Weddings and Destiny
Every wedding at which I officiate there is always a hint of beshert. Even in this age of JSwipe I hear fate’s echoes. “I did not think anything would come of it, but he would not stop texting me, so I figured I would meet him for drinks and that would be it. And then on that first date we could not stop talking.” He adds, “She is so intelligent and beautiful. We soon realized that we share the same values.”
How can one not believe in divine providence when looking at a young couple standing beneath the huppah? The Baal Shem Tov teaches, “From every human being there rises a light that reaches straight to heaven. And when two souls that are destined to be together find each other, their streams of light flow together, and a single brighter light goes forth from their united being.” Their smiles illuminate. That single light shines.
This love must be more than mere happenstance. It is evidence of God’s hand.
And yet I often teach that we do not believe in destiny. The High Holidays would be meaningless if we did not believe that people could rewrite their future. Over and over again we profess our belief in the promise of repentance. Everyone can make amends and change. No one’s fate is sealed. The huppah suggests otherwise.
The Torah concurs. Before Jacob dies he gathers his children around him to offer blessings. “And Jacob called his sons and said, ‘Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come…’” (Genesis 49) Simeon and Levi, who kill the inhabitants of Shechem, are forever tainted. Jacob states, “Cursed be their anger so fierce, and their wrath so relentless. I will divide them in Jacob, scatter them in Israel.” Their past actions seal their destiny. Their future is written.
Fate is again illuminated. And our theology shadowed.
I recall the huppah.
Yehudah Amichai comments:
Perhaps things can never be as precise as theology and philosophy suggest. We carry that moment when the stars appear to align, forever.
How can one not believe in divine providence when looking at a young couple standing beneath the huppah? The Baal Shem Tov teaches, “From every human being there rises a light that reaches straight to heaven. And when two souls that are destined to be together find each other, their streams of light flow together, and a single brighter light goes forth from their united being.” Their smiles illuminate. That single light shines.
This love must be more than mere happenstance. It is evidence of God’s hand.
And yet I often teach that we do not believe in destiny. The High Holidays would be meaningless if we did not believe that people could rewrite their future. Over and over again we profess our belief in the promise of repentance. Everyone can make amends and change. No one’s fate is sealed. The huppah suggests otherwise.
The Torah concurs. Before Jacob dies he gathers his children around him to offer blessings. “And Jacob called his sons and said, ‘Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come…’” (Genesis 49) Simeon and Levi, who kill the inhabitants of Shechem, are forever tainted. Jacob states, “Cursed be their anger so fierce, and their wrath so relentless. I will divide them in Jacob, scatter them in Israel.” Their past actions seal their destiny. Their future is written.
Fate is again illuminated. And our theology shadowed.
I recall the huppah.
Yehudah Amichai comments:
Joy blurs everything. I've heard people sayI look to the couple, standing beneath the huppah. God’s hand materializes.
after nights of love and feasting, "It was great,
I was in seventh heaven." Even the spaceman who floated
in outer space, tethered to a spaceship, could say only, "Great,
wonderful, I have no words."
The blurriness of joy and the precision of pain —
I want to describe, with a sharp pain's precision, happiness
and blurry joy.
Perhaps things can never be as precise as theology and philosophy suggest. We carry that moment when the stars appear to align, forever.
Why Religion Stays Relevant
Google Maps and Waze have transformed the way we drive. No longer do we have to listen to 1010 on the ones. No longer do we have to check News12 before leaving the house. Now our iPhones make instantaneous calculations and then reroute us around traffic.
Of course, you have to trust the phone. You have to have faith in its algorithms. You have to let go of all that accumulated wisdom gained from years of driving around the New York area.
Our children find this letting go easy and natural. They are digital natives. We find this far more difficult. We still remember the days of folded maps and AAA Triptiks. A student recently remarked about his parents and my contemporaries. He constantly admonishes his father with the words, “Dad, if you are going to use Waze you have to listen to it.” And so we listen begrudgingly, although there are times that we still think we know better.
Our parents’ generation finds this letting go even more troublesome. They refuse to give a measure of authority to a tiny cellphone. Reason does not work. I gently prod....
Of course, you have to trust the phone. You have to have faith in its algorithms. You have to let go of all that accumulated wisdom gained from years of driving around the New York area.
Our children find this letting go easy and natural. They are digital natives. We find this far more difficult. We still remember the days of folded maps and AAA Triptiks. A student recently remarked about his parents and my contemporaries. He constantly admonishes his father with the words, “Dad, if you are going to use Waze you have to listen to it.” And so we listen begrudgingly, although there are times that we still think we know better.
Our parents’ generation finds this letting go even more troublesome. They refuse to give a measure of authority to a tiny cellphone. Reason does not work. I gently prod....
War, Peace and Prayer
Years have passed since Joseph’s brothers conspired against him and sold him into slavery in Egypt. And now, following an uneven path to power, Joseph has become Egypt’s vice president. Because of his ability to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams, he has effectively prepared the country for the famine. Meanwhile back in the land of Israel Joseph’s family is ill-prepared. They are forced to make several journeys to Egypt in order to procure food.
Joseph seizes upon this opportunity. Because his brothers do not recognize him, but he of course recognizes them, he develops an elaborate plan to see if they have changed. He entraps the youngest of the brothers, Benjamin, hiding a goblet in his bag of food, and threatens to throw him into jail. Judah, an elder brother, pleads in behalf of Benjamin. He suggests that Joseph arrest him instead.
At this moment, Joseph is overcome with emotion and reveals himself to his brothers. They are dumbstruck. He forgives them. They have indeed changed. They stand in the exact same situation and yet this time choose differently. They are once again given the opportunity to get rid of their father Jacob’s favorite child and yet this time choose instead to defend him. They exhibit complete repentance.
This week’s portion opens with the words: “Then Judah drew near (vayigash) to him and said, ‘Please, my lord, let your servant appeal to my lord.’” (Genesis 44) This drawing near offers an insight into how we are to go about fixing relationships and repairing the world. The rabbis comment (Midrash Rabbah):
Said Rabbi Yehudah: The verb “he drew near” (vayigash) implies an approach to battle, as in the verse “So Yoav and the people that were with him drew near to do battle” (II Samuel 10).
Rabbi Nechemiah said: The verb “he drew near" implies a coming near for reconciliation, as in the verse “Then the children of Judah drew near to Joshua” (Joshua 14).
The sages said: It implies coming near for prayer, as in the verse “When it was time to present the meal offering, the prophet Elijah drew near and said, ‘O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel!’” (I Kings 18).
Rabbi Eleazar combined all these views. Judah approached Joseph with all three in mind, saying: If it be for war, I approach to make war; if it be for reconciliation, I approach to make amends; if it be for prayer, I approach to pray.
The fascinating insight about this ancient commentary is the notion of how thin the line between war, reconciliation and prayer. In drawing near to another it could be for a fight. Or it could be to make peace. Or it could be to offer a prayer.
In an age when apologies are too often offered by text message, when bellicosity rockets across social media, and when prayers are circulated through email, we would do well to remember that the critical, and most important, point is the act of drawing near.
Little can be accomplished when distance separates people. The relationship cannot be transformed if people refuse to look each other in the eyes. They must stand face to face. They must draw near.
And in that moment of drawing near, a relationship can be repaired and the world transformed. When we approach another we may fear war, but it can turn to peace. We may expect reconciliation but it can inadvertently turn into an argument, disagreement and even belligerence. A moment when we are ready for a fight, when we are prepared for reconciliation can likewise be transformed into prayer.
We must be prepared for prayer, reconciliation and argument, all, at the same time.
We must always draw near. Vayigash! Draw near.
Joseph seizes upon this opportunity. Because his brothers do not recognize him, but he of course recognizes them, he develops an elaborate plan to see if they have changed. He entraps the youngest of the brothers, Benjamin, hiding a goblet in his bag of food, and threatens to throw him into jail. Judah, an elder brother, pleads in behalf of Benjamin. He suggests that Joseph arrest him instead.
At this moment, Joseph is overcome with emotion and reveals himself to his brothers. They are dumbstruck. He forgives them. They have indeed changed. They stand in the exact same situation and yet this time choose differently. They are once again given the opportunity to get rid of their father Jacob’s favorite child and yet this time choose instead to defend him. They exhibit complete repentance.
This week’s portion opens with the words: “Then Judah drew near (vayigash) to him and said, ‘Please, my lord, let your servant appeal to my lord.’” (Genesis 44) This drawing near offers an insight into how we are to go about fixing relationships and repairing the world. The rabbis comment (Midrash Rabbah):
Said Rabbi Yehudah: The verb “he drew near” (vayigash) implies an approach to battle, as in the verse “So Yoav and the people that were with him drew near to do battle” (II Samuel 10).
Rabbi Nechemiah said: The verb “he drew near" implies a coming near for reconciliation, as in the verse “Then the children of Judah drew near to Joshua” (Joshua 14).
The sages said: It implies coming near for prayer, as in the verse “When it was time to present the meal offering, the prophet Elijah drew near and said, ‘O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel!’” (I Kings 18).
Rabbi Eleazar combined all these views. Judah approached Joseph with all three in mind, saying: If it be for war, I approach to make war; if it be for reconciliation, I approach to make amends; if it be for prayer, I approach to pray.
The fascinating insight about this ancient commentary is the notion of how thin the line between war, reconciliation and prayer. In drawing near to another it could be for a fight. Or it could be to make peace. Or it could be to offer a prayer.
In an age when apologies are too often offered by text message, when bellicosity rockets across social media, and when prayers are circulated through email, we would do well to remember that the critical, and most important, point is the act of drawing near.
Little can be accomplished when distance separates people. The relationship cannot be transformed if people refuse to look each other in the eyes. They must stand face to face. They must draw near.
And in that moment of drawing near, a relationship can be repaired and the world transformed. When we approach another we may fear war, but it can turn to peace. We may expect reconciliation but it can inadvertently turn into an argument, disagreement and even belligerence. A moment when we are ready for a fight, when we are prepared for reconciliation can likewise be transformed into prayer.
We must be prepared for prayer, reconciliation and argument, all, at the same time.
We must always draw near. Vayigash! Draw near.
Hanukkah and Alternative Facts
There is the Hanukkah we prefer to tell and then there is the Hanukkah of history.
We prefer to tell the story of the miracle of oil. Here is that telling. When the Maccabees recaptured the Temple from the Syrian-Greeks they found only enough oil to last for one day of the planned eight-day rededication ceremony. Nonetheless they lit the oil. Miraculously the oil lasted for all eight days.
We prefer as well to speak about the victory of a small group of rebels against the mighty army of their day. One brave man, Mattathias, led the charge against the Syrian-Greek army. Outnumbered, and outgunned, Mattathias and his five sons led the rebel army. They fought valiantly, using cunning tactics, and eventually achieved victory. After seven long years they recaptured the holy city of Jerusalem.
Their cause was just and their enemies evil. A great miracle happened there.
In fact the real Hanukkah is one of pain and discord. It was a civil war. The Maccabees fought against other Jews who were enamored of Greek culture. They killed their fellow Jews. Once they gained power they soon became corrupt rulers and persecuted those who disagreed with their fervor. They even forcibly circumcised those Jews who chose not to observe this ritual.
The preferred story covers over this painful history. We prefer to forget such dissension and division. And yet the facts offer an important lesson for this year. They stand as a warning against zealotry and fanaticism. History stands as a testimony against those who believe that God is on their side and their side alone.
Again and again, we must figure out how to engage in civil discourse without destroying the communities and countries we call home. Recently I was privileged to hear Charlie Baker, the Republican Governor of Massachusetts. He spoke about what it was like growing up with a mother who was a life-long Democrat and a father, a Republican. He joked that they cancelled each other out in every election.
And yet it was because of this seeming division that he developed his passion for political service. It was around the family dinner table, where ideas were debated and positions were refined. The family argued with zeal. They debated with each other as if the country’s very survival depended on it. And yet they never stopped being a family. When he ran for governor he asked his mom if she would now vote for a Republican. “You know, son, it is a secret ballot,” was her response.
This balance is exactly what we require. We need to rediscover that table where debate is encouraged, and where everyone is still family. This is the rabbis’ dream. They found a way to live as a community while embracing competing ideas. They rejected the Maccabees path.
The Maccabees ruled for 100 years. And then 230 years after the Maccabees wrested control from the Syrian-Greeks, the Romans advanced on Masada to discover that the zealots committed mass suicide rather than be taken prisoner. A short distance away Jerusalem and its Temple lay in ruins.
Ultimately zealotry consumes itself. Sadly it also consumes those around it.
We did not again achieve sovereignty in the land of Israel until our own age. We did not fashion these United States until rather recently in human history. Democracy is a fragile enterprise.
We have waited too long to allow zealotry to consume us once again.
We prefer to tell the story of the miracle of oil. Here is that telling. When the Maccabees recaptured the Temple from the Syrian-Greeks they found only enough oil to last for one day of the planned eight-day rededication ceremony. Nonetheless they lit the oil. Miraculously the oil lasted for all eight days.
We prefer as well to speak about the victory of a small group of rebels against the mighty army of their day. One brave man, Mattathias, led the charge against the Syrian-Greek army. Outnumbered, and outgunned, Mattathias and his five sons led the rebel army. They fought valiantly, using cunning tactics, and eventually achieved victory. After seven long years they recaptured the holy city of Jerusalem.
Their cause was just and their enemies evil. A great miracle happened there.
In fact the real Hanukkah is one of pain and discord. It was a civil war. The Maccabees fought against other Jews who were enamored of Greek culture. They killed their fellow Jews. Once they gained power they soon became corrupt rulers and persecuted those who disagreed with their fervor. They even forcibly circumcised those Jews who chose not to observe this ritual.
The preferred story covers over this painful history. We prefer to forget such dissension and division. And yet the facts offer an important lesson for this year. They stand as a warning against zealotry and fanaticism. History stands as a testimony against those who believe that God is on their side and their side alone.
Again and again, we must figure out how to engage in civil discourse without destroying the communities and countries we call home. Recently I was privileged to hear Charlie Baker, the Republican Governor of Massachusetts. He spoke about what it was like growing up with a mother who was a life-long Democrat and a father, a Republican. He joked that they cancelled each other out in every election.
And yet it was because of this seeming division that he developed his passion for political service. It was around the family dinner table, where ideas were debated and positions were refined. The family argued with zeal. They debated with each other as if the country’s very survival depended on it. And yet they never stopped being a family. When he ran for governor he asked his mom if she would now vote for a Republican. “You know, son, it is a secret ballot,” was her response.
This balance is exactly what we require. We need to rediscover that table where debate is encouraged, and where everyone is still family. This is the rabbis’ dream. They found a way to live as a community while embracing competing ideas. They rejected the Maccabees path.
The Maccabees ruled for 100 years. And then 230 years after the Maccabees wrested control from the Syrian-Greeks, the Romans advanced on Masada to discover that the zealots committed mass suicide rather than be taken prisoner. A short distance away Jerusalem and its Temple lay in ruins.
Ultimately zealotry consumes itself. Sadly it also consumes those around it.
We did not again achieve sovereignty in the land of Israel until our own age. We did not fashion these United States until rather recently in human history. Democracy is a fragile enterprise.
We have waited too long to allow zealotry to consume us once again.
Joseph, Family and Jerusalem
Jerusalem is the capital of the State of Israel regardless of what the world thinks or does.
I worry, however, that President Trump’s announcement, which appears motivated more by his desire to fulfill a campaign promise rather than a grand vision for Middle East peace, will not lead to peace. I worry that Prime Minister Netanyahu’s exclusive focus on Israel’s external threats, namely Iran and Islamist terrorism, and not on the continuing erosion of Israel’s democracy, will undermine Israel’s survival. Zionism is about securing a Jewish future that is built on both Jewish and democratic values. It is about writing our own history. It is about taking swift and bold action to defend Jewish lives, like attacking an Iranian base in Syria, as Israel recently did, and what I wish Israeli leaders also did, not expanding settlements in areas, such as Arab East Jerusalem, that the majority of Israelis imagine will one day be home to a Palestinian state.
I continue to hold on to the Psalmist’s words, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem; may those who love you be at peace. May there be peace within your ramparts, peace in your citadels. For the sake of my kin and friends, I pray for your peace; for the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I seek your good.” (Psalm 122)
And now for some brief words of Torah.
This week we begin the tragic story of Joseph and his brothers. Their father Jacob is not the best of fathers, at least according to all of my b’nai mitzvah students who are appalled by his behavior and the fact that he so blatantly favors one son over all the others. Joseph is also not the best of brothers. He flaunts his father’s gifts before them. He tells his brothers of his many dreams in which he imagines he will one day rule over them.
They understandably become incensed. Some want to kill him. (Also not the best demonstration of brotherly love, or of basic human behavior.) They decide instead to sell him into slavery. They cover his multi-colored tunic with animal blood and tell their father that a wild beast killed him.
There are so many things that went wrong. There are so many corrections, and detours, that could have avoided this tragic outcome. Small acts of favoritism, feelings of ill will, mushroom out of control. The family is divided. And the young Joseph finds himself alone in a foreign land.
Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz, a leading rabbi in eighteenth century Prague writes: “Had Joseph and his brothers sat down together, they would have spoken to one another and could have told one another what bothered them. Then they would have ironed out their differences. The trouble in every argument is that there is no common language and no one listening.”
Kind of makes one think about how every argument, and how every disagreement, too easily becomes a crisis. People no longer speak to each other. They console themselves with their resentments. They wallow in their righteousness.
Kind of makes one think of Jerusalem.
Torah is never a diversion from the contemporary. It always speaks to now.
I worry, however, that President Trump’s announcement, which appears motivated more by his desire to fulfill a campaign promise rather than a grand vision for Middle East peace, will not lead to peace. I worry that Prime Minister Netanyahu’s exclusive focus on Israel’s external threats, namely Iran and Islamist terrorism, and not on the continuing erosion of Israel’s democracy, will undermine Israel’s survival. Zionism is about securing a Jewish future that is built on both Jewish and democratic values. It is about writing our own history. It is about taking swift and bold action to defend Jewish lives, like attacking an Iranian base in Syria, as Israel recently did, and what I wish Israeli leaders also did, not expanding settlements in areas, such as Arab East Jerusalem, that the majority of Israelis imagine will one day be home to a Palestinian state.
I continue to hold on to the Psalmist’s words, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem; may those who love you be at peace. May there be peace within your ramparts, peace in your citadels. For the sake of my kin and friends, I pray for your peace; for the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I seek your good.” (Psalm 122)
And now for some brief words of Torah.
This week we begin the tragic story of Joseph and his brothers. Their father Jacob is not the best of fathers, at least according to all of my b’nai mitzvah students who are appalled by his behavior and the fact that he so blatantly favors one son over all the others. Joseph is also not the best of brothers. He flaunts his father’s gifts before them. He tells his brothers of his many dreams in which he imagines he will one day rule over them.
They understandably become incensed. Some want to kill him. (Also not the best demonstration of brotherly love, or of basic human behavior.) They decide instead to sell him into slavery. They cover his multi-colored tunic with animal blood and tell their father that a wild beast killed him.
There are so many things that went wrong. There are so many corrections, and detours, that could have avoided this tragic outcome. Small acts of favoritism, feelings of ill will, mushroom out of control. The family is divided. And the young Joseph finds himself alone in a foreign land.
Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz, a leading rabbi in eighteenth century Prague writes: “Had Joseph and his brothers sat down together, they would have spoken to one another and could have told one another what bothered them. Then they would have ironed out their differences. The trouble in every argument is that there is no common language and no one listening.”
Kind of makes one think about how every argument, and how every disagreement, too easily becomes a crisis. People no longer speak to each other. They console themselves with their resentments. They wallow in their righteousness.
Kind of makes one think of Jerusalem.
Torah is never a diversion from the contemporary. It always speaks to now.
Prayers Work If You Believe
Recently I was listening to Pastor Rudy’s Love Revolution on SiriusXM’s gospel station. (I recognize this is not how one might expect a rabbi to begin an article, but to be honest that’s the station I more often listen to.) Hezekiah Walker sang, “Every praise is to our God, every word of worship with one accord…” In between listening to some of my favorite gospel singers, Pastor Rudy opined, “Prayer does work. God does listen.”
The music left me. The songs faded. My thoughts wandered. “Really? How can he be so sure? How does he know prayer works? How can he be so confident God is listening?” There are so many things demanding God’s attention and care. There is an entire world in need of healing and filled with brokenness. God is going to listen to my small prayers, which must appear so self-absorbed in comparison to the world’s grand problems?
A crisis emerged. How can I lead prayer if I doubt prayer, if even for a moment?
I recalled an experience from some years ago....
The music left me. The songs faded. My thoughts wandered. “Really? How can he be so sure? How does he know prayer works? How can he be so confident God is listening?” There are so many things demanding God’s attention and care. There is an entire world in need of healing and filled with brokenness. God is going to listen to my small prayers, which must appear so self-absorbed in comparison to the world’s grand problems?
A crisis emerged. How can I lead prayer if I doubt prayer, if even for a moment?
I recalled an experience from some years ago....
Cycling and Jerusalem Dreams
The Giro d’Italia is the 21-day professional cycling Italian grand tour held every year in May. This year the first three days are being held in Israel. Day one is an individual time trial in Jerusalem. Day two travels from Haifa to Tel Aviv. And day three from Beersheva to Eilat. I wish to speak about this event is not only so I get to talk about cycling but because the controversies I feared might happen are beginning to come to fruition. One was expected. And the other, unexpected.
The first comes from expected corners. Palestinian activists accuse race organizers of being complicit in Israel’s occupation. They are critical of the decision to start the race in Jerusalem, a city that they feel is still contested and that they wish to have serve as the capital of a hoped for Palestinian state.
The second controversy comes from an unexpected place, Israeli officials....
The first comes from expected corners. Palestinian activists accuse race organizers of being complicit in Israel’s occupation. They are critical of the decision to start the race in Jerusalem, a city that they feel is still contested and that they wish to have serve as the capital of a hoped for Palestinian state.
The second controversy comes from an unexpected place, Israeli officials....
A Sufi Torah
I have spent the past week reading about the Sufi mystics.
I have always held a special place in my heart for fellow seekers. I have always searched throughout the world’s religious traditions for those, and their teachings, who wish to grow closer to God. That pursuit continues to occupy my thoughts and studies. I reject those who claim that such teachings are only found in their own tradition, and who shut their ears to truths emanating from voices outside their own, or who persecute and murder those whose claims are different than their own.
My heart is broken that, once again, people have been murdered while bent in prayer. This time it was some three hundred worshippers murdered, and over 100 hundred injured, in a Sufi mosque in the Sinai. ISIS claimed responsibility. My heart breaks that these worshippers were murdered in the name of faith, albeit a distorted faith.
The Sinai too holds a special place in my heart. There, I wandered throughout its wilderness, accompanied only by a few friends and Bedouin guides. There I could imagine how our faith was born. It is a stark wilderness. Our guides favored paths traversing the dry riverbeds, wadis, which offered the occasional shade and the lone tree under which we could rest. My frequent thirst and hunger made me more sympathetic to my ancestors’ gripes detailed in our Torah.
In my week’s reading I discovered that the celebrated Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides’ grandson, Obadiah, found his way to Sufi Islam. Obadiah’s father Abraham was the leader of Egypt’s Jews and greatly admired these mystics, believing that one could trace a direct line between Israel’s ancient prophets and his contemporary Sufis. But it was Obadiah who immersed himself most deeply, writing a treatise that sought to incorporate Sufi spiritual practices into Jewish observance. Kabbalah and Hasidism were no doubt influenced by these sacred borrowings.
A forgotten piece of history that too often gets lost in favor of a more linear view of the Jewish story. “Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai. He transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly…” (Avot 1) History instead moves in a meandering path.
I rediscovered the Sufi poet, Hafiz. A number of his books line my shelves. Living in fourteenth century Iran, Hafiz became the most well-known, and well read, of Sufi masters. He remains the most popular poet in modern day Iran. He writes:
I continue the wrestling match.
My continued act of defiance in the face of ongoing terror attacks is to renew my commitment to learn from others and to strengthen my faith not only by immersing myself in the words of my own tradition but in the teachings of others as well.
There is no such thing as a purity of faith.
There is only all of us. And if not, there is none of us.
I have always held a special place in my heart for fellow seekers. I have always searched throughout the world’s religious traditions for those, and their teachings, who wish to grow closer to God. That pursuit continues to occupy my thoughts and studies. I reject those who claim that such teachings are only found in their own tradition, and who shut their ears to truths emanating from voices outside their own, or who persecute and murder those whose claims are different than their own.
My heart is broken that, once again, people have been murdered while bent in prayer. This time it was some three hundred worshippers murdered, and over 100 hundred injured, in a Sufi mosque in the Sinai. ISIS claimed responsibility. My heart breaks that these worshippers were murdered in the name of faith, albeit a distorted faith.
The Sinai too holds a special place in my heart. There, I wandered throughout its wilderness, accompanied only by a few friends and Bedouin guides. There I could imagine how our faith was born. It is a stark wilderness. Our guides favored paths traversing the dry riverbeds, wadis, which offered the occasional shade and the lone tree under which we could rest. My frequent thirst and hunger made me more sympathetic to my ancestors’ gripes detailed in our Torah.
In my week’s reading I discovered that the celebrated Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides’ grandson, Obadiah, found his way to Sufi Islam. Obadiah’s father Abraham was the leader of Egypt’s Jews and greatly admired these mystics, believing that one could trace a direct line between Israel’s ancient prophets and his contemporary Sufis. But it was Obadiah who immersed himself most deeply, writing a treatise that sought to incorporate Sufi spiritual practices into Jewish observance. Kabbalah and Hasidism were no doubt influenced by these sacred borrowings.
A forgotten piece of history that too often gets lost in favor of a more linear view of the Jewish story. “Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai. He transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly…” (Avot 1) History instead moves in a meandering path.
I rediscovered the Sufi poet, Hafiz. A number of his books line my shelves. Living in fourteenth century Iran, Hafiz became the most well-known, and well read, of Sufi masters. He remains the most popular poet in modern day Iran. He writes:
I return to the Torah. I am reminded that we become Israel when we struggle with God. That is the essence of our name. “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with God, and with people, and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32) Thus the name Israel means to wrestle with God.You should have been invited to meetThe Friend.No one can resist a Divine Invitation.That narrows down all our choicesTo just two:We can come to GodDressed for Dancing,OrBe carried on a stretcherTo God’s Ward.
I continue the wrestling match.
My continued act of defiance in the face of ongoing terror attacks is to renew my commitment to learn from others and to strengthen my faith not only by immersing myself in the words of my own tradition but in the teachings of others as well.
The Torah was born in a stark, and beautiful, and most certainly parched, wilderness. It is my poem. It is not, however, the only poem.Again the words of my teacher, Hafiz:A poet is someoneWho can pour Light into a spoon,Then raise itTo nourishYour beautiful parched, holy mouth.
There is no such thing as a purity of faith.
There is only all of us. And if not, there is none of us.
The Detrimental Impact that Technology Has
A recurring enemy in the Star Trek series, of which I am a fan, is the Borg. They are cybernetic organisms that are linked together. They travel through space, and time, assimilating other species into their collective. They intone the words, “You will be assimilated; resistance is futile.” There is no individual autonomy, only the collective mind.
I think of them as I see how interconnected our lives have become.
Often my young students resist sharing their opinions with me. I push and prod. I explain to them that the meaning of being Jewish is to wrestle with the stories, and laws, found in the weekly readings. They do not get to pick their favorite chapter or verse. Instead it is assigned to them based on what weekend they will become a bar or bat mitzvah. Their task is to figure out what message it has for them. What is the meaning it might offer for their lives?
I realize that this is a weighty task. I recognize that their schooling trains them to memorize facts and figures....
I think of them as I see how interconnected our lives have become.
Often my young students resist sharing their opinions with me. I push and prod. I explain to them that the meaning of being Jewish is to wrestle with the stories, and laws, found in the weekly readings. They do not get to pick their favorite chapter or verse. Instead it is assigned to them based on what weekend they will become a bar or bat mitzvah. Their task is to figure out what message it has for them. What is the meaning it might offer for their lives?
I realize that this is a weighty task. I recognize that their schooling trains them to memorize facts and figures....
We Only Have Each Other
Isaac and Rebekah are the parents of twin boys: Jacob and Esau. The Jewish people trace their lineage through Jacob. His name is later changed to Israel and so we become, quite literally, the children of Israel.
The rabbis see glimmers of their lifestyle in Jacob’s character. “Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” (Genesis 25) Esau becomes synonymous with their enemies. He becomes the Roman conqueror. “Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors.” Two boys: one our hero, the other our enemy. Destiny is sealed from the moment Rebekah conceived. “The children struggled in her womb.”
The rabbis expound. When Rebekah walked by a house of study, Jacob would stir within her. And when she walked by a place where people practiced idolatry, Esau would grow excited. A fanciful story to be sure, and yet this interpretation has colored our worldview. We look back at Jacob as a harbinger of all that is good in Jewish life, of all that we hold dear. He represents the Jewish ideal. We see Esau as a representation of all that is evil. He becomes the paradigmatic outsider.
Perhaps instead the import of this story is that they are brothers. And yet they struggle so mightily even before the day they were born. Let’s be honest. We are still struggling with each other. It is not as if Jews get along with other Jews. Only this morning ultra-Orthodox Jews and Israeli security accosted Reform Jews at the Western Wall. My friends and colleagues sought to bring a Torah scroll into the Kotel plaza in order to celebrate the ordination of the 100th Israeli Reform rabbi.
Standing there, at this holiest of Jewish sites, I have been called a Nazi. I have heard young girls called whores.
As I read about this morning’s event, I found myself growing defiant and saying, “We are the true Jews. We are Jacob; they are Esau.” And then I realized they are saying the exact same words in their synagogues. Their rabbis are writing words parallel to my own. They are calling Reform Jews Esau.
We are left screaming at each other. We say, “You are Esau. I am Jacob.” We label the Jewish organizations whose ideology we do not share as treason. We shout, “I am kosher. You are treif.” I have heard, “JStreet is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” We call one another a danger to the Jewish people. I have read, “The ZOA gives succor to antisemites.”
I find comfort in the Torah. The truth of our story is that the children struggled. And Rebekah cries, “If so why do I exist?” She then inquires of the Lord.
Who is Jacob?
Who is Esau?
We too must inquire.
When will we realize we are Jacob and we are also Esau?
When will we realize we are brothers?
Later, after years of struggle, Jacob and Esau come to the realization that their brotherhood supersedes their bitterness. They recognize that their kinship must overwhelm even their sense of right and wrong.
“Esau embraced Jacob and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)
When will their realization become our own?
We only have each other.
Together we must embrace our common heritage. Together we must hold our Torah.
The rabbis see glimmers of their lifestyle in Jacob’s character. “Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” (Genesis 25) Esau becomes synonymous with their enemies. He becomes the Roman conqueror. “Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors.” Two boys: one our hero, the other our enemy. Destiny is sealed from the moment Rebekah conceived. “The children struggled in her womb.”
The rabbis expound. When Rebekah walked by a house of study, Jacob would stir within her. And when she walked by a place where people practiced idolatry, Esau would grow excited. A fanciful story to be sure, and yet this interpretation has colored our worldview. We look back at Jacob as a harbinger of all that is good in Jewish life, of all that we hold dear. He represents the Jewish ideal. We see Esau as a representation of all that is evil. He becomes the paradigmatic outsider.
Perhaps instead the import of this story is that they are brothers. And yet they struggle so mightily even before the day they were born. Let’s be honest. We are still struggling with each other. It is not as if Jews get along with other Jews. Only this morning ultra-Orthodox Jews and Israeli security accosted Reform Jews at the Western Wall. My friends and colleagues sought to bring a Torah scroll into the Kotel plaza in order to celebrate the ordination of the 100th Israeli Reform rabbi.
Standing there, at this holiest of Jewish sites, I have been called a Nazi. I have heard young girls called whores.
As I read about this morning’s event, I found myself growing defiant and saying, “We are the true Jews. We are Jacob; they are Esau.” And then I realized they are saying the exact same words in their synagogues. Their rabbis are writing words parallel to my own. They are calling Reform Jews Esau.
We are left screaming at each other. We say, “You are Esau. I am Jacob.” We label the Jewish organizations whose ideology we do not share as treason. We shout, “I am kosher. You are treif.” I have heard, “JStreet is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” We call one another a danger to the Jewish people. I have read, “The ZOA gives succor to antisemites.”
I find comfort in the Torah. The truth of our story is that the children struggled. And Rebekah cries, “If so why do I exist?” She then inquires of the Lord.
Who is Jacob?
Who is Esau?
We too must inquire.
When will we realize we are Jacob and we are also Esau?
When will we realize we are brothers?
Later, after years of struggle, Jacob and Esau come to the realization that their brotherhood supersedes their bitterness. They recognize that their kinship must overwhelm even their sense of right and wrong.
“Esau embraced Jacob and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)
When will their realization become our own?
We only have each other.
Together we must embrace our common heritage. Together we must hold our Torah.
Gallons of Compassion
In ancient times there was no such thing as JSwipe. Instead eligible bachelors would go to the local well where young women gathered to collect water.
Following Sarah’s death, Abraham charges his trusted servant Eliezer with the task of finding a wife for his apparently docile son Isaac. He loads ten camels for the lengthy journey. Eliezer arrives in Aram and approaches the well. He decides upon a test. Whoever offers water not only to him but his camels will be the woman Isaac should marry.
Rebekah approaches. (Cue the music! Who else is going to see Squeeze at the Paramount?) Eliezer says, “Please, let me sip a little water from your jar?” Rebekah immediately hands him the jar and says, “Drink, my lord.” And when he finished drinking, she said, “I will also draw for your camels until they finish drinking.”
This was no small undertaking. Let me put Rebekah’s offer in perspective. Camels need to drink approximately 25 gallons after such a long journey. There were ten camels. That means she had to fetch 250 gallons of water. Let’s say that a typical bucket holds two and half gallons. So that means she makes a hundred trips back and forth to the well. (Yes, I passed that part of my SAT.)
So now my question is what is wrong with Eliezer. Did he just sit there and watch her do all this heavy lifting? Apparently, yes. He sat and watched for the one hour and forty minutes it took for the camels to drink. By the way it takes a camel ten minutes to drink 25 gallons. (And I thought I would never again use SAT math.)
Commentators often speak about Rebekah’s compassion. “How do we know this?” they ask. Because she shows compassion for the animals. Because she thought not only of Eliezer’s thirst but also the animals’.
Now, after learning more about camels and doing some simple calculations, perhaps he was impressed with her extraordinary strength and stamina. She is not afraid of hard work. She is a doer. Given his servant Isaac’s timidness, he maybe thought, this is exactly the kind of woman Isaac needs to marry. Perhaps.
Then again the true measure of compassion appears to be when you do the extra and the unexpected.
It is all about the “and.”
That is the secret of the test Eliezer designs. It is also the secret to adding a measure of compassion to our own lives.
Following Sarah’s death, Abraham charges his trusted servant Eliezer with the task of finding a wife for his apparently docile son Isaac. He loads ten camels for the lengthy journey. Eliezer arrives in Aram and approaches the well. He decides upon a test. Whoever offers water not only to him but his camels will be the woman Isaac should marry.
Rebekah approaches. (Cue the music! Who else is going to see Squeeze at the Paramount?) Eliezer says, “Please, let me sip a little water from your jar?” Rebekah immediately hands him the jar and says, “Drink, my lord.” And when he finished drinking, she said, “I will also draw for your camels until they finish drinking.”
This was no small undertaking. Let me put Rebekah’s offer in perspective. Camels need to drink approximately 25 gallons after such a long journey. There were ten camels. That means she had to fetch 250 gallons of water. Let’s say that a typical bucket holds two and half gallons. So that means she makes a hundred trips back and forth to the well. (Yes, I passed that part of my SAT.)
So now my question is what is wrong with Eliezer. Did he just sit there and watch her do all this heavy lifting? Apparently, yes. He sat and watched for the one hour and forty minutes it took for the camels to drink. By the way it takes a camel ten minutes to drink 25 gallons. (And I thought I would never again use SAT math.)
Commentators often speak about Rebekah’s compassion. “How do we know this?” they ask. Because she shows compassion for the animals. Because she thought not only of Eliezer’s thirst but also the animals’.
Now, after learning more about camels and doing some simple calculations, perhaps he was impressed with her extraordinary strength and stamina. She is not afraid of hard work. She is a doer. Given his servant Isaac’s timidness, he maybe thought, this is exactly the kind of woman Isaac needs to marry. Perhaps.
Then again the true measure of compassion appears to be when you do the extra and the unexpected.
It is all about the “and.”
That is the secret of the test Eliezer designs. It is also the secret to adding a measure of compassion to our own lives.
Cell Phones are Ruining Serendipity
A few weeks ago a mystery object rocketed past earth. Astronomers scrambled to understand it. They had never before seen anything like it. They quickly labeled the small space rock “A/2017 U1.” They determined it was not a comet or asteroid, but instead from a different solar system than our own. It was from another world. You can detect the glee in the scientists’ exclamations. “I was not expecting to see anything like this during my career, even though we knew it was possible and that these objects exist,” said one NASA researcher. The theoretical became possible.
For a brief moment, the stars aligned. And luck provided a potentially ground breaking discovery.
Years ago, in fact when I was 15 years old, my brother and I were situated on either side of an older man on our family’s first trip to Israel. We kept him up for the better part of the flight, talking and being the mischievous brothers that we were–but are, I promise, no longer. A bond was formed. Our parents became especially close to Jerry and his wife Marion. A lifelong friendship was formed. One that spanned nearly 35 years until Jerry’s death several years ago and Marion’s a few weeks ago.
We used to think it was Jerry’s misfortune to be seated in between us....
For a brief moment, the stars aligned. And luck provided a potentially ground breaking discovery.
Years ago, in fact when I was 15 years old, my brother and I were situated on either side of an older man on our family’s first trip to Israel. We kept him up for the better part of the flight, talking and being the mischievous brothers that we were–but are, I promise, no longer. A bond was formed. Our parents became especially close to Jerry and his wife Marion. A lifelong friendship was formed. One that spanned nearly 35 years until Jerry’s death several years ago and Marion’s a few weeks ago.
We used to think it was Jerry’s misfortune to be seated in between us....
Halloween's Demons
We are saddened and outraged about Tuesday’s terrorist attack in New York City. Our hearts are joined in the all too familiar prayers of healing for those injured and comfort for the families of those murdered. Our hearts are also joined in resolve that we must never allow terror and fear to rule our lives, shade our city, or give color to our nation. I stubbornly believe that the most important battle against terrorism is waged within and that our hearts have always been strong enough to banish fear.
Perhaps this struggle against fear lies at the center of our recent celebrations of Halloween. I was surprised to see the number of photographs on Facebook and Instagram of my friends dressed up in costumes. One dressed up as a cheerleader, another a pirate. Many donned super hero costumes. (And many would like to forget the year I dressed up as Superman. Rabbi in tights!)
What is the attraction to wearing costumes? Why does everyone love to dress up?
It is because, for a brief moment, we can pretend we are someone else. We can hide from the realities of the world. We can cover up the fears that dominate our day to day lives. We can feel almost invincible. That is the attraction to dressing up and wearing costumes.
This is at the center of Purim. That story is about our endless struggle against antisemitic hatred and murderous regimes. And what is our response? You would think it would be mourning and fasting. Instead we wear costumes. We drink. It is a day of unabashed revelry. What Purim always was is what Halloween celebrations have become.
And yet Halloween offers us something additional. On this day American Jews can feel a part of American culture. Everyone celebrates Halloween! Never mind that the holiday hearkens back to ancient Celtic culture. November 1st marked their new year and so on this day the boundary between this world and the next could more easily be crossed. Hence the spookiness and all the skeletons.
Never mind that in the year 1000 the Catholic Church layered religious import upon this ancient holiday. The day became All Hallows Eve and was preceded by All Souls Day in which the souls of the dead were honored. The origins of trick-or-treating is apparently found in this day, when the poor would beg for food and then promise to pray in behalf of the dead in return.
That of course is not why we celebrate Halloween. I had to research these origins and spent a good deal of time reading the encyclopedia. I had to quiz my Christian colleagues. We do not celebrate it because we adhere to Celtic theology. We do not believe what the Catholic Church interprets. We love Halloween because it is a fun day. We are fortunate enough to go to parties. We are offered the opportunity to wear costumes. We get to celebrate. We get to dress up.
All this sounds so much like Purim that I find myself wondering why we love Halloween more than our very own holiday. On Purim we also give out food. On Purim we are also commanded to give food to the poor. Here is a thought. Save those costumes for March 1st! This year I expect to see plenty of cheerleaders, pirates and super heroes at our Purim celebrations.
It is always good to laugh at hatred and pretend we are not afraid. Perhaps we require two days to do just that.
Perhaps this struggle against fear lies at the center of our recent celebrations of Halloween. I was surprised to see the number of photographs on Facebook and Instagram of my friends dressed up in costumes. One dressed up as a cheerleader, another a pirate. Many donned super hero costumes. (And many would like to forget the year I dressed up as Superman. Rabbi in tights!)
What is the attraction to wearing costumes? Why does everyone love to dress up?
It is because, for a brief moment, we can pretend we are someone else. We can hide from the realities of the world. We can cover up the fears that dominate our day to day lives. We can feel almost invincible. That is the attraction to dressing up and wearing costumes.
This is at the center of Purim. That story is about our endless struggle against antisemitic hatred and murderous regimes. And what is our response? You would think it would be mourning and fasting. Instead we wear costumes. We drink. It is a day of unabashed revelry. What Purim always was is what Halloween celebrations have become.
And yet Halloween offers us something additional. On this day American Jews can feel a part of American culture. Everyone celebrates Halloween! Never mind that the holiday hearkens back to ancient Celtic culture. November 1st marked their new year and so on this day the boundary between this world and the next could more easily be crossed. Hence the spookiness and all the skeletons.
Never mind that in the year 1000 the Catholic Church layered religious import upon this ancient holiday. The day became All Hallows Eve and was preceded by All Souls Day in which the souls of the dead were honored. The origins of trick-or-treating is apparently found in this day, when the poor would beg for food and then promise to pray in behalf of the dead in return.
That of course is not why we celebrate Halloween. I had to research these origins and spent a good deal of time reading the encyclopedia. I had to quiz my Christian colleagues. We do not celebrate it because we adhere to Celtic theology. We do not believe what the Catholic Church interprets. We love Halloween because it is a fun day. We are fortunate enough to go to parties. We are offered the opportunity to wear costumes. We get to celebrate. We get to dress up.
All this sounds so much like Purim that I find myself wondering why we love Halloween more than our very own holiday. On Purim we also give out food. On Purim we are also commanded to give food to the poor. Here is a thought. Save those costumes for March 1st! This year I expect to see plenty of cheerleaders, pirates and super heroes at our Purim celebrations.
It is always good to laugh at hatred and pretend we are not afraid. Perhaps we require two days to do just that.
The Sacred and the Lurid
The Talmud records the following story:
These days, however, I am beginning to look at such stories in a different light. The Talmud no longer appears enlightened. My tradition no longer seems so open. Rav’s wife is not named. She is instead a dish. And his student must learn how to taste it. My beloved tradition is sexist. And today it appears lurid.
I am exhausted after reading about the decades of sexual harassment by Harvey Weinstein. The accusations of rape and abuse are all too familiar. The lengthy list of powerful men accused, and too often forgiven, of committing similar crimes grows with each passing day: Bill O’Reilly, President Clinton, Ben Roethlisberger, Bill Cosby, President Trump.
And Abraham. This week we read an incredulous story about our patriarch. Afraid that Pharaoh will kill him when he sees how beautiful his wife Sarah is, he instructs her to say that she is his sister. She is then taken as a wife by Pharaoh. And who then acts heroically? Pharaoh! He says to Abraham, “What is this that you have done? Why did you not tell me that she was your wife?” (Genesis 12) Still both men treat Sarah as property to be traded between them.
And then there is King David. Yes, the greatest king who ever ruled the Jewish people was, I am afraid to say, a man of similar ilk. One day he spied Batsheva bathing. (Try reading this verse through today’s eyes.) She was exceedingly beautiful. He ordered his servants to have her brought to him. How could she say “no” to the king? I used to ask, “Did she want the king to see her bathing?” I now recant. That sounds like blaming the victim. I repent.
Batsheva becomes pregnant. And so David had her husband, Uriah, who was an extraordinarily loyal soldier in the king’s army, killed by instructing the other soldiers to leave Uriah alone when next attacking the enemy.
The Bible then takes an interesting turn. The prophet Nathan confronts David about his sin. He marches into the palace and shouts, “You are that man.” And what does David do? He could have had the prophet killed. Instead King David says, “I stand guilty.” (II Samuel 12)
How I long for such a response today.
Real leadership is about admitting error. We want perfect leaders. They are not. And they never have been. But these days powerful, and famous, people become products. We construct images. We explain away sins and flaws, using terms such as sexual addiction. We cover up instances of harassment, and even rape. Our leaders begin to believe the images others have fashioned about them. They begin to think that their power allows them to do anything, and everything, they want and desire.
I would have preferred if King David were forced to relinquish his crown.
People will say, “That was then. Times were different. The rules were not the same. You cannot apply today’s values to ancient events.”
The problem is, however, that times have remained the same. We have not marched forward. We have not learned from past mistakes. Too many powerful, wealthy and famous men act in similar ways.
Whether a man is the king, president, CEO, or even an eloquent philosopher (Leon Wieseltier) the women he works with are not there for his enjoyment and pleasure. He cannot grab them. He cannot grope them. With power comes greater responsibility not as far too many demonstrate, greater privilege. The harassment, and the objectification, of women must end now.
Perhaps it is time we read our sacred stories with different eyes. We now better understand the pain of those unnamed and silenced millennia ago and today.
That may be the only way to begin writing a new story—for women, and men.
Rav Kahana was a student of Rav. One evening Rav Kahana entered and lay beneath Rav’s bed. He heard Rav talking and laughing with his wife, and seeing to his needs, i.e., having sexual relations with her. Rav Kahana said to Rav: “The mouth of Rav is like one who has never eaten a cooked dish before.” Rav said to him: “Kahana, what are you doing here? Leave at once. This is not an appropriate thing to do.” Rav Kahana said to him: “It is Torah, and I must learn it.” (Brachot 62a)I used to teach this story in order to illustrate how enlightened the Jewish tradition is. The ancient rabbis speak about sex. They discuss how sexual relations are commanded between a husband and wife. It is not a sin, but an enjoyment. It is likewise Torah. Nothing is outside of the religious purview, I would comment.
These days, however, I am beginning to look at such stories in a different light. The Talmud no longer appears enlightened. My tradition no longer seems so open. Rav’s wife is not named. She is instead a dish. And his student must learn how to taste it. My beloved tradition is sexist. And today it appears lurid.
I am exhausted after reading about the decades of sexual harassment by Harvey Weinstein. The accusations of rape and abuse are all too familiar. The lengthy list of powerful men accused, and too often forgiven, of committing similar crimes grows with each passing day: Bill O’Reilly, President Clinton, Ben Roethlisberger, Bill Cosby, President Trump.
And Abraham. This week we read an incredulous story about our patriarch. Afraid that Pharaoh will kill him when he sees how beautiful his wife Sarah is, he instructs her to say that she is his sister. She is then taken as a wife by Pharaoh. And who then acts heroically? Pharaoh! He says to Abraham, “What is this that you have done? Why did you not tell me that she was your wife?” (Genesis 12) Still both men treat Sarah as property to be traded between them.
And then there is King David. Yes, the greatest king who ever ruled the Jewish people was, I am afraid to say, a man of similar ilk. One day he spied Batsheva bathing. (Try reading this verse through today’s eyes.) She was exceedingly beautiful. He ordered his servants to have her brought to him. How could she say “no” to the king? I used to ask, “Did she want the king to see her bathing?” I now recant. That sounds like blaming the victim. I repent.
Batsheva becomes pregnant. And so David had her husband, Uriah, who was an extraordinarily loyal soldier in the king’s army, killed by instructing the other soldiers to leave Uriah alone when next attacking the enemy.
The Bible then takes an interesting turn. The prophet Nathan confronts David about his sin. He marches into the palace and shouts, “You are that man.” And what does David do? He could have had the prophet killed. Instead King David says, “I stand guilty.” (II Samuel 12)
How I long for such a response today.
Real leadership is about admitting error. We want perfect leaders. They are not. And they never have been. But these days powerful, and famous, people become products. We construct images. We explain away sins and flaws, using terms such as sexual addiction. We cover up instances of harassment, and even rape. Our leaders begin to believe the images others have fashioned about them. They begin to think that their power allows them to do anything, and everything, they want and desire.
I would have preferred if King David were forced to relinquish his crown.
People will say, “That was then. Times were different. The rules were not the same. You cannot apply today’s values to ancient events.”
The problem is, however, that times have remained the same. We have not marched forward. We have not learned from past mistakes. Too many powerful, wealthy and famous men act in similar ways.
Whether a man is the king, president, CEO, or even an eloquent philosopher (Leon Wieseltier) the women he works with are not there for his enjoyment and pleasure. He cannot grab them. He cannot grope them. With power comes greater responsibility not as far too many demonstrate, greater privilege. The harassment, and the objectification, of women must end now.
Perhaps it is time we read our sacred stories with different eyes. We now better understand the pain of those unnamed and silenced millennia ago and today.
That may be the only way to begin writing a new story—for women, and men.
We Can't Silence the World's Noise
The world is noisy. Even when alone, our phones chime with notifications and reminders. There is little place for peace and quiet.
Recently I was driving through town making my way through a detailed shopping list. The music was loudly accompanying my travels. BB King was singing, “You better not look down, if you want to keep on flying. Put the hammer down; keep it full speed ahead.”
I looked up to see the sun beginning to set.
I put my list aside and drove a few extra miles to a dead end street where I could watch the sun set over the Long Island Sound....
Recently I was driving through town making my way through a detailed shopping list. The music was loudly accompanying my travels. BB King was singing, “You better not look down, if you want to keep on flying. Put the hammer down; keep it full speed ahead.”
I looked up to see the sun beginning to set.
I put my list aside and drove a few extra miles to a dead end street where I could watch the sun set over the Long Island Sound....
Pink Shabbat
What follows are my remarks from Friday evening when we marked Pink Shabbat, in partnership with Sharsheret.
Many know that 1 in 40 Jewish women, as well as men, of Ashkenazi descent carry the genetic mutation that makes it far more likely they might develop these cancers. This mutation increases the risk of developing breast cancer by 80% and ovarian cancer by 40%. To put this in perspective only 1 out of 400 carry this mutation in the general population. These sobering statistics affirm what we know. I am sure every single member of our congregation could list off a number of names of friends, or family, who have been affected by these cancers. You don’t need me to remind you of how many people this effects or that it affects Jews in disproportionate numbers. So what more can I say? There must be more to say.
I thought better to speak about what I know best, Jewish values.
The first value is that of shmirat haguf. Judaism believes that we must care for our bodies just as much as we might care for our souls. We think that religion is all about taking care of the soul, but the body is equally important. Our bodies are a reflection of the divine and are therefore holy and must be cared for. They are not temples to be worshipped, or admired in the mirror, but must instead be tended to. Our health is in our hands—well, at least in part.
With all this talk about genetic mutations one can develop a fatalistic attitude. It is destiny. It is fate. It is genetic. But such an attitude would be a betrayal of much of what our tradition teaches. We care for our bodies because they are holy vessels. We take care of our health not because any one of us can stave off death, but because this is what you do with such a divine gift. We cannot succumb to the notion that it really does not matter what we do because it is already imprinted in our DNA. Besides if there is one thing that categorically reduces the risk of cancer it is exercise. Of course it's not fool proof, but if we are to take care of God’s gift of the human body then this is what we are commanded to do. This is what we must do.
That being said no matter what we do everyone will be affected by illness. The human body is imperfect and its lifespan unpredictable. Unlike the soul, which can perhaps be perfected, the body cannot. This is why medicine is much more of an art than an exact science. So what are we to do when struck by illness? First of all get a good doctor. That is what our tradition states. In fact some of the greatest rabbis were doctors. Moses Maimonides is but one example. He may best be remembered as a rabbi, but he was a doctor first. This was his day job.
Second, lean on friends. It is a mitzvah to visit the sick. It is called bikkur holim. According to Maimonides a friend’s visit lifts 1/60th of their pain. It is a mitzvah that supersedes all others. A visit can truly help people and lift their spirits. Too often people think that they have to go it alone, that they must be stoic. We are hesitant to discuss other people’s illnesses for fear of engaging in gossip or betraying a confidence. We live in an upside down time. The most intimate of details are shared on social media but yet we are hesitant to share when people need other people the most. That is the power of community. That is the central message of our tradition. No one should ever have to go it alone.
Years ago, a good friend’s mom was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. We did not know what to do. So I called Sharsheret, this wonderful organization founded years ago to support Jewish women and their families. Sharsheret means chain or connection. I called to get names and numbers to give to my friends. I did not even realize it then but I also called so that I could talk to someone about Ruth. I realized something important in reflecting on that moment. No one can carry others alone. No rabbi, no friend, no husband or partner can help shoulder the burden of another’s illness by themselves. An organization such as Sharshert can help to carry us. It can give us strength. That is why we have such organizations. That is why we have synagogues.
Battling an illness is not supposed to be about stoic heroism, but instead about leaning on family, friends, community, doctors and organizations. If there is message we should remind ourselves of this evening it is this. There is strength, and healing, in community. We may not yet be able to undo genetic mutations but we certainly can support more friends. We can certainly reach out to others. We can certainly recognize when all we might require is a friendly, and understanding, voice on the other end of the phone.
Perhaps each of us will find the strength to be that person for someone else. Then all of this pink will have taught us something.
God is in the Details
I have been watching The Weather Channel a great deal lately, perhaps too much. The news is at times frightening. There are days that feel apocalyptic. There are fires. There are hurricanes. Let us not forget about our fellow countrymen in Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands! There are tornadoes. And there are floods.
This week we read about Noah and the flood that destroyed the earth. It is a classic tale. It is a well-known story. This apocalyptic flood represents an age-old fear. After the waters recede God promises never again to destroy the earth because of humanity’s evil deeds.
The earth is entrusted to our care. We are commanded to be nature’s protectors.
Have we heeded the command? Have we taken to heart our sacred task?
Recently I watched an enthralling video about Yellowstone National Park.
Years ago a pack of wolves were reintroduced into the park after years of absence. We had once thought wolves to be a dangerous nuisance.
The wolves’ reintroduction caused what scientists call a trophic cascade. Given that the wolves sit at the top of the park’s food chain their presence caused a ripple effect throughout the park’s ecosystem.
To cite but one example, the wolves killed the deer that ate the grass. And then the fields regenerated. (A positive Chad Gadyah moment?) The banks of the river stabilized. And the course of the river even began to change. The course of the rivers and lakes are ours to care for. The flood is within the reach of our responsibility.
A few days ago I watched the sun set over Huntington Harbor. I found a quiet spot overlooking the harbor’s lighthouse. I listened. It was low tide and I could hear the birds dropping clams on the rocks in order to crack open their shells. The crickets chirped loudly in anticipation of the approaching darkness. The waves gently lapped at the tall grass on the shore.
I closed my eyes. I could hear the sunset.
And I could hear God’s promise, renewed.
It rests in our hands.
This week we read about Noah and the flood that destroyed the earth. It is a classic tale. It is a well-known story. This apocalyptic flood represents an age-old fear. After the waters recede God promises never again to destroy the earth because of humanity’s evil deeds.
The earth is entrusted to our care. We are commanded to be nature’s protectors.
Have we heeded the command? Have we taken to heart our sacred task?
Recently I watched an enthralling video about Yellowstone National Park.
The wolves’ reintroduction caused what scientists call a trophic cascade. Given that the wolves sit at the top of the park’s food chain their presence caused a ripple effect throughout the park’s ecosystem.
To cite but one example, the wolves killed the deer that ate the grass. And then the fields regenerated. (A positive Chad Gadyah moment?) The banks of the river stabilized. And the course of the river even began to change. The course of the rivers and lakes are ours to care for. The flood is within the reach of our responsibility.
A few days ago I watched the sun set over Huntington Harbor. I found a quiet spot overlooking the harbor’s lighthouse. I listened. It was low tide and I could hear the birds dropping clams on the rocks in order to crack open their shells. The crickets chirped loudly in anticipation of the approaching darkness. The waves gently lapped at the tall grass on the shore.
And I could hear God’s promise, renewed.
So long as the earth endures,The rhythm of the natural world follows its accustomed path. It can hinge on one small detail.
Seedtime and harvest,
Cold and heat,
Summer and winter,
Day and night
Shall not cease. (Genesis 8:22)
It rests in our hands.
When the Student is the Teacher
On Simchat Torah, we read the concluding words in Deuteronomy and without skipping a beat, start all over again with the first chapter in Genesis. With one breath, we read about Moses’ death and with the next, about the creation of the world. It is how we order our year; it is how we order our lives.
Several years ago, a close family friend died. Throughout his long life, Jerry had served as a mentor to me. Recently, his grandson, to whom both my son Ari and I have grown close, shared a surprising discovery: a stack of correspondence between Jerry and me they found when they searched through his library. His grandson scanned the letters and emailed them to me. They remained there, on my computer, unopened.
Until yesterday....
Several years ago, a close family friend died. Throughout his long life, Jerry had served as a mentor to me. Recently, his grandson, to whom both my son Ari and I have grown close, shared a surprising discovery: a stack of correspondence between Jerry and me they found when they searched through his library. His grandson scanned the letters and emailed them to me. They remained there, on my computer, unopened.
Until yesterday....
Simhat Torah's Joy
Many people think that Yom Kippur with its fasting and solemn prayers is emblematic of our Jewish tradition. It is actually exceptional among our holidays. People as well think that the mourner’s kaddish is Judaism’s most important prayer. It is again unique.
Far more typical is the joy of Simhat Torah. Far more commonplace are the blessings associated with food. So important is eating that a mourner is commanded to eat when returning from burying a loved one. So significant is joy that it is a mitzvah to dance with the bride and groom at their wedding.
Yehuda Amichai, the great Israeli poet, writes (and this is among my favorite poems):
We are nearing the end of our whirlwind of holidays. Sukkot is called z’man simchateinu, a time of our rejoicing. Nothing is greater than the rejoicing of these precise days. Sukkot comes to a rising conclusion with the holiday of Simhat Torah, the day we begin the Torah reading cycle again. There is no greater blessing than to be able to begin the Torah again. It is therefore a day of great singing and dancing.
There are so many days in our calendar when we are commanded to rejoice. Our happiness is mandated. In the tradition’s eyes, our joy is made precise. Even when mourning brushes up against a festival, the seven days of shiva are abbreviated. Communal joy supersedes personal tragedy. This is the tradition’s view. It is not to say of course that this is how people might feel. Yet Judaism insists, again and again, joy is required, celebration mandated, dancing commanded.
Nowhere is this more evident than at a wedding. Again, it is a mitzvah to dance at a wedding celebration. The sheva brachot, the hallmark of the tradition’s wedding ceremony, echo Amichai’s words: “Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who created joy and gladness, bride and groom, pleasure, song, delight, laughter, love and harmony, peace and companionship…”
And then we wrap our arms around each other, circling in a hora until we finally leave the party saying, “It was a great evening. I have no words.”
Is it such a blur?
Or can our joy indeed be made precise?
Let’s see on this Simhat Torah!
Far more typical is the joy of Simhat Torah. Far more commonplace are the blessings associated with food. So important is eating that a mourner is commanded to eat when returning from burying a loved one. So significant is joy that it is a mitzvah to dance with the bride and groom at their wedding.
Yehuda Amichai, the great Israeli poet, writes (and this is among my favorite poems):
The precision of pain and the blurriness of joy. I’m thinkingThe Jewish tradition attempts to be exacting about joy. It provides us with precise days for our rejoicing.
how precise people are when they describe their pain in a doctor’s office.
Even those who haven’t learned to read or write are precise:
“This one’s a throbbing pain, that one’s a wrenching pain,
this one gnaws, that one burns, this is a sharp pain
and that—a dull one. Right here. Precisely here,
yes, yes.” Joy blurs everything. I’ve heard people say
after nights of love and feasting, “It was great,
I was in seventh heaven.” Even the spaceman who floated
in outer space, tethered to a spaceship, could say only, “Great,
wonderful, I have no words.”
The blurriness of joy and the precision of pain—
I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness
and blurry joy. I learned to speak among the pains.
We are nearing the end of our whirlwind of holidays. Sukkot is called z’man simchateinu, a time of our rejoicing. Nothing is greater than the rejoicing of these precise days. Sukkot comes to a rising conclusion with the holiday of Simhat Torah, the day we begin the Torah reading cycle again. There is no greater blessing than to be able to begin the Torah again. It is therefore a day of great singing and dancing.
There are so many days in our calendar when we are commanded to rejoice. Our happiness is mandated. In the tradition’s eyes, our joy is made precise. Even when mourning brushes up against a festival, the seven days of shiva are abbreviated. Communal joy supersedes personal tragedy. This is the tradition’s view. It is not to say of course that this is how people might feel. Yet Judaism insists, again and again, joy is required, celebration mandated, dancing commanded.
Nowhere is this more evident than at a wedding. Again, it is a mitzvah to dance at a wedding celebration. The sheva brachot, the hallmark of the tradition’s wedding ceremony, echo Amichai’s words: “Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who created joy and gladness, bride and groom, pleasure, song, delight, laughter, love and harmony, peace and companionship…”
And then we wrap our arms around each other, circling in a hora until we finally leave the party saying, “It was a great evening. I have no words.”
Is it such a blur?
Or can our joy indeed be made precise?
Let’s see on this Simhat Torah!
Who We Honor is More About Shaping the Future
People memorialize their dead in many different ways. More often than not they etch the names on stones along with a few, selected descriptive traits. I have read, “Loving father, husband, brother and grandfather.” Rarely do I see the individual’s profession listed. “Adoring mother, wife, sister, grandmother and great grandmother.” These memorials are not testimonies to how people saw themselves or even how they defined their lives. Instead they are about how the mourners wish to remember them.
It matters little in fact if the world at large saw them as adoring or loving. It matters little as well if they were on occasion not even so loving and adoring to their own family. These stones are about memory. They are not about history. They are about how we honor our dead. They are about how we fashion the remembrances that help us to tell the stories about what was best in those we love. They are not about telling a child who is named for a beloved grandfather about the occasional struggles with anger her namesake once contended with.
Honoring the memory of a grandfather is not about remembering history. It is much more about the future than the past....
It matters little in fact if the world at large saw them as adoring or loving. It matters little as well if they were on occasion not even so loving and adoring to their own family. These stones are about memory. They are not about history. They are about how we honor our dead. They are about how we fashion the remembrances that help us to tell the stories about what was best in those we love. They are not about telling a child who is named for a beloved grandfather about the occasional struggles with anger her namesake once contended with.
Honoring the memory of a grandfather is not about remembering history. It is much more about the future than the past....