Dreaming of Better Borders
In the West Bank, near Nablus, one finds Mount Ebal, one of the tallest peaks in the area. From its 3000-foot peak one can almost see the entire land of Israel: Mount Hermon in the North, the hills surrounding Jerusalem in the South, the Jordan to the East and the Mediterranean Sea to the West. The city of Shechem sits below and serves as a reminder of Abraham and Sarah’s first journey to the promised land.
After Joshua led the Israelites into the promised land, the people constructed an altar on Mount Ebal. In the 1980’s archaeologists uncovered what some believe to be the altar’s remains and evidence of the Torah’s command and the Book of Joshua’s report: “At that time Joshua built an altar to the Lord, the God of Israel, on Mount Ebal... an altar of unhewn stone upon which no iron had been wielded.” (Joshua 8) Sadly, the Palestinian Authority apparently used some of these ancient stones for the construction of new roads.
This past Spring, archaeologists announced they had dated a small piece of stone found on Mount Ebal, inscribed with God’s name written in proto-Semitic to the eleventh century BCE. This discovery provides archaeological evidence that the Israelites were literate when they entered the land and that our ancestors have been present in the land of Israel for over 3000 years.
Archaeologists have not, however, uncovered evidence that the Israelites observed another of the Bible’s instructions. The Torah commands: “Upon crossing the Jordan, you shall set up these stones, about which I charge you this day, on Mount Ebal, and coat them with plaster…. And on those stones, you shall inscribe every word of this Torah most distinctly.” (Deuteronomy 27)
There is debate if the word “Torah” refers to all five books. The rabbis suggest it does. Biblical scholars believe this seems unlikely and theorize these stones included select chapters from the Book of Deuteronomy. The Hebrew word “Torah” can be translated as “Teaching” and so the phrase is open for interpretation. Regardless, even if it ten chapters were inscribed, there must have been a lot of stones.
It is wonderfully revealing to think about the implications of the Torah’s command. Imagine a nation marking its borders not with a fence, or signs emblazoned with the words “Keep out” but instead commandments about caring for others. Immediately prior to the instructions to erect these stones with every word of this Torah is the commandment to set aside tithes to those less fortunate, in particular the stranger, the fatherless and the widow.
Imagine how extraordinary the world might be if border markers proclaimed, “Here we are expected to care for others” rather than “Keep your distance.” I know it is a utopian, and perhaps even messianic, dream but it also appears to be our Torah’s vision.
The rabbis push this understanding even further. They suggest the words “most distinctly” mean that the Torah’s verses emblazoned on these stones should be written in the world’s seventy languages. Despite the fact they were off in their count by a factor of one hundred, it is a remarkable teaching.
On the borders of the land of Israel, the markers should proclaim in every language, “Here we are obligated to care for those less fortunate than ourselves.” Is this meant as a message to the world or a reminder to ourselves?
And I am left wondering. Which reader is more important? Do our laws serve as beacons to the world or a call to our higher selves?
Why must this remain a messianic dream?
Let it be instead a call for dreamers of a better today.
After Joshua led the Israelites into the promised land, the people constructed an altar on Mount Ebal. In the 1980’s archaeologists uncovered what some believe to be the altar’s remains and evidence of the Torah’s command and the Book of Joshua’s report: “At that time Joshua built an altar to the Lord, the God of Israel, on Mount Ebal... an altar of unhewn stone upon which no iron had been wielded.” (Joshua 8) Sadly, the Palestinian Authority apparently used some of these ancient stones for the construction of new roads.
This past Spring, archaeologists announced they had dated a small piece of stone found on Mount Ebal, inscribed with God’s name written in proto-Semitic to the eleventh century BCE. This discovery provides archaeological evidence that the Israelites were literate when they entered the land and that our ancestors have been present in the land of Israel for over 3000 years.
Archaeologists have not, however, uncovered evidence that the Israelites observed another of the Bible’s instructions. The Torah commands: “Upon crossing the Jordan, you shall set up these stones, about which I charge you this day, on Mount Ebal, and coat them with plaster…. And on those stones, you shall inscribe every word of this Torah most distinctly.” (Deuteronomy 27)
There is debate if the word “Torah” refers to all five books. The rabbis suggest it does. Biblical scholars believe this seems unlikely and theorize these stones included select chapters from the Book of Deuteronomy. The Hebrew word “Torah” can be translated as “Teaching” and so the phrase is open for interpretation. Regardless, even if it ten chapters were inscribed, there must have been a lot of stones.
It is wonderfully revealing to think about the implications of the Torah’s command. Imagine a nation marking its borders not with a fence, or signs emblazoned with the words “Keep out” but instead commandments about caring for others. Immediately prior to the instructions to erect these stones with every word of this Torah is the commandment to set aside tithes to those less fortunate, in particular the stranger, the fatherless and the widow.
Imagine how extraordinary the world might be if border markers proclaimed, “Here we are expected to care for others” rather than “Keep your distance.” I know it is a utopian, and perhaps even messianic, dream but it also appears to be our Torah’s vision.
The rabbis push this understanding even further. They suggest the words “most distinctly” mean that the Torah’s verses emblazoned on these stones should be written in the world’s seventy languages. Despite the fact they were off in their count by a factor of one hundred, it is a remarkable teaching.
On the borders of the land of Israel, the markers should proclaim in every language, “Here we are obligated to care for those less fortunate than ourselves.” Is this meant as a message to the world or a reminder to ourselves?
And I am left wondering. Which reader is more important? Do our laws serve as beacons to the world or a call to our higher selves?
Why must this remain a messianic dream?
Let it be instead a call for dreamers of a better today.
Sharing Is Commanded
Years ago when hiking through Israel’s Galil region, my guide would sometimes take a detour through a farmer’s field. There she would reach up and take an orange from a tree, immediately peel off its skin and then eat it. I protested. “This is not your field. These oranges are not yours to take.” She would then correct my understanding. “Our Bible permits it.”
The Torah proclaims: “When you enter your neighbor’s vineyard, you may eat as many grapes as you want, until you are full, but you must not put any in your vessel.” (Deuteronomy 25)
Our Bible has a different understanding of ownership. We do not own the land. The earth belongs to God. We are but tenants. So when I look to my yard, the flowers, vines and trees (the Kousa Dogwood’s branches are now weighed down by fruit) I might think they are mine, but the food they produce is certainly not mine alone.
The Torah makes clear. If you are hungry, you can take the fruit from any tree, whether it be yours or your neighbor’s. Even though the farmer has expended all the effort, and expense, to grow and nurture the tree, its fruit must be shared. Still foragers can only take a little bit. They can only take enough to satiate their hunger. They may not take so much that they fill a basket and are then able to sell the fruit in the market. That would be stealing.
Sharing is demanded. Stealing is forbidden.
While very few of us have vineyards or even know how to grow grapes, or for that matter have an abundance of fruit trees, imagine how different the world might be if we shared some of nature’s bounty with our neighbors.
I continue to dream.
And then I recall the fruit that spoils in my refrigerator, and the bag of half-eaten grapes that make their way into our garbage can.
My dreams are within reach if I can let go and share. Perhaps all it takes for no one to know hunger is for each of us to offer some fruit here or there. Perhaps all it might take for us to alleviate hunger is for us to recover the notion that the land and its bounty are not mine but God’s. And God makes demands on us.
Sharing is commanded.
The Torah proclaims: “When you enter your neighbor’s vineyard, you may eat as many grapes as you want, until you are full, but you must not put any in your vessel.” (Deuteronomy 25)
Our Bible has a different understanding of ownership. We do not own the land. The earth belongs to God. We are but tenants. So when I look to my yard, the flowers, vines and trees (the Kousa Dogwood’s branches are now weighed down by fruit) I might think they are mine, but the food they produce is certainly not mine alone.
The Torah makes clear. If you are hungry, you can take the fruit from any tree, whether it be yours or your neighbor’s. Even though the farmer has expended all the effort, and expense, to grow and nurture the tree, its fruit must be shared. Still foragers can only take a little bit. They can only take enough to satiate their hunger. They may not take so much that they fill a basket and are then able to sell the fruit in the market. That would be stealing.
Sharing is demanded. Stealing is forbidden.
While very few of us have vineyards or even know how to grow grapes, or for that matter have an abundance of fruit trees, imagine how different the world might be if we shared some of nature’s bounty with our neighbors.
I continue to dream.
And then I recall the fruit that spoils in my refrigerator, and the bag of half-eaten grapes that make their way into our garbage can.
My dreams are within reach if I can let go and share. Perhaps all it takes for no one to know hunger is for each of us to offer some fruit here or there. Perhaps all it might take for us to alleviate hunger is for us to recover the notion that the land and its bounty are not mine but God’s. And God makes demands on us.
Sharing is commanded.
Pursuing Justice, Making Peace
We live in a world where people scream about injustices. Sometimes, justified. And sometimes, unjustified.
Those we most often speak about are the wrongs, or slights, that involve people closest to us. We complain about this friend or that. We criticize this family member or another. Rarely do we seek to make amends and make peace. Rarely do we shout about societal ills needing repair.
This week we read about seeking justice. In addition to legislating how judges should be appointed, the Torah proclaims: “Justice, justice you shall pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16)
We must hear this call for justice. Too often we misapply its message to friends and family. Instead, we need to spend more time pursuing justice for our society.
Our country faces many challenges. One example. There is a growing inequity between rich and poor. On our very own Long Island there are far too many homeless and hungry. The Interfaith Nutrition Network, for example, serves over 300,000 meals per year. We need to do more. We need to fight against the injustice of hunger and poverty.
This is the Torah’s demand. We must pursue justice.
Rather than working to fix these problems we look elsewhere to those closest to us and level the charge of injustice against family members and friends. With regard to these relations, we are instead commanded to pursue peace. According to our tradition Aaron best exemplifies peace making. Why? The Israelites clamored to build a Golden Calf when their leader Moses was busy on the mountaintop communing with God. Aaron was left in charge. He did not as one might expect talk them out of their unholy task of building an idol. Instead, he appears to have helped them. Aaron facilitated the building of the calf. The Torah’s judgment of his actions is harsh.
The rabbis, however, see in Aaron a model of peace making. They call him a pursuer of peace. Their suggestion is extraordinary. Even when family members are straying, or in this case building idols, we are to be like the disciples of Aaron, and make peace.
When it comes to family shalom, peace, is the greatest virtue. When it comes to the larger society the greatest value is tzedek, justice. We often confuse which value is to lead the way.
Pursue justice for society. Run after peace for family and friends. As the High Holidays approach, I pledge to seek justice for our society, and make peace among my friends and family.
Those we most often speak about are the wrongs, or slights, that involve people closest to us. We complain about this friend or that. We criticize this family member or another. Rarely do we seek to make amends and make peace. Rarely do we shout about societal ills needing repair.
This week we read about seeking justice. In addition to legislating how judges should be appointed, the Torah proclaims: “Justice, justice you shall pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16)
We must hear this call for justice. Too often we misapply its message to friends and family. Instead, we need to spend more time pursuing justice for our society.
Our country faces many challenges. One example. There is a growing inequity between rich and poor. On our very own Long Island there are far too many homeless and hungry. The Interfaith Nutrition Network, for example, serves over 300,000 meals per year. We need to do more. We need to fight against the injustice of hunger and poverty.
This is the Torah’s demand. We must pursue justice.
Rather than working to fix these problems we look elsewhere to those closest to us and level the charge of injustice against family members and friends. With regard to these relations, we are instead commanded to pursue peace. According to our tradition Aaron best exemplifies peace making. Why? The Israelites clamored to build a Golden Calf when their leader Moses was busy on the mountaintop communing with God. Aaron was left in charge. He did not as one might expect talk them out of their unholy task of building an idol. Instead, he appears to have helped them. Aaron facilitated the building of the calf. The Torah’s judgment of his actions is harsh.
The rabbis, however, see in Aaron a model of peace making. They call him a pursuer of peace. Their suggestion is extraordinary. Even when family members are straying, or in this case building idols, we are to be like the disciples of Aaron, and make peace.
When it comes to family shalom, peace, is the greatest virtue. When it comes to the larger society the greatest value is tzedek, justice. We often confuse which value is to lead the way.
Pursue justice for society. Run after peace for family and friends. As the High Holidays approach, I pledge to seek justice for our society, and make peace among my friends and family.
A Song Is All We Need
The High Holidays begin in one month. During the preceding Hebrew month of Elul which starts this weekend, we focus on the task of repentance. We seek to better our lives. We turn inward. We make promises about our Jewish commitments.
A Hasidic story.
A student came to see the Karliner Rebbe because he was depressed. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I’m not a good Jew. I don’t study enough, I don’t know enough; all I do is work, work, work. But I want to study more. Rabbi, I have a question. What do our great and holy rabbis study on Friday night?”
“Well,” said the Karliner, “some study Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism.”
“Oh,” said the student, “that is not for me.”
“No,” said the Karliner, “that is not for everybody. But I am sure you study Talmud regularly. How is that going?”
“Rebbe, I am ashamed to admit it, but I do not study Talmud regularly. You see, I grew up poor. I had to work from an early age to help my family out. I did not get much of an education. I find the Talmud very difficult.”
“Perhaps you study something with a friend?” asked the Karliner.
“My friends also work very hard; they don’t know much about Jewish tradition. Besides, I have no time to sit in the study hall for hours. What else can I do?”
“Working hard for your family is a mitzvah and an important Jewish obligation,” said the Karliner. “You can study the weekly Torah reading for one hour a week.”
“Oh no,” said the man. “I always found doing that too difficult. As I told you, I hardly got a Jewish education. I struggle through the portion each week. If I am really being honest, the Torah portion does not uplift me. I am a failure. I am really not a scholar. I prefer to work with my hands. All I know how to do is work long hours.”
“No Jew is a failure!” said the Karliner sternly. “Every Jew can learn. And every Jew should learn. I know there is something for you. You certainly will enjoy telling beautiful stories about our Jewish heroes to your friends and family!”
“I am bad at telling stories,” objected the student. “I always forget the important points, I mix them up, and I am not a good talker either. Please, I can’t do that too...”
The Karliner leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, and then he began to hum. He hummed and he swayed back and forth, and the student listened in amazement to this wordless melody. This was beautiful. What a niggun! And he began to sing along. He never had felt so wonderful before. He had never felt so close to God.
After a long time, the singing stopped. The Karliner opened his eyes and looked at the student intently.
“Rebbe,” the student exclaimed, “I understand. I don’t feel depressed anymore. Thank you, thank you!”
And he went home, and every Shabbat and holiday and nearly every day, he sang the most beautiful melody. He did not know the words. He did not study any of the books the rabbi asked him about. He just sang the tune. He loved the niggun of the Karliner Rebbe. And he did not feel depressed anymore.
Sometimes the melody is all we need to better our lives. Sometimes a song is all we need to uplift our spirits.
A Hasidic story.
A student came to see the Karliner Rebbe because he was depressed. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I’m not a good Jew. I don’t study enough, I don’t know enough; all I do is work, work, work. But I want to study more. Rabbi, I have a question. What do our great and holy rabbis study on Friday night?”
“Well,” said the Karliner, “some study Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism.”
“Oh,” said the student, “that is not for me.”
“No,” said the Karliner, “that is not for everybody. But I am sure you study Talmud regularly. How is that going?”
“Rebbe, I am ashamed to admit it, but I do not study Talmud regularly. You see, I grew up poor. I had to work from an early age to help my family out. I did not get much of an education. I find the Talmud very difficult.”
“Perhaps you study something with a friend?” asked the Karliner.
“My friends also work very hard; they don’t know much about Jewish tradition. Besides, I have no time to sit in the study hall for hours. What else can I do?”
“Working hard for your family is a mitzvah and an important Jewish obligation,” said the Karliner. “You can study the weekly Torah reading for one hour a week.”
“Oh no,” said the man. “I always found doing that too difficult. As I told you, I hardly got a Jewish education. I struggle through the portion each week. If I am really being honest, the Torah portion does not uplift me. I am a failure. I am really not a scholar. I prefer to work with my hands. All I know how to do is work long hours.”
“No Jew is a failure!” said the Karliner sternly. “Every Jew can learn. And every Jew should learn. I know there is something for you. You certainly will enjoy telling beautiful stories about our Jewish heroes to your friends and family!”
“I am bad at telling stories,” objected the student. “I always forget the important points, I mix them up, and I am not a good talker either. Please, I can’t do that too...”
The Karliner leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, and then he began to hum. He hummed and he swayed back and forth, and the student listened in amazement to this wordless melody. This was beautiful. What a niggun! And he began to sing along. He never had felt so wonderful before. He had never felt so close to God.
After a long time, the singing stopped. The Karliner opened his eyes and looked at the student intently.
“Rebbe,” the student exclaimed, “I understand. I don’t feel depressed anymore. Thank you, thank you!”
And he went home, and every Shabbat and holiday and nearly every day, he sang the most beautiful melody. He did not know the words. He did not study any of the books the rabbi asked him about. He just sang the tune. He loved the niggun of the Karliner Rebbe. And he did not feel depressed anymore.
Sometimes the melody is all we need to better our lives. Sometimes a song is all we need to uplift our spirits.
Taste the Wonderment
This past year, Susie and I joined a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). The requirement is that we pay the farm for the upcoming season’s vegetables in April. And then beginning in June and lasting through November, we pick up an assortment of vegetables every Tuesday at our Huntington drop off location.
We don’t know for sure what will be in our bag until Monday evening when the farm emails us what to expect. This week it was corn, tomatoes (large and grape), baby bok choy, potatoes, and cantaloupe (there is the occasional melon). A few weeks ago, we picked up onions, romaine lettuce, beets, new potatoes, kohlrabi, corn and ong choy (Chinese water spinach).
In addition to the extraordinary freshness of the vegetables (the lettuce lasts two weeks!), we have to adjust our cooking based on what the farm provides. While I can eat corn on the cob every week, after several weeks corn salad felt like a necessary and welcome change. And again, after weeks of potatoes it was time to make salad rather than the usual roasting of them. We have to be inventive or at least more creative than we used to be. Sometimes we have to do research.
And so, after some reading, we grilled the kohlrabi. And while it will probably take us several summers to perfect what to do with this somewhat strange looking cruciferous vegetable, we must admit that had it not come in our bag we never would have purchased this large turnip looking thing with green horns. We better start preparing for the inevitable squashes that will arrive in the fall!
For most of our lives, our cooking was dictated by what we were in the mood for or what Shabbat or the holiday required, rather than being influenced by what the land provides. It is a refreshingly demanding shift in orientation. So much of American cooking is built around convenience. Restaurants are often touted for their prompt service. They are heralded for their portion size. All we seem to want is more. We want whatever we want when we want it.
We began to shift our shopping and tried to buy more of what is in season and grown locally. Most Sundays we pilgrimage to the local farmer’s market. And these days, when I arrive early enough, I discover my favorite treats of strawberries, blackberries and raspberries. Sure, I can purchase these berries in the supermarket all year round, but they are most likely imported from California or South America and bred to withstand the rigors of shipping.
When we started eating local berries only during the summer months they seemed to taste better. Perhaps, it was that we saved, and therefore savored, their sweetness for these months alone. We discovered.
The earth provides taste and wonderment.
My spirit is renewed. I am forced to think about what the land offers us—today. This can appear demanding, but it can also be spiritually rewarding.
The earth is meant to give us nourishment. It is meant to provide sustenance. The land offers us nuance, beauty and inspiration.
And while the CSA, and farmers markets, do not offer us everything we need, or admittedly all we sometimes want, it has helped to reorient our lives more towards what the earth provides. Who would have thought there is wisdom to be found in a kohlrabi.
The Torah concurs: “God gave you manna to eat in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything the Lord decrees.” (Deuteronomy 8)
We don’t know for sure what will be in our bag until Monday evening when the farm emails us what to expect. This week it was corn, tomatoes (large and grape), baby bok choy, potatoes, and cantaloupe (there is the occasional melon). A few weeks ago, we picked up onions, romaine lettuce, beets, new potatoes, kohlrabi, corn and ong choy (Chinese water spinach).
In addition to the extraordinary freshness of the vegetables (the lettuce lasts two weeks!), we have to adjust our cooking based on what the farm provides. While I can eat corn on the cob every week, after several weeks corn salad felt like a necessary and welcome change. And again, after weeks of potatoes it was time to make salad rather than the usual roasting of them. We have to be inventive or at least more creative than we used to be. Sometimes we have to do research.
And so, after some reading, we grilled the kohlrabi. And while it will probably take us several summers to perfect what to do with this somewhat strange looking cruciferous vegetable, we must admit that had it not come in our bag we never would have purchased this large turnip looking thing with green horns. We better start preparing for the inevitable squashes that will arrive in the fall!
For most of our lives, our cooking was dictated by what we were in the mood for or what Shabbat or the holiday required, rather than being influenced by what the land provides. It is a refreshingly demanding shift in orientation. So much of American cooking is built around convenience. Restaurants are often touted for their prompt service. They are heralded for their portion size. All we seem to want is more. We want whatever we want when we want it.
We began to shift our shopping and tried to buy more of what is in season and grown locally. Most Sundays we pilgrimage to the local farmer’s market. And these days, when I arrive early enough, I discover my favorite treats of strawberries, blackberries and raspberries. Sure, I can purchase these berries in the supermarket all year round, but they are most likely imported from California or South America and bred to withstand the rigors of shipping.
When we started eating local berries only during the summer months they seemed to taste better. Perhaps, it was that we saved, and therefore savored, their sweetness for these months alone. We discovered.
The earth provides taste and wonderment.
My spirit is renewed. I am forced to think about what the land offers us—today. This can appear demanding, but it can also be spiritually rewarding.
The earth is meant to give us nourishment. It is meant to provide sustenance. The land offers us nuance, beauty and inspiration.
And while the CSA, and farmers markets, do not offer us everything we need, or admittedly all we sometimes want, it has helped to reorient our lives more towards what the earth provides. Who would have thought there is wisdom to be found in a kohlrabi.
The Torah concurs: “God gave you manna to eat in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything the Lord decrees.” (Deuteronomy 8)
Live the Question!
Rainer Marie Rilke, the early twentieth century mystical poet, writes:
And yet God’s demands guided him. For forty years he led the people through the wilderness. He lost his temper on several occasions. God became impatient and angry with the Israelites as well. And on one occasion, God said to Moses that is enough. “Now you cannot lead the people into the Promised Land.”
“Why now? Why this moment?” Moses must have thought. The Torah relates: “I pleaded with the Lord at that time, saying, ‘O Lord God, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness…. Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan…’ The Lord said, to me, ‘Enough! Never speak to Me of that matter again!’” (Deuteronomy 4) The commentators are also perplexed. Why would Moses plead on his own behalf? Why would he share with the people his frustration that his plea was denied.
The medieval commentator, Ibn Ezra, suggests it is to teach the importance of living in the land of Israel. This land is more important than any other. The rabbis believe it is to convey the lesson that no one should ever lose hope. Our most fervent prayers may yet be answered. The modern commentator, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, offers that Moses still does not acknowledge his sin. He is not praying for forgiveness but instead asking that this unjust decree be annulled.
All suggestions appear inadequate. The questions remain.
They haunt Moses.
Then again, perhaps they animate him. The answer always stands at a distance.
“Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died; his eyes were undimmed and his vigor unabated.” (Deuteronomy 34)
Live the question!
Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day. (Letters to a Young Poet)When Moses pleaded before God that he be allowed to step foot in the land of Israel, I imagine questions to plague his soul despite his many years of experience. “Why cannot I cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan?” Questions defined him throughout his years. When God first called to Moses, he wondered aloud about his worthiness and protested God’s choice to send him to Pharoah.
And yet God’s demands guided him. For forty years he led the people through the wilderness. He lost his temper on several occasions. God became impatient and angry with the Israelites as well. And on one occasion, God said to Moses that is enough. “Now you cannot lead the people into the Promised Land.”
“Why now? Why this moment?” Moses must have thought. The Torah relates: “I pleaded with the Lord at that time, saying, ‘O Lord God, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness…. Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan…’ The Lord said, to me, ‘Enough! Never speak to Me of that matter again!’” (Deuteronomy 4) The commentators are also perplexed. Why would Moses plead on his own behalf? Why would he share with the people his frustration that his plea was denied.
The medieval commentator, Ibn Ezra, suggests it is to teach the importance of living in the land of Israel. This land is more important than any other. The rabbis believe it is to convey the lesson that no one should ever lose hope. Our most fervent prayers may yet be answered. The modern commentator, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, offers that Moses still does not acknowledge his sin. He is not praying for forgiveness but instead asking that this unjust decree be annulled.
All suggestions appear inadequate. The questions remain.
They haunt Moses.
Then again, perhaps they animate him. The answer always stands at a distance.
“Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died; his eyes were undimmed and his vigor unabated.” (Deuteronomy 34)
Live the question!
Getting the Future Back on Track
Representative Jamie Raskin, who recently appeared at our synagogue in conversation with Representative Steve Israel, writes: “If we cannot get the past right, we will get the future all wrong.” (Unthinkable: Trauma, Truth, and the Trials of American Democracy)
Ours is an oftentimes sad and tortured history. We sometimes struggle to get it right. This is because holidays are not the same as history. Holidays are about creating memory. They are about inculcating identity. History is about uncovering truth. It is about drawing lessons.
On Sunday, Jews will commemorate Tisha B’Av, the day our tradition sets aside to mark past tragedies, in particular the destruction of the First Temple by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E. and the Second by the Romans in 70 C.E. We look at these through the lenses of tradition.
Judaism suggests that not only were the temples destroyed on this day, but nearly every tragedy that ever happened to the Jewish people occurred on the ninth of Av. The spies returned from the land of Israel with a bad report on Tisha B’Av. The Jews were expelled from England in 1290 and then from Spain in 1492 on the ninth of Av. World War I started, and operations began at the Treblinka death camp, as well as deportations from the Warsaw ghetto, on Tisha B’Av.
Our tradition is decisive. History is less clear.
The tradition suggests the Babylonians leveled the temple. Historians continue to dig for the truth. Some suggest it was not really King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylonia but instead the Edomites who burned the temple to the ground. The tradition turns away from this debate and shifts the focus to why. The Book of Lamentations, the words we chant on this fast day, argues that it was all because of our sins. “Jerusalem has greatly sinned; therefore, she is become a mockery.” (Lamentations 1)
Likewise, the rabbis looked within to explain the destruction of the Second Temple. The Talmud tells a remarkable story. Here is the legend. A man had a friend named Kamza and an enemy called Bar Kamza. One time when he was throwing a party, his event planner sent the invite to Bar Kamza instead of Kamza. When Bar Kamza showed up at the party, the man was furious.
He told Bar Kamza to leave and even said to him, “I don’t want you here. You have been gossiping about me.” Bar Kamza was embarrassed about leaving, but not apparently about gossiping, and so offered to pay for the cost of the party. The man refused his generosity and threw him out. The other guests did not get involved in the dispute. Even the rabbis in attendance said nothing.
Bar Kamza left the party stewing in anger. So, he went straight to the Roman authorities and said, “The Jews are rebelling against you.” The emperor asked, “How can I be certain?” Bar Kamza responded, “Send them a calf to offer as a sacrifice and you will see that they will refuse it.” Meanwhile, Bar Kamza secretly rendered the animal unkosher.
The rabbis realized they were in a bind. If they offer the calf, they will please the Romans but dishonor their tradition. If they don’t offer the sacrifice, they will uphold their traditions, but anger the emperor. The majority argued to keep the peace. (Some argued to kill Bar Kamza! Too bad they did not say, “Maybe we should have gotten involved at the party.”) Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas persuaded them that the tradition must persevere and so they refused the emperor’s gift.
The Romans were so enraged that they destroyed the temple and leveled Jerusalem. (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b-56a) All of this happened because of a mistaken invitation. One small, seemingly insignificant event spiraled out of control. Interpersonal failures can sometimes lead to tragic, and cataclysmic, consequences. They can spill over well beyond the initial people involved.
And this is a lesson that continues to find contemporary resonance. Beware of where baseless hatred can lead. “Lonely sits the city. Once great with people! She that was great among nations is become like a widow; the princess among states is become a thrall.” (Lamentations 1)
Traditions offer morals. They also neatly hue to preconceived ideologies.
Historical tragedies impel us to mourn, but they can also provide us with opportunities for self-examination. Do we heed this call?
What of history’s lessons?
If we only look at the past through the lenses of tradition and identity, if we only view the past through the morals and ideals we hold dear, how will we get the history right?
My bewilderment continues.
How will we get the future back on track?
Ours is an oftentimes sad and tortured history. We sometimes struggle to get it right. This is because holidays are not the same as history. Holidays are about creating memory. They are about inculcating identity. History is about uncovering truth. It is about drawing lessons.
On Sunday, Jews will commemorate Tisha B’Av, the day our tradition sets aside to mark past tragedies, in particular the destruction of the First Temple by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E. and the Second by the Romans in 70 C.E. We look at these through the lenses of tradition.
Judaism suggests that not only were the temples destroyed on this day, but nearly every tragedy that ever happened to the Jewish people occurred on the ninth of Av. The spies returned from the land of Israel with a bad report on Tisha B’Av. The Jews were expelled from England in 1290 and then from Spain in 1492 on the ninth of Av. World War I started, and operations began at the Treblinka death camp, as well as deportations from the Warsaw ghetto, on Tisha B’Av.
Our tradition is decisive. History is less clear.
The tradition suggests the Babylonians leveled the temple. Historians continue to dig for the truth. Some suggest it was not really King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylonia but instead the Edomites who burned the temple to the ground. The tradition turns away from this debate and shifts the focus to why. The Book of Lamentations, the words we chant on this fast day, argues that it was all because of our sins. “Jerusalem has greatly sinned; therefore, she is become a mockery.” (Lamentations 1)
Likewise, the rabbis looked within to explain the destruction of the Second Temple. The Talmud tells a remarkable story. Here is the legend. A man had a friend named Kamza and an enemy called Bar Kamza. One time when he was throwing a party, his event planner sent the invite to Bar Kamza instead of Kamza. When Bar Kamza showed up at the party, the man was furious.
He told Bar Kamza to leave and even said to him, “I don’t want you here. You have been gossiping about me.” Bar Kamza was embarrassed about leaving, but not apparently about gossiping, and so offered to pay for the cost of the party. The man refused his generosity and threw him out. The other guests did not get involved in the dispute. Even the rabbis in attendance said nothing.
Bar Kamza left the party stewing in anger. So, he went straight to the Roman authorities and said, “The Jews are rebelling against you.” The emperor asked, “How can I be certain?” Bar Kamza responded, “Send them a calf to offer as a sacrifice and you will see that they will refuse it.” Meanwhile, Bar Kamza secretly rendered the animal unkosher.
The rabbis realized they were in a bind. If they offer the calf, they will please the Romans but dishonor their tradition. If they don’t offer the sacrifice, they will uphold their traditions, but anger the emperor. The majority argued to keep the peace. (Some argued to kill Bar Kamza! Too bad they did not say, “Maybe we should have gotten involved at the party.”) Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas persuaded them that the tradition must persevere and so they refused the emperor’s gift.
The Romans were so enraged that they destroyed the temple and leveled Jerusalem. (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b-56a) All of this happened because of a mistaken invitation. One small, seemingly insignificant event spiraled out of control. Interpersonal failures can sometimes lead to tragic, and cataclysmic, consequences. They can spill over well beyond the initial people involved.
And this is a lesson that continues to find contemporary resonance. Beware of where baseless hatred can lead. “Lonely sits the city. Once great with people! She that was great among nations is become like a widow; the princess among states is become a thrall.” (Lamentations 1)
Traditions offer morals. They also neatly hue to preconceived ideologies.
Historical tragedies impel us to mourn, but they can also provide us with opportunities for self-examination. Do we heed this call?
What of history’s lessons?
If we only look at the past through the lenses of tradition and identity, if we only view the past through the morals and ideals we hold dear, how will we get the history right?
My bewilderment continues.
How will we get the future back on track?
The Importance of Keeping Our Word
The Torah states: “Moses spoke to the heads of the Israelite tribes, saying, ‘This is what the Lord has commanded: when people make vows or take an oath, they shall not break their pledge; they must carry out all that has crossed their lips.’” (Numbers 30)
Commentators ask, “Why did Moses speak to the heads of the tribes? Why did he direct his words to the leaders and not all the people?” And like most rabbis, they answer their own questions.The Hatam Sofer, a leading nineteenth century rabbi, responds: “The reason is that leaders often make all types of promises which they don’t keep. Because they often go back on their promises, this warning was aimed specifically at them.”
Leaders should be the most careful with their words. They should be more careful than everyone else.
The Torah’s counsel remains even more relevant today. Its teachings are a reminder of the power of what we say, and promise, and the importance of keeping our word.
The Wilderness Light Is Nearby
Ed Yong writes: “More than a third of humanity, and almost 80 percent of North Americans, can no longer see the Milky Way. ‘The thought of light traveling billions of years from distant galaxies only to be washed out in the last billionth of a second by the glow from the nearest strip mall depresses me to no end,’ the visual ecologist Sönke Johnsen once wrote.” (“How Animals Perceive the Word," The Atlantic, July/August 2022)
Sometimes a phrase startles. It radiates meaning.
I can still recall those few, miraculous times when I witnessed the nighttime sky iridescent with millions of stars. One instance was many years ago when I was hiking in the Sinai desert. There, after the light of the campfire was extinguished, I looked up to see the blackness filled with innumerable stars. When I look up from my backyard, I can often see a few stars, but nothing as luminous as when I turned my eyes upward from the Sinai wilderness.
That difference is only a matter of a billionth of a second!
These days I have been marveling at the images from the Webb Telescope. I did not know what the Carina Nebula was before last week, but I have now discovered it is breathtaking and beautiful. There is the Southern Ring Nebula, Stephan’s Quintet and even SMACS 0723. Science reveals nature’s majesty.
One of the blessings of the pandemic—and I hesitate to extol its blessings while we are still struggling with its disruptions and reckoning with its losses—is how it turned us toward nature. For those first months most especially God’s handiwork was the only spectacle we could attend. And I suspect this might be why I became captivated and intrigued by Ed Yong’ article.
In it he explains that every animal lives within its own sensory bubble, called Umwelt. Its perceived world is its entire world. Only human beings can appreciate the Umwelten of other species. Only human beings can expand their vision and broaden their concern to other worlds. Because of this we have the added responsibility to care for the earth and its creatures.
And then I turned to the Torah and happened upon this verse: “Let the Lord, God of the spirits of all flesh, appoint someone over the community…” (Numbers 27)
Again, I was struck by a phrase. The spirits of all flesh. Does this point to animal spirits? There is the divine spirit in all creatures, in all of nature.
Ed Yong once more:
Sometimes a phrase startles. It radiates meaning.
I can still recall those few, miraculous times when I witnessed the nighttime sky iridescent with millions of stars. One instance was many years ago when I was hiking in the Sinai desert. There, after the light of the campfire was extinguished, I looked up to see the blackness filled with innumerable stars. When I look up from my backyard, I can often see a few stars, but nothing as luminous as when I turned my eyes upward from the Sinai wilderness.
That difference is only a matter of a billionth of a second!
These days I have been marveling at the images from the Webb Telescope. I did not know what the Carina Nebula was before last week, but I have now discovered it is breathtaking and beautiful. There is the Southern Ring Nebula, Stephan’s Quintet and even SMACS 0723. Science reveals nature’s majesty.
One of the blessings of the pandemic—and I hesitate to extol its blessings while we are still struggling with its disruptions and reckoning with its losses—is how it turned us toward nature. For those first months most especially God’s handiwork was the only spectacle we could attend. And I suspect this might be why I became captivated and intrigued by Ed Yong’ article.
In it he explains that every animal lives within its own sensory bubble, called Umwelt. Its perceived world is its entire world. Only human beings can appreciate the Umwelten of other species. Only human beings can expand their vision and broaden their concern to other worlds. Because of this we have the added responsibility to care for the earth and its creatures.
And then I turned to the Torah and happened upon this verse: “Let the Lord, God of the spirits of all flesh, appoint someone over the community…” (Numbers 27)
Again, I was struck by a phrase. The spirits of all flesh. Does this point to animal spirits? There is the divine spirit in all creatures, in all of nature.
Ed Yong once more:
The majesty of nature is not restricted to canyons and mountains. It can be found in the wilds of perception—the sensory spaces that lie outside our Umwelt and within those of other animals. To perceive the world through others’ senses is to find splendor-in familiarity and the sacred in the mundane. Wonders exist in a backyard garden, where bees take the measure of a flower’s electric fields, leafhoppers send vibrational melodies through the stems of plants, and birds behold the hidden palettes of ultraviolet colors on their flock-mates’ feathers. Wilderness is not distant. We are continually immersed in it. It is there for us to imagine, to savor, and to protect.Although I can still remember the stars illuminating the Sinai’s darkened sky, wilderness need not remain so distant. It can be discovered in my backyard.
Mr. President, Visit the Parks and Coffee Shops
President Biden arrived in Jerusalem yesterday. He is staying a short walk from the institute where my wife Susie and I are studying.
The other evening, we walked home past the King David Hotel where the president is staying and made our way through Liberty Bell Park. It was filled with Muslims celebrating Eid al-Adha, the holiday commemorating Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, Ishmael. (Islam’s version of this story is different than Judaism’s.) There was enthusiasm, and ease, in the air as families shared picnic dinners and children played on the basketball courts.
We then made our way to the First Station, the renovated space of what was once the train station where people arrived in Jerusalem when they traveled from Tel Aviv. There, among the restaurants, bars and shops, we discovered secular, ultra-Orthodox and Arab Israelis, as well as a fair number of rabbis from our program. In one area, Israelis were taking a dance class and in another, they were enjoying a late dinner and in yet another, an evening cocktail.
There was no sense of the tension, and challenges, one reads about in the news....
The other evening, we walked home past the King David Hotel where the president is staying and made our way through Liberty Bell Park. It was filled with Muslims celebrating Eid al-Adha, the holiday commemorating Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son, Ishmael. (Islam’s version of this story is different than Judaism’s.) There was enthusiasm, and ease, in the air as families shared picnic dinners and children played on the basketball courts.
We then made our way to the First Station, the renovated space of what was once the train station where people arrived in Jerusalem when they traveled from Tel Aviv. There, among the restaurants, bars and shops, we discovered secular, ultra-Orthodox and Arab Israelis, as well as a fair number of rabbis from our program. In one area, Israelis were taking a dance class and in another, they were enjoying a late dinner and in yet another, an evening cocktail.
There was no sense of the tension, and challenges, one reads about in the news....
Walking Jerusalem's Streets, Walking to Redemption
In 1996, the leading American Jewish historian, Jonathan Sarna wrote: “The Zion of the American Jewish imagination became something of a fantasy land: a seductive heaven-on-earth, where enemies were vanquished, guilt assuaged, hopes realized, and deeply felt longings satisfied.”
The Torah reports: “The Lord said to Moses and Aaron, ‘Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.’” (Numbers 20)
This week, I returned to Jerusalem after a three-year pandemic induced hiatus. Walking the streets of Jerusalem, even though still jet-lagged, felt immediately restorative. I have returned home. I wonder. Is this imagined or real?
It is an incalculable blessing to live in this unparalleled time in Jewish history....
The Torah reports: “The Lord said to Moses and Aaron, ‘Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.’” (Numbers 20)
This week, I returned to Jerusalem after a three-year pandemic induced hiatus. Walking the streets of Jerusalem, even though still jet-lagged, felt immediately restorative. I have returned home. I wonder. Is this imagined or real?
It is an incalculable blessing to live in this unparalleled time in Jewish history....
Greatness Is an Aspiration
This week we read the story about Korah’s rebellion. He, his followers and 250 leaders, gathered against Moses and Aaron. They said: “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy.” (Numbers 16)
At first glance their complaint appears legitimate. They seem to say that no person is greater than another. Every Israelite is holy and can have a relationship with God. They appear to suggest that while no one is Moses, every person can aspire to his level of holiness.
Yeshayahu Leibowitz, the great Israeli philosopher, finds meaning in the words “are holy.” The rebels believe they are holy, that they have already achieved greatness. Leibowitz teaches that holiness is about striving for greatness. Korah and his followers say in effect, “We have achieved everything. Nothing more is demanded of us.”
The Torah teaches the contrary. Holiness must never be a present boast, but instead a future goal. Leibowitz continues to say that there are people like Korah in every generation. In every time and every place, there are people who believe that they are already holy and great. They are convinced that there is nothing more for them to do to improve their lives or the lot of those who surround them or the people they serve or the world, and the earth, they are bequeathed.
The Torah reminds instead. Our task is to become holy.
Look as well at Moses’ humility. When he was first called at the burning bush, he proclaimed his unworthiness. The true measure of someone who wants to serve God, and others, is to always proclaim, and feel, that they are not up to the task. And yet, circumstances (and God’s call) propel them to serve others. They spend their lives striving, but never achieving.
On this July 4th weekend, when we celebrate the gifts, and responsibilities, of American democracy, we would do well to heed the Torah’s message.
Holiness is about becoming.
Greatness is not an achievement. It is instead an aspiration.
At first glance their complaint appears legitimate. They seem to say that no person is greater than another. Every Israelite is holy and can have a relationship with God. They appear to suggest that while no one is Moses, every person can aspire to his level of holiness.
Yeshayahu Leibowitz, the great Israeli philosopher, finds meaning in the words “are holy.” The rebels believe they are holy, that they have already achieved greatness. Leibowitz teaches that holiness is about striving for greatness. Korah and his followers say in effect, “We have achieved everything. Nothing more is demanded of us.”
The Torah teaches the contrary. Holiness must never be a present boast, but instead a future goal. Leibowitz continues to say that there are people like Korah in every generation. In every time and every place, there are people who believe that they are already holy and great. They are convinced that there is nothing more for them to do to improve their lives or the lot of those who surround them or the people they serve or the world, and the earth, they are bequeathed.
The Torah reminds instead. Our task is to become holy.
Look as well at Moses’ humility. When he was first called at the burning bush, he proclaimed his unworthiness. The true measure of someone who wants to serve God, and others, is to always proclaim, and feel, that they are not up to the task. And yet, circumstances (and God’s call) propel them to serve others. They spend their lives striving, but never achieving.
On this July 4th weekend, when we celebrate the gifts, and responsibilities, of American democracy, we would do well to heed the Torah’s message.
Holiness is about becoming.
Greatness is not an achievement. It is instead an aspiration.
Self-Esteem Is the Secret
At the conclusion of a recent family get together we stood for the requisite photo. The twenty somethings among us said things like, “I want to be on the left. This is my better side. Let me stand in the middle. I look better in that spot.” To be honest, I have no idea which is my better side, despite the fact that photographers often move me around for better angles.
Unlike prior generations, our children are keenly aware of how they appear to others.
They are also the most photographed, and catalogued, group of people in history. What a monumental task to sift through the innumerable digital files we collect in order to stitch together a montage. Today, because of social media, most especially Instagram, people are intensely aware of how they look to others.
The spies returned from scouting the land of Israel and reported, “We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13) How did they know how they looked to the land’s inhabitants? I wonder. Is their estimation of themselves so diminished that this is how they imagined everyone saw them?
Abraham Twerski who was both a rabbi and psychiatrist, comments:
In our own age, this phenomenon is compounded by social media. The tabulation of likes has become the incessant and imaginary voices of the Canaanites saying, “Look at that outfit. Look at his smile. Look at her hair.” And now, I worry. Everyone is in danger of seeing themselves as grasshoppers.
Self-perception is unduly influenced by others. Self-esteem is undermined by likes, or even more so, by their absence.
I wonder how we can better sway our perception of ourselves. Twerski observes, “The way you feel about yourself is the way you believe that others perceive you.” Do his words continue to hold true? His insights from 1987 seem so outdated. Or are they instead prophetic?
Because of the spies’ negative report, the Israelites are destined to spend forty years wandering in the Sinai wilderness. God insists that those who left Egypt as slaves, apart from Joshua and Caleb who offered a positive report, will die in the wilderness. Only those who were born in the Sinai, who were born free, will enter the land of Israel and live there in security.
Those born in freedom do not see themselves as grasshoppers. They instead see themselves as mighty. They are free from the shackles of how others see them.
Does the Torah’s story hinge on self-perception? Is our own redemption tied to self-esteem?
How can we tell our children not to mistake Instagram’s comments and likes for who they are and who they can become? How can we convince our children that faith in themselves, and their own abilities, and most especially their God-given potential is all that really matters? It is this faith in themselves that ensures the Israelites eventual redemption.
This faith makes all the difference in the world. It can likewise change our children’s Torah. It can transport them, like the Israelites, from wandering aimlessly to finding security and arriving home.
Unlike prior generations, our children are keenly aware of how they appear to others.
They are also the most photographed, and catalogued, group of people in history. What a monumental task to sift through the innumerable digital files we collect in order to stitch together a montage. Today, because of social media, most especially Instagram, people are intensely aware of how they look to others.
The spies returned from scouting the land of Israel and reported, “We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13) How did they know how they looked to the land’s inhabitants? I wonder. Is their estimation of themselves so diminished that this is how they imagined everyone saw them?
Abraham Twerski who was both a rabbi and psychiatrist, comments:
The person who sees a given object is certain that everyone else sees just what he sees. He does not doubt the validity of his sense of perception, and if he sees a brown-table, he naturally assumes that everyone else also sees the object as a brown table. Similarly, the person who has a perception of himself as being dull, socially inept, unattractive, or unlikeable, is convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that this is also the way others perceive him. To him, his perception is reality.The spies could not hear what the Canaanites said about them. They imagined that they called them puny grasshoppers because that is how they saw themselves. They heard the inhabitants saying over and over again, “Look at how small those Israelites are.”
In our own age, this phenomenon is compounded by social media. The tabulation of likes has become the incessant and imaginary voices of the Canaanites saying, “Look at that outfit. Look at his smile. Look at her hair.” And now, I worry. Everyone is in danger of seeing themselves as grasshoppers.
Self-perception is unduly influenced by others. Self-esteem is undermined by likes, or even more so, by their absence.
I wonder how we can better sway our perception of ourselves. Twerski observes, “The way you feel about yourself is the way you believe that others perceive you.” Do his words continue to hold true? His insights from 1987 seem so outdated. Or are they instead prophetic?
Because of the spies’ negative report, the Israelites are destined to spend forty years wandering in the Sinai wilderness. God insists that those who left Egypt as slaves, apart from Joshua and Caleb who offered a positive report, will die in the wilderness. Only those who were born in the Sinai, who were born free, will enter the land of Israel and live there in security.
Those born in freedom do not see themselves as grasshoppers. They instead see themselves as mighty. They are free from the shackles of how others see them.
Does the Torah’s story hinge on self-perception? Is our own redemption tied to self-esteem?
How can we tell our children not to mistake Instagram’s comments and likes for who they are and who they can become? How can we convince our children that faith in themselves, and their own abilities, and most especially their God-given potential is all that really matters? It is this faith in themselves that ensures the Israelites eventual redemption.
This faith makes all the difference in the world. It can likewise change our children’s Torah. It can transport them, like the Israelites, from wandering aimlessly to finding security and arriving home.
Unexpected Turns Make for Great Stories
Imagine the Israelites’ journey through the wilderness. They moved from camp to camp and from location to location throughout their wanderings in the Sinai desert. They were led on this forty-year journey by God. When the cloud remained over the tabernacle they stayed in camp. When the cloud moved, they broke camp.
The Torah reports: “Whether it was two days or a month or a year—however long the cloud lingered over the tabernacle—the Israelites remained encamped and did not set out; only when it lifted did they break camp.” (Numbers 9)
And I am lingering on those opening words: “whether it was two days or a month or year.” How unsettled is the Israelites’ lot. They did not know which way they were headed or how long they would stay once they got there. Rabbi Obadiah ben Jacob Sforno who lived in late fifteenth century Italy comments:
Sforno again comments: “It was impossible to predict with any degree of probability how long they would stay in one location.”
Perhaps the entire journey was a test. Perhaps all of their wanderings were meant to teach the Torah’s most important truth. There is only one thing on which the people can know for certain and on which they can rely. And that is God.
The journey was entirely in God’s hands.
Do we have the faith to determine the same? Do we have the faith to exclaim, “Our wanderings are entirely at God’s direction?”
Is it possible to see life’s journeys, its unexpected turns, and most especially those unforeseen hurdles that are entirely outside of our control, as adventures or better yet as demonstrations that we are not leading but being led?
Even Moses did not know how long they would stay in one location. If he did not know, then how can we expect to know what lies ahead?
Sure, we can complain like the Israelites. But we can also have faith like the Israelites.
We may think we are Moses and leading our lives. Instead, we are just like the Israelites being led in a circuitous path that provides miracles and adventures, grumblings and mishaps. All that we can know for sure is that it makes for great stories.
And one beautiful Torah.
Have faith!
The Torah reports: “Whether it was two days or a month or a year—however long the cloud lingered over the tabernacle—the Israelites remained encamped and did not set out; only when it lifted did they break camp.” (Numbers 9)
And I am lingering on those opening words: “whether it was two days or a month or year.” How unsettled is the Israelites’ lot. They did not know which way they were headed or how long they would stay once they got there. Rabbi Obadiah ben Jacob Sforno who lived in late fifteenth century Italy comments:
This is now already the fifth time the Torah belabors the subject of these journeys, something totally unprecedented. It alerts us to how sometimes the people did not even have time to send their beasts to graze, whereas on other occasions they had to dismantle everything at very short notice, any plans they had made having to be abandoned.It is no wonder that they complained. It is no wonder that they grumbled against Moses. “The people took to complaining bitterly.” (Numbers 11) Just when they started getting comfortable in one place they had to pack up and move to another.
Sforno again comments: “It was impossible to predict with any degree of probability how long they would stay in one location.”
Perhaps the entire journey was a test. Perhaps all of their wanderings were meant to teach the Torah’s most important truth. There is only one thing on which the people can know for certain and on which they can rely. And that is God.
The journey was entirely in God’s hands.
Do we have the faith to determine the same? Do we have the faith to exclaim, “Our wanderings are entirely at God’s direction?”
Is it possible to see life’s journeys, its unexpected turns, and most especially those unforeseen hurdles that are entirely outside of our control, as adventures or better yet as demonstrations that we are not leading but being led?
Even Moses did not know how long they would stay in one location. If he did not know, then how can we expect to know what lies ahead?
Sure, we can complain like the Israelites. But we can also have faith like the Israelites.
We may think we are Moses and leading our lives. Instead, we are just like the Israelites being led in a circuitous path that provides miracles and adventures, grumblings and mishaps. All that we can know for sure is that it makes for great stories.
And one beautiful Torah.
Have faith!
Going It Alone
The first king of Israel, Saul, was threatened by the brash and charismatic upstart, David and so he did what kings frequently do. Saul tried to kill him and chased David into the wilderness. There, in hiding, David found sanctuary in the beautiful and majestic oasis of Ein Gedi. And there, alone and afraid, he composed the psalm’s words:
My soul is depressed, for they set a trap to ensnare my feet; they even dug a pit to capture me, but they themselves, fell into it, selah.
My heart is ready, O God, my heart is ready; I shall sing and chant hymns of praise.
Awake, my glorious soul. Awake, lute and lyre, for I shall awaken the dawn.
I shall acknowledge You among the nations, Adonai; I shall sing of You among the peoples of the world. (Psalm 57)
Sometimes the most heartfelt, and beautiful, prayers are composed in moments of existential crisis. Spiritual longing is often solitary. The quest is singular.
David is terrified Saul is going to kill him and attempts to prepare himself for death. “I am ready.” But then he finds strength. “I shall sing.” He suggests an antidote to his fears. “Awake, my glorious soul. Awake, lute and lyre, for I shall awaken the dawn.”
I often visit Israel during the hottest days of July. Hiking along Ein Gedi’s paths the heat starts to get to the better of me and I can imagine David’s fears. When I finally reach what is now called David’s Waterfall, my exhaustion finds relief. The fear dissipates. The waterfall’s cool mist tempers the heat. My spirit is restored.
Awake, my glorious soul.
More words of David’s poems come to mind:
David is terrified Saul is going to kill him and attempts to prepare himself for death. “I am ready.” But then he finds strength. “I shall sing.” He suggests an antidote to his fears. “Awake, my glorious soul. Awake, lute and lyre, for I shall awaken the dawn.”
I often visit Israel during the hottest days of July. Hiking along Ein Gedi’s paths the heat starts to get to the better of me and I can imagine David’s fears. When I finally reach what is now called David’s Waterfall, my exhaustion finds relief. The fear dissipates. The waterfall’s cool mist tempers the heat. My spirit is restored.
Awake, my glorious soul.
More words of David’s poems come to mind:
O God, You are my God and thus shall I be first every morning to seek You out.My soul thirsts for You; my flesh longs for You as though I were parched in an arid land, as though I were exhausted in a land without water.Surely I have seen You in the sanctuary; I have merited to see Your power and glory.And, as Your mercy is better than life itself, my lips shall always praise You. (Psalm 63)
If not for David’s fears, and angst, if not for his journeys into the wilderness, I might not have these words on which to cling. “My soul thirsts for You.” Artists, and spiritual seekers, need to be alone with their thoughts. They need to work through their challenges, and difficulties; they need to confront their demons, and enemies. There they discover poetry and song, music and art. We become the beneficiaries of their struggles.
And yet Judaism does not want to leave us alone. It counsels us that our best prayers are those said in community. The kaddish is to be said with a minyan of ten people. The tradition exclaims, “It is not good to mourn alone.”
But that is exactly when we confront those anxieties and fears. The thoughts of longing most often occur when alone. We cannot help but think of those we mourn when by ourselves. Are we never to be left alone? Are we always to be surrounded by friends and community? Can a spiritual quest ever be in the singular?
The Torah responds: “If anyone, man or woman, explicitly utters a nazirite’s vow, to set himself apart for the Lord, then he shall abstain from wine…” (Numbers 6) And what is a nazirite’s vow? No drinking of wine. No cutting the hair. And what does Judaism say about this? Narishkeit! Foolishness. We no longer make such vows. We don’t believe that an individual can get closer to God in this way.
The tradition shouts: “Never go it alone.” On Yom Kippur, the community fasts together. Only together can we get closer to God. Even David’s eloquent words are inserted into the Rosh Hashanah prayers. They are not to be said without others. It is as if the tradition states, “Don’t get any ideas about making a pilgrimage to Ein Gedi standing under the waterfall by yourself and reciting David’s words there."
And still, I am left wondering. What about the creative energies that come from personal existential angst and fears?
I turn to another poet. I turn to Rainer Maria Rilke:
And yet Judaism does not want to leave us alone. It counsels us that our best prayers are those said in community. The kaddish is to be said with a minyan of ten people. The tradition exclaims, “It is not good to mourn alone.”
But that is exactly when we confront those anxieties and fears. The thoughts of longing most often occur when alone. We cannot help but think of those we mourn when by ourselves. Are we never to be left alone? Are we always to be surrounded by friends and community? Can a spiritual quest ever be in the singular?
The Torah responds: “If anyone, man or woman, explicitly utters a nazirite’s vow, to set himself apart for the Lord, then he shall abstain from wine…” (Numbers 6) And what is a nazirite’s vow? No drinking of wine. No cutting the hair. And what does Judaism say about this? Narishkeit! Foolishness. We no longer make such vows. We don’t believe that an individual can get closer to God in this way.
The tradition shouts: “Never go it alone.” On Yom Kippur, the community fasts together. Only together can we get closer to God. Even David’s eloquent words are inserted into the Rosh Hashanah prayers. They are not to be said without others. It is as if the tradition states, “Don’t get any ideas about making a pilgrimage to Ein Gedi standing under the waterfall by yourself and reciting David’s words there."
And still, I am left wondering. What about the creative energies that come from personal existential angst and fears?
I turn to another poet. I turn to Rainer Maria Rilke:
I would describe myselfI require the poems of the individual (and lost) spirit. I need the songs of the community’s (landed) prayers.
like a landscape I’ve studied
at length, in detail;
like a world I’m coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother’s face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged. (The Book of a Monastic Life)
The Meaning of Shavuot
Recently, I opened one of the many Torah commentaries that line my shelves, and found these words, “My Haftorah can be find [sic] on pg. 509 in the larger Hertz Chumash.” Forty-five years ago, I read those words before chanting the prophet Amos on the Shabbat when I became a bar mitzvah. As I looked over the pages, I could even decipher transliterations over a few select Hebrew words.
I had opened this Bible in search of an alternative translation of a curious Hebrew phrase. In our weekly class, we were transfixed by an unusual verse and grappling with the meaning of some of the Torah’s words. More often than not, I rely on other commentaries, but on this occasion, I searched for another interpretation. Mysteriously, the Bible opened to my Haftorah. And when I saw my handwriting and the introductory words scrawled above the Haftorah Amos, I stumbled upon my thirteen-year-old self.
I wondered. “Why did the rabbi instruct me to scribble those words in the chumash?” I tried to jog my memory, “Did anyone else turn to pg. 509? Had the rabbi taught me the meaning of the words I chanted?” I do not recall. I do remember the praise of family members and friends. A flood of memories filled my heart. My grandparents acted as if my bar mitzvah was the greatest in thousands of years.
I laughed as I remembered...
I had opened this Bible in search of an alternative translation of a curious Hebrew phrase. In our weekly class, we were transfixed by an unusual verse and grappling with the meaning of some of the Torah’s words. More often than not, I rely on other commentaries, but on this occasion, I searched for another interpretation. Mysteriously, the Bible opened to my Haftorah. And when I saw my handwriting and the introductory words scrawled above the Haftorah Amos, I stumbled upon my thirteen-year-old self.
I wondered. “Why did the rabbi instruct me to scribble those words in the chumash?” I tried to jog my memory, “Did anyone else turn to pg. 509? Had the rabbi taught me the meaning of the words I chanted?” I do not recall. I do remember the praise of family members and friends. A flood of memories filled my heart. My grandparents acted as if my bar mitzvah was the greatest in thousands of years.
I laughed as I remembered...
Enough Guns!
After the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I thought our country would finally address its epidemic of gun violence. After students spoke out and organized following the murders at Parkland’s Stoneman Douglas High School, I thought our nation would finally develop gun safety laws.
I don’t know why we cannot agree. It is first and foremost about guns.
It is about Americans’ love affair with guns and the easy access we have to these lethal weapons. Our nation is unique among affluent countries. We experience sixty times more gun deaths than people living in the United Kingdom and six times as many as neighboring Canada. There is one explanation for these staggering differences. There are more guns in the United States than people. Why does a nation of 330 million people need 393 million guns?
Will laws eliminate gun deaths? Of course not. Will regulations prevent every person intent on doing harm from injuring or killing? Again, of course not. But can we do more? Should we be doing much, much more? Absolutely.
I cannot even scroll through all the pictures of these adorable, smiling and loving children. I make it only to Amerie Garza and then must look away. Their teacher Eva Mirales’ beautiful smile, framed by our country’s breathtaking landscape, makes me gasp and look elsewhere.
Have I already forgotten Celestine Chaney and Roberta Drury who were murdered in Buffalo last week? How many people remember the name of Daniel Enriquez who was killed in our very own city’s subway? I must not look away. I must take in every single one of these now erased smiles.
Do I even know the names of the approximately fifty people shot and killed by guns every day? Can I even count the names of those additional fifty who use guns to take their own lives every single day of the year?
It is about guns. And it is about our inability to develop better laws that will allow us to continue using and owning guns while also better protecting us from the dangers of these very same guns. How do these innocent lives now taken from their families not call us to do more? I recognize that the young man who pulled the trigger again and again is disturbed. But let us also recognize that he used guns to commit these murders.
It is not an infringement of rights to regulate something that is known to be lethal and injurious.
I still remember the protests against seat belts. I still recall my complaints about how burdensome and uncomfortable these belts were. And now I even clip the belt into its buckle when backing out of the driveway. Cars are dangerous. And yet, I have been witness to them becoming far safer and even more importantly, far less lethal. Part of that transformation is technological advances, and innovations such as seat belts, anti-locking braking and air bags.
The other part of that change is better laws.
We belong to a tradition that believes laws, and commandments, can make our lives better. That is the Jewish contention. This week the Torah declares, “If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments…. I will grant peace in the land, and you shall lie down untroubled by anyone; I will give the land respite from vicious beasts, and no sword shall cross your land.” (Leviticus 26)
The Hebrew does not actually say, “follow” but instead “walk.” The laws are a path that we walk upon. They help us to live and allow us to thrive. They enable us to walk proudly.
And so, my prayer is twofold. May we develop laws that guarantee the rights of those who wish to use and own guns. May we write laws that better guarantee the safety of all our citizens and protect every person from needless gun violence. It is not an either/or choice. We can live in safety while affirming the rights enshrined in the second amendment!
I pray. May the memories of Xavier Lopez, Jose Flores, Eliahana Cruz Torres, Jackie Cazares, Ellie Garcia, Jailah Nicole Silguero, Jayce Carmelo Luevanos, Tess Marie Mata, Nevaeh Bravo, Makenna Lee Elrod, Maite Rodriguez, Alexandria Aniyah Rubio, Uziyah Garcia, Amerie Jo Garza, Annabelle Guadalupe Rodriguez, Irma Garcia, Eva Mirele and Roberta A. Drury, Margus D. Morrison, Andre Mackniel, Aaron Salter, Geraldine Talley, Celestine Chaney, Heyward Patterson, Katherine Massey, Pearl Young, Ruth Whitfield and Daniel Enriquez as well as the hundreds of others whose names I do not know serve as blessing and inspiration to help us once and for all work to reduce the number of murdered souls.
May we work to banish the need for these far too commonplace and frequent public memorials when we recite a litany of murdered six-year-olds and ten-year-olds.
Walk by these laws. Stand in safety.
I don’t know why we cannot agree. It is first and foremost about guns.
It is about Americans’ love affair with guns and the easy access we have to these lethal weapons. Our nation is unique among affluent countries. We experience sixty times more gun deaths than people living in the United Kingdom and six times as many as neighboring Canada. There is one explanation for these staggering differences. There are more guns in the United States than people. Why does a nation of 330 million people need 393 million guns?
Will laws eliminate gun deaths? Of course not. Will regulations prevent every person intent on doing harm from injuring or killing? Again, of course not. But can we do more? Should we be doing much, much more? Absolutely.
I cannot even scroll through all the pictures of these adorable, smiling and loving children. I make it only to Amerie Garza and then must look away. Their teacher Eva Mirales’ beautiful smile, framed by our country’s breathtaking landscape, makes me gasp and look elsewhere.
Have I already forgotten Celestine Chaney and Roberta Drury who were murdered in Buffalo last week? How many people remember the name of Daniel Enriquez who was killed in our very own city’s subway? I must not look away. I must take in every single one of these now erased smiles.
Do I even know the names of the approximately fifty people shot and killed by guns every day? Can I even count the names of those additional fifty who use guns to take their own lives every single day of the year?
It is about guns. And it is about our inability to develop better laws that will allow us to continue using and owning guns while also better protecting us from the dangers of these very same guns. How do these innocent lives now taken from their families not call us to do more? I recognize that the young man who pulled the trigger again and again is disturbed. But let us also recognize that he used guns to commit these murders.
It is not an infringement of rights to regulate something that is known to be lethal and injurious.
I still remember the protests against seat belts. I still recall my complaints about how burdensome and uncomfortable these belts were. And now I even clip the belt into its buckle when backing out of the driveway. Cars are dangerous. And yet, I have been witness to them becoming far safer and even more importantly, far less lethal. Part of that transformation is technological advances, and innovations such as seat belts, anti-locking braking and air bags.
The other part of that change is better laws.
We belong to a tradition that believes laws, and commandments, can make our lives better. That is the Jewish contention. This week the Torah declares, “If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments…. I will grant peace in the land, and you shall lie down untroubled by anyone; I will give the land respite from vicious beasts, and no sword shall cross your land.” (Leviticus 26)
The Hebrew does not actually say, “follow” but instead “walk.” The laws are a path that we walk upon. They help us to live and allow us to thrive. They enable us to walk proudly.
And so, my prayer is twofold. May we develop laws that guarantee the rights of those who wish to use and own guns. May we write laws that better guarantee the safety of all our citizens and protect every person from needless gun violence. It is not an either/or choice. We can live in safety while affirming the rights enshrined in the second amendment!
I pray. May the memories of Xavier Lopez, Jose Flores, Eliahana Cruz Torres, Jackie Cazares, Ellie Garcia, Jailah Nicole Silguero, Jayce Carmelo Luevanos, Tess Marie Mata, Nevaeh Bravo, Makenna Lee Elrod, Maite Rodriguez, Alexandria Aniyah Rubio, Uziyah Garcia, Amerie Jo Garza, Annabelle Guadalupe Rodriguez, Irma Garcia, Eva Mirele and Roberta A. Drury, Margus D. Morrison, Andre Mackniel, Aaron Salter, Geraldine Talley, Celestine Chaney, Heyward Patterson, Katherine Massey, Pearl Young, Ruth Whitfield and Daniel Enriquez as well as the hundreds of others whose names I do not know serve as blessing and inspiration to help us once and for all work to reduce the number of murdered souls.
May we work to banish the need for these far too commonplace and frequent public memorials when we recite a litany of murdered six-year-olds and ten-year-olds.
Walk by these laws. Stand in safety.
Numbering Our Days with Meaning
We find ourselves in the midst of the Omer, the period when we count seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot. The custom originated in biblical times when we counted from Passover’s wheat harvest until Shavuot’s barley harvest. An omer is a sheaf of grain. During this time semi-mourning practices are observed, namely no weddings are celebrated.
The explanations for this are various and somewhat mysterious. I have often thought that it was most likely because there was worry about the upcoming harvest. Others suggest that during rabbinic times a plague afflicted the disciples of Rabbi Akiva. According to some accounts 24,000 students died.
Miraculously on the 33rd day of the Omer the plague lifted. Today is in fact the 33rd day called Lag B’Omer. On this day the mourning practices are lifted. People celebrate and gather around bonfires. We are no longer downcast. Our worry disappears.
The Omer serves to connect the freedom celebrated on Passover with the giving of Torah on Mount Sinai. The Jewish tradition’s claim is obvious. Freedom is meaningless if it is not wed to something greater, to something larger than itself. Passover is not about the freedom to get to do whatever we want. It is about freely choosing Torah.
That is why the tradition stubbornly insists on counting the Omer. We count from freedom to revelation. We march from Egypt to Sinai. Our history is about the journey from this holiday to the next. Our story is reenacted during the Omer.
The rabbis wonder why the plague was so severe. In typical fashion they see its devastation as a critique of their behavior. They see our remembrance of this tragedy as an opportunity to turn inward. And what was the sin that caused the plague? The rabbis teach: it was because they and their disciples failed to act respectfully towards each other.
What extraordinary self-awareness! What remarkable willingness to offer self-criticism!
Although their historical claims appear questionable the lesson remains instructive. We are again plagued by the failure to act respectfully towards each other. Our leaders scream at one another. Our politicians call each other names.
Our debates no longer appear about ideas but instead grievances. We no longer argue with people whose political views are different than our own. Instead, we shout past each other and raise our voices about who is more aggrieved.
Again and again, I am reminded that the counting of the Omer offers important lessons for today. We best number our days with the meaning Torah provides.
The explanations for this are various and somewhat mysterious. I have often thought that it was most likely because there was worry about the upcoming harvest. Others suggest that during rabbinic times a plague afflicted the disciples of Rabbi Akiva. According to some accounts 24,000 students died.
Miraculously on the 33rd day of the Omer the plague lifted. Today is in fact the 33rd day called Lag B’Omer. On this day the mourning practices are lifted. People celebrate and gather around bonfires. We are no longer downcast. Our worry disappears.
The Omer serves to connect the freedom celebrated on Passover with the giving of Torah on Mount Sinai. The Jewish tradition’s claim is obvious. Freedom is meaningless if it is not wed to something greater, to something larger than itself. Passover is not about the freedom to get to do whatever we want. It is about freely choosing Torah.
That is why the tradition stubbornly insists on counting the Omer. We count from freedom to revelation. We march from Egypt to Sinai. Our history is about the journey from this holiday to the next. Our story is reenacted during the Omer.
The rabbis wonder why the plague was so severe. In typical fashion they see its devastation as a critique of their behavior. They see our remembrance of this tragedy as an opportunity to turn inward. And what was the sin that caused the plague? The rabbis teach: it was because they and their disciples failed to act respectfully towards each other.
What extraordinary self-awareness! What remarkable willingness to offer self-criticism!
Although their historical claims appear questionable the lesson remains instructive. We are again plagued by the failure to act respectfully towards each other. Our leaders scream at one another. Our politicians call each other names.
Our debates no longer appear about ideas but instead grievances. We no longer argue with people whose political views are different than our own. Instead, we shout past each other and raise our voices about who is more aggrieved.
Again and again, I am reminded that the counting of the Omer offers important lessons for today. We best number our days with the meaning Torah provides.
Remembering Annie, Remembering the Holocaust
And sometimes, when I am reading and learning about the Shoah, I can still hear Annie’s voice in my ears. I can still hear the words she would offer to our students when she came every year to our sixth-grade class to speak about how she survived the Holocaust.
I recall how she would tell them how her life was similar to theirs before the Nazis invaded her native Poland. I remember many things, but a few notes from her story are deserving of mention. She told the students how when she and her family were crammed into a train car heading for a death camp, her father managed to pry open the small window with the tools he had smuggled on the train. Men, and boys, squeezed through the opening and jumped first. And then it was the women’s, and girl’s, turn. The last boy became scared and so Annie who was to be the first girl jumped in his stead and then he after her.
By then the guards on top of the train discovered what they were doing and shot and killed that boy when he jumped. Annie’s last memories of her mother and sister, who were murdered in that death camp, is saying goodbye to her sister in that cramped train car and the feeling of her mother’s hands pushing her from behind to help her squeeze through the window. She never saw them again. Only she and her father managed to survive. Still, even after her many attempts to avoid capture, the Nazis did manage to find her when a former classmate identified her as a Jew. And yet, she would emphasize to the students not that neighbor who turned her in but the other people who hid her or gave her a morsel of food or offered her a warm bath when she was on the run. There were good people who helped her survive.
She spent nearly one and half years in concentration camps. She would try to convey to our students how terrible the experience was in the camps. She was always hungry. She became weak and emaciated. And then she would often tell the students how she and three other girls would share their daily rations. They used one of their tea rations, or what she would tell them was more like dirty water, to color their cheeks. That way they would not look as pale as they actually were. And looking healthier meant one more day of life. And then she would often point her finger and say, “Living is worth it. No matter how bad things seem, life is precious.”
Then she would conclude her story by saying, “Am Yisrael Chai!—the Jewish people lives.” We would then give the students an opportunity to talk about what they heard and come up to Annie and ask questions. They would often want to see her number up close: 38330. Some would want to touch her arm and feel the tattoo and she would let them. She never covered her number up. She wanted the world to see it. Her arm served as testimony against the Nazis and the evil they perpetrated, but also of course witness to her survival.
I would often drive her home after Hebrew School concluded. In the car, we would talk about what she had just shared. I had this sense that telling her story was both simultaneously invigorating and exhausting. she would often say, “You know rabbi I leave out some of the details out when talking to such young students.” I remember thinking, “There were worse moments than jumping off a moving train on a snowy winter night? There were worse memories than drinking dirty water tea and eating a half slice of bread every day?”
On one occasion, she told me the following, “We used to have to squat to go to the bathroom at the edge of these latrine pits. Sometimes people were so weak that they fell in and drowned in those pits. On other occasions the Nazi guards would push people into those pits, and they would drown.” Even going to the bathroom was dangerous. In the camps even that most mundane and basic of human things could mean death. The Nazis robbed Jews of their humanity.
I cannot explain why that is the memory I can never forget. Perhaps it was because I had this feeling that Annie needed to share it and speak it out loud but felt she could not tell such a horror to our young students. She wanted them to remain hopeful. Her goal when telling our students was to instill hope. Even in the midst of sharing the terrors that she experienced, she wanted to protect our children. She did not want them only to see antisemitism and death. She wanted them to see survival and life.
Annie did survive. She married and had a daughter. She celebrated the b’nai mitzvah of grandchildren as well as weddings. She was present for the birth of great grandchildren.
She wanted our students to remember the Nazi evils but also see survival and hope. And that of course is the point of our garden so aptly named “Annie’s Garden.” In the winter there will be its barren trees and bushes and its cold, stone benches. I will then imagine her tumbling in the snowbank when Annie tried to evade her Nazi tormentors. And then every year, around this time, its bushes will start filling with color and its flowers will start blooming. And I will recall her concluding message of hope and her words. “Life is always worth it. Am Yisrael Chai!”
Enlarge Your Vision and Feed the Hungry
After several courses at our Passover seder, including matzah ball soup, chicken, brisket, tzimmes, various vegetables, and of course many glasses of wine, dessert was finally served. And then after that quintessential Passover sponge cake, we still found room for a few macaroons, jelly rings and candied fruit slices. What a feast! It seemed fitting for a king or queen.
That is of course by design. When crafting the rituals for our seders the rabbis looked toward the lavish meals of the Greeks and Romans. They thought to themselves, “This is how free people eat. They recline. They are served. They dip their foods. This is how we should celebrate our feast of freedom.”
I think of this lavishness, and yes, its overindulgence, when reading this week’s portion. It contains a list of all the holidays. Shabbat leads the list. Then comes Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and finally Sukkot. (The Torah does not mention our beloved Hanukkah or even Purim because the events these holidays commemorate had not yet occurred.)
Sandwiched in between the instructions about marking Shavuot’s wheat harvest and Rosh Hashanah’s sounding of the shofar, is a commandment that appears out of place. The Torah states: “And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I Adonai am your God.” (Leviticus 23)
Not only does this commandment appear out of nowhere but it is repeated almost word for word from last week’s portion. I want to shout: “Did you think I already forgot this mitzvah or that my attention span is that short?” I want to retort, “My field of view, and in particular the horizon of my compassion is not that limited?” Or is it?
All those sumptuous desserts, and the wonderful company of family and friends, can obscure our peripheral vision. The poor and the stranger are cast aside. While the holidays elevate our lives, they can also diminish our sensitivities. The Torah exclaims, “Don’t let your celebrations blind you to the needs of others.” Don’t forget those who are not invited to our tables. Don’t forget the hungry.
The edges of our fields belong to them. Not every morsel of food is ours for the taking. Allow others to gather what we mistakenly label as leftovers. Leave the gleanings for others. Years ago, the organization Mazon: A Jewish Response to Hunger was founded.
It was predicated on the idea that our holidays, and celebrations present us with two competing mitzvahs. On the one hand, we are supposed to celebrate our holidays with food and festivities. We are intended to rejoice at our simchas. And yet, on the other hand, we are commanded to remember those less fortunate than ourselves and even more importantly, help them find the nourishment and sustenance all require.
How does Mazon suggest we accomplish these seemingly competing goals? Tithe what we spend on our celebrations’ food and make a donation to organizations such as Mazon who then distribute funds to soup kitchens, food pantries and the like. Although we are not feeding the hungry directly, although we are not leaving the edges of our plates for the poor and the stranger, we are enabling Mazon to do this in our behalf.
By all means, celebrate! And by all means, always remember that others are not worrying about if they ate too many macaroons, but instead how they are going to afford this evening’s meal. They are asking, “Will my family’s stomachs growl from hunger this evening? How will I find some food tomorrow morning?”
Take up the Torah’s command. Leave the gleanings! Enlarge your vision. Widen your circle of compassion.
That is of course by design. When crafting the rituals for our seders the rabbis looked toward the lavish meals of the Greeks and Romans. They thought to themselves, “This is how free people eat. They recline. They are served. They dip their foods. This is how we should celebrate our feast of freedom.”
I think of this lavishness, and yes, its overindulgence, when reading this week’s portion. It contains a list of all the holidays. Shabbat leads the list. Then comes Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and finally Sukkot. (The Torah does not mention our beloved Hanukkah or even Purim because the events these holidays commemorate had not yet occurred.)
Sandwiched in between the instructions about marking Shavuot’s wheat harvest and Rosh Hashanah’s sounding of the shofar, is a commandment that appears out of place. The Torah states: “And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I Adonai am your God.” (Leviticus 23)
Not only does this commandment appear out of nowhere but it is repeated almost word for word from last week’s portion. I want to shout: “Did you think I already forgot this mitzvah or that my attention span is that short?” I want to retort, “My field of view, and in particular the horizon of my compassion is not that limited?” Or is it?
All those sumptuous desserts, and the wonderful company of family and friends, can obscure our peripheral vision. The poor and the stranger are cast aside. While the holidays elevate our lives, they can also diminish our sensitivities. The Torah exclaims, “Don’t let your celebrations blind you to the needs of others.” Don’t forget those who are not invited to our tables. Don’t forget the hungry.
The edges of our fields belong to them. Not every morsel of food is ours for the taking. Allow others to gather what we mistakenly label as leftovers. Leave the gleanings for others. Years ago, the organization Mazon: A Jewish Response to Hunger was founded.
It was predicated on the idea that our holidays, and celebrations present us with two competing mitzvahs. On the one hand, we are supposed to celebrate our holidays with food and festivities. We are intended to rejoice at our simchas. And yet, on the other hand, we are commanded to remember those less fortunate than ourselves and even more importantly, help them find the nourishment and sustenance all require.
How does Mazon suggest we accomplish these seemingly competing goals? Tithe what we spend on our celebrations’ food and make a donation to organizations such as Mazon who then distribute funds to soup kitchens, food pantries and the like. Although we are not feeding the hungry directly, although we are not leaving the edges of our plates for the poor and the stranger, we are enabling Mazon to do this in our behalf.
By all means, celebrate! And by all means, always remember that others are not worrying about if they ate too many macaroons, but instead how they are going to afford this evening’s meal. They are asking, “Will my family’s stomachs growl from hunger this evening? How will I find some food tomorrow morning?”
Take up the Torah’s command. Leave the gleanings! Enlarge your vision. Widen your circle of compassion.