Israel Is About Tomorrow
People often return from trips to Israel and speak about the power of visiting its ancient sites. It is extraordinary to stand in what was once King David’s palace or to play in Ein Gedi’s waterfalls and read the psalms a young David penned when hiding from King Saul. Walking through such archeological sites one can also imagine the moment when the young king and Batsheva first saw each other from afar.
In Jerusalem, one can envision Abraham and Isaac walking those final steps before reaching Mount Moriah where the father was instructed to sacrifice his son. As I trace their path, I think to myself, did they speak? The Torah suggests they walked in silence, but I wonder, how could they not if it also states they were bound together as one. It was there that our ancestors built the holy Temple. All that remains is the Western Wall.
How many people touched these very same stones? How many people tried to reach this place, but died during what was once a perilous journey to the holy land? The medieval poet, Yehudah Halevi, famously wrote: “My heart is in the East, and I in the uttermost West…. A light thing would it seem to me to leave all the good things of Spain—Seeing how precious in mine eyes to behold the dust of the desolate sanctuary.” He died on his journey to Jerusalem.
And yet for all the history contained in Israel’s stones, for all our tradition’s words scribed in these very hills, this is not what I most celebrate. Today is Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day. 74 years ago, the modern State of Israel was founded when David ben Gurion proclaimed: “By virtue of our natural and historic right and on the strength of the resolution of the United Nations General Assembly, we hereby declare the establishment of a Jewish state in Eretz Yisrael—the Land of Israel—to be known as Medinat Yisrael—the State of Israel.”
Israel is not so much about our history as much as it is about the present. Sure, it is about returning to our ancient roots, and the land where we first became a nation, but its present reality is what should stir the Jewish soul. When I visit Israel, and spend a few weeks in my beloved Jerusalem, I always make a point to make my way up the winding path that climbs from Sultan’s Pool below the Old City and make its way to Lion’s Gate through which Israeli soldiers recaptured the city and the Western Wall.
When I reach the top of the hill, I often stop and rather than push ahead to the Temple’s ruins, I turn around and with the Old City’s walls behind me, I look out and behold the new, and growing, city of Jerusalem. I can see the windmill of Yemin Moshe, the first Jewish neighborhood built outside the city’s walls in the late nineteenth century, and the Reform seminary where I first fell in love with Israel, and where Susie and I first met.
My soul is renewed.
This is our future.
If our people can achieve this in less than one hundred years, we can surmount any challenge and any struggle. This does not mean that I see perfection all around me. No nation is perfect. No country is without its missteps.
It means instead that I see hope.
Israel is about the Jewish people’s return to history. There we are masters of our own fate. This is what sovereignty entails.
And all those new buildings, and the cranes constructing so many new apartments, fills my heart with hope for the future.
I turn my back to the ancient ruins. And open my eyes to a new future filled with promise.
In Jerusalem, one can envision Abraham and Isaac walking those final steps before reaching Mount Moriah where the father was instructed to sacrifice his son. As I trace their path, I think to myself, did they speak? The Torah suggests they walked in silence, but I wonder, how could they not if it also states they were bound together as one. It was there that our ancestors built the holy Temple. All that remains is the Western Wall.
How many people touched these very same stones? How many people tried to reach this place, but died during what was once a perilous journey to the holy land? The medieval poet, Yehudah Halevi, famously wrote: “My heart is in the East, and I in the uttermost West…. A light thing would it seem to me to leave all the good things of Spain—Seeing how precious in mine eyes to behold the dust of the desolate sanctuary.” He died on his journey to Jerusalem.
And yet for all the history contained in Israel’s stones, for all our tradition’s words scribed in these very hills, this is not what I most celebrate. Today is Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day. 74 years ago, the modern State of Israel was founded when David ben Gurion proclaimed: “By virtue of our natural and historic right and on the strength of the resolution of the United Nations General Assembly, we hereby declare the establishment of a Jewish state in Eretz Yisrael—the Land of Israel—to be known as Medinat Yisrael—the State of Israel.”
Israel is not so much about our history as much as it is about the present. Sure, it is about returning to our ancient roots, and the land where we first became a nation, but its present reality is what should stir the Jewish soul. When I visit Israel, and spend a few weeks in my beloved Jerusalem, I always make a point to make my way up the winding path that climbs from Sultan’s Pool below the Old City and make its way to Lion’s Gate through which Israeli soldiers recaptured the city and the Western Wall.
When I reach the top of the hill, I often stop and rather than push ahead to the Temple’s ruins, I turn around and with the Old City’s walls behind me, I look out and behold the new, and growing, city of Jerusalem. I can see the windmill of Yemin Moshe, the first Jewish neighborhood built outside the city’s walls in the late nineteenth century, and the Reform seminary where I first fell in love with Israel, and where Susie and I first met.
My soul is renewed.
This is our future.
If our people can achieve this in less than one hundred years, we can surmount any challenge and any struggle. This does not mean that I see perfection all around me. No nation is perfect. No country is without its missteps.
It means instead that I see hope.
Israel is about the Jewish people’s return to history. There we are masters of our own fate. This is what sovereignty entails.
And all those new buildings, and the cranes constructing so many new apartments, fills my heart with hope for the future.
I turn my back to the ancient ruins. And open my eyes to a new future filled with promise.
Numbers Don't Tell the Whole Story
Today marks Yom HaShoah. The day the Israeli Knesset set aside, in 1959, to remember the Holocaust.
Setting aside one day, or one service for that matter, to remember six million souls and the countless more they would have fathered and mothered, and the many Jewish towns and villages erased from the map and the flourishing of Jewish culture that is no more, seems immeasurable when compared to the enormity of our loss. How can any gesture or ritual, song or remembrance capture so much destruction and loss?
Think about this. If one were to recite all six million names it would take nearly five months to read the list from start to finish, assuming no breaks for sleeping or eating or even pauses for taking a breath between names. (For the mathematicians among us, I am assuming it takes two seconds to read each name and that there are 31,536,000 seconds in a year.)
Now imagine this....
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
Setting aside one day, or one service for that matter, to remember six million souls and the countless more they would have fathered and mothered, and the many Jewish towns and villages erased from the map and the flourishing of Jewish culture that is no more, seems immeasurable when compared to the enormity of our loss. How can any gesture or ritual, song or remembrance capture so much destruction and loss?
Think about this. If one were to recite all six million names it would take nearly five months to read the list from start to finish, assuming no breaks for sleeping or eating or even pauses for taking a breath between names. (For the mathematicians among us, I am assuming it takes two seconds to read each name and that there are 31,536,000 seconds in a year.)
Now imagine this....
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
Uneasy Lies the Teacher's Crown
There are many “fours” at the Passover table. There are the four cups of wine, the four questions and of course the four children.
The Haggadah recounts: “The Torah alludes to four children: one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know how to task.” Each asks a question. And each is answered with an explanation appropriate to their understanding.
I have often bristled at the description of the wicked child. This suggests that the child is beyond teaching, shaping and even saving, that the teacher’s role is inconsequential. Labeling any child, as wicked most especially or even simple, for that matter, implies that the teacher’s role is negligible. The wicked child’s character appears set in stone.
The Haggadah continues:
Back to the classroom. How many math teachers have heard, “What is the point of learning how to do geometry?” Or English teachers bristled at the words, “Why do I have to read what Shakespeare wrote hundreds of years ago?” Or rabbis recoiled at the statements, “Why do I have to study Hebrew?” (Or, if you have been reading my ruminations for the past few weeks, learn about leprosy?)
While teachers might be tempted to castigate students who reject the very essence of what they are teaching, and what they have devoted their lives to, impatience, or in the case of the wicked child, anger, never succeeds in effectuating learning. And herein lies the import of the rabbis’ parable.
It is the teacher’s job to figure out how to teach. It is up to teachers to convey the message, regardless of a child’s ability or understanding. It is not that there are wicked children. It is instead that sometimes teachers, and rabbis, must be reminded that their sacred task is to impart learning. It is not meant to be easy. It is not meant to be quick.
Everyone who leaves the Seder table must not only depart with a belly full of matzah and macaroons, but a heart filled with the message of “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Or as I prefer to ask, “Why does this night still matter for us today, here and now?”
And just because wise children ask sophisticated questions such as, “What are the testimonies, the statutes, and the laws which Adonai our God has commanded you?” does not mean they really understand what Passover has to do with them. Reciting laws, memorizing formulas, quoting sonnets, and chanting verses are not true evidence of taking any learning to heart.
No test can measure that. No prayerbook can uncover that.
It begins in teachers’ hearts. It is sparked from their patience and love.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!”
The Haggadah recounts: “The Torah alludes to four children: one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know how to task.” Each asks a question. And each is answered with an explanation appropriate to their understanding.
I have often bristled at the description of the wicked child. This suggests that the child is beyond teaching, shaping and even saving, that the teacher’s role is inconsequential. Labeling any child, as wicked most especially or even simple, for that matter, implies that the teacher’s role is negligible. The wicked child’s character appears set in stone.
The Haggadah continues:
What does the wicked child say?The child is beyond saving! Was not every Israelite slave redeemed from Egypt? God made no distinctions about their wisdom or abilities. God did not ask if they believed or not.
“What does this service mean to you?”
This child emphasizes “to you” and not himself or herself! Since the child excludes himself or herself from the community and rejects a major principle of faith, you should “set that child’s teeth on edge” and say:
“It is because of this, that Adonai did for me when I went free from Egypt.”
“Me” and not that one! Had that one been there, he or she would not have been redeemed.
Back to the classroom. How many math teachers have heard, “What is the point of learning how to do geometry?” Or English teachers bristled at the words, “Why do I have to read what Shakespeare wrote hundreds of years ago?” Or rabbis recoiled at the statements, “Why do I have to study Hebrew?” (Or, if you have been reading my ruminations for the past few weeks, learn about leprosy?)
While teachers might be tempted to castigate students who reject the very essence of what they are teaching, and what they have devoted their lives to, impatience, or in the case of the wicked child, anger, never succeeds in effectuating learning. And herein lies the import of the rabbis’ parable.
It is the teacher’s job to figure out how to teach. It is up to teachers to convey the message, regardless of a child’s ability or understanding. It is not that there are wicked children. It is instead that sometimes teachers, and rabbis, must be reminded that their sacred task is to impart learning. It is not meant to be easy. It is not meant to be quick.
Everyone who leaves the Seder table must not only depart with a belly full of matzah and macaroons, but a heart filled with the message of “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Or as I prefer to ask, “Why does this night still matter for us today, here and now?”
And just because wise children ask sophisticated questions such as, “What are the testimonies, the statutes, and the laws which Adonai our God has commanded you?” does not mean they really understand what Passover has to do with them. Reciting laws, memorizing formulas, quoting sonnets, and chanting verses are not true evidence of taking any learning to heart.
No test can measure that. No prayerbook can uncover that.
It begins in teachers’ hearts. It is sparked from their patience and love.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!”
Taste the Matzah of Pain
Most people think that the purpose of Jewish rituals, most especially those performed when we gather around our seder tables, is to make us more Jewish. While this is true, their spiritual goals reach far beyond our Jewish identities. They serve to raise awareness in our hearts.
Rabbi Shai Held comments: “Jewish spirituality begins in two places. One is a place of gratitude, and one is a place of protest. The challenge is to be capacious enough to hold gratitude for life, along with an equally deep sense that the world-as-it-is is not how it is supposed to be.”
The seders we are about to celebrate encapsulate this teaching. On the one hand, they are replete with symbols reminding us that we are free. We drink wine, recline, and eat far too much food to instill sentiments of joy and gratitude in our hearts. We are free!. At the very same occasion, and at the very same moment, we remind ourselves that we were once slaves by eating matzah, maror and charoset. We are commanded to taste bitterness and suffering.
Scholars suggest that slaves and poor laborers were fed matzah not only because it is cheap but because it is filling and as we quickly discover, requires a long digestion period. Matzah is designed by the oppressors to exploit the enslaved. Matzah is the rations of a slave.
Every day we are to taste—and thereby try to feel—what it must be like to be a slave. Of course, our matzah does not come close to the real experience of suffering and slavery, but this is what this symbol is designed to do.
Sometimes I wonder if our feasting overwhelms the matzah’s essential purpose. We butter up the matzah sometimes quite literally and other times repackage it as soup-soaked matzah balls. We lather it with lots and lots of eggs and turn it into matzah brie. We do all manner of things to transform the slave bread into a treat befitting a feast and celebration.
And I worry that in these delicious transformations we undermine the matzah’s simple, but powerful, message. Those measly pieces of bread, draped in decorative cloth, and arranged as a prominent centerpiece on our tables are meant to yank us out of our enjoyment if even but for a moment and shout, “Try and remember what it must be like not to be free. Try to taste what it must feel like to be cast aside, scorned, and treated like a slave.”
Too often we fail to take its import to heart. We relish in the freedom and don’t taste the slavery. We fret about supply chain delays and inflation while Ukrainian farmers are murdered, their fields decimated and their crops unplanted. The world’s breadbasket languishes. Soon people in India and Africa will be unable to find bread and millions will go hungry. Can we taste this matzah? Can we take to heart this suffering and pain?
Can we taste that our world is a slave to hunger and starvation? Protest the world is not yet what is supposed to be.
We force ourselves to eat matzah for eight days so that we can know what it feels like to be a slave, to be a person who cannot choose what to eat but must eat something that we will never win any Michelin stars but is simply filling. Matzah is satisfying only in the basic sense.
Let the matzah inspire our hearts to feel the world’s pain. Allow its taste to linger in our mouths. Let the matzah protest the world’s plight.
Of course, we should be grateful for the meal. We should enjoy the feast and the blessings of family and friends gathered around the table. But let us not allow the seder feast to lull us into complacency. It was not so long ago that this matzah was our meal. Something like this cracker still constitutes a meal for far too many. While we may be free now, while we may be privileged to feast at this very moment, there are countless millions who are not yet free, who are enslaved by oppressors or enslaved by hunger and poverty.
Let this matzah’s unappetizing dryness stick to the roof of our mouths and yank us out of our complacency. Enjoy the meal. Relish in family and friends, but never forget what slavery tastes like. Far too many people are still tasting it.
Ha lachma anya! This is the bread of affliction. Let all who are hungry come and eat!
Rabbi Shai Held comments: “Jewish spirituality begins in two places. One is a place of gratitude, and one is a place of protest. The challenge is to be capacious enough to hold gratitude for life, along with an equally deep sense that the world-as-it-is is not how it is supposed to be.”
The seders we are about to celebrate encapsulate this teaching. On the one hand, they are replete with symbols reminding us that we are free. We drink wine, recline, and eat far too much food to instill sentiments of joy and gratitude in our hearts. We are free!. At the very same occasion, and at the very same moment, we remind ourselves that we were once slaves by eating matzah, maror and charoset. We are commanded to taste bitterness and suffering.
Scholars suggest that slaves and poor laborers were fed matzah not only because it is cheap but because it is filling and as we quickly discover, requires a long digestion period. Matzah is designed by the oppressors to exploit the enslaved. Matzah is the rations of a slave.
Every day we are to taste—and thereby try to feel—what it must be like to be a slave. Of course, our matzah does not come close to the real experience of suffering and slavery, but this is what this symbol is designed to do.
Sometimes I wonder if our feasting overwhelms the matzah’s essential purpose. We butter up the matzah sometimes quite literally and other times repackage it as soup-soaked matzah balls. We lather it with lots and lots of eggs and turn it into matzah brie. We do all manner of things to transform the slave bread into a treat befitting a feast and celebration.
And I worry that in these delicious transformations we undermine the matzah’s simple, but powerful, message. Those measly pieces of bread, draped in decorative cloth, and arranged as a prominent centerpiece on our tables are meant to yank us out of our enjoyment if even but for a moment and shout, “Try and remember what it must be like not to be free. Try to taste what it must feel like to be cast aside, scorned, and treated like a slave.”
Too often we fail to take its import to heart. We relish in the freedom and don’t taste the slavery. We fret about supply chain delays and inflation while Ukrainian farmers are murdered, their fields decimated and their crops unplanted. The world’s breadbasket languishes. Soon people in India and Africa will be unable to find bread and millions will go hungry. Can we taste this matzah? Can we take to heart this suffering and pain?
Can we taste that our world is a slave to hunger and starvation? Protest the world is not yet what is supposed to be.
We force ourselves to eat matzah for eight days so that we can know what it feels like to be a slave, to be a person who cannot choose what to eat but must eat something that we will never win any Michelin stars but is simply filling. Matzah is satisfying only in the basic sense.
Let the matzah inspire our hearts to feel the world’s pain. Allow its taste to linger in our mouths. Let the matzah protest the world’s plight.
Of course, we should be grateful for the meal. We should enjoy the feast and the blessings of family and friends gathered around the table. But let us not allow the seder feast to lull us into complacency. It was not so long ago that this matzah was our meal. Something like this cracker still constitutes a meal for far too many. While we may be free now, while we may be privileged to feast at this very moment, there are countless millions who are not yet free, who are enslaved by oppressors or enslaved by hunger and poverty.
Let this matzah’s unappetizing dryness stick to the roof of our mouths and yank us out of our complacency. Enjoy the meal. Relish in family and friends, but never forget what slavery tastes like. Far too many people are still tasting it.
Ha lachma anya! This is the bread of affliction. Let all who are hungry come and eat!
Harmful Feathers, Harmful Words
A Hasidic story.
One day a man heard an interesting, albeit unflattering, story about another man. (Let’s call the first man Steve and the second, Mike.) It was an amusing tale and so Steve shared it with others. He told lots and lots of people. Everyone found the story entertaining. Steve reveled in the laughter.
Soon Mike noticed that people gave him strange looks as he passed by on the street. He quietly wondered why. “Was it his hair style?” (Ok, I have made some changes to the original version.) Then he noticed that people frequented his store less often. Soon he discovered the unkind words people were saying about him. He asked a friend what they were saying. He could not believe his ears. He soon found out the source of the tale. It was Steve!
Mike confronted the Steve, complaining that he had ruined his reputation by repeating this one, unflattering episode. Steve tried to make excuses that it was such an entertaining story and that it always got a laugh. “But now,” Mike stammered, “Everyone just laughs at me.”
Steve was overcome with remorse and ran to his rabbi (let’s call her Susie) to seek counsel. Steve approached the rabbi and explained the situation. “How do I fix this? How can I repair Mike’s reputation?” The eminently wise rabbi offered a curious suggestion. “Go get a feather pillow and bring it to me.” Steve asked, “A feather pillow? Do they even sell those at Bed, Bath & Beyond anymore?” “This is not the time to make jokes!” Susie exclaimed. “Go, buy the pillow.”
Steve traveled throughout the greater New York area in search of such a pillow. He wondered how this was going to fix the problem. Still the rabbi offered a solution, and he was anxious to repair Mike’s reputation. A week later, he finally found the pillow on Amazon and texted the rabbi about his success. Susie texted him back, “Meet me in the center of town, at the corner of Main and Wall Streets. Don’t forget to bring the pillow.”
Steve thought to himself, “This keeps getting stranger.” The next day arrived, and he eventually found the rabbi standing on the corner, looking beautifully rabbinic. “I see you have been successful,” she said. “Now what?” Steve asked. “Cut open the pillow and empty out the feathers.” Steve did as he was told. The feathers were soon carried away by the wind, flying up and down the street. People stared in amazement and took out their cell phones to post pictures of the beautiful feathers, shimmering in the streetlights.
“Now, Steve” Susie said, “Go gather up each and every one of the feathers.” Steve stammered, “That’s impossible.”
“And that’s exactly my point,” Rabbi Susie quietly, but firmly, offered. And Steve stood there quietly watching the feathers being carried away by the wind.
Who knows where they might fall? Who knows who might gather up a feather or two and place it in their pockets? “Look at the feather I found one evening on Main Street,” they might one day say when they wish to entertain their friends.
And that is exactly the lesson about gossip and the words we speak about others. Once they are told they can never again be gathered up. They are like feathers floating on the wind.
The rabbis teach that even flattering, true words spoken about another can cause harm. Although their prohibition is difficult to observe their counsel is too important to ignore.
A misplaced word can injure. An errant word can create a wound that is impossible to heal.
This week’s Torah reading speaks about leprosy. On the surface this would appear to be disconnected from gossip. And yet we read that Miriam is afflicted with leprosy when she spoke against her brother Moses. The rabbis therefore reasoned that a gossip is likened to a moral leper. They become disfigured by the misplaced words they speak.
Their words are carried away by the winds.
Who could imagine that such a light feather can cause so much harm?
One day a man heard an interesting, albeit unflattering, story about another man. (Let’s call the first man Steve and the second, Mike.) It was an amusing tale and so Steve shared it with others. He told lots and lots of people. Everyone found the story entertaining. Steve reveled in the laughter.
Soon Mike noticed that people gave him strange looks as he passed by on the street. He quietly wondered why. “Was it his hair style?” (Ok, I have made some changes to the original version.) Then he noticed that people frequented his store less often. Soon he discovered the unkind words people were saying about him. He asked a friend what they were saying. He could not believe his ears. He soon found out the source of the tale. It was Steve!
Mike confronted the Steve, complaining that he had ruined his reputation by repeating this one, unflattering episode. Steve tried to make excuses that it was such an entertaining story and that it always got a laugh. “But now,” Mike stammered, “Everyone just laughs at me.”
Steve was overcome with remorse and ran to his rabbi (let’s call her Susie) to seek counsel. Steve approached the rabbi and explained the situation. “How do I fix this? How can I repair Mike’s reputation?” The eminently wise rabbi offered a curious suggestion. “Go get a feather pillow and bring it to me.” Steve asked, “A feather pillow? Do they even sell those at Bed, Bath & Beyond anymore?” “This is not the time to make jokes!” Susie exclaimed. “Go, buy the pillow.”
Steve traveled throughout the greater New York area in search of such a pillow. He wondered how this was going to fix the problem. Still the rabbi offered a solution, and he was anxious to repair Mike’s reputation. A week later, he finally found the pillow on Amazon and texted the rabbi about his success. Susie texted him back, “Meet me in the center of town, at the corner of Main and Wall Streets. Don’t forget to bring the pillow.”
Steve thought to himself, “This keeps getting stranger.” The next day arrived, and he eventually found the rabbi standing on the corner, looking beautifully rabbinic. “I see you have been successful,” she said. “Now what?” Steve asked. “Cut open the pillow and empty out the feathers.” Steve did as he was told. The feathers were soon carried away by the wind, flying up and down the street. People stared in amazement and took out their cell phones to post pictures of the beautiful feathers, shimmering in the streetlights.
“Now, Steve” Susie said, “Go gather up each and every one of the feathers.” Steve stammered, “That’s impossible.”
“And that’s exactly my point,” Rabbi Susie quietly, but firmly, offered. And Steve stood there quietly watching the feathers being carried away by the wind.
Who knows where they might fall? Who knows who might gather up a feather or two and place it in their pockets? “Look at the feather I found one evening on Main Street,” they might one day say when they wish to entertain their friends.
And that is exactly the lesson about gossip and the words we speak about others. Once they are told they can never again be gathered up. They are like feathers floating on the wind.
The rabbis teach that even flattering, true words spoken about another can cause harm. Although their prohibition is difficult to observe their counsel is too important to ignore.
A misplaced word can injure. An errant word can create a wound that is impossible to heal.
This week’s Torah reading speaks about leprosy. On the surface this would appear to be disconnected from gossip. And yet we read that Miriam is afflicted with leprosy when she spoke against her brother Moses. The rabbis therefore reasoned that a gossip is likened to a moral leper. They become disfigured by the misplaced words they speak.
Their words are carried away by the winds.
Who could imagine that such a light feather can cause so much harm?
Don't Turn Away from Illness
This past weekend I ran into a former student who said, “I always remember my bar mitzvah Torah portion?” “Why?” I asked. And he responded, “It was about leprosy. I will never forget that!” Indeed, one thing that can be said for certain about this week’s portion is that it leaves a lasting, and memorable, impression on the students who chant its words.
We read about how the ancient Israelites approached this feared disease. When people developed a suspicious looking skin infection, they would go to the priest. If he suspected it was leprosy, he would instruct them to quarantine for seven days. (Sound familiar?) If it disappeared, or diminished after the week, they were allowed to return to the camp.
If, however, the infection grew, and the priest determined that they indeed had leprosy, they would take on some mourning customs, rending their clothes and bearing their heads. They were required to dwell outside the camp for as long as they had leprosy. On their way out the door, so to speak, they were required to shout, “Impure! Impure!” (Leviticus 13)
If it were not bad enough already to have contracted leprosy, shouting, “Impure! Impure!” seems cruel. The Talmud justifies this requirement. The rabbis suggest that these words served to warn others that they were (potentially) contagious. They continue. These words not only serve as a warning but are meant to elicit compassion and prayers.
Some time ago I officiated at a funeral. It was for a woman who lived well into her nineties, but sadly suffered from Alzheimer’s for the last ten years of her life. In attendance at her funeral were four women who cared for her during these years. After I finished speaking, one asked, “Can I say a few words?” I responded, “Of course.” She then pulled out her written remarks and said, “I prepared some words.”
“Even though Sarah could not speak, I knew she was a kind lady. The way she looked up at me told me she was kind. I could see it in her eyes.” I was taken by her words. I marveled at the women's compassion. I was inspired by their devotion.
It is the responsibility of the sick to recognize their illness and ask for help. It is the duty of the community to offer help. This is the Jewish contention. I saw it unveiled in the caregiver’s presence and words.
I wonder, however, that when we hear the words “Impure! Impure!” or today’s variation “Covid! Covid!” we are struck more by fear than compassion. Rather than reaching out with supportive hands, and heartfelt prayers, we turn away.
Let us instead take our cue from these blessed caregivers. Let us no longer look away in fear. Let us instead hear in the pain of another’s illness an opportunity for compassion and prayer.
Let no one be made to feel like a leper.
We read about how the ancient Israelites approached this feared disease. When people developed a suspicious looking skin infection, they would go to the priest. If he suspected it was leprosy, he would instruct them to quarantine for seven days. (Sound familiar?) If it disappeared, or diminished after the week, they were allowed to return to the camp.
If, however, the infection grew, and the priest determined that they indeed had leprosy, they would take on some mourning customs, rending their clothes and bearing their heads. They were required to dwell outside the camp for as long as they had leprosy. On their way out the door, so to speak, they were required to shout, “Impure! Impure!” (Leviticus 13)
If it were not bad enough already to have contracted leprosy, shouting, “Impure! Impure!” seems cruel. The Talmud justifies this requirement. The rabbis suggest that these words served to warn others that they were (potentially) contagious. They continue. These words not only serve as a warning but are meant to elicit compassion and prayers.
Some time ago I officiated at a funeral. It was for a woman who lived well into her nineties, but sadly suffered from Alzheimer’s for the last ten years of her life. In attendance at her funeral were four women who cared for her during these years. After I finished speaking, one asked, “Can I say a few words?” I responded, “Of course.” She then pulled out her written remarks and said, “I prepared some words.”
“Even though Sarah could not speak, I knew she was a kind lady. The way she looked up at me told me she was kind. I could see it in her eyes.” I was taken by her words. I marveled at the women's compassion. I was inspired by their devotion.
It is the responsibility of the sick to recognize their illness and ask for help. It is the duty of the community to offer help. This is the Jewish contention. I saw it unveiled in the caregiver’s presence and words.
I wonder, however, that when we hear the words “Impure! Impure!” or today’s variation “Covid! Covid!” we are struck more by fear than compassion. Rather than reaching out with supportive hands, and heartfelt prayers, we turn away.
Let us instead take our cue from these blessed caregivers. Let us no longer look away in fear. Let us instead hear in the pain of another’s illness an opportunity for compassion and prayer.
Let no one be made to feel like a leper.
Feeding the Spirit
People often think that eating and the preparation of food are not religious acts. They are simply among the mundane activities we do, day in and day out, that sustain our bodies. Going out to a restaurant with friends, gathering around the dining room table with family, or even schmoozing with one another as dinner preparations are made, are secular affairs. This could not be further from the truth.
Religions in general, and Judaism in particular, add two key ingredients to every meal: gratitude and limits. Whether it is the Passover restrictions against the eating of bread or this week’s detailed list of prohibited animals, the preparation of meals is infused with the question of “Does my God permit me to eat this or not?”
For some this may appear like an inopportune, or even outrageous, question in the rush of preparing breakfast before heading out the door to work or school, but the asking makes us pause. It adds a sense of religious intentionality to something that our bodies require us to do. We can eat whatever we want, whenever we want, or we can eat with a sense of the holy. We pause and ask, “How does God want me to eat?”
I am not suggesting that the only way to bring a sense of Godliness to the breakfast table is by eliminating bacon. I am proposing, however, that asking the question is how one elevates what we tend to think is only about the body, and the secular, and not about the spirit, and the sacred. Every day I am forced to pause and ask, “Do I use the milk or meat utensils?” It’s not an earth-shattering question to be sure, and I am at times skeptical that the Torah’s prohibition about “Boiling a kid in its mother’s milk” meant I should have a second set of every dish, pot, and utensil, but the question, and sometimes the ensuing discussion, transforms the experience.
I pause. I look up.
I think if but for a brief moment, “What should I be doing?” And then, “Why I am doing this?” And finally, the soul responds, “Because I am Jewish.” Placing limits, or rules, help to introduce the sacred dimension to the everyday meal. The rules can be inherited as they are in my case, or they can be self-actualized as they are in the case of an increasing number of friends who are refraining from ultra-processed foods.
When we pause, we allow the spiritual to enter.
This is the essence of reciting a blessing, of offering gratitude. The greater the distance between what we eat and how it was grown, between how it was slaughtered and how it is arranged on the table, the more we lose touch with the essential religious nature of eating. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes: “[W]hen the food does not come from a flock in the sky, when you don’t feel the warm feathers cool in your hand and know that a life has been given for yours, when there is no gratitude in return—that food may not satisfy. It may leave the spirit hungry while the belly is full.” (Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants)
I am not advocating that everyone should take up hunting or that we should start raising our own chickens to restore this balance. Even though many are now gardening and growing their own vegetables, the distance between earth and plate, can only be traversed by the addition of a second ingredient: gratitude.
Robin Wall Kimmerer again:
If every meal is taken for granted, or worse yet, treated as my God given right rather than a God given gift, then the food remains about consuming (empty) calories and not about feeding our souls.
Food is about bringing us closer to the earth that sustains us. Meals are about bringing us closer to others who nourish us.
People tend to think that food is so basic as to be outside the purview of religion. This week we are reminded this is false. Our spirits require us to say, “Thank You God for the rules with which I prepare tonight’s meal. Thank You God for the food I am about to eat.”
The preparation of meals and the eating of food are about bringing us closer to the God who animates our spirits.
Religions in general, and Judaism in particular, add two key ingredients to every meal: gratitude and limits. Whether it is the Passover restrictions against the eating of bread or this week’s detailed list of prohibited animals, the preparation of meals is infused with the question of “Does my God permit me to eat this or not?”
For some this may appear like an inopportune, or even outrageous, question in the rush of preparing breakfast before heading out the door to work or school, but the asking makes us pause. It adds a sense of religious intentionality to something that our bodies require us to do. We can eat whatever we want, whenever we want, or we can eat with a sense of the holy. We pause and ask, “How does God want me to eat?”
I am not suggesting that the only way to bring a sense of Godliness to the breakfast table is by eliminating bacon. I am proposing, however, that asking the question is how one elevates what we tend to think is only about the body, and the secular, and not about the spirit, and the sacred. Every day I am forced to pause and ask, “Do I use the milk or meat utensils?” It’s not an earth-shattering question to be sure, and I am at times skeptical that the Torah’s prohibition about “Boiling a kid in its mother’s milk” meant I should have a second set of every dish, pot, and utensil, but the question, and sometimes the ensuing discussion, transforms the experience.
I pause. I look up.
I think if but for a brief moment, “What should I be doing?” And then, “Why I am doing this?” And finally, the soul responds, “Because I am Jewish.” Placing limits, or rules, help to introduce the sacred dimension to the everyday meal. The rules can be inherited as they are in my case, or they can be self-actualized as they are in the case of an increasing number of friends who are refraining from ultra-processed foods.
When we pause, we allow the spiritual to enter.
This is the essence of reciting a blessing, of offering gratitude. The greater the distance between what we eat and how it was grown, between how it was slaughtered and how it is arranged on the table, the more we lose touch with the essential religious nature of eating. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes: “[W]hen the food does not come from a flock in the sky, when you don’t feel the warm feathers cool in your hand and know that a life has been given for yours, when there is no gratitude in return—that food may not satisfy. It may leave the spirit hungry while the belly is full.” (Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants)
I am not advocating that everyone should take up hunting or that we should start raising our own chickens to restore this balance. Even though many are now gardening and growing their own vegetables, the distance between earth and plate, can only be traversed by the addition of a second ingredient: gratitude.
Robin Wall Kimmerer again:
Something is broken when the food comes on a Styrofoam tray wrapped in slippery plastic, a carcass of a being whose only chance at life was a cramped cage. That is not a gift of life; it is a theft. How, in our modern world, can we find our way to understand the earth as a gift again, to make our relations with the world sacred again? I know we cannot all become hunter-gatherers—the living world could not bear our weight—but even in a market economy, can we behave “as if ” the living world were a gift?Think about the words of the motzi, the prayer for bread and the blessing said at meals: “Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” The rabbis who authored this prayer knew how bread was made. They did not imagine fields of braided hallah growing in the rich earth. Instead, the prayer is to remind us not about the baker but about the place where the food on our tables begins. Be grateful for the earth.
If every meal is taken for granted, or worse yet, treated as my God given right rather than a God given gift, then the food remains about consuming (empty) calories and not about feeding our souls.
Food is about bringing us closer to the earth that sustains us. Meals are about bringing us closer to others who nourish us.
People tend to think that food is so basic as to be outside the purview of religion. This week we are reminded this is false. Our spirits require us to say, “Thank You God for the rules with which I prepare tonight’s meal. Thank You God for the food I am about to eat.”
The preparation of meals and the eating of food are about bringing us closer to the God who animates our spirits.
Take In Some Joy!
Today is Purim, the day in which the tradition suggests all rules are suspended. We are commanded to celebrate our victory over Haman’s genocidal designs with wild abandon. We dress in outrageous costumes, drink far too much wine and drown out Haman’s name when reading the megillah.
It seems like a counterintuitive response to a history filled with suffering. Purim urges us to look within and ask, should we always fixate on antisemitism? Should we dwell so much on the many tyrants who sought to destroy us? What is the cost to our own souls of speaking so frequently about antisemitism and hate?
Purim asks and answers its own question. It suggests that mourning, and eternal vigilance, must not be our only responses. Purim commands.
Let loose. Celebrate. Party.
When the world’s travails can dispirit even the most optimistic of people, Purim suggests that we put these aside at least for this one day. Contemporary struggles tug at our compassionate hearts. Our history gnaws at our souls.
Our spirits require celebrations as much as they need historical know how and attunement to the suffering around us.
On this day, allow the worries of history and even the calls of “never again” to retreat if but for this brief moment. Take in the joy of Purim.
It seems like a counterintuitive response to a history filled with suffering. Purim urges us to look within and ask, should we always fixate on antisemitism? Should we dwell so much on the many tyrants who sought to destroy us? What is the cost to our own souls of speaking so frequently about antisemitism and hate?
Purim asks and answers its own question. It suggests that mourning, and eternal vigilance, must not be our only responses. Purim commands.
Let loose. Celebrate. Party.
When the world’s travails can dispirit even the most optimistic of people, Purim suggests that we put these aside at least for this one day. Contemporary struggles tug at our compassionate hearts. Our history gnaws at our souls.
Our spirits require celebrations as much as they need historical know how and attunement to the suffering around us.
On this day, allow the worries of history and even the calls of “never again” to retreat if but for this brief moment. Take in the joy of Purim.
Sacrifices Are the Best Prayers
This week we begin reading the Book of Leviticus. It details the ancient rituals surrounding sacrifices. Until the Temple was destroyed, in 70 C.E., we approached God by offering animals as sacrifices. Because we instead pray, and offer words, it sounds strange to read the details of slaughtering animals, sprinkling their blood on the altar and then turning their flesh into smoke.
My students often turn away in disgust. Even though every single one of them loves a good barbeque, they are repelled by the Torah’s details and the notion that God would want us to bring the choicest bull, sheep, goat or turtledove to the Temple and then kill it. The notion of sacrifice is foreign to them.
The idea of making sacrifices, however, derive from this ritual. We must give up something of value, something that we want and even need. These animals were prized. They were therefore given to God—first. By giving something up our ancestors drew nearer to God. In fact, the Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban, derives from the word meaning “to get close.”
By sacrificing prized possessions, by relinquishing ownership to the creator God, the ancient Israelites demonstrated that their property was not owned, but instead borrowed. In effect, they said to God, “I return Your creations to You.”
To let go, to relinquish ownership, is not how we approach the world. It is not how we look at our possessions. We even call them “belongings.” While I realize that belongings more often refer to those things that we can pack into a suitcase, the word suggests a sense of personal ownership that is absent from the Torah. In our tradition, the focus is on God’s ownership.
The only true owner is God. We care for what God creates. We are custodians and stewards.
Giving up and making sacrifices makes perfect sense if nothing is truly mine. We do not relinquish but return. If everything is borrowed, if all that I hold is but lent to me, then offering it (back) to God is easy. And then sharing with others is even easier.
For when we sacrifice not only do we draw closer to God, but we also draw nearer to others.
Perhaps making sacrifices is the prayer we most need—now.
My students often turn away in disgust. Even though every single one of them loves a good barbeque, they are repelled by the Torah’s details and the notion that God would want us to bring the choicest bull, sheep, goat or turtledove to the Temple and then kill it. The notion of sacrifice is foreign to them.
The idea of making sacrifices, however, derive from this ritual. We must give up something of value, something that we want and even need. These animals were prized. They were therefore given to God—first. By giving something up our ancestors drew nearer to God. In fact, the Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban, derives from the word meaning “to get close.”
By sacrificing prized possessions, by relinquishing ownership to the creator God, the ancient Israelites demonstrated that their property was not owned, but instead borrowed. In effect, they said to God, “I return Your creations to You.”
To let go, to relinquish ownership, is not how we approach the world. It is not how we look at our possessions. We even call them “belongings.” While I realize that belongings more often refer to those things that we can pack into a suitcase, the word suggests a sense of personal ownership that is absent from the Torah. In our tradition, the focus is on God’s ownership.
The only true owner is God. We care for what God creates. We are custodians and stewards.
Giving up and making sacrifices makes perfect sense if nothing is truly mine. We do not relinquish but return. If everything is borrowed, if all that I hold is but lent to me, then offering it (back) to God is easy. And then sharing with others is even easier.
For when we sacrifice not only do we draw closer to God, but we also draw nearer to others.
Perhaps making sacrifices is the prayer we most need—now.
Stand with Ukraine!
This feels different. And I would like to ponder why.
The war for Ukraine—I believe this to be the better descriptor than the benign Russia-Ukraine war—has affected me in ways that other conflicts and humanitarian crisis have not. While I remain exercised about America’s hasty withdrawal from Afghanistan, the collapse of the country’s economy, and the knowledge that over twenty million Afghanis will soon face hunger and starvation (there are innocent children in that land too!), my heart looks toward the hourly reports from Ukraine.
Why my focus turns toward Europe, why my heart weeps more for Ukrainians gnaws at me, but at this moment I can only look toward Ukraine. This place matters to us. It matters to us as Americans. And it matters to us as Jews. I have only begun to articulate why.
The war for Ukraine—I believe this to be the better descriptor than the benign Russia-Ukraine war—has affected me in ways that other conflicts and humanitarian crisis have not. While I remain exercised about America’s hasty withdrawal from Afghanistan, the collapse of the country’s economy, and the knowledge that over twenty million Afghanis will soon face hunger and starvation (there are innocent children in that land too!), my heart looks toward the hourly reports from Ukraine.
Why my focus turns toward Europe, why my heart weeps more for Ukrainians gnaws at me, but at this moment I can only look toward Ukraine. This place matters to us. It matters to us as Americans. And it matters to us as Jews. I have only begun to articulate why.
I hear Hayyim Nachman Bialik’s words in my ears:
Arise and go now to the city of slaughter;Bialik wrote in Hebrew. He lived in Odessa....
Into its courtyard wind thy way;
There with thine own hand touch, and with the eyes of
thine head,
Behold on tree, on stone, on fence, on mural clay,
The spattered blood and dried brains of the dead.
How to Respond to War for Ukraine
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, the incomparable nineteenth century Hasidic rabbi who lived and taught in what is now Ukraine, once said, “The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the essence is not to be afraid.”
These days the world appears even more narrow. We are afraid. We watch in horror as ordinary Ukrainians fight battle hardened Russian soldiers. We worry about Vladimir Putin’s designs. We fear about the emerging humanitarian crisis.
If you would like to support efforts to alleviate this crisis, I recommend the following:
UJA-Federation of New York
“In light of the escalation of violence, UJA-Federation of New York has approved up to $3 million in emergency funding to support the Jewish community of Ukraine. To date, $1.375 million has been allocated to our primary overseas partners — the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) and the Jewish Agency for Israel (JAFI) — who have the capacity, experience, and reach to provide for the safety and well-being of the Jewish community — as well as to smaller grassroots partners who also have ties to individuals in dire need. We expect additional needs and requests to emerge in the days and weeks ahead.”
World Union for Progressive Judaism
“In the light of the recent conflict on the Ukrainian border, the World Union for Progressive Judaism launches the Ukraine Crisis Fund. We ask people from all over the world to make donations towards the support of the Jewish community in Ukraine. Money will be spent on individuals and communities to ensure their safety and well-being. If the conflict escalates further, your money will become crucial and necessary help for many people. If the tension eases, the fund will be spent on the development of the progressive Jewish community in Ukraine.”
World Central Kitchen
“On February 24, Russia launched a large-scale attack on neighboring Ukraine, invading the country on several fronts. As a result, thousands of Ukrainian families are fleeing their homes in search of safety. Working at a 24-hour pedestrian border crossing in southern Poland, WCK began serving hot, nourishing meals on Friday evening. In addition to providing meals for families in Poland, WCK has a team on their way to Romania to support Ukrainians arriving there. As the situation continues to evolve, WCK remains ready to expand our support for families in need.”
Even though we can, and must, do more than just pray, we pray for a speedy and peaceful resolution to this war.
Rebbe Nachman prays:
"God of unfathomable goodness,
the history of human agony
haunts my soul;
ashes, blood, and cries
pierce my heart;
diabolic schemes of oppressors
plague my mind.
Grant me an extra measure of
strength,
understanding
and faith
to help me find You—
to discover Your Light
midst the blinding dread,
through the revolting horror."
Amen! And we pray that we might help to bring a measure of compassion and healing to this human suffering.
If you would like to support efforts to alleviate this crisis, I recommend the following:
UJA-Federation of New York
“In light of the escalation of violence, UJA-Federation of New York has approved up to $3 million in emergency funding to support the Jewish community of Ukraine. To date, $1.375 million has been allocated to our primary overseas partners — the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) and the Jewish Agency for Israel (JAFI) — who have the capacity, experience, and reach to provide for the safety and well-being of the Jewish community — as well as to smaller grassroots partners who also have ties to individuals in dire need. We expect additional needs and requests to emerge in the days and weeks ahead.”
World Union for Progressive Judaism
“In the light of the recent conflict on the Ukrainian border, the World Union for Progressive Judaism launches the Ukraine Crisis Fund. We ask people from all over the world to make donations towards the support of the Jewish community in Ukraine. Money will be spent on individuals and communities to ensure their safety and well-being. If the conflict escalates further, your money will become crucial and necessary help for many people. If the tension eases, the fund will be spent on the development of the progressive Jewish community in Ukraine.”
World Central Kitchen
“On February 24, Russia launched a large-scale attack on neighboring Ukraine, invading the country on several fronts. As a result, thousands of Ukrainian families are fleeing their homes in search of safety. Working at a 24-hour pedestrian border crossing in southern Poland, WCK began serving hot, nourishing meals on Friday evening. In addition to providing meals for families in Poland, WCK has a team on their way to Romania to support Ukrainians arriving there. As the situation continues to evolve, WCK remains ready to expand our support for families in need.”
Even though we can, and must, do more than just pray, we pray for a speedy and peaceful resolution to this war.
Rebbe Nachman prays:
"God of unfathomable goodness,
the history of human agony
haunts my soul;
ashes, blood, and cries
pierce my heart;
diabolic schemes of oppressors
plague my mind.
Grant me an extra measure of
strength,
understanding
and faith
to help me find You—
to discover Your Light
midst the blinding dread,
through the revolting horror."
Amen! And we pray that we might help to bring a measure of compassion and healing to this human suffering.
Fire and Light; Fear and Awe
The Torah declares: “You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the sabbath day.” (Exodus 35) And the tradition constructs a myriad of laws so that one does not even inadvertently light a fire. Electric lights cannot be turned on or off. The stove is kept at a simmer. Driving cars is not allowed. The lighting of Shabbat candles is performed eighteen minutes before sunset and the kindling of the havdalah candle well after it becomes dark on Saturday evening.
And while I am not observant of these prohibitions and drive and cook and turn the lights on and off (if one counts telling Google to do this for me) and even light Friday evening’s candles when our family is together rather than at the exact appointed minute, I understand the Torah’s intention of prohibiting kindling fires.
Fire can be dangerous; it can burn. This is the essence of why it was prohibited. It can consume; it can destroy. Such powers are contrary to Shabbat; they are forbidden on this holiest of days.
Then again, the lighting of candles marks the beginning of every holiday. We kindle yahrtzeit lights to remember those we mourn. These candles serve as beacons, reminders of our loved ones and the sanctity of the holiday.
The dual meaning of fire is part of its power. It echoes the Hebrew term for religious, yirat hashamayim. Literally this means fear of heaven. I prefer to translate this as standing before heaven, placing heaven at the forefront of our thoughts. I lean into feelings of awe rather than those of fear.
The great Jewish philosopher, Abraham Joshua Heschel, writes:
Likewise, yirah contains a dual meaning. It can mean awe, to hold up in reverence and yet, at other times it suggests fear. Sometimes we do the right thing out of fear. And other times we do the right thing out of feelings of reverence and awe. It is best to do the right thing, regardless of the motivation.
Our lives are filled with small acts. They can be as small as lighting Shabbat candles or giving tzedakah. They can seem as ordinary as beholding the yahrtzeit flame illuminating the darkness of our kitchen (or our heart) or as simple, yet profound as reaching out to feed the hungry. In each of these we see the divine.
In the smallest of acts we see the light of God’s concern. It can start with kindling the Shabbat lights. It can begin with looking at the power of these flames.
And while I am not observant of these prohibitions and drive and cook and turn the lights on and off (if one counts telling Google to do this for me) and even light Friday evening’s candles when our family is together rather than at the exact appointed minute, I understand the Torah’s intention of prohibiting kindling fires.
Fire can be dangerous; it can burn. This is the essence of why it was prohibited. It can consume; it can destroy. Such powers are contrary to Shabbat; they are forbidden on this holiest of days.
Then again, the lighting of candles marks the beginning of every holiday. We kindle yahrtzeit lights to remember those we mourn. These candles serve as beacons, reminders of our loved ones and the sanctity of the holiday.
The dual meaning of fire is part of its power. It echoes the Hebrew term for religious, yirat hashamayim. Literally this means fear of heaven. I prefer to translate this as standing before heaven, placing heaven at the forefront of our thoughts. I lean into feelings of awe rather than those of fear.
The great Jewish philosopher, Abraham Joshua Heschel, writes:
The meaning of awe is to realize that life takes place under wide horizons, horizons that range beyond the span of an individual life or even the life of a nation, a generation, or an era. Awe enables us to perceive in the world intimations of the divine, to sense in small things the beginning of infinite significance, to sense the ultimate in the common and the simple; to feel in the rush of the passing the stillness of the eternal.Fire is an apt image. Its duality gives us insight into our religious motivations. It can light the way; it can warm. It can also consume; it can burn.
Likewise, yirah contains a dual meaning. It can mean awe, to hold up in reverence and yet, at other times it suggests fear. Sometimes we do the right thing out of fear. And other times we do the right thing out of feelings of reverence and awe. It is best to do the right thing, regardless of the motivation.
Our lives are filled with small acts. They can be as small as lighting Shabbat candles or giving tzedakah. They can seem as ordinary as beholding the yahrtzeit flame illuminating the darkness of our kitchen (or our heart) or as simple, yet profound as reaching out to feed the hungry. In each of these we see the divine.
In the smallest of acts we see the light of God’s concern. It can start with kindling the Shabbat lights. It can begin with looking at the power of these flames.
The Artist's Eye
The artisan, Bezalel, is chosen to fashion the tabernacle and its furnishings. He is from the tribe of Judah, the largest of the tribes. His assistant, Oholiab, is from Dan, the smallest tribe. According to the Talmud this shows that everyone is represented in the building of these holy items.
The rabbis also suggest Moses was displeased that God did not choose him. He assumed God would have picked him because God chooses him to do everything else. Again, the rabbis offer a message. Don’t think that only someone as holy as Moses can draw near to God or in this case, help us build something that adds holiness to our lives. Anyone, and everyone, can help us fashion the sacred and draw the earthly closer to the heavenly.
Moreover, Bezalel is endowed with a “divine spirit of wisdom, understanding and knowledge of every kind of craft.” (Exodus 31) He is a first rate artist. I wonder. What makes an artist top notch? Each of us has our favorite. I may be partial to Ansel Adams and others to Annie Leibovitz. I may like Salvador Dali and others Jackson Pollock. I may prefer vibrant colored artwork and others black and white photographs.
Regardless of these subjective evaluations, I have come to think it is more about the “understanding” rather than any other quality. The artist sees things differently than other people.
I could be standing in the same exact surroundings as Frederic Brenner (the French Jewish photographer who took a photograph of your favorite rabbinic couple) and I will still never be able to see and understand what he sees. No matter how extraordinary and expert my iPhone camera becomes, he understands something that I cannot. I remain grateful for his vision.
I can have the same vocabulary as Mary Oliver and find myself in the same Cape Cod Pond about which she writes, and I will still never be able to craft a poem that captures the spirit she conveys with her words.
Bezalel’s name means in God’s shadow. The artist provides us with a glimmer of the divine. When we peer at their work we stand in God’s shadow.
The rabbis also suggest Moses was displeased that God did not choose him. He assumed God would have picked him because God chooses him to do everything else. Again, the rabbis offer a message. Don’t think that only someone as holy as Moses can draw near to God or in this case, help us build something that adds holiness to our lives. Anyone, and everyone, can help us fashion the sacred and draw the earthly closer to the heavenly.
Moreover, Bezalel is endowed with a “divine spirit of wisdom, understanding and knowledge of every kind of craft.” (Exodus 31) He is a first rate artist. I wonder. What makes an artist top notch? Each of us has our favorite. I may be partial to Ansel Adams and others to Annie Leibovitz. I may like Salvador Dali and others Jackson Pollock. I may prefer vibrant colored artwork and others black and white photographs.
Regardless of these subjective evaluations, I have come to think it is more about the “understanding” rather than any other quality. The artist sees things differently than other people.
I could be standing in the same exact surroundings as Frederic Brenner (the French Jewish photographer who took a photograph of your favorite rabbinic couple) and I will still never be able to see and understand what he sees. No matter how extraordinary and expert my iPhone camera becomes, he understands something that I cannot. I remain grateful for his vision.
I can have the same vocabulary as Mary Oliver and find myself in the same Cape Cod Pond about which she writes, and I will still never be able to craft a poem that captures the spirit she conveys with her words.
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settledI admire the artist. Their understanding of our world renews my spirit. Their ability to see things that I cannot see makes my heart sing. I am filled with gratitude that their artistry offers me a heretofore unseen vision.
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?
Bezalel’s name means in God’s shadow. The artist provides us with a glimmer of the divine. When we peer at their work we stand in God’s shadow.
Lighting Jewish Flames
“What happened to the old eternal light? If it is eternal, how can it be replaced?” the seventh graders asked when our first class met in our newly renovated sanctuary. My answer that the new light is more beautiful and uses an energy saving LED bulb was met with disapproval. “It’s eternal!” they shouted back.
I realized that as far as they are concerned our synagogue has always existed. The founding date of 1963 is just as distant as 1948, or for that matter, 70 C.E. This synagogue is the only place most of them have ever known. I imagine they also think this Jewish space will exist forever. Their synagogue is as eternal as the eternal light. Their questions made me realize that eternity is more about memory than fact. This can be a jarring realization.
Every synagogue has an eternal light. In some they are modern. In others more traditional. I cannot think of a synagogue without this familiar symbol. The term, however, suggests a misunderstanding of the Torah’s intention.
The Torah commands, “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly (ner tamid).” (Exodus 27) We are supposed to light this lamp regularly. In fact, the Bible suggests that the lamp was only lit during the evening hours to illuminate the darkness. In later times, the light was kindled two times a day, in the morning and evening, corresponding to the times for prayer services.
It appears that the eternal light with which we are familiar and which we associate with a synagogue’s sanctuary did not become commonplace until the seventeenth century. Even its Hebrew name suggests that it is anything but eternal. Ner tamid should be more accurately translated as “regular light” or even “always light.” It is up to us to light it.
It is also up to us to invest it with meaning. Symbols are about the meaning we assign to them. We like to believe that such things are eternal. We like to think that the symbols we find meaningful have always been part of synagogue architecture and design. Here is the truth we do not wish to admit. Symbols evolve. They change as we march through history. Sometimes a symbol that once had a negative association takes on positive meaning.
The Jewish star, for example, is more recent than one might suspect. Its wider use is traced again to the seventeenth century and the Jewish quarter of Vienna. There it was used to demarcate the Jewish neighborhood. And it appears that it was also at this time that the star began to be incorporated in more synagogue buildings.
It was not until the Zionist movement in the nineteenth century that the Jewish star began to be used in a more positive way. Since the founding of the State of Israel, the star has become for many Jews a source of pride.
People will object. And some might even get angry. They will say, “King David had this star emblazoned on his shield!” This is not true even though the star is called a Magen David, the shield of David. There is no evidence to suggest that its use in association with Jews and Judaism predates the Medieval period.
Hundreds and hundreds of years ago do at times appear like an eternity ago. No symbol is eternal. We invest meaning in the objects adorning our sanctuaries. We assign their importance in our minds. Our memories, especially those from our younger years, make us believe that the symbolic objects we saw back then are as eternal as the world itself.
And so, when looking at the ner tamid, burning brightly above our beautiful Ark holding our sacred Torah scrolls, I would suggest we ask ourselves these questions, “What am I going to do to make sure this light always remains illuminated? What am I go to do to keep the flames of Jewish life burning for generations to come?”
A symbol is supposed to spark an inspiration.
The eternal light is only eternal if we make it so.
I realized that as far as they are concerned our synagogue has always existed. The founding date of 1963 is just as distant as 1948, or for that matter, 70 C.E. This synagogue is the only place most of them have ever known. I imagine they also think this Jewish space will exist forever. Their synagogue is as eternal as the eternal light. Their questions made me realize that eternity is more about memory than fact. This can be a jarring realization.
Every synagogue has an eternal light. In some they are modern. In others more traditional. I cannot think of a synagogue without this familiar symbol. The term, however, suggests a misunderstanding of the Torah’s intention.
The Torah commands, “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly (ner tamid).” (Exodus 27) We are supposed to light this lamp regularly. In fact, the Bible suggests that the lamp was only lit during the evening hours to illuminate the darkness. In later times, the light was kindled two times a day, in the morning and evening, corresponding to the times for prayer services.
It appears that the eternal light with which we are familiar and which we associate with a synagogue’s sanctuary did not become commonplace until the seventeenth century. Even its Hebrew name suggests that it is anything but eternal. Ner tamid should be more accurately translated as “regular light” or even “always light.” It is up to us to light it.
It is also up to us to invest it with meaning. Symbols are about the meaning we assign to them. We like to believe that such things are eternal. We like to think that the symbols we find meaningful have always been part of synagogue architecture and design. Here is the truth we do not wish to admit. Symbols evolve. They change as we march through history. Sometimes a symbol that once had a negative association takes on positive meaning.
The Jewish star, for example, is more recent than one might suspect. Its wider use is traced again to the seventeenth century and the Jewish quarter of Vienna. There it was used to demarcate the Jewish neighborhood. And it appears that it was also at this time that the star began to be incorporated in more synagogue buildings.
It was not until the Zionist movement in the nineteenth century that the Jewish star began to be used in a more positive way. Since the founding of the State of Israel, the star has become for many Jews a source of pride.
People will object. And some might even get angry. They will say, “King David had this star emblazoned on his shield!” This is not true even though the star is called a Magen David, the shield of David. There is no evidence to suggest that its use in association with Jews and Judaism predates the Medieval period.
Hundreds and hundreds of years ago do at times appear like an eternity ago. No symbol is eternal. We invest meaning in the objects adorning our sanctuaries. We assign their importance in our minds. Our memories, especially those from our younger years, make us believe that the symbolic objects we saw back then are as eternal as the world itself.
And so, when looking at the ner tamid, burning brightly above our beautiful Ark holding our sacred Torah scrolls, I would suggest we ask ourselves these questions, “What am I going to do to make sure this light always remains illuminated? What am I go to do to keep the flames of Jewish life burning for generations to come?”
A symbol is supposed to spark an inspiration.
The eternal light is only eternal if we make it so.
Holy Places
Our homes are called a mikdash ma’at, a small sanctuary, because this is where Judaism, and Jewish values are most lived. We can pray there. We can eat there. We can offer words of healing there. We can most importantly rejoice there. This is why as maddening as this pandemic continues to be, meeting on Zoom or livestream for what is now nearly two years, makes perfect Jewish sense.
Abraham Joshua Heschel said, we sanctify time rather than place, moments rather than even mountains. We do not urge people to pilgrimage to far off destinations but instead compel them to allow a day, the day of Shabbat, to transport them to another place.
And yet, this week we read God’s instruction, “Build for me a sanctuary that I dwell among them.” (Exodus 25) This is followed by a list of all the items the Israelites will need to build a portable tabernacle for God. It is quite an exhaustive list. Gold, silver and copper. Blue, purple and crimson yarns. Tanned ram skins and even dolphin skins.
Despite this, and despite the approximate thousand years that the temple stood in Jerusalem, Judaism, and in particular rabbinic Judaism, argued that we don’t need a special place to do Jewish rituals. All we need are ten people, some prayerbooks and of course a Torah scroll. If you have the right books and the right amount of people, it does not matter where you are. You can be at the beach, at the synagogue or as we have come to know all too well, our homes.
And yet despite the fact that this is true and philosophically sound, I find myself missing my places, and yearning for our places. It is not so much that I love the gym, and most especially the pool, but I miss the camaraderie of my fellow swimmers. I find myself missing as well not the concerts or the movies, but even, and perhaps most of all, the casual conversation struck up with strangers as we wait in line or for the gates to open.
We may not know each other but standing in those lines we know we share a love of the Blues or Bruce or likewise have a child who is crazy about Harry Styles. There are the people who were always at Starbucks at the same time or on the same train at the same hour. Familiar faces whose names you may not know but who made those places into something grand and special. And now even when we venturAe to these places, we avoid those conversations and the company of strangers. “They could have Covid,” we think to ourselves.
Perhaps place is not about the gold and silver, but about the people who likewise congregate in there. Is the synagogue the same when no one is there? Is it beautiful and majestic and most of all, holy when no one sits in its sanctuary’s pews? I think not.
This is why the Torah also declares that everyone who participates in the building of the sanctuary must have a heart who moves him or her to do so. And while these verses are clearly talking about the bringing of all the material supplies needed for building the ancient sanctuary, I would like to suggest another reading. In essence the Torah says, tell those whose heart is so inclined to bring gold, silver and copper.
Only together can we build God’s sanctuary.
The Hasidic rabbi, the Sefat Emet depicts the Shechina, the Divine presence on Earth, as a homeless wanderer. It is as if God’s presence is looking for a hot meal and a place to spend the night. Each time we welcome her in and bring her out of the darkness, we build that sanctuary anew, furnishing a comfortable and cozy room in our heart so that she may dwell within us.
What makes a place a special place is that our hearts must be united, together. What makes a place holy is that unity of purpose. It can be standing in line with other like-minded Bruce fans waiting to get into the Garden or it can be sitting beside our fellow congregants waiting to sing Lecha Dodi.
That is what transforms a place into a holy sanctuary. Of course, we can do that anywhere, but it is so much easier when you go to the same place week after week.
Entering the synagogue’s doors brings our hearts together as one.
Abraham Joshua Heschel said, we sanctify time rather than place, moments rather than even mountains. We do not urge people to pilgrimage to far off destinations but instead compel them to allow a day, the day of Shabbat, to transport them to another place.
And yet, this week we read God’s instruction, “Build for me a sanctuary that I dwell among them.” (Exodus 25) This is followed by a list of all the items the Israelites will need to build a portable tabernacle for God. It is quite an exhaustive list. Gold, silver and copper. Blue, purple and crimson yarns. Tanned ram skins and even dolphin skins.
Despite this, and despite the approximate thousand years that the temple stood in Jerusalem, Judaism, and in particular rabbinic Judaism, argued that we don’t need a special place to do Jewish rituals. All we need are ten people, some prayerbooks and of course a Torah scroll. If you have the right books and the right amount of people, it does not matter where you are. You can be at the beach, at the synagogue or as we have come to know all too well, our homes.
And yet despite the fact that this is true and philosophically sound, I find myself missing my places, and yearning for our places. It is not so much that I love the gym, and most especially the pool, but I miss the camaraderie of my fellow swimmers. I find myself missing as well not the concerts or the movies, but even, and perhaps most of all, the casual conversation struck up with strangers as we wait in line or for the gates to open.
We may not know each other but standing in those lines we know we share a love of the Blues or Bruce or likewise have a child who is crazy about Harry Styles. There are the people who were always at Starbucks at the same time or on the same train at the same hour. Familiar faces whose names you may not know but who made those places into something grand and special. And now even when we venturAe to these places, we avoid those conversations and the company of strangers. “They could have Covid,” we think to ourselves.
Perhaps place is not about the gold and silver, but about the people who likewise congregate in there. Is the synagogue the same when no one is there? Is it beautiful and majestic and most of all, holy when no one sits in its sanctuary’s pews? I think not.
This is why the Torah also declares that everyone who participates in the building of the sanctuary must have a heart who moves him or her to do so. And while these verses are clearly talking about the bringing of all the material supplies needed for building the ancient sanctuary, I would like to suggest another reading. In essence the Torah says, tell those whose heart is so inclined to bring gold, silver and copper.
Only together can we build God’s sanctuary.
The Hasidic rabbi, the Sefat Emet depicts the Shechina, the Divine presence on Earth, as a homeless wanderer. It is as if God’s presence is looking for a hot meal and a place to spend the night. Each time we welcome her in and bring her out of the darkness, we build that sanctuary anew, furnishing a comfortable and cozy room in our heart so that she may dwell within us.
What makes a place a special place is that our hearts must be united, together. What makes a place holy is that unity of purpose. It can be standing in line with other like-minded Bruce fans waiting to get into the Garden or it can be sitting beside our fellow congregants waiting to sing Lecha Dodi.
That is what transforms a place into a holy sanctuary. Of course, we can do that anywhere, but it is so much easier when you go to the same place week after week.
Entering the synagogue’s doors brings our hearts together as one.
Remember This Date
Yesterday was International Holocaust Remembrance Day. January 27th was chosen by the United Nations, in 2005 by the way, because it was on this day that Auschwitz-Birkenau was liberated.
Likewise, Israel’s Knesset chose the 27th of Nisan because it is the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. It is the day when Jews revolted against their Nazi oppressors. The small ragtag group of Jewish fighters held off the Nazi army longer than the Polish army was able to. It was a remarkable feat and one that continues to inspire Israel’s sense that it, and it alone, can protect Jewish lives. And no matter how small we may appear even when standing before armies with far larger numbers, we will triumph. The Knesset debated other dates—some thought Tisha B’Av would be better when every tragedy seemed to happen to us—but ultimately the 27th of Nisan was chosen in 1959. It is the day when we, as a synagogue community, remember the Holocaust.
We need such days to remember the uniqueness of the Holocaust. They remind us that the Holocaust was singular in its evil. In an age when people conjure up Holocaust comparisons to such things as mask or vaccine mandates, we really need such days. And yet no perfect day can encapsulate the evils and horrors of the Holocaust.
I have been reflecting on these days when the Jewish community and the international community focus on Holocaust remembrance and education. It seems to me that there is a danger that both days might commemorate the wrong thing. Let me explain. While January 27th does acknowledge the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, it begs the question of how this was allowed to go on for so long. Despite the denials in the face of overwhelming evidence, 1945 is years after the world knew what was happening.
Perhaps November 9th would be a better day to commemorate the Holocaust. On this date in 1938 the world saw Kristallnacht. Photographs of burning synagogues appeared in newspapers. It should have been clear what the Nazis intended on November 9, 1938. I recognize that hindsight is crystal clear, but commemoration days are exactly that. They should say on that day we should have really known. We prefer instead to seize on a semblance of victory rather than missed opportunities.
Another date that occurs to me is January 20th. It was on this day in 1942 that Nazi leaders attended a small get together in Wannsee, Germany. While the world only found out about this event years later this occasion represents more than anything else the evil designs of Nazism. It was there in Wannsee that Nazi leaders gathered at a beautiful villa. They ate their meals on beautiful crystal and china, dined on delicious food and expensive wine all while discussing the final solution and the creation of the very camps that January 27th commemorated liberating. I still find this conference difficult to imagine. People discussed the murder of millions human beings as if it was only about how fast they can build factories and how efficiently they could transport goods and supplies over vast distances. Remember January 20th. Recall how callous, and indifferent, people can be as they chitchat and dine on fine china.
And yet, if international leaders would have consulted me, I would have said the date really should be June 6th. This is the day that the SS St Louis was turned back to Europe. The St Louis was a ship that sailed from Germany in May 1939 with some 900 Jewish refugees. It sailed to Havana, but Cuba denied entry. Despite Jewish leaders advocating for their admission, the United States also denied the refugees entry. And so, on June 6th the ship turned back to Europe. Great Britain admitted some 300 Jewish immigrants. Almost all survived the war. Of the remaining 600, approximately 350 survived the war or found other ways to flee Europe. Approximately 250 died in the Holocaust.
This date is not about those 250 Jews, and I recall it not as a condemnation of our own country, but instead to highlight the world’s indifference. Newspapers covered the story of the SS St Louis and shared details about the journey, but the world did not care. And Nazi leaders took note of this indifference. And the reason that the Holocaust happened was not so much about what a few Nazi leaders did at a villa in the German countryside, or what they perpetrated at those camps, but about what the world did not do when it could have done so much more.
Evil achieves its nefarious ends when good people turn away and say things like, “I’m too busy.” Or “Why should I help them?” Or even more likely, “I can’t help everyone.” Remember June 6th. Hold it up as a reminder that we can always do more and that we should always do more.
Of course, it is more comfortable marking the Holocaust on the 27th of Nisan and January 27th. We triumphed. We were victorious. That is not the most important message the Holocaust calls us to remember. It is instead that far too frequently we choose to remain silent.
Most people were not members of the SS. They were not those who carried out the evil deeds at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Most were not as well soldiers who fought and died to defeat the Nazis. Most people, especially those in the United States, just read their morning paper while eating their breakfast. They just carried on with their everyday. Perhaps they worried about soldiers they knew, or family members still trapped in Europe. But on most days, the fate of the Jews was a distant problem. The horrors that other people experienced were too far away and too far removed to occupy their attention.
June 6th is when the world effectively said, “We don’t care.” Perhaps, I admit, it would be too painful a day to remember the Holocaust. But it most certainly would be a day that reminds us to take “Never again” truly to heart.
On January 27, 1945, the international community brought the horrors of the Holocaust to an end. That of course is not entirely true. It took nearly three more, grueling and deadly months before all the camps were liberated. It was not until May 8, 1945, when Nazi Germany was defeated and in fact not until the following day that the last camp was liberated. And yet Auschwitz-Birkenau represents the massiveness of the destruction of European Jewry and the evil of the Nazis. It was there that one million Jews were murdered. Still, I think January 27th was chosen because it represents the day the world defeated the Nazi death machine.
Likewise, Israel’s Knesset chose the 27th of Nisan because it is the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. It is the day when Jews revolted against their Nazi oppressors. The small ragtag group of Jewish fighters held off the Nazi army longer than the Polish army was able to. It was a remarkable feat and one that continues to inspire Israel’s sense that it, and it alone, can protect Jewish lives. And no matter how small we may appear even when standing before armies with far larger numbers, we will triumph. The Knesset debated other dates—some thought Tisha B’Av would be better when every tragedy seemed to happen to us—but ultimately the 27th of Nisan was chosen in 1959. It is the day when we, as a synagogue community, remember the Holocaust.
We need such days to remember the uniqueness of the Holocaust. They remind us that the Holocaust was singular in its evil. In an age when people conjure up Holocaust comparisons to such things as mask or vaccine mandates, we really need such days. And yet no perfect day can encapsulate the evils and horrors of the Holocaust.
I have been reflecting on these days when the Jewish community and the international community focus on Holocaust remembrance and education. It seems to me that there is a danger that both days might commemorate the wrong thing. Let me explain. While January 27th does acknowledge the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, it begs the question of how this was allowed to go on for so long. Despite the denials in the face of overwhelming evidence, 1945 is years after the world knew what was happening.
Perhaps November 9th would be a better day to commemorate the Holocaust. On this date in 1938 the world saw Kristallnacht. Photographs of burning synagogues appeared in newspapers. It should have been clear what the Nazis intended on November 9, 1938. I recognize that hindsight is crystal clear, but commemoration days are exactly that. They should say on that day we should have really known. We prefer instead to seize on a semblance of victory rather than missed opportunities.
Another date that occurs to me is January 20th. It was on this day in 1942 that Nazi leaders attended a small get together in Wannsee, Germany. While the world only found out about this event years later this occasion represents more than anything else the evil designs of Nazism. It was there in Wannsee that Nazi leaders gathered at a beautiful villa. They ate their meals on beautiful crystal and china, dined on delicious food and expensive wine all while discussing the final solution and the creation of the very camps that January 27th commemorated liberating. I still find this conference difficult to imagine. People discussed the murder of millions human beings as if it was only about how fast they can build factories and how efficiently they could transport goods and supplies over vast distances. Remember January 20th. Recall how callous, and indifferent, people can be as they chitchat and dine on fine china.
And yet, if international leaders would have consulted me, I would have said the date really should be June 6th. This is the day that the SS St Louis was turned back to Europe. The St Louis was a ship that sailed from Germany in May 1939 with some 900 Jewish refugees. It sailed to Havana, but Cuba denied entry. Despite Jewish leaders advocating for their admission, the United States also denied the refugees entry. And so, on June 6th the ship turned back to Europe. Great Britain admitted some 300 Jewish immigrants. Almost all survived the war. Of the remaining 600, approximately 350 survived the war or found other ways to flee Europe. Approximately 250 died in the Holocaust.
This date is not about those 250 Jews, and I recall it not as a condemnation of our own country, but instead to highlight the world’s indifference. Newspapers covered the story of the SS St Louis and shared details about the journey, but the world did not care. And Nazi leaders took note of this indifference. And the reason that the Holocaust happened was not so much about what a few Nazi leaders did at a villa in the German countryside, or what they perpetrated at those camps, but about what the world did not do when it could have done so much more.
Evil achieves its nefarious ends when good people turn away and say things like, “I’m too busy.” Or “Why should I help them?” Or even more likely, “I can’t help everyone.” Remember June 6th. Hold it up as a reminder that we can always do more and that we should always do more.
Of course, it is more comfortable marking the Holocaust on the 27th of Nisan and January 27th. We triumphed. We were victorious. That is not the most important message the Holocaust calls us to remember. It is instead that far too frequently we choose to remain silent.
Most people were not members of the SS. They were not those who carried out the evil deeds at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Most were not as well soldiers who fought and died to defeat the Nazis. Most people, especially those in the United States, just read their morning paper while eating their breakfast. They just carried on with their everyday. Perhaps they worried about soldiers they knew, or family members still trapped in Europe. But on most days, the fate of the Jews was a distant problem. The horrors that other people experienced were too far away and too far removed to occupy their attention.
June 6th is when the world effectively said, “We don’t care.” Perhaps, I admit, it would be too painful a day to remember the Holocaust. But it most certainly would be a day that reminds us to take “Never again” truly to heart.
Repro Shabbat
Judaism constructs its value system around phrases inscribed in its sacred texts.
It begins with verses from the Torah and traverses through words written by rabbis who lived during its formative stages. It walks from what we call the written Torah, revealed at Sinai, through the oral Torah, revealed in rabbinic debates throughout the ages, until arriving at today.
And so, when we ask what wisdom Judaism has to offer about abortion rights, we first turn back to yesterday. Why are we again talking about abortion rights?
The reason so many synagogues are asking this question on this Shabbat has nothing to do with the fact that Justice Stephen Breyer is retiring from the Supreme Court or that this court seems poised to roll back the rights enshrined in Roe v. Wade, but instead because the first verse alluding to abortion rights occurs in this week’s Torah portion. This is why many Jews are observing what the National Council of Jewish Women has called Repro Shabbat.
The Torah proclaims: “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning.” (Exodus 21) We learn from these sacred words that the fetus is not considered a life. A miscarriage is about damages. It is not a capital offense. The fetus is not accorded the same value as the mother’s life.
We then turn to the Mishnah, the first layer of rabbinic writings, codified around the year 200 C.E. This text makes the Torah’s implication crystal clear. “If a woman is having difficulty in giving birth, one cuts up the fetus within her womb and extracts it limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over that of the fetus. But if the greater part was already born, one may not touch it, for one may not set aside one person’s life for that of another.” (Mishnah Oholot 7)
The rabbis are definitive in their judgment. The mother’s life takes precedence. A potential life is not the same as a life. And while Jewish authorities continue to argue about what constitutes a threat to the mother’s life, all agree that it takes precedence over that of the fetus.
Jews continue to argue as well over who has authority to make that determination. A more traditional Jew insists that a rabbi, in consultation with doctors, would make such a decision. A more liberal Jew, like myself, insists that the mother should be empowered, and supported, to make such a weighty decision about the life forming within her body. Only she knows best what constitutes a threat.
In the maelstrom that is the contemporary debate about abortion rights, I wish my fellow Americans who follow different beliefs, and whose tradition suggests that the fetus is a life rather than a potential life, would respect my tradition’s voice and its approach to this moral question. Each of us must rely on our tradition’s road map and the hierarchy of values it elucidates.
I also wish my fellow Jews would look to the Jewish tradition’s words for guidance and strength. It is not as simple or as straightforward as saying, “I know what’s right.”
We pick up bits of wisdom and glimmers of fortitude when we start walking from Sinai rather than just thinking the path begins here and now and within the recesses of our own hearts.
It begins with verses from the Torah and traverses through words written by rabbis who lived during its formative stages. It walks from what we call the written Torah, revealed at Sinai, through the oral Torah, revealed in rabbinic debates throughout the ages, until arriving at today.
And so, when we ask what wisdom Judaism has to offer about abortion rights, we first turn back to yesterday. Why are we again talking about abortion rights?
The reason so many synagogues are asking this question on this Shabbat has nothing to do with the fact that Justice Stephen Breyer is retiring from the Supreme Court or that this court seems poised to roll back the rights enshrined in Roe v. Wade, but instead because the first verse alluding to abortion rights occurs in this week’s Torah portion. This is why many Jews are observing what the National Council of Jewish Women has called Repro Shabbat.
The Torah proclaims: “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning.” (Exodus 21) We learn from these sacred words that the fetus is not considered a life. A miscarriage is about damages. It is not a capital offense. The fetus is not accorded the same value as the mother’s life.
We then turn to the Mishnah, the first layer of rabbinic writings, codified around the year 200 C.E. This text makes the Torah’s implication crystal clear. “If a woman is having difficulty in giving birth, one cuts up the fetus within her womb and extracts it limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over that of the fetus. But if the greater part was already born, one may not touch it, for one may not set aside one person’s life for that of another.” (Mishnah Oholot 7)
The rabbis are definitive in their judgment. The mother’s life takes precedence. A potential life is not the same as a life. And while Jewish authorities continue to argue about what constitutes a threat to the mother’s life, all agree that it takes precedence over that of the fetus.
Jews continue to argue as well over who has authority to make that determination. A more traditional Jew insists that a rabbi, in consultation with doctors, would make such a decision. A more liberal Jew, like myself, insists that the mother should be empowered, and supported, to make such a weighty decision about the life forming within her body. Only she knows best what constitutes a threat.
In the maelstrom that is the contemporary debate about abortion rights, I wish my fellow Americans who follow different beliefs, and whose tradition suggests that the fetus is a life rather than a potential life, would respect my tradition’s voice and its approach to this moral question. Each of us must rely on our tradition’s road map and the hierarchy of values it elucidates.
I also wish my fellow Jews would look to the Jewish tradition’s words for guidance and strength. It is not as simple or as straightforward as saying, “I know what’s right.”
We pick up bits of wisdom and glimmers of fortitude when we start walking from Sinai rather than just thinking the path begins here and now and within the recesses of our own hearts.
Antisemitism Is Here to Stay
When I spoke with my mother this week she remarked, “I never imagined that you and your brother Michael, who is also a rabbi, are in a dangerous profession.” Now even though my mom can sometimes be overly dramatic and does tend to personalize even the most distant of world events (I come by these traits naturally), her comments do on this occasion deserve unpacking rather than the usual brushing away. Moms often verbalize fears and, on this occasion, the singular fear that has entered the sacred space of our synagogue sanctuaries.
My Christian friends do not have security guards at their church’s doors. Their congregants do not receive emails detailing new security protocols. What was once only the purview of synagogues in Europe or common in Israel where every gathering place has a guard, has now become normative in our own beloved country.
For obvious reasons I am not going to publicly discuss what security enhancements we are putting in place and we are working on. Rest assured our synagogue will always be safe and secure.
Most mornings I say the blessing, “Baruch Atah…matir asurim. Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who frees the captive.” To be honest, this was always said as just one among many in that long list of morning blessings. Sometimes I thought to myself, “That was for a different age and a different time.” Never before did I think I would see these words come to life in my own age and that my blessing would be realized by a fellow Reform rabbi and his congregants. On Saturday evening, I felt as if a miracle came to be and then I thought, “Being Jewish, praying in synagogue and just being rescued from murder should not be a miracle.” Being a living Jew should not be dependent on heroics.
Most of my friends who follow the words and traditions of other faiths do not understand or appreciate what I felt this past weekend or for that matter, what we are now feeling.
I had this sense that for those harrowing eleven hours we were one people...
My Christian friends do not have security guards at their church’s doors. Their congregants do not receive emails detailing new security protocols. What was once only the purview of synagogues in Europe or common in Israel where every gathering place has a guard, has now become normative in our own beloved country.
For obvious reasons I am not going to publicly discuss what security enhancements we are putting in place and we are working on. Rest assured our synagogue will always be safe and secure.
Most mornings I say the blessing, “Baruch Atah…matir asurim. Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who frees the captive.” To be honest, this was always said as just one among many in that long list of morning blessings. Sometimes I thought to myself, “That was for a different age and a different time.” Never before did I think I would see these words come to life in my own age and that my blessing would be realized by a fellow Reform rabbi and his congregants. On Saturday evening, I felt as if a miracle came to be and then I thought, “Being Jewish, praying in synagogue and just being rescued from murder should not be a miracle.” Being a living Jew should not be dependent on heroics.
Most of my friends who follow the words and traditions of other faiths do not understand or appreciate what I felt this past weekend or for that matter, what we are now feeling.
I had this sense that for those harrowing eleven hours we were one people...
Fears That Really Matter
We remain grateful that the rabbi and congregants of Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville who had gathered for Shabbat morning services were rescued. I am sure that many of us spent anxious hours waiting on Saturday for word of how this might end and were relieved that this hostage crisis did not conclude in tragedy.
Our thoughts now turn to the increasing scourge of antisemitism. Tomorrow evening I will devote my remarks to this plague and how Colleyville fits into a worrisome pattern and a growing worry.
At this moment, I want to focus on the fear many of us are feeling. Rest assured we are redoubling our attention to security at our synagogue. And yet, no matter how many security measures we take, and how many changes we institute, these can never allay the fear that so many of us now feel.
Security is about prudent measures an institution can, and should, take. It is about what steps individuals can choose so that they avoid dangers.
Fear is more a matter of the heart.
When it comes to the heart, I thought I knew it well. I used to think that all I have to do is work to banish fear. I would say to myself, “Just sing.” Singing, even poorly, helps to drive fear away. Or I would think, “Get back on that bicycle and go for a ride on that same road you got hit on.” And even though I rode much more slowly, the fear no longer accompanies me. True, it sometimes finds its way into my thoughts, but pedaling seems to drive it away.
Or in the past, I could be heard saying, “Get on that plane and go to Israel because your love of Medinat Yisrael (the state of Israel) and Am Yisrael (the people of Israel) are more important than all the bombs they are throwing at us.” And away I went. Such sentiments continue to work for me—most of the time. On these occasions, I am (mostly) successful in making sure that my loves overwhelm my fears.
Yesterday, I read the words of Amanda Gorman, the extraordinary young poet who spoke at President Biden’s inauguration. I was surprised to learn that the poet who exhibited so much poise last year, almost did not appear on the dais. She writes:
Fear is evidence of love. It is not its opposite. It points to the things we worry about losing. It suggests what we value and hold most dear.
The Torah suggests that fear is the most important motivator for action. It is the primary emotion God calls upon to compel us to observe the commandments. Following the giving of the Ten Commandments, God states: “Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the fear of God may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.” (Exodus 20)
In the same verse that God tells us not be afraid God also tells us to fear God. It is if to say, there is one fear that should remain in our hearts, always. And that is fear of God.
I have often bristled at these words. I don’t want my faith to be filled with fear. I don’t want to be motivated by fear. Then again, perhaps fearing God is evidence of loving God.
On this day, and after this harrowing weekend, I am going to hold on to that fear. Perhaps yirat hashamayim, fear of heaven, is the answer I have been seeking. It, and it alone, can assuage the trembling heart.
Our thoughts now turn to the increasing scourge of antisemitism. Tomorrow evening I will devote my remarks to this plague and how Colleyville fits into a worrisome pattern and a growing worry.
At this moment, I want to focus on the fear many of us are feeling. Rest assured we are redoubling our attention to security at our synagogue. And yet, no matter how many security measures we take, and how many changes we institute, these can never allay the fear that so many of us now feel.
Security is about prudent measures an institution can, and should, take. It is about what steps individuals can choose so that they avoid dangers.
Fear is more a matter of the heart.
When it comes to the heart, I thought I knew it well. I used to think that all I have to do is work to banish fear. I would say to myself, “Just sing.” Singing, even poorly, helps to drive fear away. Or I would think, “Get back on that bicycle and go for a ride on that same road you got hit on.” And even though I rode much more slowly, the fear no longer accompanies me. True, it sometimes finds its way into my thoughts, but pedaling seems to drive it away.
Or in the past, I could be heard saying, “Get on that plane and go to Israel because your love of Medinat Yisrael (the state of Israel) and Am Yisrael (the people of Israel) are more important than all the bombs they are throwing at us.” And away I went. Such sentiments continue to work for me—most of the time. On these occasions, I am (mostly) successful in making sure that my loves overwhelm my fears.
Yesterday, I read the words of Amanda Gorman, the extraordinary young poet who spoke at President Biden’s inauguration. I was surprised to learn that the poet who exhibited so much poise last year, almost did not appear on the dais. She writes:
I’m a firm believer that often terror is trying to tell us of a force far greater than despair. In this way, I look at fear not as cowardice, but as a call forward, a summons to fight for what we hold dear. And now more than ever, we have every right to be affected, afflicted, affronted. If you’re alive, you’re afraid. If you’re not afraid, then you’re not paying attention. The only thing we have to fear is having no fear itself — having no feeling on behalf of whom and what we’ve lost, whom and what we love.Her words appeared revelatory. “If you’re alive, you’re afraid.” And this week, I would add, “If you’re a Jew, you’re afraid.”
Fear is evidence of love. It is not its opposite. It points to the things we worry about losing. It suggests what we value and hold most dear.
The Torah suggests that fear is the most important motivator for action. It is the primary emotion God calls upon to compel us to observe the commandments. Following the giving of the Ten Commandments, God states: “Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the fear of God may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.” (Exodus 20)
In the same verse that God tells us not be afraid God also tells us to fear God. It is if to say, there is one fear that should remain in our hearts, always. And that is fear of God.
I have often bristled at these words. I don’t want my faith to be filled with fear. I don’t want to be motivated by fear. Then again, perhaps fearing God is evidence of loving God.
On this day, and after this harrowing weekend, I am going to hold on to that fear. Perhaps yirat hashamayim, fear of heaven, is the answer I have been seeking. It, and it alone, can assuage the trembling heart.
Uncertainty and Its Roundabout Path
At the last Shabbat evening services on Friday night, the camera did not work properly. No matter how emphatically I pressed the buttons on the app, the camera remained frozen on the Shabbat candles and then when it did respond, zoomed in on my bald head. I was finally able to get it set to the default position and left it there for the remainder of the service.
I am sure others have had similar frustrating experiences when attending Zoom meetings or online conferences. At that point all we can do, or should do, is laugh.
Despite our increasing dependence on technology, it is as imperfect as the human beings who design it. Nothing ever works perfectly or even runs exactly according to plan. A smart home is rendered quite dumb when power is lost or the internet is down and even then, sometimes one app stops talking to another, and the newest smart TV will not show the latest movie everyone is talking about.
Don’t get me wrong. Technology is great. It allows us to do things that were once unimaginable. People can attend services no matter where they are. They can find meaning in our Shabbat prayers and songs whenever they choose. And this is very good.
But technology offers the illusion of perfection. It looks so neat and tidy that we start thinking it’s perfect. Likewise, we think that science can offer certainties and these days we seem to expect that scientists can offer perfect advice. They speak in the language of exactitudes, but science is filled with educated guesses.
The Webb telescope that recently blasted off to outer space is a technological marvel, but it is also an illustration of how much science does not know. We are spending billions of dollars in the quest to answer questions that have captivated astrophysicists. As soon as this telescope discovers the answers to these questions it will crack open the door to heretofore unknown questions. With every answer comes even more questions.
Certainty evades us. One can trust scientific experts—I recognize that there are astrophysicists who know more about the cosmos than I and epidemiologists who understand far more about COVID-19 than I—and yet accept the uncertainty of science. I do not expect scientists to have exact answers to questions they started wrestling with two years ago or even to agree with each other.
I do expect them to keep asking questions. I also expect them to try their best to figure out some answers.
Certainty and exactitudes will always elude us. Technological wonders will never confer perfection. I recognize the frustration and exhaustion we feel.
And this is why I keep returning to the Torah’s words, “And God led the people roundabout…” (Exodus 13) Of course, I would prefer if the direction was straightforward and exact; I would very much like it if it was perfect and straight. The Torah offers us a truth about how things go rather than how we would prefer them to be.
I affirm the uncertainty and its roundabout path.
Never give up on the quest for answers. Expect more and more questions around every bend.
I am sure others have had similar frustrating experiences when attending Zoom meetings or online conferences. At that point all we can do, or should do, is laugh.
Despite our increasing dependence on technology, it is as imperfect as the human beings who design it. Nothing ever works perfectly or even runs exactly according to plan. A smart home is rendered quite dumb when power is lost or the internet is down and even then, sometimes one app stops talking to another, and the newest smart TV will not show the latest movie everyone is talking about.
Don’t get me wrong. Technology is great. It allows us to do things that were once unimaginable. People can attend services no matter where they are. They can find meaning in our Shabbat prayers and songs whenever they choose. And this is very good.
But technology offers the illusion of perfection. It looks so neat and tidy that we start thinking it’s perfect. Likewise, we think that science can offer certainties and these days we seem to expect that scientists can offer perfect advice. They speak in the language of exactitudes, but science is filled with educated guesses.
The Webb telescope that recently blasted off to outer space is a technological marvel, but it is also an illustration of how much science does not know. We are spending billions of dollars in the quest to answer questions that have captivated astrophysicists. As soon as this telescope discovers the answers to these questions it will crack open the door to heretofore unknown questions. With every answer comes even more questions.
Certainty evades us. One can trust scientific experts—I recognize that there are astrophysicists who know more about the cosmos than I and epidemiologists who understand far more about COVID-19 than I—and yet accept the uncertainty of science. I do not expect scientists to have exact answers to questions they started wrestling with two years ago or even to agree with each other.
I do expect them to keep asking questions. I also expect them to try their best to figure out some answers.
Certainty and exactitudes will always elude us. Technological wonders will never confer perfection. I recognize the frustration and exhaustion we feel.
And this is why I keep returning to the Torah’s words, “And God led the people roundabout…” (Exodus 13) Of course, I would prefer if the direction was straightforward and exact; I would very much like it if it was perfect and straight. The Torah offers us a truth about how things go rather than how we would prefer them to be.
I affirm the uncertainty and its roundabout path.
Never give up on the quest for answers. Expect more and more questions around every bend.