I’m just saying.
Maybe it really did begin with a Jewish achievement.
And why did Hajos-Guttman take up swimming? At the age of thirteen his father drowned in
the Danube. It was not so much about the
medals but instead about saving life. In
fact he changed his name to Hajos, which means sailor in Hungarian.
The Talmud teaches that parents are obligated to teach their
children Torah and a craft. To not teach
them a craft is likened to teaching them to steal. And some say to teach them to swim too. Why?
Because their lives might depend on it. (Babylonian Talmud Sukkah 56b) And Rabbi Moskowitz adds: To teach them to
ride a bike. Why? Their enjoyment might depend on it.
The Torah reminds us: “And you shall teach them to your
children. (Deuteronomy 6)
No one can swim as fast as Phelps or Ledecky but everyone
needs to know how to swim. And it all
started with Alfred Hajos-Guttman, the Jew who took up swimming for no other
reason than his life might depend on it.
It’s really not about the medals.
Addendum: I would like to acknowledge Abby Sher and her recent
article in Jewniverse: The First Swimmer to Win Olympic Gold Was This HungarianJew. Sher pointed me in the direction of
Hajos-Guttman’s achievements.
Devarim and the Weight of Words
Sometimes language offers hints of meaning. Other times it creates challenges to progress.
The Hebrew language provides many examples. Let us examine two. The Hebrew word for woman: isha is the same exact word for wife. There are different words for a young woman but not an adult woman. The language suggests that once a woman reaches adulthood her fulfillment can only be found in marriage to a man. The word for husband, by the way, is the same as that for owner: baal.
Such are the limitations of an ancient language as it confronts modernity. Hebrew is unable to recognize that a woman can find fulfillment not only in marriage but also as a rabbi (Go Susie!), prime minister (three cheers for Golda!), or even president. A woman can find meaning and fulfillment in a myriad of different ways. Her choices should be as endless as those for a man. She, like a man, should only be limited by intelligence, talents and devotion. (Go Shira and Ari!)
She does not serve a husband. Instead, like men and all human beings, she has the potential to serve the world. She can better the world by not only bringing forth life and forming a loving and holy partnership with another, but by working to improve our broken world. That is the obligation of every human being—both men and women.
On the other hand, there are times when language reminds us of ancient teachings that still resonate with modern meaning.
In Hebrew the word for word: devar is the same as that for thing. A word has weight. It is not ephemeral. It can heal. A word can also harm. A word is a thing. It is as if a word is an object that can be held in our hands. A word is not cheap. This is one of Judaism’s most profound lessons and something that our holy language reminds us of again and again.
In addition the word is born in the desert wilderness: midbar. This word shares the same root as devar. It is there that God revealed the word: devarim. It is there that we were taught about the weight of our words. It is also there that we gained a hint of the power of speech because it is there that God’s word thundered from Mount Sinai.
We must therefore measure the weight of our words. Otherwise we might find ourselves alone, and without the community that nurtures us. We might find ourselves adrift in a desert wilderness.
“These are the words that Moses addressed to all of Israel on the other side of the Jordan….” (Deuteronomy 1)
It is the word that can still bring healing to our broken world.
The Hebrew language provides many examples. Let us examine two. The Hebrew word for woman: isha is the same exact word for wife. There are different words for a young woman but not an adult woman. The language suggests that once a woman reaches adulthood her fulfillment can only be found in marriage to a man. The word for husband, by the way, is the same as that for owner: baal.
Such are the limitations of an ancient language as it confronts modernity. Hebrew is unable to recognize that a woman can find fulfillment not only in marriage but also as a rabbi (Go Susie!), prime minister (three cheers for Golda!), or even president. A woman can find meaning and fulfillment in a myriad of different ways. Her choices should be as endless as those for a man. She, like a man, should only be limited by intelligence, talents and devotion. (Go Shira and Ari!)
She does not serve a husband. Instead, like men and all human beings, she has the potential to serve the world. She can better the world by not only bringing forth life and forming a loving and holy partnership with another, but by working to improve our broken world. That is the obligation of every human being—both men and women.
On the other hand, there are times when language reminds us of ancient teachings that still resonate with modern meaning.
In Hebrew the word for word: devar is the same as that for thing. A word has weight. It is not ephemeral. It can heal. A word can also harm. A word is a thing. It is as if a word is an object that can be held in our hands. A word is not cheap. This is one of Judaism’s most profound lessons and something that our holy language reminds us of again and again.
In addition the word is born in the desert wilderness: midbar. This word shares the same root as devar. It is there that God revealed the word: devarim. It is there that we were taught about the weight of our words. It is also there that we gained a hint of the power of speech because it is there that God’s word thundered from Mount Sinai.
We must therefore measure the weight of our words. Otherwise we might find ourselves alone, and without the community that nurtures us. We might find ourselves adrift in a desert wilderness.
“These are the words that Moses addressed to all of Israel on the other side of the Jordan….” (Deuteronomy 1)
It is the word that can still bring healing to our broken world.
Mattot or Masei and Fraying Threads
Diaspora Jewry and Israel are out of sync. In fact we have been reading different Torah portions.
Since the concluding Shabbat of Pesach Israeli Jews have been reading the portion ahead of that in the diaspora. Let me explain. In Israel, Pesach is celebrated for seven days. In the diaspora for eight days. The reason for this is ancient. Millennia ago when the rabbis delineated the calendar they determined that the months and their holidays would be determined in the physical, and later spiritual, center of the Jewish world: Jerusalem. Worried that the message might take too long to communicate from Jerusalem to distant communities they instituted a second holiday day for those living outside of the land of Israel. And thus in the diaspora a one day holiday becomes two days and a seven day holiday becomes eight.
This year, in Israel, the first day of Pesach fell on Saturday and the seventh on Friday. There on the Shabbat following the conclusion of the holiday they moved on to the weekly portion and read Achrei Mot. We on the other hand read the portion assigned to the second Shabbat of Passover. We did not return to the portion of the week until the following Shabbat. We have been behind Israel ever since. Finally this week we arrive at the double portion Mattot-Masei with which we conclude the Book of Numbers. In Israel they read our double portion over two weeks.
Now the entire Jewish world is back on the same page.
Still this rare circumstance has caused me to ponder the growing distance between Israel and the diaspora, most especially among our youth....
Since the concluding Shabbat of Pesach Israeli Jews have been reading the portion ahead of that in the diaspora. Let me explain. In Israel, Pesach is celebrated for seven days. In the diaspora for eight days. The reason for this is ancient. Millennia ago when the rabbis delineated the calendar they determined that the months and their holidays would be determined in the physical, and later spiritual, center of the Jewish world: Jerusalem. Worried that the message might take too long to communicate from Jerusalem to distant communities they instituted a second holiday day for those living outside of the land of Israel. And thus in the diaspora a one day holiday becomes two days and a seven day holiday becomes eight.
This year, in Israel, the first day of Pesach fell on Saturday and the seventh on Friday. There on the Shabbat following the conclusion of the holiday they moved on to the weekly portion and read Achrei Mot. We on the other hand read the portion assigned to the second Shabbat of Passover. We did not return to the portion of the week until the following Shabbat. We have been behind Israel ever since. Finally this week we arrive at the double portion Mattot-Masei with which we conclude the Book of Numbers. In Israel they read our double portion over two weeks.
Now the entire Jewish world is back on the same page.
Still this rare circumstance has caused me to ponder the growing distance between Israel and the diaspora, most especially among our youth....
Pinhas and the Ocean's Waters
In ancient times sacrifices were offered on the heights of the Temple. On Sukkot especially the sacrifices reached their zenith. This week’s Torah portion offers details of the Sukkot sacrifices. (Numbers 29) 70 bulls were slaughtered on the altar, in addition to 14 rams, 98 lambs and seven goats. It was a bloody weeklong celebration. At the conclusion of Sukkot was the long since forgotten holiday of Simhat Beit HaShoeva, the water drawing celebration. Copious amounts of water were poured over the Temple and its altar.
In a land where water is so scarce it is remarkable to reflect on the central ritual of this holiday. At the conclusion of the dry season and prior to the beginning of the winter rains water is dumped as if it were a plentiful commodity. My teacher and the chair of Hebrew University’s Bible Department, Israel Knohl, offers two possible explanations. There was the practical and the philosophical. On the one hand this much water was required to clean the Temple. After so many sacrifices the Temple required a thorough washing. On the other hand what could be a better statement of faith than to dump out water before the winter rains (hopefully) began. It was if our people said, “God, we firmly believe that You will soon provide water for our crops.”
It is interesting to ponder the fact that whereas water figured so prominently in ancient times, it is no longer prominent in our rituals, especially in Reform circles. In traditional homes the mikvah, the ritual bath is still observed as well as netilat yadayim, the ritual washing of hands before eating. (It is important to note that we are still battling over these rituals. The Knesset recently passed a law banning Reform and Conservative Jews from using mikvahs for their conversions.) Still, we only add the prayer for rain to our liturgy, beginning at the conclusion of Sukkot. This additional line connects us to the seasons of the land of Israel. Is this single line enough?
When in Jerusalem I often set out on hikes to explore the streets of the city. It does not take long to be reminded of the necessity of always bringing plenty of water to withstand Jerusalem’s summer heat. It is no wonder that there water became central to our rituals. It is unfortunate that we take water for granted and no longer give such prominence to its preciousness. We drink it, bathe in it, play in it, but no longer pray with it.
It is hard to appreciate water living in an area where it is sometimes too abundant. It is true that our tradition assigns no blessing over the drinking of water. It is used in blessings, but we recite no blessing over it as we do with other foods and drinks. Why is there is no blessing? It is because water is a blessing. In Israel one appreciates better the blessing of mayyim hayyim, living waters.
According to the Talmud one has not experienced true joy until one celebrates Simhat Beit HaShoeva. What faith it is indeed to pour water over every inch of the Temple precinct at the onset of the rainy season. So with our ancestors let us dance and celebrate that God provides for us these living waters. And let us as well regain a better appreciation of mayyim hayyim, living waters.
Let us open our minds to the power and beauty of water and the majesty of the ocean's waves.
In a land where water is so scarce it is remarkable to reflect on the central ritual of this holiday. At the conclusion of the dry season and prior to the beginning of the winter rains water is dumped as if it were a plentiful commodity. My teacher and the chair of Hebrew University’s Bible Department, Israel Knohl, offers two possible explanations. There was the practical and the philosophical. On the one hand this much water was required to clean the Temple. After so many sacrifices the Temple required a thorough washing. On the other hand what could be a better statement of faith than to dump out water before the winter rains (hopefully) began. It was if our people said, “God, we firmly believe that You will soon provide water for our crops.”
It is interesting to ponder the fact that whereas water figured so prominently in ancient times, it is no longer prominent in our rituals, especially in Reform circles. In traditional homes the mikvah, the ritual bath is still observed as well as netilat yadayim, the ritual washing of hands before eating. (It is important to note that we are still battling over these rituals. The Knesset recently passed a law banning Reform and Conservative Jews from using mikvahs for their conversions.) Still, we only add the prayer for rain to our liturgy, beginning at the conclusion of Sukkot. This additional line connects us to the seasons of the land of Israel. Is this single line enough?
When in Jerusalem I often set out on hikes to explore the streets of the city. It does not take long to be reminded of the necessity of always bringing plenty of water to withstand Jerusalem’s summer heat. It is no wonder that there water became central to our rituals. It is unfortunate that we take water for granted and no longer give such prominence to its preciousness. We drink it, bathe in it, play in it, but no longer pray with it.
It is hard to appreciate water living in an area where it is sometimes too abundant. It is true that our tradition assigns no blessing over the drinking of water. It is used in blessings, but we recite no blessing over it as we do with other foods and drinks. Why is there is no blessing? It is because water is a blessing. In Israel one appreciates better the blessing of mayyim hayyim, living waters.
According to the Talmud one has not experienced true joy until one celebrates Simhat Beit HaShoeva. What faith it is indeed to pour water over every inch of the Temple precinct at the onset of the rainy season. So with our ancestors let us dance and celebrate that God provides for us these living waters. And let us as well regain a better appreciation of mayyim hayyim, living waters.
Let us open our minds to the power and beauty of water and the majesty of the ocean's waves.
Balak, Favorite Poems and Enemy's Prayers
A few poems.
To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or dry prison cell:
to him I come, and without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or dry prison cell:
to him I come, and without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.
So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through the windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying “How can I reach the sea?”
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through the windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying “How can I reach the sea?”
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.
So, though me, freedom and the sea
will call in answer to the shuttered heart.
will call in answer to the shuttered heart.
However deep your
Knowledge of the scriptures,
It is no more than a strand of hair
In the vastness of space;
However important appears
Your worldly experience,
It is but a drop of water in a deep ravine.
Knowledge of the scriptures,
It is no more than a strand of hair
In the vastness of space;
However important appears
Your worldly experience,
It is but a drop of water in a deep ravine.
At times ... I wish I could meet in a duel the man who
killed my father and razed our home, expelling me into a narrow country. And if
he killed me, I’d rest at last, and if I were ready— I would take my revenge!
But if it came to light, when my rival appeared, that he had a mother waiting for him, or a father who’d put his right hand over the heart’s place in his chest whenever his son was late even by just a quarter-hour for a meeting they’d set— then I would not kill him, even if I could.
Likewise ... I would not murder him if it were soon made clear that he had a brother or sisters who loved him and constantly longed to see him. Or if he had a wife to greet him and children who couldn’t bear his absence and whom his gifts would thrill. Or if he had friends or companions, neighbors he knew or allies from prison or a hospital room, or classmates from his school … asking about him and sending him regards.
But if he turned out to be on his own — cut off like a branch from a tree — without a mother or father, with neither a brother nor sister, wifeless, without a child, and without kin or neighbors or friends, colleagues or companions, then I’d add not a thing to his pain within that aloneness — not the torment of death, and not the sorrow of passing away. Instead I’d be content to ignore him when I passed him by on the street—as I convinced myself that paying him no attention in itself was a kind of revenge.
But if it came to light, when my rival appeared, that he had a mother waiting for him, or a father who’d put his right hand over the heart’s place in his chest whenever his son was late even by just a quarter-hour for a meeting they’d set— then I would not kill him, even if I could.
Likewise ... I would not murder him if it were soon made clear that he had a brother or sisters who loved him and constantly longed to see him. Or if he had a wife to greet him and children who couldn’t bear his absence and whom his gifts would thrill. Or if he had friends or companions, neighbors he knew or allies from prison or a hospital room, or classmates from his school … asking about him and sending him regards.
But if he turned out to be on his own — cut off like a branch from a tree — without a mother or father, with neither a brother nor sister, wifeless, without a child, and without kin or neighbors or friends, colleagues or companions, then I’d add not a thing to his pain within that aloneness — not the torment of death, and not the sorrow of passing away. Instead I’d be content to ignore him when I passed him by on the street—as I convinced myself that paying him no attention in itself was a kind of revenge.
And then in this week’s portion we discover these verses:
How fair are you tents, O Jacob,
Your dwellings, O Israel!
Like palm-groves that stretch out,
Like gardens beside a river,
Like aloes planted by the Lord,
Like cedars beside the water…
They crouch, they lie down like a lion,
Like the king of beasts; who dare rouse them?
Blessed are they who bless you,
Accursed they who curse you! (Numbers 24)
So said Balaam, the foreign prophet sent by Israel’s sworn
enemy, the Moabites. King Balak
instructs Balaam to curse the Jewish people.
Instead the prophet provides us with a prayer.
Mah tovu ohalecha, Yaakov…
With these words we begin our morning prayers.
So records our Torah.
And so we are reminded: Torah is about more than just listening to our own voice.
And so we are reminded: Torah is about more than just listening to our own voice.
How to Stop Terror from Closing Our Hearts
Nice, Brussels, Paris and Paris again. Orlando, Charleston, Boston and Dallas. A litany of terrorized cities grows longer each and every week.
We are understandably afraid.
In this age of terror the ordinary and everyday can become terrifying. Going to work. Traveling on a plane. Walking through Times Square (or celebrating Bastille Day) can instill fear rather than offer the revelry for which these should only be known. This of course is the very goal of the terrorists who are bent on murder and destruction. They seek to upend the ordinary. They plot to terrify the mundane. Their very goal is to amplify fear....
We are understandably afraid.
In this age of terror the ordinary and everyday can become terrifying. Going to work. Traveling on a plane. Walking through Times Square (or celebrating Bastille Day) can instill fear rather than offer the revelry for which these should only be known. This of course is the very goal of the terrorists who are bent on murder and destruction. They seek to upend the ordinary. They plot to terrify the mundane. Their very goal is to amplify fear....
Hukkat, Complaints and Tears
Moses, the greatest hero in the Torah and perhaps the Bible, is not allowed to enter the Promised Land. Why? The answer is discovered in this week’s portion.
The people were once again complaining. This time they were screaming for water. “There is not even water to drink!” God instructs Moses to order a rock to provide water. Instead Moses twice hits the rock in anger. He shouts at the people, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (Numbers 20)
What was Moses’ great sin? How could his actions deserve the punishment of never crossing the Jordan and walking into the land of Israel? For centuries commentators have argued about Moses’ actions. The story affords opportunities for many different interpretations.
Some commentators, most notably the medieval scholar Rashi, suggest that Moses’ sin was that he did not listen to God’s instructions exactly. God told Moses to order the rock to provide water. Instead Moses hits the rock, not only once but twice. This episode proves, according to this line of thinking, that when God gives a command we must follow it to the letter.
Others suggest it was instead that Moses takes credit for God’s miracle when he said, “Shall we get water?” Moses, who is often praised for his humility, was anything but humble. Hubris was his sin. Still others, among them Nachmanides, suggest that he called the people “rebels,” thus widening the gap between the leader and his followers. Moses loses his patience and becomes angry at the Israelites who he is meant to shepherd and inspire. This story thus illustrates a failure of leadership.
I would, however, like to suggest an alternative interpretation. The opening verse of the chapter reads: “The Israelites arrived at the wilderness of Zin… Miriam died there and was buried there.” Miriam is of course Moses’ sister. The Torah here suggests a clue to understanding Moses’ behavior.
Moses is a mourner. And what do the people do in response? They complain. If we see Moses as a mourner and in the midst of mourning the death of his only sister, his anger becomes understandable, his hitting of the rock should become forgivable.
Shiva can often be extraordinarily demanding of mourners. For days mourners become guests in their own home. Strangers congregate in places where they remember eating and laughing with family members now gone. Their absence becomes palpable. It can appear as if strangers vie to take their place. People gather in the kitchen and dining room. They make small talk. They discuss the weather or a recent Mets or Jets loss (or the occasional win). One can see the look emerging on mourners’ faces. “My sister just died and all you want to do is talk about is how come there is not enough to drink.” The Torah affirms: “There is not even water to drink!”
No one from among the community offers even a word of compassion. No one asks Moses about his sister Miriam. No one tells stories about her, reminding him of the beautiful songs she sang when the people crossed the sea. No one even jokes with him about the time she criticized his wife Zipporah. In the moment of his grief he might have even welcomed that remembrance. He would have been receptive to hearing any story about his sister. Such stories add flesh to memories.
Instead they speak only of the mundane. They shy away from confronting the grief standing before them. Where is their rachmanis?
And so Moses gets angry. He is human. He hits an inanimate rock. Anger is the first stage of mourning. In order to move towards acceptance one must travel through anger. The stories friends offer help accompany the mourner as they journey through their tears, as they march away from anger. They take hold of any and all remembrances.
Perhaps these verses illustrates not Moses’ failure but instead the people’s, and even I dare say, God’s. Where is their sympathy? Where is the God of compassion? Where is the understanding? Our leader is in mourning. And all they can do is talk about food and drinks. And all God can do is offer strict judgments.
Where is the necessary rachmanis?
Perhaps the story is a reminder that only compassion can transform grief.
And out of rock flowed copious tears.
The people were once again complaining. This time they were screaming for water. “There is not even water to drink!” God instructs Moses to order a rock to provide water. Instead Moses twice hits the rock in anger. He shouts at the people, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (Numbers 20)
What was Moses’ great sin? How could his actions deserve the punishment of never crossing the Jordan and walking into the land of Israel? For centuries commentators have argued about Moses’ actions. The story affords opportunities for many different interpretations.
Some commentators, most notably the medieval scholar Rashi, suggest that Moses’ sin was that he did not listen to God’s instructions exactly. God told Moses to order the rock to provide water. Instead Moses hits the rock, not only once but twice. This episode proves, according to this line of thinking, that when God gives a command we must follow it to the letter.
Others suggest it was instead that Moses takes credit for God’s miracle when he said, “Shall we get water?” Moses, who is often praised for his humility, was anything but humble. Hubris was his sin. Still others, among them Nachmanides, suggest that he called the people “rebels,” thus widening the gap between the leader and his followers. Moses loses his patience and becomes angry at the Israelites who he is meant to shepherd and inspire. This story thus illustrates a failure of leadership.
I would, however, like to suggest an alternative interpretation. The opening verse of the chapter reads: “The Israelites arrived at the wilderness of Zin… Miriam died there and was buried there.” Miriam is of course Moses’ sister. The Torah here suggests a clue to understanding Moses’ behavior.
Moses is a mourner. And what do the people do in response? They complain. If we see Moses as a mourner and in the midst of mourning the death of his only sister, his anger becomes understandable, his hitting of the rock should become forgivable.
Shiva can often be extraordinarily demanding of mourners. For days mourners become guests in their own home. Strangers congregate in places where they remember eating and laughing with family members now gone. Their absence becomes palpable. It can appear as if strangers vie to take their place. People gather in the kitchen and dining room. They make small talk. They discuss the weather or a recent Mets or Jets loss (or the occasional win). One can see the look emerging on mourners’ faces. “My sister just died and all you want to do is talk about is how come there is not enough to drink.” The Torah affirms: “There is not even water to drink!”
No one from among the community offers even a word of compassion. No one asks Moses about his sister Miriam. No one tells stories about her, reminding him of the beautiful songs she sang when the people crossed the sea. No one even jokes with him about the time she criticized his wife Zipporah. In the moment of his grief he might have even welcomed that remembrance. He would have been receptive to hearing any story about his sister. Such stories add flesh to memories.
Instead they speak only of the mundane. They shy away from confronting the grief standing before them. Where is their rachmanis?
And so Moses gets angry. He is human. He hits an inanimate rock. Anger is the first stage of mourning. In order to move towards acceptance one must travel through anger. The stories friends offer help accompany the mourner as they journey through their tears, as they march away from anger. They take hold of any and all remembrances.
Perhaps these verses illustrates not Moses’ failure but instead the people’s, and even I dare say, God’s. Where is their sympathy? Where is the God of compassion? Where is the understanding? Our leader is in mourning. And all they can do is talk about food and drinks. And all God can do is offer strict judgments.
Where is the necessary rachmanis?
Perhaps the story is a reminder that only compassion can transform grief.
And out of rock flowed copious tears.
Who is Korah?
I am in Jerusalem again, studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute where I always find a refuge to recharge my spirit. I am grateful for this opportunity to learn in Jerusalem. I feel fortunate to live in a blessed age in which I can so easily visit the land of Israel. I recognize that my generation is unique in Jewish history. For generations, we only dreamed of such a reality. Now that hope is realized. And that alone is enough to stir my soul.
I come here as well because the view from afar is rarely an accurate portrayal. From a distance the State of Israel too readily becomes a caricature of preconceived notions. For some Israel can do no wrong. For others it is rarely, if ever, right. Israel is either idolized or demonized. It is of course neither. Israel must never be reduced to mere talking points. It is a remarkable and complicated place. Dreams never mirror reality. Prayers cannot be squared with the here and now.
Israel is a human creation. It is not fashioned by God. It should not be governed by heavenly dreams. And yet it forever stirs my heart. Here my people’s dreams are palpable. Here as well those dreams become intoxicating.
Soon after arriving we made our way to the Western Wall...
I come here as well because the view from afar is rarely an accurate portrayal. From a distance the State of Israel too readily becomes a caricature of preconceived notions. For some Israel can do no wrong. For others it is rarely, if ever, right. Israel is either idolized or demonized. It is of course neither. Israel must never be reduced to mere talking points. It is a remarkable and complicated place. Dreams never mirror reality. Prayers cannot be squared with the here and now.
Israel is a human creation. It is not fashioned by God. It should not be governed by heavenly dreams. And yet it forever stirs my heart. Here my people’s dreams are palpable. Here as well those dreams become intoxicating.
Soon after arriving we made our way to the Western Wall...
Shelach Lecha, Dreams and Likes
How many times, after posting a picture to Facebook or Instagram, do you go back and check to see how many likes you have accumulated? How often do you read the comments that friends add to your posts or secretly wonder why this friend or that one did not comment on your recent picture? Think for a few moments about how important those likes and comments have become to your day’s mood.
Another example. Airbnb and Uber are built on mutual reviews. Both the driver and the apartment owner rate their experience and impression of the consumer. Leave too many apartments unkempt and you might find it more difficult to rent another Airbnb, or you might be thrown together with apartment owners who likewise don’t clean up. Such is the magic of algorithms.
Likes and stars govern more and more of our lives.
Big data drives the shared economy. That might very well be good for business, but I worry about its effect on people. I worry that our personalities are increasingly shaped by the likes and comments of others. We appear to be building a culture, and society, driven more by what others think of us than what we, ourselves, aspire to be.
This week, in Parashat Shelach Lecha, we read about the spies who Moses sent to scout the land of Israel. Two scouts, Joshua and Caleb, returned with a positive report. Ten came back with negative impressions. These ten spies whipped the people into a frenzy. The people became consumed by fear and were then unable to gather the strength to move forward to the Promised Land.
In that moment, and on that day, they lost sight of their dream.
God, in turn, became so angry with them that God decreed the people would wander the wilderness for forty years: one year for every day the spies scouted the land. Then, and only then, a generation born in freedom would feel empowered to cross the Jordan into the land of Israel. Then they could realize their dream.
Throughout the generations commentators argued about what was the great sin of the spies. Was it that they incited the people and sowed fear? Was it instead that they lacked faith in God and God’s power to lead the people to victory? Was it that their impression of the land, and its inhabitants, was in fact false? Were the Canaanites indeed mighty warriors and the Israelites feeble soldiers?
The ten scouts reported: “All the people that we saw in the land are men of great size…and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13:33)
The Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, comments: “That was the sin of the spies. One can understand their statement, ‘we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves,’ for that was the way they really saw themselves. However, what right did they have to say, ‘and so we must have looked to them’? What difference should it make how we appeared to them?”
Indeed, what difference should it make how we appear to them.
When our self-image is driven by how many likes we accumulate, how many followers we amass, and how many like-minded comments we garner, we lose sight of our aspirations. We lose focus on our true inner selves. We take leave of the dreams that animate the heart. We become more about how others see us rather than how we wish to see ourselves.
The Torah reminds us.
Better one dream than a 1000 likes.
Another example. Airbnb and Uber are built on mutual reviews. Both the driver and the apartment owner rate their experience and impression of the consumer. Leave too many apartments unkempt and you might find it more difficult to rent another Airbnb, or you might be thrown together with apartment owners who likewise don’t clean up. Such is the magic of algorithms.
Likes and stars govern more and more of our lives.
Big data drives the shared economy. That might very well be good for business, but I worry about its effect on people. I worry that our personalities are increasingly shaped by the likes and comments of others. We appear to be building a culture, and society, driven more by what others think of us than what we, ourselves, aspire to be.
This week, in Parashat Shelach Lecha, we read about the spies who Moses sent to scout the land of Israel. Two scouts, Joshua and Caleb, returned with a positive report. Ten came back with negative impressions. These ten spies whipped the people into a frenzy. The people became consumed by fear and were then unable to gather the strength to move forward to the Promised Land.
In that moment, and on that day, they lost sight of their dream.
God, in turn, became so angry with them that God decreed the people would wander the wilderness for forty years: one year for every day the spies scouted the land. Then, and only then, a generation born in freedom would feel empowered to cross the Jordan into the land of Israel. Then they could realize their dream.
Throughout the generations commentators argued about what was the great sin of the spies. Was it that they incited the people and sowed fear? Was it instead that they lacked faith in God and God’s power to lead the people to victory? Was it that their impression of the land, and its inhabitants, was in fact false? Were the Canaanites indeed mighty warriors and the Israelites feeble soldiers?
The ten scouts reported: “All the people that we saw in the land are men of great size…and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13:33)
The Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, comments: “That was the sin of the spies. One can understand their statement, ‘we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves,’ for that was the way they really saw themselves. However, what right did they have to say, ‘and so we must have looked to them’? What difference should it make how we appeared to them?”
Indeed, what difference should it make how we appear to them.
When our self-image is driven by how many likes we accumulate, how many followers we amass, and how many like-minded comments we garner, we lose sight of our aspirations. We lose focus on our true inner selves. We take leave of the dreams that animate the heart. We become more about how others see us rather than how we wish to see ourselves.
The Torah reminds us.
Better one dream than a 1000 likes.
Want to Change the World? Learn from Your Kids
We learn many things from our parents: how to eat properly, how to brush our teeth, and, I hope, how to greet strangers. Others we learn through observation: how to love, how to care, and even how to mourn.
Jewish tradition speaks at length about parents’ and elders’ obligations toward children and the young. The Talmud, for example, instructs parents to teach their children Torah, in essence, by modeling proper values. The ancient rabbis expound upon this obligation, adding that parents must teach their children a trade and, according to some, also to swim.
In fact, religious wisdom, adheres to the principle that older is better, and the closer the words are to Mount Sinai, the more revered and wiser they are. It lives by the ideal that older generations must impart teachings to younger generations, that decades of accumulated wisdom count for more than newfound knowledge. It often distrusts the new, the innovative, and especially that which veers from thousands of years of tradition. It looks askance at what we can learn from our youth and contemporary society
The tradition does not imagine the values we might learn from children...
Jewish tradition speaks at length about parents’ and elders’ obligations toward children and the young. The Talmud, for example, instructs parents to teach their children Torah, in essence, by modeling proper values. The ancient rabbis expound upon this obligation, adding that parents must teach their children a trade and, according to some, also to swim.
In fact, religious wisdom, adheres to the principle that older is better, and the closer the words are to Mount Sinai, the more revered and wiser they are. It lives by the ideal that older generations must impart teachings to younger generations, that decades of accumulated wisdom count for more than newfound knowledge. It often distrusts the new, the innovative, and especially that which veers from thousands of years of tradition. It looks askance at what we can learn from our youth and contemporary society
The tradition does not imagine the values we might learn from children...
Behaalotecha and World Refugee Day
On Monday’s World Refugee Day 37 refugees became citizens at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC. They fled to this country from Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Iran, Iraq, Laos, Liberia, Mauritania, Nepal, the Philippines, Russia, Sierra Leone, Somalia, Sudan, and Vietnam. There, in our nation’s capital, in the Holocaust Museum, they stood and pledged their allegiance to the US.
It was a remarkable testimony to what it means to be a nation of immigrants. It was especially fitting that the ceremony took place at the Holocaust Museum. We know too well that the nations of the world, including the US, were silent in the face of the Nazi genocide and by and large turned their back on fleeing Jewish refugees.
These new citizens were embraced and welcomed by Holocaust survivors....
It was a remarkable testimony to what it means to be a nation of immigrants. It was especially fitting that the ceremony took place at the Holocaust Museum. We know too well that the nations of the world, including the US, were silent in the face of the Nazi genocide and by and large turned their back on fleeing Jewish refugees.
These new citizens were embraced and welcomed by Holocaust survivors....
The Spiritual Power of Saying "I Don't Know"
This is Marsha’s story. It is also my story.
It is a story that illuminates the meaning of Torah.
Although we traditionally define the Torah as the opening five books of the Bible, we should not limit it to that in our minds. It should instead be thought of as the wisdom one gains when walking through life in conversation with sacred texts and tradition. For me that discussion begins with my Judaism, its books and its teachers. And so this is that story of my journey.
Twelve years ago I received a phone call from a good friend who said the following, “Rabbi, my next door neighbor is dying from brain cancer...."
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
It is a story that illuminates the meaning of Torah.
Although we traditionally define the Torah as the opening five books of the Bible, we should not limit it to that in our minds. It should instead be thought of as the wisdom one gains when walking through life in conversation with sacred texts and tradition. For me that discussion begins with my Judaism, its books and its teachers. And so this is that story of my journey.
Twelve years ago I received a phone call from a good friend who said the following, “Rabbi, my next door neighbor is dying from brain cancer...."
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.