Fasting and Feasting
Yom Kippur begins Tuesday evening and with it the day long fast that is the hallmark of this holy day. To be honest, I don’t like fasting. It seems so un-Jewish. I prefer eating.
On Yom Kippur, we beat our chests and proclaim our mistakes. We deny ourselves the pleasures of this world. The goal is that we become closer to God and on this day, a little more like angels.
I prefer dancing.
The ancient rabbis appear to agree. The Talmud declares: “One who eats and drinks on the ninth of Tishrei (Erev Yom Kippur), the Torah considers it as if one fasted on the ninth and tenth of Tishrei.” (Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 81b)
The evening’s festive meal is just as important as the fast. This is because the hallmark of a Jewish life is celebration. It is one punctuated by dancing and singing. A seudat mitzvah—feast—is the quintessential Jewish act. This is not to suggest that we should ignore the fast. It helps to elevate our souls. It forces us to focus on our prayers—although I must confess, I sometimes find myself daydreaming about noodle kugle, most especially during the afternoon’s closing hours.
Do I require a day of denial and asceticism, of self-flagellation and enumerating my mistakes to help me appreciate the other 364 days? Perhaps. Still I would prefer 365 of singing and dancing. As much as I love seeing our sanctuary packed for this most holy of days, I would prefer to see us pack our lives with more joy and celebration. This is why Shabbat dinners are the best expression of what it means to be a Jew, and to lead a meaningful Jewish life.
We need to rejoice more. We need to say thank you more. We need to look up to the heavens and proclaim—more often than we most certainly do now, “Thank You for creating me. Thank You for fashioning this beautiful, and mysterious, world.” If the fast helps us to achieve this goal then it is worth it.
Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of the mussar school of Jewish ethics, said: “What a wise person can accomplish by eating and drinking on Erev Yom Kippur, a fool cannot achieve fasting on Yom Kippur.”
The fast is not the goal. Never mistake means with ends.
The fast, and all those hours of praying, are means to lift our spirits. They are tools to add more joy to our lives.
It is much more about the hora than the fast.
On Yom Kippur, we beat our chests and proclaim our mistakes. We deny ourselves the pleasures of this world. The goal is that we become closer to God and on this day, a little more like angels.
I prefer dancing.
The ancient rabbis appear to agree. The Talmud declares: “One who eats and drinks on the ninth of Tishrei (Erev Yom Kippur), the Torah considers it as if one fasted on the ninth and tenth of Tishrei.” (Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 81b)
The evening’s festive meal is just as important as the fast. This is because the hallmark of a Jewish life is celebration. It is one punctuated by dancing and singing. A seudat mitzvah—feast—is the quintessential Jewish act. This is not to suggest that we should ignore the fast. It helps to elevate our souls. It forces us to focus on our prayers—although I must confess, I sometimes find myself daydreaming about noodle kugle, most especially during the afternoon’s closing hours.
Do I require a day of denial and asceticism, of self-flagellation and enumerating my mistakes to help me appreciate the other 364 days? Perhaps. Still I would prefer 365 of singing and dancing. As much as I love seeing our sanctuary packed for this most holy of days, I would prefer to see us pack our lives with more joy and celebration. This is why Shabbat dinners are the best expression of what it means to be a Jew, and to lead a meaningful Jewish life.
We need to rejoice more. We need to say thank you more. We need to look up to the heavens and proclaim—more often than we most certainly do now, “Thank You for creating me. Thank You for fashioning this beautiful, and mysterious, world.” If the fast helps us to achieve this goal then it is worth it.
Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of the mussar school of Jewish ethics, said: “What a wise person can accomplish by eating and drinking on Erev Yom Kippur, a fool cannot achieve fasting on Yom Kippur.”
The fast is not the goal. Never mistake means with ends.
The fast, and all those hours of praying, are means to lift our spirits. They are tools to add more joy to our lives.
It is much more about the hora than the fast.
Disagreements and Country
What follows is my sermon from Rosh Hashanah Morning.
Hey rabbi, everyone is excited to hear what you have to say this year. But… Don’t talk about politics. Don’t get too controversial. Keep it inspirational. Give us something meaningful. I wouldn’t want your job—especially this year. Good luck.
What am I to do? What should a rabbi talk about during one of the most contentious and divisive years in memory? Well, I wouldn’t be the rabbi that you know, and perhaps love, if I avoided controversy. I understand that some want me to leave such divisiveness at the synagogue’s door, that here there can be shalom, peace. That this place can be an escape and refuge from all that mishegas. This place can be a sanctuary. I appreciate that perspective. It is not mine. I believe that Jewish teachings have to give us some guidance for how to make our way through this mess, that they must give us wisdom and strength to face the everyday. Quite frankly, if we can’t take Torah out there, into the everyday, if it’s only about the internal and not the external, then it’s useless.
I also wouldn’t be the rabbi that you have come to know if I didn’t offer some wisdom from our great Jewish teachings, in particular from the sages of the Talmud. That’s what Jews do when they are searching for what to do today. We look back at what was said, and done, yesterday. And that, by the way, is what I am sure my friend Rabbi Aaron Panken z”l would advise me to do if I were able to ask him. My first duty is to teach. And we must always learn. So here are three lessons from the Talmud that I think help us deal with today’s controversies.
The first. Soon after the Romans destroyed the Temple in 70 C.E. the rabbis gathered to debate why this terrible catastrophe occurred. The obvious answer was, the Romans were the most powerful army in the world and they liked to conquer other nations. They saw the Jews as rebels and wanted to quash any hope of Jewish independence. And so, they leveled Jerusalem, destroyed the Holy Temple and carted the survivors off to Rome. The rabbis asked: how did this happen? Why did this happen? They avoided the obvious answer. They did not say, the Romans did it. Instead they said it was because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred between Jews. That’s why, they said, this terrible tragedy occurred. Here is their fantastic story.
A certain man had a friend named Kamza and an enemy named Bar Kamza. The man once threw a party and said to his servant, “Go and invite Kamza.” The servant went and instead invited Bar Kamza. (Not good. I imagine the servant stammered, “I really thought you said Bar Kamza. Kamza. Bar Kamza. It’s so confusing.”) Back to the story. When the man saw Bar Kamza at his party he said, “You have been saying terrible things about me. You have been gossiping about me. What are you doing here?” He screamed, “Get out!” Bar Kamza replied, “Since I am already here, let me stay, and I will pay you for whatever I eat and drink.” The man said, “No way!” Bar Kamza said, “Then let me give you half the cost of the party.” The man again said, “No.” Bar Kamza said, “Then let me pay for the whole party.” The man still said no. And he grabbed Bar Kamza and threw him out.
Bar Kamza thought to himself, “Since the Rabbis were at the party and did not stop the man this shows that they agreed with what he did. I will go and report this to the Romans.” He went and said to the Roman Emperor, “The Jews are rebelling against you.” The Emperor said, “How can I be sure?” Bar Kamza said, “Send them an offering and see whether they will sacrifice it.” So, the Emperor sent him with a fine calf. On the way Bar Kamza made a blemish on the calf in a spot where the Jews count it as a blemish, but the Romans do not. The Rabbis were inclined to sacrifice the offering in order not to offend the government. (I guess they were suspicious of Bar Kamza.). Rabbi Zechariah then said, “People will then say that blemished animals can be sacrificed.” Some even proposed to kill Bar Kamza so that he would not go and inform against them again. But Rabbi Zechariah again chimed in, “Is one who makes a blemish on sacrificial animals to be put to death?” (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b)
So, they didn’t sacrifice the Emperor’s gift. The Romans were offended. And then they destroyed Jerusalem’s Temple. All because of a mistaken invitation. All because of the heated disagreement between two ordinary folks. Look at the incivility of our ancestors. Throwing people out of parties. Saying terrible things about them behind their backs. Look at the rabbis standing idly by while their fellow party goers, and congregants, rip into each other. Perhaps the rabbis blamed themselves for Jerusalem’s destruction. They turned away from what was happening all around them. Look at the tragedy that unfolded from one terrible, and ugly, exchange.
It begins with ordinary people. The Talmud does not even record the name of the man throwing the party. It starts with us. When we point fingers, we should really only point them at ourselves.
So rather than leveling blame at our leaders I am going to take a cue from the rabbis of old and look within. The rabbis could have blamed Rome but instead they said let’s examine our deeds. This is of course Rosh Hashanah when we are supposed to examine our hearts. Perhaps there is nothing as controversial as the inner workings of our own hearts. So here is my question for this morning. How are we to blame for the divisiveness that infects our nation and our Jewish people? We can no longer even agree about the facts. We can do better. We must do better.
Here is what we must do. We have to recover how best to argue. One of Judaism’s greatest gifts is the idea of machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven. It is my favorite and most cherished of our tradition’s teachings. For Judaism the debate is how we discern God’s presence in our lives. People often think that the Talmud is a law code. It is not. It is instead a record of the rabbis’ debates and disagreements. It is a masterful, and voluminous, book. Sometimes rabbis who did not live in the same city or even the same century are found arguing with each other on the same page. And the most remarkable thing of all is that even when the dispute is resolved the opposing opinion remains on the page. It is not written out. Winners and losers are not declared. Think about that point. Our most important book is one big, ongoing argument.
Sure, the rabbis had to decide what we were supposed to do. Hillel and Shammai, two great first century rabbis, argued about everything. Let’s take their arguments about the Hanukkah menorah as an example. Shammai said that you should light eight candles on the first night and then one less each successive night. He was more of a literalist and felt this was more in keeping with how the miracle must have happened. The flame must have burned brighter on the first night because there was more oil day one. Hillel, on the other hand, thought that we should light one candle on the first night until we get to eight on the last night. His logic was that our faith had to increase each night and that God’s miracle grew day by day. (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21b) You know of course what we do. We follow Hillel’s interpretation. But the Talmud preserves both arguments. They are both well-reasoned opinions. In the end, we had to decide one over the other because we have to be doing the same thing—even if we were not always thinking the same thing. We could not have some people standing and others sitting when we pray. We could not have half having four cups of wine at the Seder and others five. We could not have some people lighting eight candles on the first night and others one.
So, the vast majority of the time Jewish law sides with Hillel. I wonder if it was simply because he was known as a nicer guy. The Talmud appears to agree. “Why does Jewish law follow Hillel?” it asks. “It is because the students of Hillel were kind and gracious.” It then goes on to say, “Hillel taught their own ideas as well as the ideas of Shammai’s students. They also went so far as to teach Shammai's opinions first.” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b). That is the key. And this is the second lesson from the Talmud. You must afford the arguments of the opposition respect. You must be able to teach their ideas as well as your own. Imagine how that philosophy might transform our current times.
We have surrounded ourselves with amen choruses of likeminded friends. That does not sharpen arguments. All it does is further entrench us and concretize our own prior held convictions. Instead, make your case. Use your reason. Lay out your logic. Open your ears to other voices—and most important, opposing opinions. It is not an argument to say how stupid or misguided others are. Stop with the invective. Stop with all of the Facebook posts that point out the opposition’s hypocrisy. It is not an argument when we denigrate others. It is not an argument when we malign people who hold opposing views.
For Judaism everyone sits at the same table, Democrat and Republican and Independent. We are one country. We have to fight the tendency to throw people out of the party. We have to battle the tendency to size up new acquaintances to discern whether or not they agree with our political sensibilities. I recognize that it can be emotionally satisfying to point out the other side’s wrongs and to commiserate with people who agree with us, but this is not what helps us to decipher the truth and most certainly not what leads to unity. The central question for the rabbis of the Talmud was how we can remain one people while affirming many, different, and even antagonistic, opinions. For Judaism there are no winners and losers in an argument. There are only two sides of the same community trying their best to discern what God wants us to do in this moment. We are losing that sensibility here in America. We are losing that in Israel. We are losing that among our Jewish people.
Again, it would be easy for me to point fingers at our leaders and blame them for this disharmony. I wish for us instead to look within and point fingers at ourselves. What can we be doing differently? How might we argue in a more civilized manner? It is about reason and discussion. It is not about calling the other side names. There are right and wrong ways to argue. How we argue with each other, each and every day has cosmic significance and historical import. That’s what our tradition tells us.
A final lesson from the Talmud. It is the story about our rabbis’ arguments about whether or not an oven is kosher. Rabbi Eliezer said it was clean. The rest of the rabbis said it was unclean. Majority rules. It is unclean. But Eliezer was certain of his interpretation and quite a stubborn, firebrand. He was also a miracle worker.
Most of the time Eliezer’s arguments won the day, so he became quite impatient with his colleagues when they would not accept his reasoning in this particular case. He then resorted to miracles. He made a tree magically move 150 feet and then a stream run backwards. He then made the walls of the academy start to fall to prove his point. (Imagine that. He was willing to destroy their study hall and bring the walls crashing down on everyone in order to prove he was right.). Eliezer finally called upon God. And a heavenly voice said, “What is it with you guys regarding Rabbi Eliezer. The law always follows him?”
Rabbi Yehoshua jumped up and citing Torah, said, “Lo b’shamayim hee. It is not in heaven!” (Deuteronomy 29) The Talmud explains: we do not listen to a heavenly voice, since You, God, already gave us the Torah on Mount Sinai, as it is written there, “Incline after the majority.” (Exodus 23). Wow. You gave us the Torah, so we get to interpret it as we see fit. Majority rules. No miracles are allowed. Not even better arguments. We follow the majority. So, says the Talmud. The story continues. Rabbi Natan then came upon Elijah, the prophet, who according to lore continues to wander the earth searching out miracles. He said to him, “What was God doing when the sages defeated the great Eliezer?” He said, “God laughed and smiled and said, ‘My children have defeated me.’” (Babylonian Talmud, Bava Metzia 59b)
This legend is often told and retold. More often than not we stop here when recounting it. Here is evidence, we say, that we are supposed to interpret, and reinterpret, God’s Torah. Even God wants us to do that and is pleased when we do that well. God gave us this Torah not as a static document that is frozen in time but instead one that we can continue to interpret. We must argue about its meaning; we must debate our interpretations, but in the end when we have to figure out what to do, and what we think God wants of us, majority rules. But that is not where this story really ends. It has a tragic conclusion that is often censured out.
The rabbis then voted to excommunicate Eliezer. He broke the rules about how to argue. “You should tell him Rabbi Akiva,” they said. And so Akiva went to do the sages’ bidding. He cried as he shared the news with his beloved colleague. But it’s not good to get a miracle worker angry. The Talmud reports that the wheat, barley and even olive harvest were decimated. I quote, “Every place where Rabbi Eliezer cast his eyes was immediately burned up.” And then Rabban Gamliel, the head of the court that ruled against Eliezer, nearly drowned on an ocean voyage. I know, it sounds wacky. And I don’t much believe that rabbis can zap stuff with their eyes. The Talmud is not history. It offers lessons.
Yet, it is frightening lesson. The rabbis recognized that within every disagreement, even the inconsequential ones like who gets invited to a party or whether or not an oven is kosher, there can be found the seeds of our own destruction. Lurking within every argument and every disagreement lies the potential for us to lose everything we love and everything we hold most dear. The rabbis were keenly aware of the dangers of how we argue with each other. Their warnings serve as lessons for today. Their project was about how to argue while preserving community because they believed, as I do, that discussion and debate is how we discern God’s truth and how we improve our world and how we can figure out how to secure a better future, and that we cannot do any of those things alone and that we cannot achieve any of those things surrounded only by likeminded people. The rabbis taught that community, and country, transcend disagreement. Whether we agree or disagree with each other we need each other—Republican, Democrat and Independent.
And so, I thank all of those who continue to send me Wall Street Journal articles because they think I read The New York Times too much. I remain unsure which of these papers we should label Hillel and which Shammai but I am certain that both opinions must be arrayed before us. And I am thankful to all those who continue to read my writings, and listen to my sermons, despite the fact that they feel there is sometimes a gaping disagreement between us. We must forever affirm and recognize that each of our ideas are sharpened in dialogue with each other, and that no matter how vociferously we might disagree we are one.
We can do better. No more name calling. No more blaming. No more pointing fingers at anyone but ourselves. Let’s stop trying to throw each other out of the party. Otherwise we are all going to end up weeping with Akiva and excommunicated along with Eliezer.
And finally, even though Senator John McCain is not to be found among the pages of the Talmud he deserves to stand alongside our great sages. These past few weeks he has served as my rabbi. And so, I conclude with his wisdom. He said, “Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans.” And that 2008 concession speech continues to stir my heart and I have found myself reading it and rereading it these past weeks.
Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. That’s as good a lesson, and as good a prayer, as any I can find on this Rosh Hashanah. Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans.
Hey rabbi, everyone is excited to hear what you have to say this year. But… Don’t talk about politics. Don’t get too controversial. Keep it inspirational. Give us something meaningful. I wouldn’t want your job—especially this year. Good luck.
What am I to do? What should a rabbi talk about during one of the most contentious and divisive years in memory? Well, I wouldn’t be the rabbi that you know, and perhaps love, if I avoided controversy. I understand that some want me to leave such divisiveness at the synagogue’s door, that here there can be shalom, peace. That this place can be an escape and refuge from all that mishegas. This place can be a sanctuary. I appreciate that perspective. It is not mine. I believe that Jewish teachings have to give us some guidance for how to make our way through this mess, that they must give us wisdom and strength to face the everyday. Quite frankly, if we can’t take Torah out there, into the everyday, if it’s only about the internal and not the external, then it’s useless.
I also wouldn’t be the rabbi that you have come to know if I didn’t offer some wisdom from our great Jewish teachings, in particular from the sages of the Talmud. That’s what Jews do when they are searching for what to do today. We look back at what was said, and done, yesterday. And that, by the way, is what I am sure my friend Rabbi Aaron Panken z”l would advise me to do if I were able to ask him. My first duty is to teach. And we must always learn. So here are three lessons from the Talmud that I think help us deal with today’s controversies.
The first. Soon after the Romans destroyed the Temple in 70 C.E. the rabbis gathered to debate why this terrible catastrophe occurred. The obvious answer was, the Romans were the most powerful army in the world and they liked to conquer other nations. They saw the Jews as rebels and wanted to quash any hope of Jewish independence. And so, they leveled Jerusalem, destroyed the Holy Temple and carted the survivors off to Rome. The rabbis asked: how did this happen? Why did this happen? They avoided the obvious answer. They did not say, the Romans did it. Instead they said it was because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred between Jews. That’s why, they said, this terrible tragedy occurred. Here is their fantastic story.
A certain man had a friend named Kamza and an enemy named Bar Kamza. The man once threw a party and said to his servant, “Go and invite Kamza.” The servant went and instead invited Bar Kamza. (Not good. I imagine the servant stammered, “I really thought you said Bar Kamza. Kamza. Bar Kamza. It’s so confusing.”) Back to the story. When the man saw Bar Kamza at his party he said, “You have been saying terrible things about me. You have been gossiping about me. What are you doing here?” He screamed, “Get out!” Bar Kamza replied, “Since I am already here, let me stay, and I will pay you for whatever I eat and drink.” The man said, “No way!” Bar Kamza said, “Then let me give you half the cost of the party.” The man again said, “No.” Bar Kamza said, “Then let me pay for the whole party.” The man still said no. And he grabbed Bar Kamza and threw him out.
Bar Kamza thought to himself, “Since the Rabbis were at the party and did not stop the man this shows that they agreed with what he did. I will go and report this to the Romans.” He went and said to the Roman Emperor, “The Jews are rebelling against you.” The Emperor said, “How can I be sure?” Bar Kamza said, “Send them an offering and see whether they will sacrifice it.” So, the Emperor sent him with a fine calf. On the way Bar Kamza made a blemish on the calf in a spot where the Jews count it as a blemish, but the Romans do not. The Rabbis were inclined to sacrifice the offering in order not to offend the government. (I guess they were suspicious of Bar Kamza.). Rabbi Zechariah then said, “People will then say that blemished animals can be sacrificed.” Some even proposed to kill Bar Kamza so that he would not go and inform against them again. But Rabbi Zechariah again chimed in, “Is one who makes a blemish on sacrificial animals to be put to death?” (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b)
So, they didn’t sacrifice the Emperor’s gift. The Romans were offended. And then they destroyed Jerusalem’s Temple. All because of a mistaken invitation. All because of the heated disagreement between two ordinary folks. Look at the incivility of our ancestors. Throwing people out of parties. Saying terrible things about them behind their backs. Look at the rabbis standing idly by while their fellow party goers, and congregants, rip into each other. Perhaps the rabbis blamed themselves for Jerusalem’s destruction. They turned away from what was happening all around them. Look at the tragedy that unfolded from one terrible, and ugly, exchange.
It begins with ordinary people. The Talmud does not even record the name of the man throwing the party. It starts with us. When we point fingers, we should really only point them at ourselves.
So rather than leveling blame at our leaders I am going to take a cue from the rabbis of old and look within. The rabbis could have blamed Rome but instead they said let’s examine our deeds. This is of course Rosh Hashanah when we are supposed to examine our hearts. Perhaps there is nothing as controversial as the inner workings of our own hearts. So here is my question for this morning. How are we to blame for the divisiveness that infects our nation and our Jewish people? We can no longer even agree about the facts. We can do better. We must do better.
Here is what we must do. We have to recover how best to argue. One of Judaism’s greatest gifts is the idea of machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven. It is my favorite and most cherished of our tradition’s teachings. For Judaism the debate is how we discern God’s presence in our lives. People often think that the Talmud is a law code. It is not. It is instead a record of the rabbis’ debates and disagreements. It is a masterful, and voluminous, book. Sometimes rabbis who did not live in the same city or even the same century are found arguing with each other on the same page. And the most remarkable thing of all is that even when the dispute is resolved the opposing opinion remains on the page. It is not written out. Winners and losers are not declared. Think about that point. Our most important book is one big, ongoing argument.
Sure, the rabbis had to decide what we were supposed to do. Hillel and Shammai, two great first century rabbis, argued about everything. Let’s take their arguments about the Hanukkah menorah as an example. Shammai said that you should light eight candles on the first night and then one less each successive night. He was more of a literalist and felt this was more in keeping with how the miracle must have happened. The flame must have burned brighter on the first night because there was more oil day one. Hillel, on the other hand, thought that we should light one candle on the first night until we get to eight on the last night. His logic was that our faith had to increase each night and that God’s miracle grew day by day. (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21b) You know of course what we do. We follow Hillel’s interpretation. But the Talmud preserves both arguments. They are both well-reasoned opinions. In the end, we had to decide one over the other because we have to be doing the same thing—even if we were not always thinking the same thing. We could not have some people standing and others sitting when we pray. We could not have half having four cups of wine at the Seder and others five. We could not have some people lighting eight candles on the first night and others one.
So, the vast majority of the time Jewish law sides with Hillel. I wonder if it was simply because he was known as a nicer guy. The Talmud appears to agree. “Why does Jewish law follow Hillel?” it asks. “It is because the students of Hillel were kind and gracious.” It then goes on to say, “Hillel taught their own ideas as well as the ideas of Shammai’s students. They also went so far as to teach Shammai's opinions first.” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b). That is the key. And this is the second lesson from the Talmud. You must afford the arguments of the opposition respect. You must be able to teach their ideas as well as your own. Imagine how that philosophy might transform our current times.
We have surrounded ourselves with amen choruses of likeminded friends. That does not sharpen arguments. All it does is further entrench us and concretize our own prior held convictions. Instead, make your case. Use your reason. Lay out your logic. Open your ears to other voices—and most important, opposing opinions. It is not an argument to say how stupid or misguided others are. Stop with the invective. Stop with all of the Facebook posts that point out the opposition’s hypocrisy. It is not an argument when we denigrate others. It is not an argument when we malign people who hold opposing views.
For Judaism everyone sits at the same table, Democrat and Republican and Independent. We are one country. We have to fight the tendency to throw people out of the party. We have to battle the tendency to size up new acquaintances to discern whether or not they agree with our political sensibilities. I recognize that it can be emotionally satisfying to point out the other side’s wrongs and to commiserate with people who agree with us, but this is not what helps us to decipher the truth and most certainly not what leads to unity. The central question for the rabbis of the Talmud was how we can remain one people while affirming many, different, and even antagonistic, opinions. For Judaism there are no winners and losers in an argument. There are only two sides of the same community trying their best to discern what God wants us to do in this moment. We are losing that sensibility here in America. We are losing that in Israel. We are losing that among our Jewish people.
Again, it would be easy for me to point fingers at our leaders and blame them for this disharmony. I wish for us instead to look within and point fingers at ourselves. What can we be doing differently? How might we argue in a more civilized manner? It is about reason and discussion. It is not about calling the other side names. There are right and wrong ways to argue. How we argue with each other, each and every day has cosmic significance and historical import. That’s what our tradition tells us.
A final lesson from the Talmud. It is the story about our rabbis’ arguments about whether or not an oven is kosher. Rabbi Eliezer said it was clean. The rest of the rabbis said it was unclean. Majority rules. It is unclean. But Eliezer was certain of his interpretation and quite a stubborn, firebrand. He was also a miracle worker.
Most of the time Eliezer’s arguments won the day, so he became quite impatient with his colleagues when they would not accept his reasoning in this particular case. He then resorted to miracles. He made a tree magically move 150 feet and then a stream run backwards. He then made the walls of the academy start to fall to prove his point. (Imagine that. He was willing to destroy their study hall and bring the walls crashing down on everyone in order to prove he was right.). Eliezer finally called upon God. And a heavenly voice said, “What is it with you guys regarding Rabbi Eliezer. The law always follows him?”
Rabbi Yehoshua jumped up and citing Torah, said, “Lo b’shamayim hee. It is not in heaven!” (Deuteronomy 29) The Talmud explains: we do not listen to a heavenly voice, since You, God, already gave us the Torah on Mount Sinai, as it is written there, “Incline after the majority.” (Exodus 23). Wow. You gave us the Torah, so we get to interpret it as we see fit. Majority rules. No miracles are allowed. Not even better arguments. We follow the majority. So, says the Talmud. The story continues. Rabbi Natan then came upon Elijah, the prophet, who according to lore continues to wander the earth searching out miracles. He said to him, “What was God doing when the sages defeated the great Eliezer?” He said, “God laughed and smiled and said, ‘My children have defeated me.’” (Babylonian Talmud, Bava Metzia 59b)
This legend is often told and retold. More often than not we stop here when recounting it. Here is evidence, we say, that we are supposed to interpret, and reinterpret, God’s Torah. Even God wants us to do that and is pleased when we do that well. God gave us this Torah not as a static document that is frozen in time but instead one that we can continue to interpret. We must argue about its meaning; we must debate our interpretations, but in the end when we have to figure out what to do, and what we think God wants of us, majority rules. But that is not where this story really ends. It has a tragic conclusion that is often censured out.
The rabbis then voted to excommunicate Eliezer. He broke the rules about how to argue. “You should tell him Rabbi Akiva,” they said. And so Akiva went to do the sages’ bidding. He cried as he shared the news with his beloved colleague. But it’s not good to get a miracle worker angry. The Talmud reports that the wheat, barley and even olive harvest were decimated. I quote, “Every place where Rabbi Eliezer cast his eyes was immediately burned up.” And then Rabban Gamliel, the head of the court that ruled against Eliezer, nearly drowned on an ocean voyage. I know, it sounds wacky. And I don’t much believe that rabbis can zap stuff with their eyes. The Talmud is not history. It offers lessons.
Yet, it is frightening lesson. The rabbis recognized that within every disagreement, even the inconsequential ones like who gets invited to a party or whether or not an oven is kosher, there can be found the seeds of our own destruction. Lurking within every argument and every disagreement lies the potential for us to lose everything we love and everything we hold most dear. The rabbis were keenly aware of the dangers of how we argue with each other. Their warnings serve as lessons for today. Their project was about how to argue while preserving community because they believed, as I do, that discussion and debate is how we discern God’s truth and how we improve our world and how we can figure out how to secure a better future, and that we cannot do any of those things alone and that we cannot achieve any of those things surrounded only by likeminded people. The rabbis taught that community, and country, transcend disagreement. Whether we agree or disagree with each other we need each other—Republican, Democrat and Independent.
And so, I thank all of those who continue to send me Wall Street Journal articles because they think I read The New York Times too much. I remain unsure which of these papers we should label Hillel and which Shammai but I am certain that both opinions must be arrayed before us. And I am thankful to all those who continue to read my writings, and listen to my sermons, despite the fact that they feel there is sometimes a gaping disagreement between us. We must forever affirm and recognize that each of our ideas are sharpened in dialogue with each other, and that no matter how vociferously we might disagree we are one.
We can do better. No more name calling. No more blaming. No more pointing fingers at anyone but ourselves. Let’s stop trying to throw each other out of the party. Otherwise we are all going to end up weeping with Akiva and excommunicated along with Eliezer.
And finally, even though Senator John McCain is not to be found among the pages of the Talmud he deserves to stand alongside our great sages. These past few weeks he has served as my rabbi. And so, I conclude with his wisdom. He said, “Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans.” And that 2008 concession speech continues to stir my heart and I have found myself reading it and rereading it these past weeks.
Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. That’s as good a lesson, and as good a prayer, as any I can find on this Rosh Hashanah. Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans.
Riding into Rosh Hashanah: What Bike Riding Has Taught Me
I enjoy spending hours cycling on Long Island’s roads. One of the first things you learn when riding for such long stretches is not to grip the handlebars too tightly. This may seem counterintuitive. What about when careening down a hill? What about when following closely behind other cyclists? The key, however, is a relaxed grip. Beginners often grip the bars so tightly that they complain about sore necks and shoulders, and even numb hands.
The secret about riding a bike is instead balance rather than grip. So it is with life. You have to let go of holding on too tightly.
In a few days Jews throughout the world will be celebrating Rosh Hashanah—the Jewish New Year. I am thinking that this holiday is about restoring that balance. It is about realizing that we cannot hold on to life with too tight of a grip. Examine the day’s prayers. They speak about the fragility of life. They frighten us with the exclamation: “On Rosh Hashanah it is written and Yom Kippur it is sealed. Who shall live and who shall die…”
The message is clear. It is not all in our hands. It is not all in our control. Hold on—but loosely—and enjoy the ride. Don’t forget, fill your hearts with gratitude. Stop trying to wrest control...
The secret about riding a bike is instead balance rather than grip. So it is with life. You have to let go of holding on too tightly.
In a few days Jews throughout the world will be celebrating Rosh Hashanah—the Jewish New Year. I am thinking that this holiday is about restoring that balance. It is about realizing that we cannot hold on to life with too tight of a grip. Examine the day’s prayers. They speak about the fragility of life. They frighten us with the exclamation: “On Rosh Hashanah it is written and Yom Kippur it is sealed. Who shall live and who shall die…”
The message is clear. It is not all in our hands. It is not all in our control. Hold on—but loosely—and enjoy the ride. Don’t forget, fill your hearts with gratitude. Stop trying to wrest control...
It's About Character
John McCain Achieved in Defeat What Few of Us Achieve in Victory
I have been reading about Senator John McCain. I have always admired his unrivaled courage—I recall his decision to remain in a Vietnam prison and not abandon his fellow POW’s, his devotion to principles—I remember in particular his arguments against the torture of suspected terrorists, and his devotion to our country—I cannot forget his concession speech after losing the 2008 election to Barak Obama.
That speech, and that moment, remains one of the greatest moments of American democracy. After elections, the victors speak about grand promises and future hopes. The losers lean on values and ideals. McCain’s character emerges. He said:
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
I have been reading about Senator John McCain. I have always admired his unrivaled courage—I recall his decision to remain in a Vietnam prison and not abandon his fellow POW’s, his devotion to principles—I remember in particular his arguments against the torture of suspected terrorists, and his devotion to our country—I cannot forget his concession speech after losing the 2008 election to Barak Obama.
That speech, and that moment, remains one of the greatest moments of American democracy. After elections, the victors speak about grand promises and future hopes. The losers lean on values and ideals. McCain’s character emerges. He said:
It is natural tonight to feel some disappointment, but tomorrow we must move beyond it and work together to get our country moving again. We fought — we fought as hard as we could. And though we fell short, the failure is mine, not yours.That is leadership. “The failure is mine.” I recall, as well, when McCain silenced a heckler who booed when Obama’s name was said....
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
Mistakes, a Bird's Nest and Compassion
Well, this is embarrassing. Last week I mistakenly wrote about the wrong Torah portion.
Deuteronomy 29 is found in Nitzavim, the portion read two weeks from now. Last week I studied Nitzavim with a bat mitzvah student and my mind remained focused on our discussion. While I realize that many would be hesitant to point this mistake out to their rabbi I would be remiss if I did not confess this error—especially given this season of repentance and most especially given that last week I wrote about publicly proclaiming one’s mistakes. Now that’s ironic—and even amusing.
We can only really correct our flaws if we declare them to others. If they remain hidden they remain flaws. If they are revealed, they can be transformed into strengths.
This week we read from Ki Tetzei. I have double and triple checked this fact. It contains the most commandments of any weekly reading. According to Moses Maimonides, the great medieval Jewish philosopher, there are 72 commandments. Unique, and perhaps most curious, among these dictums is the mitzvah regarding a bird’s nest.
The Torah proclaims: “If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life.” (Deuteronomy 22)
At first glance this may appear cruel. How can we take chicks or eggs from a bird’s nest? “That’s so mean!” my students often exclaim. And I usually respond, “What did you have for breakfast this morning? Did you have eggs?” We are permitted eggs. We are allowed to eat meat. Today, we have lost the connection to how our food is collected. Eggs do not grow in plastic containers. They are also not perfectly shaped and colored. Buy some eggs from a local farm and teach your children about imperfection of nature, as well as its beauty.
If we are to eat eggs, and meat, we must reacquaint ourselves with how our food is raised. And we must regain a sense of compassion toward the foods we eat. The Torah suggests that we must even show compassion toward animals. Again Moses Maimonides. It would be cruel to allow the mother bird to witness her children being taken away. Sure, it might be better to be a vegan, but Judaism sees this as unrealistic and so our eating of meat must be tempered.
Our enjoyment of eggs and sausage (I made no mistake here; I mean turkey), must be framed with a measure of compassion for the animals’ lives and even their welfare. Here is the theory. If you worry about the feelings of a mother bird, then you are more apt to worry about the feelings of other human beings. The Torah aims to teach compassion.
To be honest I am not sure this theory always works.
I sit at breakfast and eat my eggs and read about one tragedy after another: some in distant lands and others around the corner from my home. I do not think of the mother bird. And I do not think of the mothers mourning their children in Syria or Ethiopia, Huntington or San Diego.
The primary purpose of the Torah is to inculcate compassion, I remind myself. It is to teach empathy and concern.
I wish it were as easy as shooing the mother bird away.
Perhaps it must begin at breakfast.
Deuteronomy 29 is found in Nitzavim, the portion read two weeks from now. Last week I studied Nitzavim with a bat mitzvah student and my mind remained focused on our discussion. While I realize that many would be hesitant to point this mistake out to their rabbi I would be remiss if I did not confess this error—especially given this season of repentance and most especially given that last week I wrote about publicly proclaiming one’s mistakes. Now that’s ironic—and even amusing.
We can only really correct our flaws if we declare them to others. If they remain hidden they remain flaws. If they are revealed, they can be transformed into strengths.
This week we read from Ki Tetzei. I have double and triple checked this fact. It contains the most commandments of any weekly reading. According to Moses Maimonides, the great medieval Jewish philosopher, there are 72 commandments. Unique, and perhaps most curious, among these dictums is the mitzvah regarding a bird’s nest.
The Torah proclaims: “If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life.” (Deuteronomy 22)
At first glance this may appear cruel. How can we take chicks or eggs from a bird’s nest? “That’s so mean!” my students often exclaim. And I usually respond, “What did you have for breakfast this morning? Did you have eggs?” We are permitted eggs. We are allowed to eat meat. Today, we have lost the connection to how our food is collected. Eggs do not grow in plastic containers. They are also not perfectly shaped and colored. Buy some eggs from a local farm and teach your children about imperfection of nature, as well as its beauty.
If we are to eat eggs, and meat, we must reacquaint ourselves with how our food is raised. And we must regain a sense of compassion toward the foods we eat. The Torah suggests that we must even show compassion toward animals. Again Moses Maimonides. It would be cruel to allow the mother bird to witness her children being taken away. Sure, it might be better to be a vegan, but Judaism sees this as unrealistic and so our eating of meat must be tempered.
Our enjoyment of eggs and sausage (I made no mistake here; I mean turkey), must be framed with a measure of compassion for the animals’ lives and even their welfare. Here is the theory. If you worry about the feelings of a mother bird, then you are more apt to worry about the feelings of other human beings. The Torah aims to teach compassion.
To be honest I am not sure this theory always works.
I sit at breakfast and eat my eggs and read about one tragedy after another: some in distant lands and others around the corner from my home. I do not think of the mother bird. And I do not think of the mothers mourning their children in Syria or Ethiopia, Huntington or San Diego.
The primary purpose of the Torah is to inculcate compassion, I remind myself. It is to teach empathy and concern.
I wish it were as easy as shooing the mother bird away.
Perhaps it must begin at breakfast.
Secrets and Sins
There is a lot of talk about secrets these days. Former CIA director John Brennan no longer has access to our nation’s secrets. Omarosa claims she has access to lots of them. People whisper in hushed tones about this neighbor or that. The supermarket tabloids claim to reveal titillating secrets about one movie star after another. Today they are filled with tidbits about Aretha Franklin. (May her memory be for a blessing and her songs continue to fill our hearts.)
I take comfort in the Torah’s words. “The secret things belong to the Lord our God...” (Deuteronomy) No one can truly know another’s secret. No one can reveal another’s truth. Secrets are for the individual to share or for the individual to reveal.
The great Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, commented: “Other Hasidim perform the commandments in the open and their sins in private. My Hasidim commit their sins in public and observe the commandments in private.” It is a strange, and counterintuitive, teaching. Who publicizes their mistakes? Who reveals their errors? Don’t most people brag about their accomplishments and hide their gaffs?
Apparently Menahem Mendl taught his disciples to talk about their sins and not talk about what they did right. He taught them that you can only improve if others see your mistakes and hear about your errors. Most people don’t want to sign up for such a regimen. I wonder how many followers he actually had. And yet Menahem Mendl does reveal an essential truth.
The only way to grow and improve, the only way to be a better person is to reveal your mistakes and display them for others to see. That is the purpose of the High Holidays. We temper this telling of our secrets by reciting our sins together. The litany of sins are intoned in the plural. “For the sin we have committed…” we repeat over and over again.
Only by coming to terms with our own failings can we bring on redemption.
Menahem Mendl again: “The world thinks that tzaddik nistar—hidden righteous people—are people who conceal their righteousness and their good deeds from others. The truth, though, is that tzaddik nistar are people whose righteousness is hidden and concealed from themselves, and who have no idea whatsoever that they are righteous.”
Righteousness is not newsworthy. It is never something to brag about or hold before others.
But the world depends on each of us doing good deeds—perhaps in secret.
I take comfort in the Torah’s words. “The secret things belong to the Lord our God...” (Deuteronomy) No one can truly know another’s secret. No one can reveal another’s truth. Secrets are for the individual to share or for the individual to reveal.
The great Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, commented: “Other Hasidim perform the commandments in the open and their sins in private. My Hasidim commit their sins in public and observe the commandments in private.” It is a strange, and counterintuitive, teaching. Who publicizes their mistakes? Who reveals their errors? Don’t most people brag about their accomplishments and hide their gaffs?
Apparently Menahem Mendl taught his disciples to talk about their sins and not talk about what they did right. He taught them that you can only improve if others see your mistakes and hear about your errors. Most people don’t want to sign up for such a regimen. I wonder how many followers he actually had. And yet Menahem Mendl does reveal an essential truth.
The only way to grow and improve, the only way to be a better person is to reveal your mistakes and display them for others to see. That is the purpose of the High Holidays. We temper this telling of our secrets by reciting our sins together. The litany of sins are intoned in the plural. “For the sin we have committed…” we repeat over and over again.
Only by coming to terms with our own failings can we bring on redemption.
Menahem Mendl again: “The world thinks that tzaddik nistar—hidden righteous people—are people who conceal their righteousness and their good deeds from others. The truth, though, is that tzaddik nistar are people whose righteousness is hidden and concealed from themselves, and who have no idea whatsoever that they are righteous.”
Righteousness is not newsworthy. It is never something to brag about or hold before others.
But the world depends on each of us doing good deeds—perhaps in secret.
Is Faith as Easy as Relinquishing Control?
My wife and I recently traveled to Albuquerque. In addition to visiting Jesse’s house of Breaking Bad fame, and tasting too many new tequilas, we signed up for a hot air balloon ride. It was the most remarkable of low-tech adventures.
We arrived before sunrise. After driving to an empty parking lot, the gigantic balloon was unfurled. Large fans were positioned by the opening. Volunteers were requested to hold the balloon open as the fans filled the balloon with air. The large basket was positioned on its side and attached to the balloon by four carabineers. Propane burners were lit, and the balloon was filled with hot air. It gently rose off the ground and lifted the basket off its side.
Two men held the basket in place while the pilot climbed aboard. One by one, he instructed the twelve passengers to take their place, positioning us so that our weight helped to keep the basket level. He gave us our safety instructions. With the humor of a Southwest flight attendant, he taught us how to brace ourselves for landing. “Hold on to the rope handles by your side and bend your knees. Don’t drop your phones out of the basket.”
And with that, the burners roared and shot huge flames above our heads, the ground crew let go of the basket, and the balloon lifted gently off the ground. The ground quickly grew smaller....
We arrived before sunrise. After driving to an empty parking lot, the gigantic balloon was unfurled. Large fans were positioned by the opening. Volunteers were requested to hold the balloon open as the fans filled the balloon with air. The large basket was positioned on its side and attached to the balloon by four carabineers. Propane burners were lit, and the balloon was filled with hot air. It gently rose off the ground and lifted the basket off its side.
Two men held the basket in place while the pilot climbed aboard. One by one, he instructed the twelve passengers to take their place, positioning us so that our weight helped to keep the basket level. He gave us our safety instructions. With the humor of a Southwest flight attendant, he taught us how to brace ourselves for landing. “Hold on to the rope handles by your side and bend your knees. Don’t drop your phones out of the basket.”
And with that, the burners roared and shot huge flames above our heads, the ground crew let go of the basket, and the balloon lifted gently off the ground. The ground quickly grew smaller....
Baseball and the High Holidays
Every sport has a peculiar set of rules. Soccer has yellow cards. Football a false start. Basketball has a flagrant one and even two. Hockey icing. Australian Rules Football has…I have no idea.
Unique among these sports stands baseball. No other sport keeps track of errors and makes a distinction between an earned hit and advancing to a base on an error. At each game the scorer sits in a box and makes the determination: earned or error. At the end of the game there is a tally: runs, hits and errors. And yet, in determining the standings all that matters are the number of runs. This, and this alone, determines the winner and loser of the game.
And yet there it stands: the team’s hits and the team’s errors. I know of no other sport that tracks errors and mistakes. A team can lose despite earning many hits. And a team can win despite committing a number of errors.
Saturday is the first day of the month of Elul. It marks the beginning of the High Holiday period, a time of introspection that culminates in Yom Kippur on September 19th. It is a forty-day period that mirrors the forty days Moses spent on Mount Sinai communing with God. We are meant to turn inward, examine our deeds and look back on the past year.
We are meant to tally our errors. We are not meant to look at the standings. Our successes are immaterial. On these days it is only the error column that truly matters.
This may seem like a depressing exercise. But the faith of the High Holidays is that you can only get better, you can only improve yourself, if you look at your faults. True introspection is about being honest about our flaws and owning our mistakes.
Here is the hope that tempers this exercise. As the gates of repentance begin to close, in the final minutes of Yom Kippur, all is forgiven.
We may all enter the High Holidays like the Baltimore Orioles (sorry Dad!), but everyone emerges as World Series champions.
It begins by taking an accurate accounting of our errors.
Unique among these sports stands baseball. No other sport keeps track of errors and makes a distinction between an earned hit and advancing to a base on an error. At each game the scorer sits in a box and makes the determination: earned or error. At the end of the game there is a tally: runs, hits and errors. And yet, in determining the standings all that matters are the number of runs. This, and this alone, determines the winner and loser of the game.
And yet there it stands: the team’s hits and the team’s errors. I know of no other sport that tracks errors and mistakes. A team can lose despite earning many hits. And a team can win despite committing a number of errors.
Saturday is the first day of the month of Elul. It marks the beginning of the High Holiday period, a time of introspection that culminates in Yom Kippur on September 19th. It is a forty-day period that mirrors the forty days Moses spent on Mount Sinai communing with God. We are meant to turn inward, examine our deeds and look back on the past year.
We are meant to tally our errors. We are not meant to look at the standings. Our successes are immaterial. On these days it is only the error column that truly matters.
This may seem like a depressing exercise. But the faith of the High Holidays is that you can only get better, you can only improve yourself, if you look at your faults. True introspection is about being honest about our flaws and owning our mistakes.
Here is the hope that tempers this exercise. As the gates of repentance begin to close, in the final minutes of Yom Kippur, all is forgiven.
We may all enter the High Holidays like the Baltimore Orioles (sorry Dad!), but everyone emerges as World Series champions.
It begins by taking an accurate accounting of our errors.
Remember and Don't Forget
According to rabbinic legend a fetus knows the entire Torah when in the womb. When the baby is born, however, an angel kisses the baby on the lip, producing the recognized indentation, and the child forgets everything. Now this child must spend a lifetime learning Torah. It is a curious legend.
The rabbis imagined that we begin life knowing everything but then immediately forget everything.
The rabbis imagined that we begin life knowing everything but then immediately forget everything.
Years ago, as my grandmother withered away in a nursing home, we watched her mind become increasingly vacant. Her body remained strong years beyond her mind’s forgetfulness. She felt it happening and understood that she was forgetting more and more. In fact, when she learned that she would soon become a great grandmother she remarked, “What good will that be if I don’t have my mind.” She knew that her dementia was growing increasingly worse. There grew a terror in her eyes. And then she forgot everything.
For our Jewish tradition forgetting is a cardinal sin. We are commanded again and again to remember: zakhor. In this week’s portion, Moses admonishes the people: “Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that you might be tested by hardships to learn what is in your hearts: whether you will keep the commandments or not.” (Deuteronomy 8). We must remember our history, the successes and failures, but especially the trials.
More than any other teacher, Annie Bleiberg, may her memory be for a blessing, taught me about the Holocaust. She colored in the details that the history books could not. She shared her story of survival, which was at times harrowing and other times miraculous, so that others might learn how hatred can metastasize into murder. She always reminded me that we must be on guard against antisemitism. She would say that we must treat every human being as in individual not as a category. This is why she told her story. She remembered the pain and the trials so that others might learn.
For Judaism remembrance is the key to learning.
Remembering is not instinctive. Memories must be inculcated. One can learn from others. But remembrance is best achieved by experience. Perhaps this is the reason for the rabbinic legend. You have to feel and experience to really learn. You have to look back and remember in order to teach.
The great historian Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi argues that Judaism believes forgetfulness is terrifying. Zakhor, remember, we are commanded. We must always remember the long way we have travelled.
To forget is to be that newborn infant, although touched by an angel, just beginning a lifetime of rediscovering and relearning.
We are the Jewish people because we remember. Our future is dependent on hearing this command and regaining this terror of forgetting. Perhaps this feeling will help us to learn more, to experience more. I forever see it in my grandmother’s eyes. I can still hear it in Annie’s voice.
May my lips never again be touched by an angel.
For our Jewish tradition forgetting is a cardinal sin. We are commanded again and again to remember: zakhor. In this week’s portion, Moses admonishes the people: “Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that you might be tested by hardships to learn what is in your hearts: whether you will keep the commandments or not.” (Deuteronomy 8). We must remember our history, the successes and failures, but especially the trials.
More than any other teacher, Annie Bleiberg, may her memory be for a blessing, taught me about the Holocaust. She colored in the details that the history books could not. She shared her story of survival, which was at times harrowing and other times miraculous, so that others might learn how hatred can metastasize into murder. She always reminded me that we must be on guard against antisemitism. She would say that we must treat every human being as in individual not as a category. This is why she told her story. She remembered the pain and the trials so that others might learn.
For Judaism remembrance is the key to learning.
Remembering is not instinctive. Memories must be inculcated. One can learn from others. But remembrance is best achieved by experience. Perhaps this is the reason for the rabbinic legend. You have to feel and experience to really learn. You have to look back and remember in order to teach.
The great historian Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi argues that Judaism believes forgetfulness is terrifying. Zakhor, remember, we are commanded. We must always remember the long way we have travelled.
To forget is to be that newborn infant, although touched by an angel, just beginning a lifetime of rediscovering and relearning.
We are the Jewish people because we remember. Our future is dependent on hearing this command and regaining this terror of forgetting. Perhaps this feeling will help us to learn more, to experience more. I forever see it in my grandmother’s eyes. I can still hear it in Annie’s voice.
May my lips never again be touched by an angel.
Over and Over Again
This week we find the Shema and V’ahvata, located in the opening chapters of Deuteronomy.
We read the line: “V’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children.” On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything, in particular Torah. They are commanded to teach their children about their Jewish heritage. They are instructed to teach their children values.
In Hebrew there is a common word for teach, m’lamed. Here the Torah uses the word, shinantam. This word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? Why would the Torah command that we repeat these words to our children? Are we to say the words of the V’ahavta over and over again to our children, and even grandchildren?
As a parent I am certain that lessons will most certainly go unheard the moment I have to repeat them over and over again to my children. I say over and over again, “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These admonitions are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. Over the years I have learned that my worst parenting moments are when I resort to repeating myself. In that moment I am the only one who is listening to my words.
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method, then what could this unusual word choice mean? The Torah cannot be wrong. An insight must be hidden in its words. This is what I have determined. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health, then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do.
“V’shinantam l’vanecha!”
Repeat them to your children.
We read the line: “V’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children.” On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything, in particular Torah. They are commanded to teach their children about their Jewish heritage. They are instructed to teach their children values.
In Hebrew there is a common word for teach, m’lamed. Here the Torah uses the word, shinantam. This word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? Why would the Torah command that we repeat these words to our children? Are we to say the words of the V’ahavta over and over again to our children, and even grandchildren?
As a parent I am certain that lessons will most certainly go unheard the moment I have to repeat them over and over again to my children. I say over and over again, “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These admonitions are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. Over the years I have learned that my worst parenting moments are when I resort to repeating myself. In that moment I am the only one who is listening to my words.
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method, then what could this unusual word choice mean? The Torah cannot be wrong. An insight must be hidden in its words. This is what I have determined. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health, then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do.
“V’shinantam l’vanecha!”
Repeat them to your children.
History's Warning Lights
Although not widely observed in Reform synagogues, Sunday marks Tisha B’Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. On this day the first Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E. and the second by the Romans in 70 C.E. According to Jewish tradition a number of other catastrophes occurred on this day as well, in particular the expulsion of Spain’s Jews in 1492.
It is a day marked by fasting and mourning. The Book of Lamentations is chanted. In its verses the prophet Jeremiah laments the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians. “Bitterly she weeps in the night, her cheek wet with tears. There is none to comfort her of all her friends. All her allies have betrayed her; they have become her foes.”
The destruction of the second Temple by the Romans was even more devastating. Until the return of millions to the land of Israel, and the reestablishment of Jewish sovereignty there, in the last century, we forever wandered. For nearly two thousand years, we lost our center. We could no longer worship in Jerusalem’s Temple; we could not pilgrimage there on our festivals. In its place, synagogues were created throughout the lands of our dispersion.
Somehow, we survived, and even thrived. The early rabbis doubted our fortitude. They saw only devastation and destruction. They could not imagine a Jewish life without the central Temple. And so they decreed that a glass be smashed at every Jewish wedding because they believed that our happiness—even that of a Jewish wedding—would never be full again. We defied their worries.
We remade the rituals of the Temple into the familiar rituals of today. We refashioned a new Judaism without one center but instead with many. Our homes came to replace the sacrificial altar of old. There we, like the ancient priests, would wash and sanctify our meals. We turned our creativity into study and prayer. We wrote countless books. We discussed and debated. We looked back at our history and examined our lives. We asked ourselves how this catastrophe could have happened. How could God’s holy Temple be destroyed?
The rabbis answered. It was not the Romans. Sure, that is what history indicates. Look instead within. This is a moment for self-examination. This is an opportunity for self-reflection. We did this to ourselves. They taught: it was because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred. It was because Jews fought amongst themselves, because they called one another traitors. This is why the Romans were able to destroy our Temple and our city. We gave our enemies an opening to destroy us because we were so busy fighting with ourselves.
It is a lesson worth remembering on this day, and in this year.
“The warning lights are blinking red again.”
It is a day marked by fasting and mourning. The Book of Lamentations is chanted. In its verses the prophet Jeremiah laments the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians. “Bitterly she weeps in the night, her cheek wet with tears. There is none to comfort her of all her friends. All her allies have betrayed her; they have become her foes.”
The destruction of the second Temple by the Romans was even more devastating. Until the return of millions to the land of Israel, and the reestablishment of Jewish sovereignty there, in the last century, we forever wandered. For nearly two thousand years, we lost our center. We could no longer worship in Jerusalem’s Temple; we could not pilgrimage there on our festivals. In its place, synagogues were created throughout the lands of our dispersion.
Somehow, we survived, and even thrived. The early rabbis doubted our fortitude. They saw only devastation and destruction. They could not imagine a Jewish life without the central Temple. And so they decreed that a glass be smashed at every Jewish wedding because they believed that our happiness—even that of a Jewish wedding—would never be full again. We defied their worries.
We remade the rituals of the Temple into the familiar rituals of today. We refashioned a new Judaism without one center but instead with many. Our homes came to replace the sacrificial altar of old. There we, like the ancient priests, would wash and sanctify our meals. We turned our creativity into study and prayer. We wrote countless books. We discussed and debated. We looked back at our history and examined our lives. We asked ourselves how this catastrophe could have happened. How could God’s holy Temple be destroyed?
The rabbis answered. It was not the Romans. Sure, that is what history indicates. Look instead within. This is a moment for self-examination. This is an opportunity for self-reflection. We did this to ourselves. They taught: it was because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred. It was because Jews fought amongst themselves, because they called one another traitors. This is why the Romans were able to destroy our Temple and our city. We gave our enemies an opening to destroy us because we were so busy fighting with ourselves.
It is a lesson worth remembering on this day, and in this year.
“The warning lights are blinking red again.”
The Ocean's Pull
I am meditating on the ocean. I am thinking about its pull.
Why do we venture to the sea and its shores?
I turn to the ancient rabbis. (That is what Jews do when seeking answers to their questions.)
Rabbi Eliezer responds: “The entire world drinks from the waters of the ocean.” (Taanit 9b). I read on to discover that he and his colleagues were debating where rain water comes from. I am impressed by my ancestor’s understanding of the cosmos. Another rabbi argues with Eliezer. “But the waters of the ocean are salty, whereas rainwater is sweet.” The debate continues. Rabbis!
Perhaps Eliezer means his teaching metaphorically. Our spirit drinks in nourishment from the oceans. Every summer we wait in hours of traffic just to make our way to its beaches. It is calming. The waves are restorative.
The poet, Mary Oliver, offers a teaching. (That is what I also look to when searching for answers.)
I am in love with Ocean
lifting her thousands of white hats
in the chop of the storm,
or lying smooth and blue, the
loveliest bed in the world.
In the personal life, there is
always grief more than enough,
a heart-load for each of us
on the dusty road. I suppose
there is a reason for this, so I will be
patient, acquiescent. But I will live
nowhere except here, by Ocean, trusting
equally in all the blast and welcome
of her sorrowless, salt self.
The ocean is the antidote to grief. It is the answer to what ails us. No amount of tears can ever fill its depths.
Rabbi Judah states: “A person who sees the ocean recites the blessing, ‘Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who has made the great sea.’" (Berachot 54a) We are commanded to say a myriad of blessings. When seeing a rainbow, when eating an apple, when seeing a mountain, when sitting down to a meal, but regarding the ocean the sages offer a clarification.
A month must have passed since last seeing the ocean. Most people read this emendation as a warning. You should not say this blessing everyday as you should, for example, the motzi. I of course read it differently.
Don’t let a month go by without seeing the ocean!
Find its waves. Seek out its shores. Touch its waters. Cast your grief to its depths. Our souls require nourishment. Our spirits need renewal.
Why do we venture to the sea and its shores?
I turn to the ancient rabbis. (That is what Jews do when seeking answers to their questions.)
Rabbi Eliezer responds: “The entire world drinks from the waters of the ocean.” (Taanit 9b). I read on to discover that he and his colleagues were debating where rain water comes from. I am impressed by my ancestor’s understanding of the cosmos. Another rabbi argues with Eliezer. “But the waters of the ocean are salty, whereas rainwater is sweet.” The debate continues. Rabbis!
Perhaps Eliezer means his teaching metaphorically. Our spirit drinks in nourishment from the oceans. Every summer we wait in hours of traffic just to make our way to its beaches. It is calming. The waves are restorative.
The poet, Mary Oliver, offers a teaching. (That is what I also look to when searching for answers.)
I am in love with Ocean
lifting her thousands of white hats
in the chop of the storm,
or lying smooth and blue, the
loveliest bed in the world.
In the personal life, there is
always grief more than enough,
a heart-load for each of us
on the dusty road. I suppose
there is a reason for this, so I will be
patient, acquiescent. But I will live
nowhere except here, by Ocean, trusting
equally in all the blast and welcome
of her sorrowless, salt self.
The ocean is the antidote to grief. It is the answer to what ails us. No amount of tears can ever fill its depths.
Rabbi Judah states: “A person who sees the ocean recites the blessing, ‘Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who has made the great sea.’" (Berachot 54a) We are commanded to say a myriad of blessings. When seeing a rainbow, when eating an apple, when seeing a mountain, when sitting down to a meal, but regarding the ocean the sages offer a clarification.
A month must have passed since last seeing the ocean. Most people read this emendation as a warning. You should not say this blessing everyday as you should, for example, the motzi. I of course read it differently.
Don’t let a month go by without seeing the ocean!
Find its waves. Seek out its shores. Touch its waters. Cast your grief to its depths. Our souls require nourishment. Our spirits need renewal.
And it can be discovered a few short blocks from our homes.
A Zealous Father
I don’t very much like Pinhas. And yet year after year I find him in my Torah.
Here is his story. The people are gathered on the banks of the Jordan River, poised to enter the land of Israel. They have become intoxicated with the religion of the Midianites, sacrificing to their god, Baal, and participating in its festivals. Moses tries to get the Israelites to stop, issuing laws forbidding such foreign practices, but they refuse to listen. God becomes enraged.
"Just then one of the Israelites came and brought a Midianite woman over to his companions... When Pinhas saw this he left the assembly and taking a spear in his hand he followed the Israelite into the chamber and stabbed both of them, the Israelite and the woman, through the belly." The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Pinhas has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I do not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion.’ Say, therefore, ‘I grant him a covenant of peace.’" (Numbers 25) Pinhas' zeal tempers God’s anger. Thus Pinhas renews the covenant between God and the people.
It is a horrifying story. Zealotry is condoned. Murder in God’s name is rewarded.
I recoil at this story. I am taken aback, once again, to discover these words in my holy Torah.
I recall my bris. (Ok, not really. But still I know what was said.) When I was carried into the room the mohel extolled Pinhas’ example. He recited the Torah’s words and repeated its conclusion. “I grant him a covenant of peace.” I would like to think that the Torah’s words were recited because of its concluding promise of peace. And yet I wonder. Is the mention of Pinhas a tacit recognition of the passion and zeal required to perform the circumcision ritual?
Let’s be honest. We hand over our newborn, week old infant, to a stranger and ask him (or her) to remove something from the most sensitive part of his body. The rabbis justify this ritual by adding the notion that in performing the circumcision we are perfecting God’s creation. They argued that God made the world, and human beings, intentionally imperfect to leave room for us to perfect the world, and ourselves. And yet I better recall Ari’s bris.
I remember thinking.
There is only one reason why I am doing this (violence?) to my son. God commanded me to do so. I remembered the Torah’s command. “You shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin, and that shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and you. And throughout the generations, every male among you shall be circumcised at the age of eight days.” (Genesis 17) I got up early in the morning to do God’s bidding. I did not question. God’s promise was my only reassurance.
Did I become a zealot in that moment?
Perhaps Pinchas is a part of me as well.
And he forever remains in my Torah.
Here is his story. The people are gathered on the banks of the Jordan River, poised to enter the land of Israel. They have become intoxicated with the religion of the Midianites, sacrificing to their god, Baal, and participating in its festivals. Moses tries to get the Israelites to stop, issuing laws forbidding such foreign practices, but they refuse to listen. God becomes enraged.
"Just then one of the Israelites came and brought a Midianite woman over to his companions... When Pinhas saw this he left the assembly and taking a spear in his hand he followed the Israelite into the chamber and stabbed both of them, the Israelite and the woman, through the belly." The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Pinhas has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I do not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion.’ Say, therefore, ‘I grant him a covenant of peace.’" (Numbers 25) Pinhas' zeal tempers God’s anger. Thus Pinhas renews the covenant between God and the people.
It is a horrifying story. Zealotry is condoned. Murder in God’s name is rewarded.
I recoil at this story. I am taken aback, once again, to discover these words in my holy Torah.
I recall my bris. (Ok, not really. But still I know what was said.) When I was carried into the room the mohel extolled Pinhas’ example. He recited the Torah’s words and repeated its conclusion. “I grant him a covenant of peace.” I would like to think that the Torah’s words were recited because of its concluding promise of peace. And yet I wonder. Is the mention of Pinhas a tacit recognition of the passion and zeal required to perform the circumcision ritual?
Let’s be honest. We hand over our newborn, week old infant, to a stranger and ask him (or her) to remove something from the most sensitive part of his body. The rabbis justify this ritual by adding the notion that in performing the circumcision we are perfecting God’s creation. They argued that God made the world, and human beings, intentionally imperfect to leave room for us to perfect the world, and ourselves. And yet I better recall Ari’s bris.
I remember thinking.
There is only one reason why I am doing this (violence?) to my son. God commanded me to do so. I remembered the Torah’s command. “You shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin, and that shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and you. And throughout the generations, every male among you shall be circumcised at the age of eight days.” (Genesis 17) I got up early in the morning to do God’s bidding. I did not question. God’s promise was my only reassurance.
Did I become a zealot in that moment?
Perhaps Pinchas is a part of me as well.
And he forever remains in my Torah.
The Value to Share Meals with Those We Disagree With
This week my thoughts turn to Hillel and Shammai. I am not thinking about these famous first century rabbis because of their wisdom but instead because of their relationship. They stood on opposite sides of virtually every issue they faced. They led competing schools of Jewish thought.
The Talmud reports that their disciples argued for years. In fact, they never resolved the debate about whether it was good or bad that God made human beings. Given that their arguments were for the sake of heaven, a divine voice weighed in and determined that both of their opinions were valid and were apt reflections of God’s living words. Still, Jewish law almost always follows the opinions of Hillel.
Why? It is because, the Talmud reports, he would not only share his own interpretations but first the opposing opinions of Shammai. The lesson is clear. One’s opponents must always be given honor and respect. Perhaps, it was also because Hillel was known to be a nicer, and more open, rabbi. Shammai, in contrast, is described as sterner and given to rebuke.
That is the Talmud’s record of their debates. 2,000 years later we are left with the impression that their disagreements were friendly, and civil....
The Talmud reports that their disciples argued for years. In fact, they never resolved the debate about whether it was good or bad that God made human beings. Given that their arguments were for the sake of heaven, a divine voice weighed in and determined that both of their opinions were valid and were apt reflections of God’s living words. Still, Jewish law almost always follows the opinions of Hillel.
Why? It is because, the Talmud reports, he would not only share his own interpretations but first the opposing opinions of Shammai. The lesson is clear. One’s opponents must always be given honor and respect. Perhaps, it was also because Hillel was known to be a nicer, and more open, rabbi. Shammai, in contrast, is described as sterner and given to rebuke.
That is the Talmud’s record of their debates. 2,000 years later we are left with the impression that their disagreements were friendly, and civil....
Sharing a Meal, Sharing a Country
This week my thoughts turn to Hillel and Shammai. I am not thinking about these famous first century rabbis because of their wisdom but instead because of their relationship. They stood on opposite sides of virtually every issue they faced. They led competing schools of Jewish thought.
The Talmud reports that their disciples argued for years. In fact, they never resolved the debate about whether it was good or bad that God made human beings. Given that their arguments were for the sake of heaven, a divine voice weighed in and determined that both of their opinions were valid and were apt reflections of God’s living words. Still, Jewish law almost always follows the opinions of Hillel.
Why? It is because, the Talmud reports, he would not only share his own interpretations but first the opposing opinions of Shammai. The lesson is clear. One’s opponents must always be given honor and respect. Perhaps, it was also because Hillel was known to be a nicer, and more open, rabbi. Shammai, in contrast, is described as sterner and given to rebuke.
That is the Talmud’s record of their debates. 2,000 years later we are left with the impression that their disagreements were friendly, and civil. These days, I wonder if this was in fact true. Did they speak ill of each other in the quiet of their own homes? Was Shammai sometimes given to fits of rage over Hillel’s liberal interpretations? Was his strict mindset unnerved by his opponent’s openness? Was Hillel equally perplexed by Shammai’s propensity to turn people away who wanted to learn? Did he worry that his fellow rabbi might end up leading a congregation of one?
Did they ever sit down at the same table together? Did they ever share a meal?
I do not know. And so, I wonder if the Talmud has softened the tensions between these leading, intellectual giants. I wish I could ask them how they got along. I wish I could seek their guidance for how to maintain a sense of collegiality and friendship with those whom I vehemently disagree.
I worry that if we cannot sit down at the same table, if we cannot discuss the issues and ideas that divide us then the threads that bind together our community, and country, will be forever broken. The most basic of human needs is eating. The most basic of human activities is eating meals together. This is what binds families together. This is what draws friends together.
This is what creates community. Sarah Huckabee Sanders is my fellow American. No matter how distasteful her politics might be she must be allowed to eat in the same restaurant as I do. It may be emotionally satisfying to throw her out, but I do not want to be party to such incivility. Protests, yes. Lots of them. And more to come, I am sure. But breaking bread together—even if at a table’s length—must always continue.
If not, we run the risk of living in a country riven with sectarian divisions. A recent study of millennials indicated that an increasing number would refuse to marry someone from the opposing political party. If a Democrat will not marry a Republican and a Republican will not marry a Democrat, then we have become sects.
It is a tragic thing that our political leaders have forgotten that compromise is what serves us best. Democrats are not meant to be winners. Republicans are not supposed to be victors. Americans are to be the only champions. Compromise heals a country. Politicians’ commitment to their own ideologies, and bases, is what drives their decisions rather than what might be best for the entire country of Republicans, Democrats, Independents and even those who do not vote, or cannot vote.
It requires greater courage to include those with whom we disagree than to throw them out. The Torah records. The prophet Balaam was sent to curse the Israelites. They were a threat to his king and his followers. When Balaam saw them, and met them face to face, he was unable to pronounce curses. Instead he offered blessings. “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24)
It a sad thing that President Trump does not seek to unite the country. It is satisfying to shun political opponents. It is gratifying to point out the apparent hypocrisies of opponents. The cheers of like-minded followers feed the insults, the nods of approval confirm our pre-conceived beliefs. But Twitter is not a forum for debate. It does not provide an opportunity to engage with the ideas of opponents.
For that we require the table. For that we require some good wine and some good food. For that we require some laughter and even shared tears. And then can we can begin the arguments for the sake of heaven.
I would like to imagine that Hillel and Shammai shared many such meals.
That, at least, is what I promise always to continue.
The Talmud reports that their disciples argued for years. In fact, they never resolved the debate about whether it was good or bad that God made human beings. Given that their arguments were for the sake of heaven, a divine voice weighed in and determined that both of their opinions were valid and were apt reflections of God’s living words. Still, Jewish law almost always follows the opinions of Hillel.
Why? It is because, the Talmud reports, he would not only share his own interpretations but first the opposing opinions of Shammai. The lesson is clear. One’s opponents must always be given honor and respect. Perhaps, it was also because Hillel was known to be a nicer, and more open, rabbi. Shammai, in contrast, is described as sterner and given to rebuke.
That is the Talmud’s record of their debates. 2,000 years later we are left with the impression that their disagreements were friendly, and civil. These days, I wonder if this was in fact true. Did they speak ill of each other in the quiet of their own homes? Was Shammai sometimes given to fits of rage over Hillel’s liberal interpretations? Was his strict mindset unnerved by his opponent’s openness? Was Hillel equally perplexed by Shammai’s propensity to turn people away who wanted to learn? Did he worry that his fellow rabbi might end up leading a congregation of one?
Did they ever sit down at the same table together? Did they ever share a meal?
I do not know. And so, I wonder if the Talmud has softened the tensions between these leading, intellectual giants. I wish I could ask them how they got along. I wish I could seek their guidance for how to maintain a sense of collegiality and friendship with those whom I vehemently disagree.
I worry that if we cannot sit down at the same table, if we cannot discuss the issues and ideas that divide us then the threads that bind together our community, and country, will be forever broken. The most basic of human needs is eating. The most basic of human activities is eating meals together. This is what binds families together. This is what draws friends together.
This is what creates community. Sarah Huckabee Sanders is my fellow American. No matter how distasteful her politics might be she must be allowed to eat in the same restaurant as I do. It may be emotionally satisfying to throw her out, but I do not want to be party to such incivility. Protests, yes. Lots of them. And more to come, I am sure. But breaking bread together—even if at a table’s length—must always continue.
If not, we run the risk of living in a country riven with sectarian divisions. A recent study of millennials indicated that an increasing number would refuse to marry someone from the opposing political party. If a Democrat will not marry a Republican and a Republican will not marry a Democrat, then we have become sects.
It is a tragic thing that our political leaders have forgotten that compromise is what serves us best. Democrats are not meant to be winners. Republicans are not supposed to be victors. Americans are to be the only champions. Compromise heals a country. Politicians’ commitment to their own ideologies, and bases, is what drives their decisions rather than what might be best for the entire country of Republicans, Democrats, Independents and even those who do not vote, or cannot vote.
It requires greater courage to include those with whom we disagree than to throw them out. The Torah records. The prophet Balaam was sent to curse the Israelites. They were a threat to his king and his followers. When Balaam saw them, and met them face to face, he was unable to pronounce curses. Instead he offered blessings. “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24)
It a sad thing that President Trump does not seek to unite the country. It is satisfying to shun political opponents. It is gratifying to point out the apparent hypocrisies of opponents. The cheers of like-minded followers feed the insults, the nods of approval confirm our pre-conceived beliefs. But Twitter is not a forum for debate. It does not provide an opportunity to engage with the ideas of opponents.
For that we require the table. For that we require some good wine and some good food. For that we require some laughter and even shared tears. And then can we can begin the arguments for the sake of heaven.
I would like to imagine that Hillel and Shammai shared many such meals.
That, at least, is what I promise always to continue.
Bizarre Rituals and Ethical Commands
I am thinking that the Torah does not matter.
I spent the better part of the morning reading the day’s paper. I read in detail about the struggle of immigrants on our country’s southern border. Despite the fact that President Trump issued an executive order ending the practice of separating families caught sneaking across the border, over 2,000 children remain separated from their parents. How can we remain indifferent to those running away from persecution and poverty? Whether people entered the country legally, or illegally, there must be a better way.
We are a nation of immigrants. We have offered the promise of better lives to countless generations. Securing our borders, and protecting our citizens, must go hand in hand with the vision of hope and idealism our nation provides the world. My grandparents journeyed here and built better lives for themselves and their families. I wish for others to have similar opportunities.
I turned to the Torah and to this week’s opening lines. “Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid. You shall give it to Eleazar the priest. It shall be taken outside the camp and slaughtered in his presence.” (Numbers 19) What follows are the inordinate details surrounding the ritual of the red heifer.
I sought comfort. I longed for answers to our contemporary struggles.
I found instead a stupefying ritual. Where is the Torah for today?
The red heifer is a ritual that is no longer performed. Since the destruction of the Temple we no longer offer sacrifices. The red heifer was nonetheless a peculiar ritual. It, and it alone, offered purification for the ritually contaminated. Because it is today inoperative no Jew can find such purification. This is why some authorities prevent Jews from walking on the Temple Mount, and where the Dome of the Rock now stands, for fear that they might walk on where the Holy of Holies once stood.
It is a bizarre ritual. “The cow shall be burned in his sight—its hide, flesh, and blood shall be burned, its dung included—and the priest shall take cedar wood, hyssop, and crimson stuff, and throw them into the fire consuming the cow.” Commentators suggest that this ritual defies rational explanations. Searching for explanations lead to only one possible conclusion. This is a commandment because God says it is commandment. Its meaning is discovered in affirming that God knows better.
Are these the spiritual insights I crave? Where are answers addressing our contemporary concerns? Offer me wisdom. Offer me guidance. Let the Torah grant me teaching. Let it lead me to learning.
I read on. The details of the ritual are concluded. A reminder is offered. “This shall be a permanent law for the Israelites and for the strangers who reside among you.”
I recall. Amidst the Torah’s ritual obsessions I discover the reminder of another. Again and again it commands that there shall be one law for citizen and stranger. Why? Because we were slaves in the land of Egypt. Because we know the feelings of the stranger.
The Torah is clear. Our memories of enslavement are to make us more compassionate. Our memories of suffering are intended to make us draw the stranger in.
I take comfort in the Torah’s words. It speaks to today.
I continue to draw inspiration from the Torah’s laws.
“There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you.”
Until tomorrow’s challenges.
I spent the better part of the morning reading the day’s paper. I read in detail about the struggle of immigrants on our country’s southern border. Despite the fact that President Trump issued an executive order ending the practice of separating families caught sneaking across the border, over 2,000 children remain separated from their parents. How can we remain indifferent to those running away from persecution and poverty? Whether people entered the country legally, or illegally, there must be a better way.
We are a nation of immigrants. We have offered the promise of better lives to countless generations. Securing our borders, and protecting our citizens, must go hand in hand with the vision of hope and idealism our nation provides the world. My grandparents journeyed here and built better lives for themselves and their families. I wish for others to have similar opportunities.
I turned to the Torah and to this week’s opening lines. “Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid. You shall give it to Eleazar the priest. It shall be taken outside the camp and slaughtered in his presence.” (Numbers 19) What follows are the inordinate details surrounding the ritual of the red heifer.
I sought comfort. I longed for answers to our contemporary struggles.
I found instead a stupefying ritual. Where is the Torah for today?
The red heifer is a ritual that is no longer performed. Since the destruction of the Temple we no longer offer sacrifices. The red heifer was nonetheless a peculiar ritual. It, and it alone, offered purification for the ritually contaminated. Because it is today inoperative no Jew can find such purification. This is why some authorities prevent Jews from walking on the Temple Mount, and where the Dome of the Rock now stands, for fear that they might walk on where the Holy of Holies once stood.
It is a bizarre ritual. “The cow shall be burned in his sight—its hide, flesh, and blood shall be burned, its dung included—and the priest shall take cedar wood, hyssop, and crimson stuff, and throw them into the fire consuming the cow.” Commentators suggest that this ritual defies rational explanations. Searching for explanations lead to only one possible conclusion. This is a commandment because God says it is commandment. Its meaning is discovered in affirming that God knows better.
Are these the spiritual insights I crave? Where are answers addressing our contemporary concerns? Offer me wisdom. Offer me guidance. Let the Torah grant me teaching. Let it lead me to learning.
I read on. The details of the ritual are concluded. A reminder is offered. “This shall be a permanent law for the Israelites and for the strangers who reside among you.”
I recall. Amidst the Torah’s ritual obsessions I discover the reminder of another. Again and again it commands that there shall be one law for citizen and stranger. Why? Because we were slaves in the land of Egypt. Because we know the feelings of the stranger.
The Torah is clear. Our memories of enslavement are to make us more compassionate. Our memories of suffering are intended to make us draw the stranger in.
I take comfort in the Torah’s words. It speaks to today.
I continue to draw inspiration from the Torah’s laws.
“There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you.”
Until tomorrow’s challenges.
Remembering the Immigrants Who Believed in America
I am thinking about my grandfather, Papa Bill.
He came to this country in 1906 at the age of two. He was accompanied on this journey by his mother Leah and older sister Hannah, age six, and brother Grisha, age four. They traveled by train from Katrinaslav, a city in Ukraine, to the port of Hamburg. There they boarded a ship for the ten day trip to New York.
I am imagining my grandfather as a toddler. He clutched his mother’s hand for the two week journey. She held him in her arms when he became sea sick. She chased after him when he started crawling away from her on the train. She comforted him when he cried from hunger. I imagine his mother’s fear. Would they be allowed to enter? At the time, the United States was allowing able bodied men, and their families, into the country, but turning away those showing any signs of illness. People were, in particular, terrified of tuberculosis.
Leah wondered. Would she be turned away before being reunited with her husband, Moses? It remained a possibility...
He came to this country in 1906 at the age of two. He was accompanied on this journey by his mother Leah and older sister Hannah, age six, and brother Grisha, age four. They traveled by train from Katrinaslav, a city in Ukraine, to the port of Hamburg. There they boarded a ship for the ten day trip to New York.
I am imagining my grandfather as a toddler. He clutched his mother’s hand for the two week journey. She held him in her arms when he became sea sick. She chased after him when he started crawling away from her on the train. She comforted him when he cried from hunger. I imagine his mother’s fear. Would they be allowed to enter? At the time, the United States was allowing able bodied men, and their families, into the country, but turning away those showing any signs of illness. People were, in particular, terrified of tuberculosis.
Leah wondered. Would she be turned away before being reunited with her husband, Moses? It remained a possibility...
Debating Not Attacking
This week’s portion, Korah, details the great rebellion against Moses and his authority. Korah and his followers gathered against Moses saying, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16)
One can understand their complaints. It is easy to imagine what people might have been saying about Moses. “Can you believe this guy? He keeps telling us he talks to God and that everything is going to be wonderful. He is so full of himself. The land is so beautiful, he keeps saying. But when are we going to arrive there? How much longer are we going to wander around this barren wilderness? Day after day we eat this manna. Day after day we keep walking and walking. And then we walk some more. Every day is the same. And then this guy Moses seems to change his mind and points us in other direction.”
One can be sympathetic to their grumblings. On the surface the criticisms appear legitimate. Examine the Torah’s words. Judaism does indeed believe that everyone can speak to God. Our religion requires no intermediary. Moses is not holier than any other human being. Yet Korah and his followers are severely punished. Why?
The Midrash suggests an answer. It imagines Korah asking Moses these questions: “Does a tallit all of blue still require blue fringes? Does a room full of Torah scrolls still require a mezuzah?” In the rabbinic imagination Korah’s questions are brimming with disdain. His words suggest that he questions the entire system. Because Korah is so disrespectful he is punished.
We often do the same. We highlight inconsistencies in our religious systems, and in our political systems. We seek not to correct but instead to mock. It is of course far easier to make fun of something rather than to affirm. It is far simpler to make ad hominem attacks rather than criticizing in order to improve.
We live in an age when too many have become Korah. We seek to amuse. We mock those with whom we disagree. We even call those with whom we disagree traitors. Our culture measures an argument’s winner not by the merit of the ideas offered but by the reactions of participants. If someone is made to cry or stammer then they have lost the argument, even better if they are made to do so on TV.
We no longer debate ideas. Instead we attack others.
We have become Korah. And for this we should ask forgiveness and mend our ways. If we are ever going to make it to our promised land and improve our society we must not attack each other. We must instead debate and argue about ideas that might change our world.
What Korah failed to understand we as well fail to grasp. We are all in this together. And we are all in the wilderness. We had better master debating the ideas that matter without seeking to undermine the entire system. We had better figure out a way to argue with each other while not shouting at each other words of hate.
Of those who left Egypt only two made it to the Promised Land.
I imagine Joshua and Caleb missed their brethren. I also imagine that they understood why they stood alone.
A nation cannot be built in the wilderness. A nation can only be sustained—first by love and then by debate.
One can understand their complaints. It is easy to imagine what people might have been saying about Moses. “Can you believe this guy? He keeps telling us he talks to God and that everything is going to be wonderful. He is so full of himself. The land is so beautiful, he keeps saying. But when are we going to arrive there? How much longer are we going to wander around this barren wilderness? Day after day we eat this manna. Day after day we keep walking and walking. And then we walk some more. Every day is the same. And then this guy Moses seems to change his mind and points us in other direction.”
One can be sympathetic to their grumblings. On the surface the criticisms appear legitimate. Examine the Torah’s words. Judaism does indeed believe that everyone can speak to God. Our religion requires no intermediary. Moses is not holier than any other human being. Yet Korah and his followers are severely punished. Why?
The Midrash suggests an answer. It imagines Korah asking Moses these questions: “Does a tallit all of blue still require blue fringes? Does a room full of Torah scrolls still require a mezuzah?” In the rabbinic imagination Korah’s questions are brimming with disdain. His words suggest that he questions the entire system. Because Korah is so disrespectful he is punished.
We often do the same. We highlight inconsistencies in our religious systems, and in our political systems. We seek not to correct but instead to mock. It is of course far easier to make fun of something rather than to affirm. It is far simpler to make ad hominem attacks rather than criticizing in order to improve.
We live in an age when too many have become Korah. We seek to amuse. We mock those with whom we disagree. We even call those with whom we disagree traitors. Our culture measures an argument’s winner not by the merit of the ideas offered but by the reactions of participants. If someone is made to cry or stammer then they have lost the argument, even better if they are made to do so on TV.
We no longer debate ideas. Instead we attack others.
We have become Korah. And for this we should ask forgiveness and mend our ways. If we are ever going to make it to our promised land and improve our society we must not attack each other. We must instead debate and argue about ideas that might change our world.
What Korah failed to understand we as well fail to grasp. We are all in this together. And we are all in the wilderness. We had better master debating the ideas that matter without seeking to undermine the entire system. We had better figure out a way to argue with each other while not shouting at each other words of hate.
Of those who left Egypt only two made it to the Promised Land.
I imagine Joshua and Caleb missed their brethren. I also imagine that they understood why they stood alone.
A nation cannot be built in the wilderness. A nation can only be sustained—first by love and then by debate.
My Nana Was So Tall
If the books of the Torah were named for the content of their stories then the Book of Numbers would be called Complaints. The Jewish people spend the better part of this book complaining, and even rebelling.
“The whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept all night. All the Israelites railed against Moses and Aaron. The whole community shouted at them: ‘If only we had died in the land of Egypt. If only we might die in this wilderness!’” (Numbers 14)
What precipitates their griping? It is not the demanding conditions of the wilderness with its lack of water. It is not that they have to eat the same meal day in and day out (manna!). It is instead that the scouts have just returned from reconnoitering the land.
All but Joshua and Caleb offer a negative report. The scouts cry out: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of great size…and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” Here the people’s complaining reaches a crescendo.
God loses patience. It is at this moment that a brief journey is transformed into forty years of wandering. God decrees that the generation who went free from Egypt must die in the wilderness. Only those who were born in freedom will be privileged to cross into the Promised Land. Joshua and Caleb are the only exceptions because they bring a positive report.
The people, however, are terrified: “’Why is the Lord taking us into the land to fall by the sword? Our wives and children will be carried off! It would be better for us to go back to Egypt!’ And they said to one another, ‘Let us head back to Egypt.’”
Can a slave ever truly appreciate freedom? Do memories of persecution and terror overwhelm their psyches? God’s response suggests that such memories are impossible to overcome. The people see overwhelming odds and respond, “We should go back.” Let us turn around. Let us go back to yesterday.
How many times do we fall victim to mythologizing the past?
It was so much better when the Jews lived in the shtetl. There, everyone, was certain about their Jewish identities; everyone attended synagogue on a regular basis. Then the Jewish people were not divided by ideologies.
Once I asked my beloved Nana about her memories of her shtetl outside of Bialystok. “It was awful,” she responded. I continued my query. (Imagine that!) “Yes, I know you had little food, but didn’t everyone get along better because it was such a small town.” And my Nana looked at me as if I was crazy but she would never shout at her grandson and say, “Are you nuts?” Instead she said, “Steven, we were fighting for food. And we were always nervous that the Cossacks might come and kill us. That doesn’t bring out the best in people.”
And no matter how delicious the meal or how expensive the restaurant, she always offered this report: “It was tasty.” That’s what food meant to her. Meals did not earn stars or accolades. She would of course offer praise for my mother’s cooking but that was more about praising her daughter than the taste of the food.
The memories of trouble and deprivation had forever diminished her taste buds. She could never become a foodie.
And yet she never wanted to go back to that shtetl. She never wished to turn back the clock. She never sought to return to the land of her childhood.
This is why. As petite as she was, she never saw herself as a grasshopper. And thus the most remarkable of all the Israelites’ gripes are the words “And so we must have looked to them.”
The reason why the memories of persecution did not overwhelm my Nana is because she never thought much about how others saw her. Success is really about self-image.
Realizing your promise is really about how tall you see yourself.
“The whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept all night. All the Israelites railed against Moses and Aaron. The whole community shouted at them: ‘If only we had died in the land of Egypt. If only we might die in this wilderness!’” (Numbers 14)
What precipitates their griping? It is not the demanding conditions of the wilderness with its lack of water. It is not that they have to eat the same meal day in and day out (manna!). It is instead that the scouts have just returned from reconnoitering the land.
All but Joshua and Caleb offer a negative report. The scouts cry out: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of great size…and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” Here the people’s complaining reaches a crescendo.
God loses patience. It is at this moment that a brief journey is transformed into forty years of wandering. God decrees that the generation who went free from Egypt must die in the wilderness. Only those who were born in freedom will be privileged to cross into the Promised Land. Joshua and Caleb are the only exceptions because they bring a positive report.
The people, however, are terrified: “’Why is the Lord taking us into the land to fall by the sword? Our wives and children will be carried off! It would be better for us to go back to Egypt!’ And they said to one another, ‘Let us head back to Egypt.’”
Can a slave ever truly appreciate freedom? Do memories of persecution and terror overwhelm their psyches? God’s response suggests that such memories are impossible to overcome. The people see overwhelming odds and respond, “We should go back.” Let us turn around. Let us go back to yesterday.
How many times do we fall victim to mythologizing the past?
It was so much better when the Jews lived in the shtetl. There, everyone, was certain about their Jewish identities; everyone attended synagogue on a regular basis. Then the Jewish people were not divided by ideologies.
Once I asked my beloved Nana about her memories of her shtetl outside of Bialystok. “It was awful,” she responded. I continued my query. (Imagine that!) “Yes, I know you had little food, but didn’t everyone get along better because it was such a small town.” And my Nana looked at me as if I was crazy but she would never shout at her grandson and say, “Are you nuts?” Instead she said, “Steven, we were fighting for food. And we were always nervous that the Cossacks might come and kill us. That doesn’t bring out the best in people.”
And no matter how delicious the meal or how expensive the restaurant, she always offered this report: “It was tasty.” That’s what food meant to her. Meals did not earn stars or accolades. She would of course offer praise for my mother’s cooking but that was more about praising her daughter than the taste of the food.
The memories of trouble and deprivation had forever diminished her taste buds. She could never become a foodie.
And yet she never wanted to go back to that shtetl. She never wished to turn back the clock. She never sought to return to the land of her childhood.
This is why. As petite as she was, she never saw herself as a grasshopper. And thus the most remarkable of all the Israelites’ gripes are the words “And so we must have looked to them.”
The reason why the memories of persecution did not overwhelm my Nana is because she never thought much about how others saw her. Success is really about self-image.
Realizing your promise is really about how tall you see yourself.
Judaism Commands Us Not to Cry Alone
Last week I encountered old words that suddenly struck me as new.
I opened my Bible to the prescribed weekly reading. I skimmed through the familiar opening. “The Lord spoke to Moses…”
These same words are read every year. That is the ritual of the Torah reading cycle. That is the demand that we never skip chapter or verse, that we read this central book from beginning to end in one’s year time. After decades devoted to this practice, the words often appear all too familiar and sometimes even tired and worn. I read again and again. “The Lord spoke to Moses…”
This year, however, they appeared different....
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
I opened my Bible to the prescribed weekly reading. I skimmed through the familiar opening. “The Lord spoke to Moses…”
These same words are read every year. That is the ritual of the Torah reading cycle. That is the demand that we never skip chapter or verse, that we read this central book from beginning to end in one’s year time. After decades devoted to this practice, the words often appear all too familiar and sometimes even tired and worn. I read again and again. “The Lord spoke to Moses…”
This year, however, they appeared different....
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
