Don't Walk Away from the Heart
Joan Didion writes: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”
The Talmud reports: “Rav and Shmuel disagree about the interpretation of the verse, ‘And there arose a new king over Egypt who knew not Joseph.’ One says this means he was actually a new king, and one says this means that his decrees were transformed as if he were a new king.” (Sotah 11a)
It is a fascinating disagreement. One rabbi believes, as I had always thought, that it was in fact a new king who did not know about all the good Joseph did for Egypt. Perhaps he was not told. Or perhaps so many generations passed since Joseph’s death that the stories about his ingenuity were lost to Egyptian storytellers.
The other rabbi suggests that it was not so much about the forgetting of history, or more precisely the failure to teach history, but instead about the king’s character. The king, as rulers so often do, became enamored with his power, and grew more and more callous towards his subjects.
This disagreement makes all the difference in the world regarding how we view God. If it was a new king, and many years had passed, then one wonders why God waited hundreds of years to respond to the Israelites’ suffering. If it was the same king, then God did not wait but responded, more or less, as soon as the Israelites’ cries reached heaven.
This debate follows us into our own day. It may seem like God waits generations to respond to our suffering. In fact, God is waiting for the callousness to be removed from our hearts. God cries out, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6)
Once again, we gain insights about a person’s character. Each of us has the tendency to forget the good others do for us. Our hearts can become hardened towards others.
It is easier to imagine it was a new king who was never taught the good Joseph did. It is far more challenging to think that each of our hearts can turn as callous as Pharaoh’s.
Joan Didion again: “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”
My destination will always be our Torah. My path will always involve trying to figure out what these ancient words mean.
Our hearts are the places we dare not walk away from.
The Talmud reports: “Rav and Shmuel disagree about the interpretation of the verse, ‘And there arose a new king over Egypt who knew not Joseph.’ One says this means he was actually a new king, and one says this means that his decrees were transformed as if he were a new king.” (Sotah 11a)
It is a fascinating disagreement. One rabbi believes, as I had always thought, that it was in fact a new king who did not know about all the good Joseph did for Egypt. Perhaps he was not told. Or perhaps so many generations passed since Joseph’s death that the stories about his ingenuity were lost to Egyptian storytellers.
The other rabbi suggests that it was not so much about the forgetting of history, or more precisely the failure to teach history, but instead about the king’s character. The king, as rulers so often do, became enamored with his power, and grew more and more callous towards his subjects.
This disagreement makes all the difference in the world regarding how we view God. If it was a new king, and many years had passed, then one wonders why God waited hundreds of years to respond to the Israelites’ suffering. If it was the same king, then God did not wait but responded, more or less, as soon as the Israelites’ cries reached heaven.
This debate follows us into our own day. It may seem like God waits generations to respond to our suffering. In fact, God is waiting for the callousness to be removed from our hearts. God cries out, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6)
Once again, we gain insights about a person’s character. Each of us has the tendency to forget the good others do for us. Our hearts can become hardened towards others.
It is easier to imagine it was a new king who was never taught the good Joseph did. It is far more challenging to think that each of our hearts can turn as callous as Pharaoh’s.
Joan Didion again: “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”
My destination will always be our Torah. My path will always involve trying to figure out what these ancient words mean.
Our hearts are the places we dare not walk away from.
Merry Christmas!
What follows is my brief message from December 24th Shabbat evening services.
This week we read the opening chapters in the Book of Exodus. Our stay in Egypt, which began with Joseph and his brothers, turns ugly and turns into the slavery that we retell at our Passover seders. There is one reason why a new Pharaoh enslaves us. It is because he forgets. His failure to remember all the good Joseph and his descendants did for prior generations of Egyptians is what makes him grow afraid of the Israelites. It is his forgetting that leads to our suffering. The Torah states: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.”
Knowing what matters to our neighbors, to those among whom we live, makes all the difference in the world. Knowledge suggests intimacy. It means knowing what your friends like and dislike. It means knowing what is important to your neighbors. It means knowing what they believe and having enough confidence in our faith, and our Jewish holidays, to wish our friends on this evening, a holiday filled with Christian meaning.
And while Happy Holidays is the invention of those who do not wish to offend, or those who wish to place Christmas in the same box as New Years, Merry Christmas is a greeting that matters to those who believe in Christianity and who find Christmas deeply meaningful.
While many of our friends, and neighbors, are Christian more and more are Muslim or Hindu or Chinese and so that means learning how to say, Ramadan Mubarak—a blessed Ramadan or Happy Diwali or Happy Chinese New Year. Ramadan begins on April 2 by the way, and the Chinese New Year the beginning of February. Diwali was last month so you will have to save up that greeting for next year. We should promise ourselves that we can do better and need to learn even more meaningful greetings.
Let’s be honest. All these greetings are somewhat cursory and do not really show that I know much about my neighbor’s holidays, especially those whose faith lies in Eastern traditions, but I want to know, and I really want to learn much more. Because knowing suggests friendship. Knowing means true neighborliness. Knowing leads to salvation.
After Pharaoh’s fears grows and he set taskmasters over the Israelites to oppress them, they cried out in pain. God hears their groans. The Torah reports: “God heard their moaning, and God remembered the covenant with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.” These last words, “va-yei-dah Elohim,” should be translated differently. It does not say, God took notice, but instead “And God knows.”
Knowing can really save us. So Merry Christmas. Ramadan Mubarak, Happy Diwali. Happy Chinese New Year. And most important of all, Shabbat Shalom. Because even the simplest of greetings can lead to shalom, peace.
Curse the Alphabet, Bless the Air
The Book of Exodus begins, “These are the names…” And yet my thoughts gravitate not towards the children of Israel listed in that opening chapter but the Greek letters that have become part and parcel of our everyday conversations.
Delta and Omicron, Zeta and Iota.
I was not in a fraternity, so I never learned the Greek alphabet. I sometimes struggle to pronounce our most recent dreaded name. And here is my latest realization. I don’t very much like these letters. Their names instill fear.
Between the named hurricanes that enter our vocabulary when the weather whips past the letter Z to this most recent Covid-19 variant that upends our lives, and our plans, in a matter of days, I am starting to recoil before this Greek heritage. All I can think about is Sisyphus and that cursed boulder. When will this cycle ever end?
I understand why the Greeks held on to that myth. It feels like the push-ups will never let up. Then again there is much in Greek philosophy that captures my heart and mind. I remain grateful for their notions of democracy. I really like Aristotle’s ideas, especially as they are distilled through Moses Maimonides’ writing.
We don’t believe in a never-ending cycle of despair. Our God does not curse us. God does not damn us to perform fruitless endeavors. It sure feels otherwise these days. We feel trapped going up and going down. I am tempted by the myth. One of my seventh graders said, when we recently discussed what we believe God does and does not do, “I do not know.”
That seems a better answer than giving in to despair.
In his magnificent, but unimaginably difficult, work, The Guide of the Perplexed,
Maimonides struggles to resolve such perplexities and square Jewish and Greek thought. Among its pages are gems of understanding about God’s role in the world. He writes, “The more urgently a thing is needed by living beings, the more abundantly, and cheaply, it is found.” Thus, the very air we breathe is a sign of God’s goodness.
Maimonides had every reason to think otherwise. He lost his brother years earlier in a shipwreck. He almost never recovered from the depression that followed. And yet, one day, albeit nearly a year after his brother’s death, he dragged himself out of bed and I imagine, went outside and breathed in the air and said, “God is good.”
He knew despair but found hope.
Curse the Greek alphabet if need be. Always remember, we are not cursed.
Despair is all too convenient. Don’t give in.
Building hope requires effort and work. We have agency!
Breathe in the air even if it freezes your nostrils during what promises to be the difficult days that lie ahead.
We are not trapped. We are not cursed, pushing some unimaginably heavy boulder up a mountain that has no summit.
Know this. Even when we can’t change the world, or others for that matter, we can change our perspective.
Breathe in the air. And banish those names if not from your consciousness then at least from your souls.
Bless Your Kids
When our children were young, and now when they return home for Shabbat and holidays, we place our hands on their heads and offer the tradition’s blessing:
May God make you like Ephraim and Manashe. (Genesis 48)
May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.
May God bless you and guard you.
May God’s face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May God’s face smile at you and grant you peace.
And here is my confession. The first time, and even the second and third times, we offered this blessing, it felt unnatural and awkward. We did not grow up in homes in which our parents recited these words. Of course, our parents hugged us. Of course, they wrapped their arms around us and said, “We love you.”
This ritual formulation, however, was foreign. And so, when I began saying it, I felt like an interloper. “Who am I to say these words?” I thought. It all felt so strange.
Our children also sometimes protested. They shouted that I was hugging them too tightly. Or that I was messing up their hair. Or as they grew older, they fidgeted suggesting that they were in a rush to go out with their friends. But we persisted. And over time, the tradition’s formula became our words. The ritual became our own.
And here is my worry. People appear to think that saying the tradition’s words or offering such a ritual formulation is what rabbis or cantors are supposed do. It’s not what “regular” people do. Rabbis, and cantors, believe every single word of the prayerbook they read and sing. They feel it in their bones every time they chant “Oseh Shalom.” Of course, they are going to bless their kids! Of course, they are going do what the tradition says they are supposed to do.
This priestly benediction is not just mine. It is yours. It belongs to all of us.
And so here is some advice. There is no perfect way to say it or even do it. There is no perfect way of placing your hands on your children’s heads. There is not a right way and a wrong way. Don’t worry so much about if you are doing it exactly as Jacob did or if you are pronouncing the words correctly.
It is important to have a ritual framework to express love. It is wonderful for children to feel our loving hands on their heads. It is good to do so at least once a week. Make that moment Shabbat evening.
Let go of the worry. Grab hold of the tradition. Make it your own. It may not feel right at first, but over time it may very well become your own.
May God make you like Ephraim and Manashe. (Genesis 48)
May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.
May God bless you and guard you.
May God’s face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May God’s face smile at you and grant you peace.
And here is my confession. The first time, and even the second and third times, we offered this blessing, it felt unnatural and awkward. We did not grow up in homes in which our parents recited these words. Of course, our parents hugged us. Of course, they wrapped their arms around us and said, “We love you.”
This ritual formulation, however, was foreign. And so, when I began saying it, I felt like an interloper. “Who am I to say these words?” I thought. It all felt so strange.
Our children also sometimes protested. They shouted that I was hugging them too tightly. Or that I was messing up their hair. Or as they grew older, they fidgeted suggesting that they were in a rush to go out with their friends. But we persisted. And over time, the tradition’s formula became our words. The ritual became our own.
And here is my worry. People appear to think that saying the tradition’s words or offering such a ritual formulation is what rabbis or cantors are supposed do. It’s not what “regular” people do. Rabbis, and cantors, believe every single word of the prayerbook they read and sing. They feel it in their bones every time they chant “Oseh Shalom.” Of course, they are going to bless their kids! Of course, they are going do what the tradition says they are supposed to do.
This priestly benediction is not just mine. It is yours. It belongs to all of us.
And so here is some advice. There is no perfect way to say it or even do it. There is no perfect way of placing your hands on your children’s heads. There is not a right way and a wrong way. Don’t worry so much about if you are doing it exactly as Jacob did or if you are pronouncing the words correctly.
It is important to have a ritual framework to express love. It is wonderful for children to feel our loving hands on their heads. It is good to do so at least once a week. Make that moment Shabbat evening.
Let go of the worry. Grab hold of the tradition. Make it your own. It may not feel right at first, but over time it may very well become your own.
Change Is Who We Are
I often hear people say that the Orthodox way of life guarantees Judaism’s survival. I hear this argument from all manners of Jews, from Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Jews. The notion is that only strict observance and inviolability guarantees the Jewish future. This is false.
I understand when I hear this argument from Orthodox Jews because it makes sense that they would believe their commitments are the true path. It saddens me when I hear this from fellow Reform Jews because it suggests a lack of faith in our own chosen path.
This week we conclude the story of Joseph and his brothers. Joseph has framed his brothers by hiding a goblet in his brother Benjamin’s bag. Joseph accuses the brothers of thievery and threatens to jail Benjamin. Rather than allowing Benjamin to be carted away and made a slave, as they did to Joseph so many years ago, Judah draws near to Joseph and begs that his younger brother be spared.
Judah pleads, “Therefore, please let your servant remain as a slave to my lord instead of the boy, and let the boy go back with his brothers. For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” (Genesis 44) In that moment Joseph realizes his brothers have indeed changed.
The rabbis are forgiving of Joseph’s machinations. They believe he devised a legitmate test of his brothers. Given the opportunity, would they once again get rid of their father’s favorite son or this time, make a different choice? Would they defend Benjamin even though years earlier they had betrayed Joseph? The only true test of teshuvah shleymah, complete repentance, is to find oneself in the exact same situation and make a different choice.
This is how Joseph discovers that his brothers have made done the hard work of repentance. The Torah states, “And Judah drew near.” Judah has changed.
It is instructive that Judah is the spokesman for the brothers. It was he who had earlier suggested that they sell Joseph into slavery rather than killing him. Years later, Judah has become a different man.
Change is central to his character. It should also be defining of our own. In fact, it is from the name Judah that the term Jew derives. The origin of the term Jew is one who descends from the tribe of Judah. Why then do we not see change as the defining characteristic of a Jew? Why do we believe that never changing is what guarantees a Jewish future?
Change is part of our DNA. It is what guarantees the survival of Jacob and his descendants. Judah’s repentance is what ensures that he and his extended family will survive the famine now plaguing the area.
And yet most people remain afraid of change. We want it to remain like yesterday. We mythologize the past. We bristle at change and demonize the future.
How long will we for example pretend that online praying and singing is no longer just a temporary fix but a fixture of our future? I understand. While we might recognize that individuals change, we are reticent to believe that the institutions around which we build our lives must also adapt. We say, “Let my synagogue be just as I remember it. Let my children’s Judaism be just as I learned it in Hebrew School.”
Such thoughts are fantasy. Nothing is really as we remember it. We prefer to pretend and imagine that we live in a never changing present.
Let us look to Judah for inspiration. Let us embrace change and gain solace from the strength of character it requires.
Change is who we are. It is our very name.
I understand when I hear this argument from Orthodox Jews because it makes sense that they would believe their commitments are the true path. It saddens me when I hear this from fellow Reform Jews because it suggests a lack of faith in our own chosen path.
This week we conclude the story of Joseph and his brothers. Joseph has framed his brothers by hiding a goblet in his brother Benjamin’s bag. Joseph accuses the brothers of thievery and threatens to jail Benjamin. Rather than allowing Benjamin to be carted away and made a slave, as they did to Joseph so many years ago, Judah draws near to Joseph and begs that his younger brother be spared.
Judah pleads, “Therefore, please let your servant remain as a slave to my lord instead of the boy, and let the boy go back with his brothers. For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” (Genesis 44) In that moment Joseph realizes his brothers have indeed changed.
The rabbis are forgiving of Joseph’s machinations. They believe he devised a legitmate test of his brothers. Given the opportunity, would they once again get rid of their father’s favorite son or this time, make a different choice? Would they defend Benjamin even though years earlier they had betrayed Joseph? The only true test of teshuvah shleymah, complete repentance, is to find oneself in the exact same situation and make a different choice.
This is how Joseph discovers that his brothers have made done the hard work of repentance. The Torah states, “And Judah drew near.” Judah has changed.
It is instructive that Judah is the spokesman for the brothers. It was he who had earlier suggested that they sell Joseph into slavery rather than killing him. Years later, Judah has become a different man.
Change is central to his character. It should also be defining of our own. In fact, it is from the name Judah that the term Jew derives. The origin of the term Jew is one who descends from the tribe of Judah. Why then do we not see change as the defining characteristic of a Jew? Why do we believe that never changing is what guarantees a Jewish future?
Change is part of our DNA. It is what guarantees the survival of Jacob and his descendants. Judah’s repentance is what ensures that he and his extended family will survive the famine now plaguing the area.
And yet most people remain afraid of change. We want it to remain like yesterday. We mythologize the past. We bristle at change and demonize the future.
How long will we for example pretend that online praying and singing is no longer just a temporary fix but a fixture of our future? I understand. While we might recognize that individuals change, we are reticent to believe that the institutions around which we build our lives must also adapt. We say, “Let my synagogue be just as I remember it. Let my children’s Judaism be just as I learned it in Hebrew School.”
Such thoughts are fantasy. Nothing is really as we remember it. We prefer to pretend and imagine that we live in a never changing present.
Let us look to Judah for inspiration. Let us embrace change and gain solace from the strength of character it requires.
Change is who we are. It is our very name.
Our Sanctuary Dedication
What follows is my sermon and message on the occasion of dedicating our congregation's newly renovated sanctuary.
Ten years ago, this is not what anyone at the Jewish Congregation of Brookville ever imagined. Ten years ago, this is not what anyone at Oyster Bay Jewish Center ever imagined. And yet here we are and now we are Congregation L’Dor V’Dor and we must no longer look back to what we imagined long ago, but instead only forward to what I believe will be a strong future filled with much song, many celebrations, lots of lots of Jewish teaching, and plenty of spiritual uplift.
In this sanctuary, we will celebrate the milestones in our lives, we will mark the holidays of our people, we will mourn our losses, we will watch as our children hold the Torah scroll close to their hearts as grandparents shed tears in the front rows. Here we will mark our years and fill our hearts with the lessons and values we have taught for millennia. It is this place that has ensured that the teachings contained in our Torah have survived for generations. This synagogue will stand in line with every synagogue that has stood before it.
Long ago, when King Solomon offered words at the dedication ceremony of the very first Temple, finished in Jerusalem 3,000 years ago, he said, “O God, may Your eyes be open day and night toward this House, toward the place of which You have said, ‘My name shall abide there’; may You heed the prayers which Your servant will offer toward this place. And when You hear the supplications which Your servant and Your people Israel offer toward this place, give heed in Your heavenly abode.” (I Kings 8) Solomon’s prayer makes perfect sense. He said in essence, when we offer our prayers from this place, please, God, hear them.
And that is likewise our prayer about this synagogue and this sanctuary. Let our prayers be heard. Let this place work its magic on our souls. If we need uplift let us find it here. If we require rejoicing let us find it here.
Solomon actually began his dedication speech with a question. I know. How Jewish. Imagine that. Surrounded by all those who worked tirelessly to build that holy Temple, who slaved (some quite literally) to make sure the project was completed, Solomon asked, “But can God really dwell on earth? Even the heavens to their uttermost reaches cannot contain You, O God, how much less this House that I have built!” Leaving aside his preference for “I” over “we” it is a remarkable statement. His message is clear and should resound in our ears thousands of years later. No project, however beautiful, however awe-inspiring, can truly contain God’s presence. Everything we build is but a glimmer. Our best, and most beautiful, sanctuaries only offer us a glimpse of the divine. And no matter how much I, for example, may continue to fixate on the smallest of details within these walls, this beautiful sanctuary is but an approximation. It is not an end, but instead a means to an end.
This place must serve to fortify our souls so that we go out and make this world an even better place. Our blessings begin here. Our responsibilities start here. They do not end here.
The Talmud instructs us to give thanks for the good. And I know that everyone joins me in offering hearts filled with gratitude for this beautiful, newly renovated sanctuary. But even more important the rabbis of the Talmud also insisted that we offer thanks for the responsibility to fix the bad. And that blessing, and yes, burden, of fixing the bad—whether it is offering a healing prayer for those who are sick or getting out into our broken world and repairing its many cracks. The hungry in our very own town are our sacred responsibility. That is the blessing this place must serve.
It is not about assuaging our own hearts but instead about helping to soften the harshness that torments others’ hearts. If we leave here fortified to do more repair then all of our hard work, and even our years of frustration and setback, will be redeemed. May this house, may this beautiful sanctuary fortify our souls to give thanks for all the good we have received but also, and most especially the responsibility to fix the bad. May this synagogue strengthen us for many, many years to come. Amen v’Amen.
Seeing the Good in Wrong
Joseph is a stunning character. Despite adversity he achieves great renown.
His brothers first try to kill him and then sell him into slavery in Egypt. He quickly becomes Potiphar’s most trusted servant. Then when he refuses the advances of Potiphar’s wife, she becomes enraged and accuses him of trying to molest her.
Joseph is thrown into jail. There he interprets dreams, in particular those of the chief cup bearer (can someone please provide me with the job description for this position?) and chief baker. His interpretations are proven true. The chief cup bearer is restored to his position and the chief baker is executed. Lo and behold, Pharaoh is plagued (get it?) by repeated, disturbing dreams. No one can interpret them.
The chief cup bearer reports that he met this guy in jail who has a unique ability to interpret dreams. Joseph is summoned to Pharaoh’s palace. He is cleaned up and given fancy clothes. He interprets the dreams to mean that there will be seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. “Put someone in charge of stockpiling the food during the first seven years so that there will be enough food during the seven lean years,” Joseph suggests.
And guess what. Pharaoh puts Joseph in charge of the task. Our hero becomes the second most powerful, and influential, man in all of Egypt. Pharaoh showers Joseph with riches and gives him a bride. During the years of famine, Jacob and his children run out of food. They hear that there is food to be had in nearby Egypt and so they venture there to procure food for their large, extended family.
Joseph’s brothers appear before him and bow before him—just as he had dreamed when he was a younger man. Soon the brothers and Joseph will be reconciled. First the brothers must be tested. Will they stand up for their younger brother Benjamin and protect him? Will they behave differently towards him than they did to Joseph? Come back next week to see what they do. Or, if you prefer, read ahead.
My question at the moment is how we turn wrongs into good. Joseph is wronged by his brothers and then by Potiphar’s wife. He suffers setback after setback and yet still emerges successful.
Everyone faces setbacks. Everyone has been wronged.
Some even suffer injustices. Joseph is wrongly jailed! And yet he does not appear to dwell on these injustices and wrongs. He looks beyond these. His vision is remarkable.
Moreover, his very success is a result of the wrongs committed against him. If his brothers had not sold him into slavery, if Potiphar’s wife had not falsely accused him, he would not have been in the right place at the right time.
He harbors no bitterness. Joseph views these very wrongs as part of a divine plan whose meaning only becomes apparent when his brother appear before him. Now he is in a position to save lives. His heart is only filled with gratitude. Joseph exclaims, “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
How many people can do likewise? How many people can look past the wrongs committed against them—even, and especially, when the resulting good is not so readily apparent? Redeeming the wrongs committed against us, seeing the positive even when it remains mysterious, is the holy task Joseph’s example sets before us.
To be honest, I do not know if I can always do it. Dwelling on those wrongs often feels easier than looking past them. I do know that I am supposed to emulate Joseph
Joseph’s ability to see the good even in the bad is stunning. In the verses of the Torah, it also becomes revelatory.
His brothers first try to kill him and then sell him into slavery in Egypt. He quickly becomes Potiphar’s most trusted servant. Then when he refuses the advances of Potiphar’s wife, she becomes enraged and accuses him of trying to molest her.
Joseph is thrown into jail. There he interprets dreams, in particular those of the chief cup bearer (can someone please provide me with the job description for this position?) and chief baker. His interpretations are proven true. The chief cup bearer is restored to his position and the chief baker is executed. Lo and behold, Pharaoh is plagued (get it?) by repeated, disturbing dreams. No one can interpret them.
The chief cup bearer reports that he met this guy in jail who has a unique ability to interpret dreams. Joseph is summoned to Pharaoh’s palace. He is cleaned up and given fancy clothes. He interprets the dreams to mean that there will be seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. “Put someone in charge of stockpiling the food during the first seven years so that there will be enough food during the seven lean years,” Joseph suggests.
And guess what. Pharaoh puts Joseph in charge of the task. Our hero becomes the second most powerful, and influential, man in all of Egypt. Pharaoh showers Joseph with riches and gives him a bride. During the years of famine, Jacob and his children run out of food. They hear that there is food to be had in nearby Egypt and so they venture there to procure food for their large, extended family.
Joseph’s brothers appear before him and bow before him—just as he had dreamed when he was a younger man. Soon the brothers and Joseph will be reconciled. First the brothers must be tested. Will they stand up for their younger brother Benjamin and protect him? Will they behave differently towards him than they did to Joseph? Come back next week to see what they do. Or, if you prefer, read ahead.
My question at the moment is how we turn wrongs into good. Joseph is wronged by his brothers and then by Potiphar’s wife. He suffers setback after setback and yet still emerges successful.
Everyone faces setbacks. Everyone has been wronged.
Some even suffer injustices. Joseph is wrongly jailed! And yet he does not appear to dwell on these injustices and wrongs. He looks beyond these. His vision is remarkable.
Moreover, his very success is a result of the wrongs committed against him. If his brothers had not sold him into slavery, if Potiphar’s wife had not falsely accused him, he would not have been in the right place at the right time.
He harbors no bitterness. Joseph views these very wrongs as part of a divine plan whose meaning only becomes apparent when his brother appear before him. Now he is in a position to save lives. His heart is only filled with gratitude. Joseph exclaims, “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
How many people can do likewise? How many people can look past the wrongs committed against them—even, and especially, when the resulting good is not so readily apparent? Redeeming the wrongs committed against us, seeing the positive even when it remains mysterious, is the holy task Joseph’s example sets before us.
To be honest, I do not know if I can always do it. Dwelling on those wrongs often feels easier than looking past them. I do know that I am supposed to emulate Joseph
Joseph’s ability to see the good even in the bad is stunning. In the verses of the Torah, it also becomes revelatory.
Thanksgiving, Hanukkah and the Myths We Tell
It feels somewhat strange when we celebrate Hanukkah a few days after gathering for Thanksgiving. Our Jewish holidays are tied to the Hebrew calendar which operates independently from the Gregorian calendar. Occasionally however, Hanukkah finds its way into November and nears Thanksgiving.
This offers us a unique opportunity to reflect upon our dual commitments as American Jews. Interestingly both Thanksgiving and Hanukkah are built upon myths that are thinly tied to history. Let me explain.
Nowhere in the Book of Maccabees, the first written record of the events surrounding Hanukkah, is the miracle of oil mentioned. I realize this may come as a surprise given that this story forms the core of how we talk about Hanukkah. We first find the miracle story in the Talmud, a book completed nearly 700 years after the Maccabean revolt.
Did the miracle of oil really occur?
This offers us a unique opportunity to reflect upon our dual commitments as American Jews. Interestingly both Thanksgiving and Hanukkah are built upon myths that are thinly tied to history. Let me explain.
Nowhere in the Book of Maccabees, the first written record of the events surrounding Hanukkah, is the miracle of oil mentioned. I realize this may come as a surprise given that this story forms the core of how we talk about Hanukkah. We first find the miracle story in the Talmud, a book completed nearly 700 years after the Maccabean revolt.
Did the miracle of oil really occur?
Forgiveness Should Be Easier
I know I am supposed to admire Jacob and love him more than Esau. Jacob is, after all, the father of the children of Israel. He is the man through whom we trace our people’s sacred lineage. And yet, this week, I find myself looking admirably towards his brother Esau.
Jacob deceived his father and stole the birthright from Esau. Jacob then runs away—Esau threatens to kill him after discovering the deception. On the run, Jacob experiences God, marries and builds a large family, experiences God some more and becomes incredibly successful.
We do not know what Esau is doing during these years. Is he nursing a grudge towards Jacob? Is he perseverating about the wrongs done to him? He has every right to be angry. It is true that Jacob lied and stole from him. We learn little about what Esau is thinking. We learn a great deal about Jacob. We read about his dreams and how he wrestles with God. We learn a great deal about his fears. They continue to plague him.
When he realizes that he will see Esau for the first time, he sends messengers ahead to greet Esau. They report that Esau has become wildly successful. Many people work for him. Jacob believes these four hundred men are not a measure of his brother’s success but instead proof that Esau wishes to attack his family and carry out his earlier threat.
Isn’t it remarkable that Esau has become so successful without the first-born blessing? Maybe he did not need the blessing after all. Maybe Jacob needed it more. After dividing his family into two camps, Jacob sends gifts to Esau in the hopes of placating him and earning his forgiveness. But Esau no longer appears angry.
Instead, he appears confident in his success.
In contrast, Jacob is still afraid. His decisions appear guided by his fears. Is he so guilt-ridden that he cannot see that his brother is no longer the dangerous and skilled hunter of their youth?
Does Esau require all these gifts? Are these what effectuate his forgiveness? Again, we do not know.
We do know what he proclaims. We do hear what he says when he and his brother are finally reunited. The first words we read since hearing his now decades old screams that he would kill Jacob are “I have enough.” After hugging and kissing Jacob, and meeting his large extended family, Esau responds to the many gifts offered to him with the words, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours.” (Genesis 33)
It appears that Esau opened his heart to his brother a long time ago. It appears that he is no longer nursing vengeance. He is overjoyed to see Jacob and meet his family.
I admire Esau because forgiveness comes so easily to him. Jacob struggles with fear. Jacob wrestles with the demons of his deceptions and trickery. These continue to define him.
Esau appears content. He forgives readily. This week he more than Jacob earns my admiration and praise.
Let’s be honest. Forgiveness is really, really hard. For whom does it come so easily?
Then again, if Esau can do it, so can we.
Jacob deceived his father and stole the birthright from Esau. Jacob then runs away—Esau threatens to kill him after discovering the deception. On the run, Jacob experiences God, marries and builds a large family, experiences God some more and becomes incredibly successful.
We do not know what Esau is doing during these years. Is he nursing a grudge towards Jacob? Is he perseverating about the wrongs done to him? He has every right to be angry. It is true that Jacob lied and stole from him. We learn little about what Esau is thinking. We learn a great deal about Jacob. We read about his dreams and how he wrestles with God. We learn a great deal about his fears. They continue to plague him.
When he realizes that he will see Esau for the first time, he sends messengers ahead to greet Esau. They report that Esau has become wildly successful. Many people work for him. Jacob believes these four hundred men are not a measure of his brother’s success but instead proof that Esau wishes to attack his family and carry out his earlier threat.
Isn’t it remarkable that Esau has become so successful without the first-born blessing? Maybe he did not need the blessing after all. Maybe Jacob needed it more. After dividing his family into two camps, Jacob sends gifts to Esau in the hopes of placating him and earning his forgiveness. But Esau no longer appears angry.
Instead, he appears confident in his success.
In contrast, Jacob is still afraid. His decisions appear guided by his fears. Is he so guilt-ridden that he cannot see that his brother is no longer the dangerous and skilled hunter of their youth?
Does Esau require all these gifts? Are these what effectuate his forgiveness? Again, we do not know.
We do know what he proclaims. We do hear what he says when he and his brother are finally reunited. The first words we read since hearing his now decades old screams that he would kill Jacob are “I have enough.” After hugging and kissing Jacob, and meeting his large extended family, Esau responds to the many gifts offered to him with the words, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours.” (Genesis 33)
It appears that Esau opened his heart to his brother a long time ago. It appears that he is no longer nursing vengeance. He is overjoyed to see Jacob and meet his family.
I admire Esau because forgiveness comes so easily to him. Jacob struggles with fear. Jacob wrestles with the demons of his deceptions and trickery. These continue to define him.
Esau appears content. He forgives readily. This week he more than Jacob earns my admiration and praise.
Let’s be honest. Forgiveness is really, really hard. For whom does it come so easily?
Then again, if Esau can do it, so can we.
Lift Up Your Legs, There Are Miracles To Be Seen
Miracles are all around us. It is not that they do not exist. It is instead that we fail to see them. That is the Torah’s perspective.
And so, we read many times, the refrain, “And he lifted up his eyes (vayisah einav).” Abraham heads out on a journey with the faith that God will direct him to a special and holy place. “On the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place from afar.” (Genesis 22) Later, an angel stays Abraham’s hand as he is about to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Miraculously a ram appears, and he sacrifices it instead of his son. “And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and he saw a ram caught in the thicket by its horns.”
Did the ram appear out of nowhere? Was the place magically created out of thin air? Of course not. They were there all along. The power of miracles is held in our eyes. Miracles are all around us. It is a matter of lifting up our eyes.
And yet, this week, Jacob does not set out on a journey because God commands him like his grandfather Abraham. Instead, Jacob is on the run. After tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright, Esau threatens to kill him. Fearing for his life, Jacob runs away to his extended family’s home in Haran, the land Abraham left. As night falls, he becomes exhausted and lays down to sleep. He dreams of a ladder going up to heaven with angels going up and going down on it. He sees God standing beside him.
He awakens and proclaims, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it! How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God.” (Genesis 28) In the most ordinary of places, there in a nondescript patch of desert, he finds God. His eyes are opened by the experience.
The Torah, however, does not use the phrase, “And he lifted up his eyes.” His eyes do not see something that was there all along. And yet, Jacob was transformed. Is his fear no more? It does not appear so. In fact, his dream fills him with awe and dread. He fears what he sees. The Hebrew of these words are connected. Awe is related to fear.
To see is to fear.
And then, after naming the place Beth-El, Jacob sets out on his journey once again.
“And Jacob lifted up his legs (vayisah raglav) and he went toward the land.” (Genesis 29) Is his heart filled with awe? Or with fear? Is the difference ever so obvious or exact? Jacob understands miracles await him. He sets out. He takes the steps. He refuses to allow fear to deter him from moving forward.
Yesterday, I set out on my bike again. It has been nearly three months since I was hit by a car. And it has been months of playing the particulars of the accident over and over again in my mind. The more time one has to perseverate over such details the more fear creeps into the soul. “I should have. I should not have. What if I? What if I did not?” And so, I decided, not only to go for a ride by myself as I did on that day in August, but also to ride on the exact street on which I was hit.
There is only one choice but to lift up your legs and ride forward.
To be consumed by awe is to be filled with fear.
Sometime later Jacob lifts up his eyes. (Genesis 33) He sees his brother Esau. His brother no longer wishes to kill him. Instead, Esau forgives him and the two are reunited.
Perhaps that is miracle enough.
It is always a matter of lifting up your eyes.
But first it is a matter of lifting up your legs.
And so, we read many times, the refrain, “And he lifted up his eyes (vayisah einav).” Abraham heads out on a journey with the faith that God will direct him to a special and holy place. “On the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place from afar.” (Genesis 22) Later, an angel stays Abraham’s hand as he is about to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Miraculously a ram appears, and he sacrifices it instead of his son. “And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and he saw a ram caught in the thicket by its horns.”
Did the ram appear out of nowhere? Was the place magically created out of thin air? Of course not. They were there all along. The power of miracles is held in our eyes. Miracles are all around us. It is a matter of lifting up our eyes.
And yet, this week, Jacob does not set out on a journey because God commands him like his grandfather Abraham. Instead, Jacob is on the run. After tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright, Esau threatens to kill him. Fearing for his life, Jacob runs away to his extended family’s home in Haran, the land Abraham left. As night falls, he becomes exhausted and lays down to sleep. He dreams of a ladder going up to heaven with angels going up and going down on it. He sees God standing beside him.
He awakens and proclaims, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it! How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God.” (Genesis 28) In the most ordinary of places, there in a nondescript patch of desert, he finds God. His eyes are opened by the experience.
The Torah, however, does not use the phrase, “And he lifted up his eyes.” His eyes do not see something that was there all along. And yet, Jacob was transformed. Is his fear no more? It does not appear so. In fact, his dream fills him with awe and dread. He fears what he sees. The Hebrew of these words are connected. Awe is related to fear.
To see is to fear.
And then, after naming the place Beth-El, Jacob sets out on his journey once again.
“And Jacob lifted up his legs (vayisah raglav) and he went toward the land.” (Genesis 29) Is his heart filled with awe? Or with fear? Is the difference ever so obvious or exact? Jacob understands miracles await him. He sets out. He takes the steps. He refuses to allow fear to deter him from moving forward.
Yesterday, I set out on my bike again. It has been nearly three months since I was hit by a car. And it has been months of playing the particulars of the accident over and over again in my mind. The more time one has to perseverate over such details the more fear creeps into the soul. “I should have. I should not have. What if I? What if I did not?” And so, I decided, not only to go for a ride by myself as I did on that day in August, but also to ride on the exact street on which I was hit.
There is only one choice but to lift up your legs and ride forward.
To be consumed by awe is to be filled with fear.
Sometime later Jacob lifts up his eyes. (Genesis 33) He sees his brother Esau. His brother no longer wishes to kill him. Instead, Esau forgives him and the two are reunited.
Perhaps that is miracle enough.
It is always a matter of lifting up your eyes.
But first it is a matter of lifting up your legs.
Waiting for Miracles
A common theme in religious literature is the miraculous birth of its heroes. The Torah is no different. Isaac is born to Abraham and Sarah after years of infertility. Sarah is in fact ninety years old when she gives birth, and Abraham, one hundred. Isaac’s birth is not only unexpected and surprising but miraculous. The Torah’s message is clear. The only way that Abraham and Sarah could have a child is by divine intervention.
Jacob and Esau are also born to Isaac and Rebekah after the Torah reports that Rebekah is barren. There is, by the way, no suggestion that their infertility is because of Isaac. The Torah’s perspective is that it must be because of Rebekah. And so, we read, “Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25) Still, we cannot know what causes their infertility.
We only know that they struggle to have a child. The Torah states that Isaac is sixty years old when Jacob and Esau are born. He is forty years old when they get married. Apparently, they struggled to have children for twenty years! And while it is true that oftentimes the Torah is written as if time does not exist, we frequently gloss over the significance of these intervening years. We skip over this seemingly unimportant fact because the miracle occurs. Jacob and Esau are born. God responds to Isaac’s prayers!
There are no words indicating what transpired during these years of waiting and longing. There are no reports about what Isaac said to Rebekah or she said to her husband. There are no verses suggesting what they felt. Were they consumed with doubt? Or were they instead steadfast in their faith? I wonder. Did these twenty years strengthen their relationship or cause it irreparable pain? Do these intervening years explain that as soon as the children are born, Isaac turns his favor towards Esau and Rebekah to Jacob?
The Talmud derives a lesson from this story and states that one may wait twenty years to have children. Rabbi Nahman adds that these years convinced Isaac that it was he who was infertile. There was therefore no reason for him to marry another woman. (Yevamot 64) In the rabbinic imagination Isaac’s love for Rebekah overcomes even the most challenging of circumstances. His faith that she is his destiny remains unshakeable.
And yet I remain perplexed.
I wish our tradition offered more insights about these years of waiting. Sometimes I wish we did not focus so much on the miracle but instead on the waiting. What does it mean to wait for miracles? And isn’t this what we spend most of lives doing?
Waiting, and wading through countless years of struggle, is what tests our relationships and I hope, strengthens our resolve.
The waiting tests faith. It writes a Torah that is too often glossed over and forgotten.
I believe. The waiting can strengthen love.
Jacob and Esau are also born to Isaac and Rebekah after the Torah reports that Rebekah is barren. There is, by the way, no suggestion that their infertility is because of Isaac. The Torah’s perspective is that it must be because of Rebekah. And so, we read, “Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25) Still, we cannot know what causes their infertility.
We only know that they struggle to have a child. The Torah states that Isaac is sixty years old when Jacob and Esau are born. He is forty years old when they get married. Apparently, they struggled to have children for twenty years! And while it is true that oftentimes the Torah is written as if time does not exist, we frequently gloss over the significance of these intervening years. We skip over this seemingly unimportant fact because the miracle occurs. Jacob and Esau are born. God responds to Isaac’s prayers!
There are no words indicating what transpired during these years of waiting and longing. There are no reports about what Isaac said to Rebekah or she said to her husband. There are no verses suggesting what they felt. Were they consumed with doubt? Or were they instead steadfast in their faith? I wonder. Did these twenty years strengthen their relationship or cause it irreparable pain? Do these intervening years explain that as soon as the children are born, Isaac turns his favor towards Esau and Rebekah to Jacob?
The Talmud derives a lesson from this story and states that one may wait twenty years to have children. Rabbi Nahman adds that these years convinced Isaac that it was he who was infertile. There was therefore no reason for him to marry another woman. (Yevamot 64) In the rabbinic imagination Isaac’s love for Rebekah overcomes even the most challenging of circumstances. His faith that she is his destiny remains unshakeable.
And yet I remain perplexed.
I wish our tradition offered more insights about these years of waiting. Sometimes I wish we did not focus so much on the miracle but instead on the waiting. What does it mean to wait for miracles? And isn’t this what we spend most of lives doing?
Waiting, and wading through countless years of struggle, is what tests our relationships and I hope, strengthens our resolve.
The waiting tests faith. It writes a Torah that is too often glossed over and forgotten.
I believe. The waiting can strengthen love.
Antisemitism Three Years Later
One in four American Jews has been targeted by antisemitism over the past year, including 17% who were subjected to antisemitic remarks in person and 12% who experienced antisemitism online or on social media. (AJC The State of Antisemitism in America 2021) Congregants share with me more and more stories of how a longtime acquaintance blurted out antisemitic remarks.
On the right this increase in antisemitism appears to have begun with the conservative embrace of fringe groups. When political leaders fail to denounce antisemitism, or hatred of any group, most especially from within their own ranks, antisemitism flourishes. The trial now beginning in Charlottesville is an important step forward. Take away the funding of those who support violent antisemitism. Speak out against those who defend the absurd protests against mask wearing and vaccine mandates with Nazi analogies. Defend free speech but know its limits and limitations. Are we to believe free speech really means that factual inaccuracies should be allowed to flourish online?
On the left this increase in antisemitism appears to have begun with the liberal embrace of racial justice. Let’s be clear. Racial justice for African Americans is not the same as justice for Palestinians. The insistence that the sins of America’s founding—let’s be clear as great as this country is, sins were committed against Native Americans and African Americans—and yet these are not the same as the wrongs Israel committed in its founding. To be blunt, Jews were murdered by Palestinians. And Palestinians were expelled by Israelis.
I do not wish to explore the rights and wrongs committed in each of these struggles. Instead, I want to emphasize they are not the same. Academics, and American liberals, appear to insist that above every victim is an oppressor and that we can view every struggle through the prism of these archetypes. Victim and oppressor. All we have to do to figure out who is right and who wrong is assign someone to one of these categorizations. And so, in this worldview the Jew is the oppressor, and the Israeli is the same as the White police officer with his knee on George Floyd’s neck.
When fighting the antisemitism of the right, it is easier to draw a clear, bright line between right and wrong, good and evil. On the left, the fight is far more difficult and the lines blurry. How can I simultaneously support George Floyd and the countless others whose names I don’t know while also supporting Israel’s right to defend itself against the genocidal designs of Hamas and Iran? We become lost in the questioning and confusion. I can defend Israel and also fight for racial justice.
But again, make no mistake, antisemitism is antisemitism. Seeing Israel as the Jew among nations is antisemitism. Israel is powerful. Sometimes it wields its power for good. Sometimes for bad. It is like America and every other country for that matter. Nations, or at least the good among them, struggle to live up to a noble vision of themselves. They falter. They look within. They try to correct themselves. They try to do better. That is how I see America. That is how I see Israel.
The world appears to behave in a way suggesting that as long as Jews are small and not mighty, as long as we are victims, and not powerful, as long as we don’t wield our might with an army or defend ourselves by achieving political prominence, then the world is content with our place. My response to that is, no way. Zionism has taught me that it is not just about our return to the land but our return to history. It is about taking charge of our destiny and not allowing others to write our own story. Our fate is in our hands. We are not going to grovel to the whims of other rulers.
Do not think that if we were not supportive of immigration rights, or if our numbers were not so well represented in the calls for racial justice, antisemtism would cease. Do not think that if we do not wear a kippah outside or if we hide the addresses of our synagogues, antisemitism will come to an end. Theodor Herzl was right when he said that if you will it, then it is not a dream, but he was wrong that once the State of Israel was established antisemitism would dissolve into ancient history. I do not know why this hatred, why this darkness among all others, persists and defies all our attempts to stamp it out. I do know this, I will never cower. I will never be silenced. I will sing the songs of my tradition. I will shout with pride of my Jewish identity.
When I look up, when I lift up my eyes as Abraham, Isaac and Rebekah do, in this week’s portion, I cannot know what is off in the distance; I cannot know if this is once again a test, but I can know what every single one of us feels, things have changed, and we feel more tentative about our home. I resolve the following. No one can ever make me feel that this place is not my home. No one can ever make me feel that Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, is not our home.
Gone are the days of youthful naïveté when I thought despite my grandparents’ objections, that antisemitism no longer existed. And in their place is more pride and more resilience and an even greater sense that I will forever hold my head high and proclaim that I am proud to be a Jew. I will lift up my eyes, and see clearly that hatred lurks, and foments, even here. I will lift up my eyes with great pride that this is my tradition and that to be a Jew is a blessing and a gift.
Seeing What's Ahead
“On the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw the place from afar.” (Genesis 22)
People always want to look into the future. They want to know if their decisions will prove successful. And yet, when Abraham looks at Mount Moriah from a distance, he does not know that how this journey will unfold or even that it is a test. Often, we do not see what we are meant to see when we look into the distance. We cannot know what the future holds.
When Abraham next lifts up his eyes, he sees a ram. And he turns away from slaughtering his son Isaac and understands that the intended sacrifice is different than he first believed. Was the journey for naught now that its intention has changed? What he believed the future held is far different than what transpires.
When looking from afar we often do not understand what is intended. When making decisions, we often get the distant future wrong. Our intentions are transformed when we see what is actually unfolding before our eyes—at least if we allow ourselves to be influenced by events.
“And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening and lifted his eyes and saw camels approaching.” (Genesis 24) Riding on these camels is Rebekah who will soon become his wife. He cannot know that he will grow to love her or that her embrace will offer him comfort after his mother’s death. He sees only caravan in the distance. He does not see Rebekah.
“And Rebekah lifted her eyes and she saw Isaac.” (Does Rebekah see more clearly than her husband to be?) Even though she sees Isaac, she does not know about the life they will build with each other. She cannot know that their son Jacob will become the father of the children of Israel. Who can see that far off into the distance? Who can know what the future holds?
No one. No one except for God. We lift our eyes, but do not see. We see more clearly when looking back rather than looking ahead. Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes: “They all see things in the distance, but there’s always more in the distance that we can discern. Something else is coming down. We only realize this in retrospect.”
No matter how powerful the lenses, no matter how extraordinary the eyesight, we cannot know what lies ahead of us. Lifting up our eyes is not the same as seeing. We only truly see, we only truly understand, when looking back. There life’s meaning, the steps and missteps, the ups and downs, become more discernible in hindsight.
We lift our eyes, like our forefathers and foremothers, in expectation. There, in the distance, mystery unfolds. And then, and there, we might be awed. In Hebrew the word for seeing is similar to that for awe. When we truly see, we open ourselves to the possibility of being awed.
Set out to the unknowing. Look back for the knowing.
Open your eyes to awe.
People always want to look into the future. They want to know if their decisions will prove successful. And yet, when Abraham looks at Mount Moriah from a distance, he does not know that how this journey will unfold or even that it is a test. Often, we do not see what we are meant to see when we look into the distance. We cannot know what the future holds.
When Abraham next lifts up his eyes, he sees a ram. And he turns away from slaughtering his son Isaac and understands that the intended sacrifice is different than he first believed. Was the journey for naught now that its intention has changed? What he believed the future held is far different than what transpires.
When looking from afar we often do not understand what is intended. When making decisions, we often get the distant future wrong. Our intentions are transformed when we see what is actually unfolding before our eyes—at least if we allow ourselves to be influenced by events.
“And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening and lifted his eyes and saw camels approaching.” (Genesis 24) Riding on these camels is Rebekah who will soon become his wife. He cannot know that he will grow to love her or that her embrace will offer him comfort after his mother’s death. He sees only caravan in the distance. He does not see Rebekah.
“And Rebekah lifted her eyes and she saw Isaac.” (Does Rebekah see more clearly than her husband to be?) Even though she sees Isaac, she does not know about the life they will build with each other. She cannot know that their son Jacob will become the father of the children of Israel. Who can see that far off into the distance? Who can know what the future holds?
No one. No one except for God. We lift our eyes, but do not see. We see more clearly when looking back rather than looking ahead. Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes: “They all see things in the distance, but there’s always more in the distance that we can discern. Something else is coming down. We only realize this in retrospect.”
No matter how powerful the lenses, no matter how extraordinary the eyesight, we cannot know what lies ahead of us. Lifting up our eyes is not the same as seeing. We only truly see, we only truly understand, when looking back. There life’s meaning, the steps and missteps, the ups and downs, become more discernible in hindsight.
We lift our eyes, like our forefathers and foremothers, in expectation. There, in the distance, mystery unfolds. And then, and there, we might be awed. In Hebrew the word for seeing is similar to that for awe. When we truly see, we open ourselves to the possibility of being awed.
Set out to the unknowing. Look back for the knowing.
Open your eyes to awe.
Jefferson's Statue, Jefferson's Words
I imagine a debate about our founding father, Abraham and what would happen if we were looking at a statue of him.
On the one hand, he set out on a journey that reshaped the world. In this new land to which he traveled, he grew closer to God. His family, and wealth, increased. Through his heirs three religions were born, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. I would like to think the world has benefited from his extraordinary vision. On the other hand, he fathered a child with his slave, Hagar. He then cast this child, Ishmael, and his mother aside, leaving them to die in the desert. I remain troubled by his heartlessness.
I recognize his flaws but hold on to his faith in God. Others might be unable to look past his wrongs. If holders of these divergent views were staring at the same image, would they be able to compromise? Would the nuances, the mistakes and failures, be smoothed over? In the Torah’s words, there is room for opposing views.
I wonder as well. Do I hold on to the aspirations in Thomas Jefferson’s words, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” or the image of Jefferson now removed from New York City’s Council chamber?
I have come to believe that statues are more about their creators than the people they depict. Did you know that Jefferson’s statue was commissioned in 1834 by one of the first Jewish officers in the U.S. Military? Uriah Phillips Levy served in the navy and fought in the War of 1812. He was a member of New York’s famous Spanish-Portuguese Synagogue.
He saw in Jefferson the possibility of overcoming the antisemitism he experienced. In fact, Levy is also responsible for commissioning the Jefferson statue in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Was Levy unaware that Jefferson was a slaveholder? I doubt it. Levy was like far too many of his contemporaries unaware of slavery’s evils. I imagine he thought Jefferson’s words applied to his own circumstances. He did not think beyond his circle of concern.
Should he have widened his concern? Should he have seen the humanity of others, most especially of those not yet recognized as equal Americans? Should Jefferson have broadened his understanding of “men” to mean men and women? Should our founding father have seen Blacks, Native Americans and other human beings besides White men as endowed with equal rights? Yes! Did he? No.
The words he penned offer opportunities for new, and more expansive, interpretations. His story is both a source of inspiration and his shortcomings a cause for embarrassment when measured against today’s values and mores. I see in his image only the inspiration that Levy saw. His vision helped to liberate my ancestors. I recognize that others see in this same image the face of oppression and their ancestor’s subjugation.
I see in his words room for all of us.
Throughout history statues have been erected and then torn down. I would prefer we spent more energy trying to live up to our founder’s aspirations rather than arguing about the image each of us sees in a statue’s visage. I would prefer adding more statues and thereby widening our circle of concern. I fear that when tearing down, our vision is not expanded but instead becomes more limited.
The other day I was in Poughkeepsie and walked across the recently completed Walkway Over the Hudson. I stumbled upon a statue of Sojourner Truth. At first, I was saddened to read that it took well over one hundred years for this leading abolitionist to gain a place in our pantheon of American heroes. And then it occurred to me that this might be a better response than toppling statues every time we become disappointed, or troubled, when unearthing heroes’ heretofore unspoken flaws.
And then I recall, statues invite controversy. They inevitably become idols. As soon as a statue is erected there lurks a danger. Its object of worship can become ossified.
Judaism has long placed more faith in words than objects. It elevates books over statues.
Look again at our Torah’s words.
“God heard the cry of the boy, and an angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, ‘What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heeded the cry…’” (Genesis 21)
There is room for all of us in these words. There is room for all of us in Jefferson’s aspirations.
I hear Sojourner Truth’s words anew, “Religion without humanity is very poor human stuff.”
On the one hand, he set out on a journey that reshaped the world. In this new land to which he traveled, he grew closer to God. His family, and wealth, increased. Through his heirs three religions were born, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. I would like to think the world has benefited from his extraordinary vision. On the other hand, he fathered a child with his slave, Hagar. He then cast this child, Ishmael, and his mother aside, leaving them to die in the desert. I remain troubled by his heartlessness.
I recognize his flaws but hold on to his faith in God. Others might be unable to look past his wrongs. If holders of these divergent views were staring at the same image, would they be able to compromise? Would the nuances, the mistakes and failures, be smoothed over? In the Torah’s words, there is room for opposing views.
I wonder as well. Do I hold on to the aspirations in Thomas Jefferson’s words, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” or the image of Jefferson now removed from New York City’s Council chamber?
I have come to believe that statues are more about their creators than the people they depict. Did you know that Jefferson’s statue was commissioned in 1834 by one of the first Jewish officers in the U.S. Military? Uriah Phillips Levy served in the navy and fought in the War of 1812. He was a member of New York’s famous Spanish-Portuguese Synagogue.
He saw in Jefferson the possibility of overcoming the antisemitism he experienced. In fact, Levy is also responsible for commissioning the Jefferson statue in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Was Levy unaware that Jefferson was a slaveholder? I doubt it. Levy was like far too many of his contemporaries unaware of slavery’s evils. I imagine he thought Jefferson’s words applied to his own circumstances. He did not think beyond his circle of concern.
Should he have widened his concern? Should he have seen the humanity of others, most especially of those not yet recognized as equal Americans? Should Jefferson have broadened his understanding of “men” to mean men and women? Should our founding father have seen Blacks, Native Americans and other human beings besides White men as endowed with equal rights? Yes! Did he? No.
The words he penned offer opportunities for new, and more expansive, interpretations. His story is both a source of inspiration and his shortcomings a cause for embarrassment when measured against today’s values and mores. I see in his image only the inspiration that Levy saw. His vision helped to liberate my ancestors. I recognize that others see in this same image the face of oppression and their ancestor’s subjugation.
I see in his words room for all of us.
Throughout history statues have been erected and then torn down. I would prefer we spent more energy trying to live up to our founder’s aspirations rather than arguing about the image each of us sees in a statue’s visage. I would prefer adding more statues and thereby widening our circle of concern. I fear that when tearing down, our vision is not expanded but instead becomes more limited.
The other day I was in Poughkeepsie and walked across the recently completed Walkway Over the Hudson. I stumbled upon a statue of Sojourner Truth. At first, I was saddened to read that it took well over one hundred years for this leading abolitionist to gain a place in our pantheon of American heroes. And then it occurred to me that this might be a better response than toppling statues every time we become disappointed, or troubled, when unearthing heroes’ heretofore unspoken flaws.
And then I recall, statues invite controversy. They inevitably become idols. As soon as a statue is erected there lurks a danger. Its object of worship can become ossified.
Judaism has long placed more faith in words than objects. It elevates books over statues.
Look again at our Torah’s words.
“God heard the cry of the boy, and an angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, ‘What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heeded the cry…’” (Genesis 21)
There is room for all of us in these words. There is room for all of us in Jefferson’s aspirations.
I hear Sojourner Truth’s words anew, “Religion without humanity is very poor human stuff.”
Answering the Unexpected
Seemingly out of nowhere God calls Abraham, “The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’” (Genesis 12) We are left to wonder why Abraham? What is it about his character that made God choose him?
The rabbis of course spin many stories to explain this. The most famous of which is the tale about the time young Abraham was working in his father idol shop. Abraham smashes all the idols except one and then when his father confronts him, he blames the single idol. His father screams, “That is ridiculous! An idol can’t destroy other idols.” And Abraham says, “Exactly!” He reasons that a statue of wood and stone cannot be responsible for our lives. In that moment Abraham begins to realize that there is only one God who moves heaven and earth.
Moses Maimonides offers a similar insight. He suggests that Abraham looks to the stars and realizes that they should not be objects of our worship. He understands that there is an invisible force who instead moves the stars and orders the heavens. Aristotle, whose writing greatly influenced Maimonides, called this force the Prime Mover. Maimonides saw this as synonymous with God. Abraham understood that only this force is worthy of our devotion.
The particulars of these different stories are somewhat immaterial. All the commentators agree that there was something remarkable in Abraham’s character. There was something unique in his insights. He must have been called by God because he was in essence the first to understand the power of monotheism. Perhaps the commentators are wrong. Perhaps our rabbis are mistaken. Is it blasphemous to suggest such an idea?
Is it instead possible that there was nothing special in Abraham’s character? Is it imaginable that God decided to pick an ordinary, everyday man? Perhaps the power of the story is what Abraham accomplished after the call. That in truth might be the more important Torah. Abraham’s character is inconsequential until he is called.
We spend so much of our lives devoted to establishing our credentials. Here are my accomplishments we say over and over again. Here is what I can bring to your university is what students write in their college essays. We then imagine that we are only chosen if we are fit for the position. We think we are picked for the task if our experiences merit our selection. This suggests that we are truly masters of our own fate and that we are picked because of our demonstrated abilities.
Yet there are times when we are called for no other reason than we are present to be chosen. We are standing there and so we are picked.
The notion that we are chosen because of our own merits each and every time is a myth. There are moments when the choice is indeed random, when we are chosen (or not) for no apparent reason or explanation. Our character does not always dictate the selection. Our past experiences cannot always shape our future.
Instead, our character is determined by how we respond to the choice. Our destiny is shaped by how we respond when called. Our Torah is written when we embrace the mystery of how life's choices unfold.
The only question then becomes, do we respond like Abraham. Do we say, “Hineni—here I am?”
The rabbis of course spin many stories to explain this. The most famous of which is the tale about the time young Abraham was working in his father idol shop. Abraham smashes all the idols except one and then when his father confronts him, he blames the single idol. His father screams, “That is ridiculous! An idol can’t destroy other idols.” And Abraham says, “Exactly!” He reasons that a statue of wood and stone cannot be responsible for our lives. In that moment Abraham begins to realize that there is only one God who moves heaven and earth.
Moses Maimonides offers a similar insight. He suggests that Abraham looks to the stars and realizes that they should not be objects of our worship. He understands that there is an invisible force who instead moves the stars and orders the heavens. Aristotle, whose writing greatly influenced Maimonides, called this force the Prime Mover. Maimonides saw this as synonymous with God. Abraham understood that only this force is worthy of our devotion.
The particulars of these different stories are somewhat immaterial. All the commentators agree that there was something remarkable in Abraham’s character. There was something unique in his insights. He must have been called by God because he was in essence the first to understand the power of monotheism. Perhaps the commentators are wrong. Perhaps our rabbis are mistaken. Is it blasphemous to suggest such an idea?
Is it instead possible that there was nothing special in Abraham’s character? Is it imaginable that God decided to pick an ordinary, everyday man? Perhaps the power of the story is what Abraham accomplished after the call. That in truth might be the more important Torah. Abraham’s character is inconsequential until he is called.
We spend so much of our lives devoted to establishing our credentials. Here are my accomplishments we say over and over again. Here is what I can bring to your university is what students write in their college essays. We then imagine that we are only chosen if we are fit for the position. We think we are picked for the task if our experiences merit our selection. This suggests that we are truly masters of our own fate and that we are picked because of our demonstrated abilities.
Yet there are times when we are called for no other reason than we are present to be chosen. We are standing there and so we are picked.
The notion that we are chosen because of our own merits each and every time is a myth. There are moments when the choice is indeed random, when we are chosen (or not) for no apparent reason or explanation. Our character does not always dictate the selection. Our past experiences cannot always shape our future.
Instead, our character is determined by how we respond to the choice. Our destiny is shaped by how we respond when called. Our Torah is written when we embrace the mystery of how life's choices unfold.
The only question then becomes, do we respond like Abraham. Do we say, “Hineni—here I am?”
Walking with Others, Walking with God
What does it mean to walk with others?
Moshe Cordervero, one of the greatest Jewish mystics, who lived in sixteenth century Safed, offered this advice. Go for long walks with friends. He and his friend, and fellow mystic, and brother-in-law, Shlomo Alkabetz, who authored one of our favorite Friday night prayers, Lecha Dodi, would go on walks in the fields surrounding Safed. Their goal was to see where their friendship led them. What truths could they uncover as they walked?
Cordevero offered this counsel: “One should desire the best for friends, view their good fortune favorably and cherish friends’ honor as your own.” What they discussed on those walks were recorded in a book called the “Book of Wanderings.” Go on an undetermined path with a friend. Go get lost with a friend.
Wander together and there you can be found. There you might discover some truth.
He offered practical suggestions about his spiritual practice. 1.Always walk with a friend. And 2. Only discuss matters of great importance. No discussions about the weather. Or what this person or that is doing or wearing or buying. Talk about the world. Argue about weighty matters. Discuss Torah.
Often, we think mysticism is about separating ourselves from the world. We imagine going on walks by ourselves in the woods or perhaps on the beach. There we are at one with nature. We commune with God’s creation and look within. But Cordervero suggests this is the wrong approach. Instead, we must walk in nature, with others.
The Torah offers this insight: “Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation; Noah walked with God.” (Genesis 6). Only about Enoch, a descendant of Adam and Eve, do we also read that he walked with God. No other figure in the Bible is described in this manner.
It is fascinating to discover that the Bible does not write “walked with God” about any Jewish figure. Abraham is commanded to walk with God. He is not, however, judged as having walked with God. That is what he is supposed to do not what he has already done.
The Torah offers no evidence about Noah’s, and Enoch’s, walking. And that leaves plenty of room for rabbis to surmise and sermonize. They suggest it must mean that they performed deeds of lovingkindness. The medieval commentator, Ibn Ezra, offers the following insight: “He trained himself to walk with God.” His understanding is derived from the fact that the Hebrew is written in the reflexive, meaning that there is an inner-directed component to his walking.
Even though the Torah writes as if Noah is judged favorably for walking with God. In fact, the judgment is about his efforts to walk with God and stand by God’s side.
What does it mean to walk with God?
It means to work on your walking.
It means to saunter if not with others, then with God.
It means to never walk alone.
Moshe Cordervero, one of the greatest Jewish mystics, who lived in sixteenth century Safed, offered this advice. Go for long walks with friends. He and his friend, and fellow mystic, and brother-in-law, Shlomo Alkabetz, who authored one of our favorite Friday night prayers, Lecha Dodi, would go on walks in the fields surrounding Safed. Their goal was to see where their friendship led them. What truths could they uncover as they walked?
Cordevero offered this counsel: “One should desire the best for friends, view their good fortune favorably and cherish friends’ honor as your own.” What they discussed on those walks were recorded in a book called the “Book of Wanderings.” Go on an undetermined path with a friend. Go get lost with a friend.
Wander together and there you can be found. There you might discover some truth.
He offered practical suggestions about his spiritual practice. 1.Always walk with a friend. And 2. Only discuss matters of great importance. No discussions about the weather. Or what this person or that is doing or wearing or buying. Talk about the world. Argue about weighty matters. Discuss Torah.
Often, we think mysticism is about separating ourselves from the world. We imagine going on walks by ourselves in the woods or perhaps on the beach. There we are at one with nature. We commune with God’s creation and look within. But Cordervero suggests this is the wrong approach. Instead, we must walk in nature, with others.
The Torah offers this insight: “Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation; Noah walked with God.” (Genesis 6). Only about Enoch, a descendant of Adam and Eve, do we also read that he walked with God. No other figure in the Bible is described in this manner.
It is fascinating to discover that the Bible does not write “walked with God” about any Jewish figure. Abraham is commanded to walk with God. He is not, however, judged as having walked with God. That is what he is supposed to do not what he has already done.
The Torah offers no evidence about Noah’s, and Enoch’s, walking. And that leaves plenty of room for rabbis to surmise and sermonize. They suggest it must mean that they performed deeds of lovingkindness. The medieval commentator, Ibn Ezra, offers the following insight: “He trained himself to walk with God.” His understanding is derived from the fact that the Hebrew is written in the reflexive, meaning that there is an inner-directed component to his walking.
Even though the Torah writes as if Noah is judged favorably for walking with God. In fact, the judgment is about his efforts to walk with God and stand by God’s side.
What does it mean to walk with God?
It means to work on your walking.
It means to saunter if not with others, then with God.
It means to never walk alone.
Grasping the Divine Image
This week we begin the Torah reading anew. We begin with the opening chapters of Genesis. We join with others so that we might uncover new, and yet undiscovered, understandings in these ancient words.
And we notice there are two creation stories. In the first chapter God creates human beings from the earth. The name Adam comes from the Hebrew adamah, meaning earth. Furthermore, humanity is created in God’s image from the outset. This image is a matter of divine will. It is given to humanity by God’s hand.
The Torah reports: “And God created adam in God’s image, in the image of God, God created adam, male and female God created them.” (Genesis 1) Man and woman are created simultaneously. The rabbis suggest that adam was an androgynous human with both male and female traits. God then divided this figure into two and fashioned male and female.
In the second creation account, man is created first and the woman from his rib. This is perhaps the more familiar account and has for centuries led people to suggest that the Bible believes women are subservient to men. But first created does not necessarily first in a hierarchal order. In fact, one could argue that with the second creation, namely woman, God worked out the kinks in the first creation. Is the artist’s first draft always the best version?
Still, I am left wondering how to reconcile these two distinct stories. And then it occurs to me, and only because of poring over these words with others, that these two accounts are not so much about how human beings were created, or for that matter, the relationship between man and woman, but instead about how we gain divine like qualities.
In the first it is God’s creative act that fashions God’s image within us. In the second we do not gain a measure of divinity until we eat from the tree of knowledge. Although God forbids us from eating this fruit, we achieve something worthwhile and commendable, when we reach for this tree. We gain knowledge. We grab hold of right and wrong. It remains a mystery to me why God would not want us to gain such knowledge.
The serpent offers an insight and says (yes, there is a talking snake in this account), “God knows that as soon as you eat of the fruit your eyes will be opened and you will be like divine beings who know good and bad.” (Genesis 3) Is it possible that the forbidden fruit is not as forbidden as it once appeared? Is it possible that becoming like God is a matter of knowing, and in particular understanding the difference between good and bad?
In the first creation account becoming like God is a matter of God’s impulse. In the second it is a matter of our human impulse. Our desire to know more, our ability to distinguish between good and bad, right and wrong, is what makes us more like God. We achieve this by our own hands.
We gain the knowledge of good and bad because woman insisted that we eat. It is Eve who drives us to knowing. It is she who prods us to do better.
And we notice there are two creation stories. In the first chapter God creates human beings from the earth. The name Adam comes from the Hebrew adamah, meaning earth. Furthermore, humanity is created in God’s image from the outset. This image is a matter of divine will. It is given to humanity by God’s hand.
The Torah reports: “And God created adam in God’s image, in the image of God, God created adam, male and female God created them.” (Genesis 1) Man and woman are created simultaneously. The rabbis suggest that adam was an androgynous human with both male and female traits. God then divided this figure into two and fashioned male and female.
In the second creation account, man is created first and the woman from his rib. This is perhaps the more familiar account and has for centuries led people to suggest that the Bible believes women are subservient to men. But first created does not necessarily first in a hierarchal order. In fact, one could argue that with the second creation, namely woman, God worked out the kinks in the first creation. Is the artist’s first draft always the best version?
Still, I am left wondering how to reconcile these two distinct stories. And then it occurs to me, and only because of poring over these words with others, that these two accounts are not so much about how human beings were created, or for that matter, the relationship between man and woman, but instead about how we gain divine like qualities.
In the first it is God’s creative act that fashions God’s image within us. In the second we do not gain a measure of divinity until we eat from the tree of knowledge. Although God forbids us from eating this fruit, we achieve something worthwhile and commendable, when we reach for this tree. We gain knowledge. We grab hold of right and wrong. It remains a mystery to me why God would not want us to gain such knowledge.
The serpent offers an insight and says (yes, there is a talking snake in this account), “God knows that as soon as you eat of the fruit your eyes will be opened and you will be like divine beings who know good and bad.” (Genesis 3) Is it possible that the forbidden fruit is not as forbidden as it once appeared? Is it possible that becoming like God is a matter of knowing, and in particular understanding the difference between good and bad?
In the first creation account becoming like God is a matter of God’s impulse. In the second it is a matter of our human impulse. Our desire to know more, our ability to distinguish between good and bad, right and wrong, is what makes us more like God. We achieve this by our own hands.
We gain the knowledge of good and bad because woman insisted that we eat. It is Eve who drives us to knowing. It is she who prods us to do better.
Welcoming Guests, Welcoming Strangers
The holiday of Sukkot is an agricultural festival. In ancient times we built temporary shelters so that we could spend our days out in the field harvesting the Fall crops. The Torah also suggests that we lived in these booths during our wanderings in the wilderness and they therefore remind us of our journey from freedom (Passover) to revelation (Shavuot). Rabbi Akiva believed that these temporary booths symbolized God’s protective shelter over us.
For one week we are commanded to eat, and even sleep, in the sukkah. The sukkah should never be built so well that it keeps out rain. In fact, one is supposed to be able to see the stars through its roof. The sukkah’s temporary quality reminds us of the fragility of our lives. Spending time in the sukkah helps to reconnect us to nature. Sleeping in the sukkah teaching us gratitude for the beautiful homes in which we live.
We are to invite guests into our sukkah and share our meals with them. The tradition suggests that everyone who is fortunate enough to celebrate Sukkot should invite at least one poor person to join them in their sukkah. Another tradition counsels us to invite ushpizin, imaginary, and legendary, guests. We invite Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron and David. And I would add, Sarah, Rachel, Rebecca, Leah, Miriam, Abigail, and Esther. On each of the holiday’s seven days, we single out a different Jewish hero.
The prayerbook suggests we say, “I invite to my meal the exalted guests, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, and David. May it please you, Abraham, my exalted guest, that all the other exalted guests dwell with me and with you: Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, and David.”
It is an interesting custom that reminds us of the importance of welcoming guests. Our homes, and our hearts, must always be open others. According to the tradition, Abraham and Sarah were models of how we are to welcome strangers. I cannot help but think of their example as I watch, once again and yet again, images of people struggling to enter our country’s borders. I think of my great grandparents who I never met and who brought their children, and my grandparents, to this nation. Are we living up to our tradition’s ideal?
I wonder if I should imagine welcoming my own legendary guests as this year’s ushpizin. If they were to sit in my sukkah and share in the bounty that I take for granted, I would ask them many questions. I would want to ask them why they risked everything to come to these United States. I know bits and pieces of their stories. I know the legends. There is so much I do not know. There is so much more I need to know.
I would want to ask my honored ushpizin, did they feel welcome when they first arrived? Why did they leave Russia? Were their days when they regretted their decision to come here? What did they miss most of the old world? Was America everything they dreamed it would be?
As I look up through the sukkah’s roof at heaven’s stars, I imagine Abraham and Sarah seeing these same stars and dreaming that their descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the nighttime sky. I imagine their hopes for what blessings their people might bring to the world.
I imagine my great grandparents Abraham and Sarah Greenberg dreaming that their descendants would find better lives for themselves in what was to them, this foreign land.
I wonder if my reality lives up to their dreams. I wish to welcome these exalted guests into my sukkah and discover the answers to my questions. I wish to find renewed strength and live up to Abraham and Sarah’s hopes and dreams.
For one week we are commanded to eat, and even sleep, in the sukkah. The sukkah should never be built so well that it keeps out rain. In fact, one is supposed to be able to see the stars through its roof. The sukkah’s temporary quality reminds us of the fragility of our lives. Spending time in the sukkah helps to reconnect us to nature. Sleeping in the sukkah teaching us gratitude for the beautiful homes in which we live.
We are to invite guests into our sukkah and share our meals with them. The tradition suggests that everyone who is fortunate enough to celebrate Sukkot should invite at least one poor person to join them in their sukkah. Another tradition counsels us to invite ushpizin, imaginary, and legendary, guests. We invite Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron and David. And I would add, Sarah, Rachel, Rebecca, Leah, Miriam, Abigail, and Esther. On each of the holiday’s seven days, we single out a different Jewish hero.
The prayerbook suggests we say, “I invite to my meal the exalted guests, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, and David. May it please you, Abraham, my exalted guest, that all the other exalted guests dwell with me and with you: Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, and David.”
It is an interesting custom that reminds us of the importance of welcoming guests. Our homes, and our hearts, must always be open others. According to the tradition, Abraham and Sarah were models of how we are to welcome strangers. I cannot help but think of their example as I watch, once again and yet again, images of people struggling to enter our country’s borders. I think of my great grandparents who I never met and who brought their children, and my grandparents, to this nation. Are we living up to our tradition’s ideal?
I wonder if I should imagine welcoming my own legendary guests as this year’s ushpizin. If they were to sit in my sukkah and share in the bounty that I take for granted, I would ask them many questions. I would want to ask them why they risked everything to come to these United States. I know bits and pieces of their stories. I know the legends. There is so much I do not know. There is so much more I need to know.
I would want to ask my honored ushpizin, did they feel welcome when they first arrived? Why did they leave Russia? Were their days when they regretted their decision to come here? What did they miss most of the old world? Was America everything they dreamed it would be?
As I look up through the sukkah’s roof at heaven’s stars, I imagine Abraham and Sarah seeing these same stars and dreaming that their descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the nighttime sky. I imagine their hopes for what blessings their people might bring to the world.
I imagine my great grandparents Abraham and Sarah Greenberg dreaming that their descendants would find better lives for themselves in what was to them, this foreign land.
I wonder if my reality lives up to their dreams. I wish to welcome these exalted guests into my sukkah and discover the answers to my questions. I wish to find renewed strength and live up to Abraham and Sarah’s hopes and dreams.
Get Angry, Be Joyful
What follows is my sermon from Yom Kippur morning. We require the emotions of anger and joy to face life's uncertainties.
The spiritual quest is not about finding a new forest, or even a different and safer forest, but instead about finding a new self. It is about changing ourselves. Every day we are different. And every day we have to start that search anew. The search is about making ourselves different, each and every day. And that to be honest, is confounding and exceedingly difficult, most especially given the times we currently find ourselves in. How do we get up each morning and go out into the world, when confronted with such uncertainty? Every day there seems some new bit of evidence, or advice, about when to wear masks or how many shots to get. Is it advisable to go out to a restaurant, or Yom Kippur services? Is it ok to get together with friends now that the Delta variant is circulating? Is the forest safe or dangerous? Last night we tackled the question of how do we live through change. And the answer was—or to be fair my answer was, embrace it. Make it your own. This morning’s question is more personal. How do we deal with uncertainty? How do we continue to wrap our arms around life when faced with uncertainty after uncertainty after uncertainty? And the answer is. By changing ourselves.
The problems, and challenges, of the past year are here to stay. We naively believed that this High Holidays would be the same as 2019 and that 2020 would be just a blip. We thought this year would offer us the opportunity to reflect on what we learned during the pandemic not that we would still be in the midst of it. Let’s be honest. We will be living with Covid for the foreseeable future. We have two choices. Pretend like it’s no big deal and will go away soon or face the painful truth that our present reality is going to be part of our lives in some way for years to come. We will be wearing masks for far longer than we ever imagined possible. We will be monitoring infection rates for years to come. And this acknowledgment that the end is not yet in sight creates tremendous uncertainty and unease.
Of course, we would all prefer that our lives could go back to those days when we did not wonder whether or not the person we brushed up against is vaccinated or not, whether talking to an unmasked stranger in the supermarket line is dangerous or not. The only way to deal with such unpleasant realities is to acknowledge them. The only way to tackle our fears is to own them. Head into the forest. Not to escape the world but to discover a new you. We can change the world a little bit, but we can change ourselves a lot.
First let’s talk about how we change the world. There are so many problems our world is facing. I am sure each of us has a lengthy list. I explored a number of these contemporary challenges on Rosh Hashanah. My question on this Yom Kippur is not so much what these problems are, but how we can face them. Here is the surprising answer. Get angry. Ignite action. You might be surprised to hear me say this. I think we need to discover the right kind of anger. We need to recover the sense that we can change things, that our seemingly insignificant actions can write a new course for the world. We are not allowed to say, “It does not matter what I do.”
We must reclaim the passion of the prophets of old, who so felt the urgency of the problems in their own day that they sacrificed almost everything else in order that others might take up God’s call. This morning we chanted the words of Isaiah. He said: “Is not this the fast I desire—to break the bonds of injustice and remove the heavy yoke; to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved? Is it not share your bread with the hungry and to take the homeless poor into your home, and never to neglect your own flesh and blood?” (Isaiah 58) I admit. Their passion and righteous indignation often got the better of them. They frequently pushed family and friends away. They were consumed by God’s message. They were overwhelmed by their anger. They always shouted. And never listened. Abraham Joshua Heschel remarked, “The prophet is human, yet he employs notes one octave too high for our ears.” (The Prophets)
The brilliance of our rabbis was to take the prophets’ words out of their own times and place them as weekly, contemporary reminders. They have us read these words of the Haftarah at the exact moment when we might be thinking, “Wow, even though I am really hungry, this hunger is my path to holiness.” No. This Yom Kippur fast is not enough. And it is not even the main thing. It is so we understand what hunger means. It is so we think of those who do not have enough food to feed their families. It is so we think not of the bagels and lox waiting for us after a long day of prayer and repentance but instead of those who are hungry and homeless only miles from our homes. It is a shame that we too often chant the prophets in Hebrew rather than dwell on the meaning of their words. The Hebrew insulates us from their all too contemporary message. We need to rediscover their passion. We need to reclaim a measure of the prophets’ anger.
David Whyte offers this counsel: “Anger is the deepest form of compassion, for another, for the world, for the self, for a life, for the body, for a family and for all our ideals, all vulnerable and all, possibly about to be hurt…. Anger is the purest form of care, the internal living flame of anger always illuminates what we belong to, what we wish to protect and what we are willing to hazard ourselves for.” (Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words) Whyte points us towards a truth we must reclaim. Anger is about becoming attuned to the world’s hurt and allowing it to make us do more than just curl up in bed and cry. It is about lighting a fire so that we get up each and every day and get out there and start fixing things—or at the very least start trying to change things in our own little world. We are not allowed to look at the world and shrug. We are not allowed to become exasperated and lose hope. And while we cannot hold all the world’s problems in one heart, we each have the strength to hold a few.
Start somewhere. Start fixing something. Get out there and do something about all this mess. There is plenty of brokenness to be repaired. That begins with the emotion of anger. Of course, we cannot, and should not, stay angry all the time. Too often we confuse anger with rage. That is what we keep getting wrong. Anger is about concern. It begins with justice and a feeling about what must be righted. It is about believing that this or that must be improved and can be made better. Rage is about pointing fingers and assigning blame. It is about shouting at others, whether that be politicians or even friends. Rage leads to measuring success against the missteps of political opponents and our ideological foes. Too often rage takes us down a path of vengeance. Anger comes from a soul that believes the world can be made better, the world is deserving of repair. It begins with concern for others and the world. It stems from a belief that this crumbling earth is deserving of our blessings and our efforts to improve it. Anger is about channeling the chutzpah of the prophets and saying, “I may very well be the person who can bring some healing.” That is why we welcome the prophet Elijah to every baby naming. We say, “This kid might really fix things.” Rage begins with the clenched fist. Anger emerges within the heart. Anger leads us to bringing a measure of certainty to all this uncertainty.
The other way involves some shouting too. Instead of shouting our passionate anger, we shout joy at this uncertainty. We sing for joy even though life is so maddeningly random. Again, there is confusion. We think control offers certainty. (Haaretz, September 10, 2021) We think that if we shout louder, bring more fervor to our songs, or recite our prayers perfectly at their exact appointed hour, then our fate will be better sealed. Decisiveness about our prayers does not change the randomness of life. There is much beyond the reach of our hands. There is much beyond the influence of our prayers. Look at the frightening Unetanah Tokef prayer we chanted. “On Rosh Hashanah this is written and on the Fast of Yom Kippur this is sealed: How many will pass away from this world, how many will be born into it; who will live and who will die; who will reach the ripeness of age; who will be taken before their time; who by fire and who by water…” And what is this prayer about? It is about affirming the haphazard, and randomness, of life. The back-and-forthness of its list gives voice to life’s uncertainty.
People might be saying, “I want more certainty. I want my rabbi to tell me if I pray this prayer better then everything will be ok.” I will not. I will not offer fantasies. Such guarantees are an illusion. Go elsewhere if you want magic. I can only offer healing. I can promise that singing will dispel some of that fear. I can offer the assurance that our prayers can help us push some of that uncertainty into a corner of our hearts and help to keep it tucked away there. All we can do is sing. All we should do is sing. I know this is an imperfect answer. Then again life is an imperfect journey. There is so much to fear. How are we going to conquer it? That is an impossible quest. There is only one possibility. Figure out where you can hold these fears and how you can more than occasionally cast them aside.
As many people now know, I was in a bike accident five weeks ago. As you can see, I am ok, and although my ribs and shoulder are still bruised, I will be back on the bike as soon as the replacement parts arrive, and it can be repaired. Here is the story of what happened. I was finishing a quick 25-mile ride and was at the 20-mile mark when I decided to add a hill and then loop back to my house by way of Huntington harbor. This new route involved going on more heavily trafficked road. I was rounding a bend when all of sudden I saw black in front of me. I quickly realized this was the side of a car, pulling out from the auto body shop of all places, and so I squeezed the brakes. My rear tire slid sideways, and I heard a terrible crunch as my right side slammed into the car. The next thing I know I am lying on the pavement, writhing in pain, while people are screaming, “Someone call 9-11. I can’t get a signal. Can anyone get a signal?” And I remember thinking, “Of course you can’t a signal. This is Long Island.” And then I thought, “All this screaming and shouting, ‘Call 9-11’ is about me.” Then I had the most frightening thought, “That’s a really good idea.”
Someone else kept shouting, “Hey buddy. Don’t move.” And another screamed, “Is there someone I should call?” I said, “Call Susie. Her number is on my ankle bracelet.” John called Susie but she did not pick up. Everyone was screaming. I guess the good kind of shouting really does come from the heart. Bill put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t move. The EMT’s are on their way. You’re going to be alright.” The ambulance arrived and they loaded me on to a stretcher. They then gave me my phone and I called Susie. She answered and I said, “Hi sweetheart. I’m ok, but I was in an accident, and they are taking me to the hospital.” And then I added words that would only be heard in a rabbi’s house, “You should go do your congregant’s funeral first and then meet me at Huntington Hospital after you’re finished.” “Are you sure?” she asked. “I am coming now” she shouted. “No,” I insisted. “I am going to be ok. I love you. See you soon.” Two hours later, as well as after an IV and some CAT scans, I walked out of the hospital. No broken bones. No head or neck trauma. No internal injuries. To say I am really, really lucky is an enormous understatement.
I keep thinking if I was going a little faster, he would have slammed into me and sent me flying over the car’s hood and perhaps into oncoming traffic. If he was delayed ten seconds I would have whizzed right by and would never have come to know his name. Those differences can be measured in seconds and inches. Well-meaning friends kept saying, “God was watching out for you.” And I also keep thinking, “What if? Why me? What about others who are not so lucky? And I have a list of those names carved into my soul. I have been doing this rabbi thing for a long time—thirty years to be exact—and all I can say for sure is there is no such thing as a protective bubble. And I don’t know why. I have no perfect answers to all this randomness and uncertainty. And I don’t believe anyone who offers them. I am hesitant before certitudes.
This does not mean I should stop wearing a helmet. A new one is already waiting for me. Just because life is random and there are no guarantees does not mean we should take unnecessary risks and not take precautions. To any of my students who decide to ride a bike without wearing a helmet, I promise you this. You will have your rabbi to answer to in addition to your parents. And on another more important note, get the vaccine. Wear a mask in crowds. Prayer is no substitute for common sense and good medicine.
The Unetanah Tokef prayer affirms life’s randomness. I admit this is disquieting. We crave certainty. And still we sing its words with joy. We offer this upbeat tune that belies the prayer’s frightening imagery. And that tune is the truer word. The song exemplifies our best response. That energetic, and lively, way we sing Unetanah Tokef summarizes how we should approach all this randomness and uncertainty. “B’rosh Hashanah…” The secret is the song. Prayer is not really about theology. It is instead about the music. Only that can fill the cracks in our hearts. Only the song can placate our fears.
When I lie awake at night, I can still hear the crunch as my body smashed into that car. I also can still feel the hand of a stranger on my shoulder. I can still hear his words, “You are going to be alright.” And I can also still feel my grandfather’s hand on my back when I first learned how to ride a bike. I can still hear his voice from fifty some years ago, “You’re doing it Steven. No more training wheels. You’re riding a bike.” These feelings will get me back on the road. His shouts of joy behind me carry me forward. Our tradition’s songs pacify my fears.
There is a road forward. It is carved by finding a new self. It is paved with two emotions. Be joyful. Get angry. That is the path to a new self. That is the road forward.
Get angry. And ignite action. Be joyful. And spark happiness. These must be our twin responses to all this uncertainty. Hold both of these together. Hold both of these at once.
A Hasidic story. When the seer of Lublin was a child, he lived near a forest. Almost every day the young boy ventured off into the woods by himself. His father, who was basically a tolerant and understanding man, didn’t want to interfere with his son’s daily excursions, but to be honest, he was concerned. He knew all too well that the forests near their home could be dangerous. One day the father pulled his son aside and said, “I notice that every day you go off by yourself into the forest.” He continued, “I don’t want to forbid you from going there, but I want you to know that I am worried about your safety.” The father added, “Why is it that you go there, and what is it that you are doing there?” The boy responded, “I go into the forest to find God.” His father was deeply moved by his son’s spirituality. “That’s beautiful my son,” he said. “And I am pleased to hear that you are doing that and searching for God in the forest. But don’t you know? God is everywhere. God is the same wherever you go.” “God is,” the boy answered, “But I am not.”
The spiritual quest is not about finding a new forest, or even a different and safer forest, but instead about finding a new self. It is about changing ourselves. Every day we are different. And every day we have to start that search anew. The search is about making ourselves different, each and every day. And that to be honest, is confounding and exceedingly difficult, most especially given the times we currently find ourselves in. How do we get up each morning and go out into the world, when confronted with such uncertainty? Every day there seems some new bit of evidence, or advice, about when to wear masks or how many shots to get. Is it advisable to go out to a restaurant, or Yom Kippur services? Is it ok to get together with friends now that the Delta variant is circulating? Is the forest safe or dangerous? Last night we tackled the question of how do we live through change. And the answer was—or to be fair my answer was, embrace it. Make it your own. This morning’s question is more personal. How do we deal with uncertainty? How do we continue to wrap our arms around life when faced with uncertainty after uncertainty after uncertainty? And the answer is. By changing ourselves.
The problems, and challenges, of the past year are here to stay. We naively believed that this High Holidays would be the same as 2019 and that 2020 would be just a blip. We thought this year would offer us the opportunity to reflect on what we learned during the pandemic not that we would still be in the midst of it. Let’s be honest. We will be living with Covid for the foreseeable future. We have two choices. Pretend like it’s no big deal and will go away soon or face the painful truth that our present reality is going to be part of our lives in some way for years to come. We will be wearing masks for far longer than we ever imagined possible. We will be monitoring infection rates for years to come. And this acknowledgment that the end is not yet in sight creates tremendous uncertainty and unease.
Of course, we would all prefer that our lives could go back to those days when we did not wonder whether or not the person we brushed up against is vaccinated or not, whether talking to an unmasked stranger in the supermarket line is dangerous or not. The only way to deal with such unpleasant realities is to acknowledge them. The only way to tackle our fears is to own them. Head into the forest. Not to escape the world but to discover a new you. We can change the world a little bit, but we can change ourselves a lot.
First let’s talk about how we change the world. There are so many problems our world is facing. I am sure each of us has a lengthy list. I explored a number of these contemporary challenges on Rosh Hashanah. My question on this Yom Kippur is not so much what these problems are, but how we can face them. Here is the surprising answer. Get angry. Ignite action. You might be surprised to hear me say this. I think we need to discover the right kind of anger. We need to recover the sense that we can change things, that our seemingly insignificant actions can write a new course for the world. We are not allowed to say, “It does not matter what I do.”
We must reclaim the passion of the prophets of old, who so felt the urgency of the problems in their own day that they sacrificed almost everything else in order that others might take up God’s call. This morning we chanted the words of Isaiah. He said: “Is not this the fast I desire—to break the bonds of injustice and remove the heavy yoke; to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved? Is it not share your bread with the hungry and to take the homeless poor into your home, and never to neglect your own flesh and blood?” (Isaiah 58) I admit. Their passion and righteous indignation often got the better of them. They frequently pushed family and friends away. They were consumed by God’s message. They were overwhelmed by their anger. They always shouted. And never listened. Abraham Joshua Heschel remarked, “The prophet is human, yet he employs notes one octave too high for our ears.” (The Prophets)
The brilliance of our rabbis was to take the prophets’ words out of their own times and place them as weekly, contemporary reminders. They have us read these words of the Haftarah at the exact moment when we might be thinking, “Wow, even though I am really hungry, this hunger is my path to holiness.” No. This Yom Kippur fast is not enough. And it is not even the main thing. It is so we understand what hunger means. It is so we think of those who do not have enough food to feed their families. It is so we think not of the bagels and lox waiting for us after a long day of prayer and repentance but instead of those who are hungry and homeless only miles from our homes. It is a shame that we too often chant the prophets in Hebrew rather than dwell on the meaning of their words. The Hebrew insulates us from their all too contemporary message. We need to rediscover their passion. We need to reclaim a measure of the prophets’ anger.
David Whyte offers this counsel: “Anger is the deepest form of compassion, for another, for the world, for the self, for a life, for the body, for a family and for all our ideals, all vulnerable and all, possibly about to be hurt…. Anger is the purest form of care, the internal living flame of anger always illuminates what we belong to, what we wish to protect and what we are willing to hazard ourselves for.” (Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words) Whyte points us towards a truth we must reclaim. Anger is about becoming attuned to the world’s hurt and allowing it to make us do more than just curl up in bed and cry. It is about lighting a fire so that we get up each and every day and get out there and start fixing things—or at the very least start trying to change things in our own little world. We are not allowed to look at the world and shrug. We are not allowed to become exasperated and lose hope. And while we cannot hold all the world’s problems in one heart, we each have the strength to hold a few.
Start somewhere. Start fixing something. Get out there and do something about all this mess. There is plenty of brokenness to be repaired. That begins with the emotion of anger. Of course, we cannot, and should not, stay angry all the time. Too often we confuse anger with rage. That is what we keep getting wrong. Anger is about concern. It begins with justice and a feeling about what must be righted. It is about believing that this or that must be improved and can be made better. Rage is about pointing fingers and assigning blame. It is about shouting at others, whether that be politicians or even friends. Rage leads to measuring success against the missteps of political opponents and our ideological foes. Too often rage takes us down a path of vengeance. Anger comes from a soul that believes the world can be made better, the world is deserving of repair. It begins with concern for others and the world. It stems from a belief that this crumbling earth is deserving of our blessings and our efforts to improve it. Anger is about channeling the chutzpah of the prophets and saying, “I may very well be the person who can bring some healing.” That is why we welcome the prophet Elijah to every baby naming. We say, “This kid might really fix things.” Rage begins with the clenched fist. Anger emerges within the heart. Anger leads us to bringing a measure of certainty to all this uncertainty.
The other way involves some shouting too. Instead of shouting our passionate anger, we shout joy at this uncertainty. We sing for joy even though life is so maddeningly random. Again, there is confusion. We think control offers certainty. (Haaretz, September 10, 2021) We think that if we shout louder, bring more fervor to our songs, or recite our prayers perfectly at their exact appointed hour, then our fate will be better sealed. Decisiveness about our prayers does not change the randomness of life. There is much beyond the reach of our hands. There is much beyond the influence of our prayers. Look at the frightening Unetanah Tokef prayer we chanted. “On Rosh Hashanah this is written and on the Fast of Yom Kippur this is sealed: How many will pass away from this world, how many will be born into it; who will live and who will die; who will reach the ripeness of age; who will be taken before their time; who by fire and who by water…” And what is this prayer about? It is about affirming the haphazard, and randomness, of life. The back-and-forthness of its list gives voice to life’s uncertainty.
People might be saying, “I want more certainty. I want my rabbi to tell me if I pray this prayer better then everything will be ok.” I will not. I will not offer fantasies. Such guarantees are an illusion. Go elsewhere if you want magic. I can only offer healing. I can promise that singing will dispel some of that fear. I can offer the assurance that our prayers can help us push some of that uncertainty into a corner of our hearts and help to keep it tucked away there. All we can do is sing. All we should do is sing. I know this is an imperfect answer. Then again life is an imperfect journey. There is so much to fear. How are we going to conquer it? That is an impossible quest. There is only one possibility. Figure out where you can hold these fears and how you can more than occasionally cast them aside.
As many people now know, I was in a bike accident five weeks ago. As you can see, I am ok, and although my ribs and shoulder are still bruised, I will be back on the bike as soon as the replacement parts arrive, and it can be repaired. Here is the story of what happened. I was finishing a quick 25-mile ride and was at the 20-mile mark when I decided to add a hill and then loop back to my house by way of Huntington harbor. This new route involved going on more heavily trafficked road. I was rounding a bend when all of sudden I saw black in front of me. I quickly realized this was the side of a car, pulling out from the auto body shop of all places, and so I squeezed the brakes. My rear tire slid sideways, and I heard a terrible crunch as my right side slammed into the car. The next thing I know I am lying on the pavement, writhing in pain, while people are screaming, “Someone call 9-11. I can’t get a signal. Can anyone get a signal?” And I remember thinking, “Of course you can’t a signal. This is Long Island.” And then I thought, “All this screaming and shouting, ‘Call 9-11’ is about me.” Then I had the most frightening thought, “That’s a really good idea.”
Someone else kept shouting, “Hey buddy. Don’t move.” And another screamed, “Is there someone I should call?” I said, “Call Susie. Her number is on my ankle bracelet.” John called Susie but she did not pick up. Everyone was screaming. I guess the good kind of shouting really does come from the heart. Bill put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t move. The EMT’s are on their way. You’re going to be alright.” The ambulance arrived and they loaded me on to a stretcher. They then gave me my phone and I called Susie. She answered and I said, “Hi sweetheart. I’m ok, but I was in an accident, and they are taking me to the hospital.” And then I added words that would only be heard in a rabbi’s house, “You should go do your congregant’s funeral first and then meet me at Huntington Hospital after you’re finished.” “Are you sure?” she asked. “I am coming now” she shouted. “No,” I insisted. “I am going to be ok. I love you. See you soon.” Two hours later, as well as after an IV and some CAT scans, I walked out of the hospital. No broken bones. No head or neck trauma. No internal injuries. To say I am really, really lucky is an enormous understatement.
I keep thinking if I was going a little faster, he would have slammed into me and sent me flying over the car’s hood and perhaps into oncoming traffic. If he was delayed ten seconds I would have whizzed right by and would never have come to know his name. Those differences can be measured in seconds and inches. Well-meaning friends kept saying, “God was watching out for you.” And I also keep thinking, “What if? Why me? What about others who are not so lucky? And I have a list of those names carved into my soul. I have been doing this rabbi thing for a long time—thirty years to be exact—and all I can say for sure is there is no such thing as a protective bubble. And I don’t know why. I have no perfect answers to all this randomness and uncertainty. And I don’t believe anyone who offers them. I am hesitant before certitudes.
This does not mean I should stop wearing a helmet. A new one is already waiting for me. Just because life is random and there are no guarantees does not mean we should take unnecessary risks and not take precautions. To any of my students who decide to ride a bike without wearing a helmet, I promise you this. You will have your rabbi to answer to in addition to your parents. And on another more important note, get the vaccine. Wear a mask in crowds. Prayer is no substitute for common sense and good medicine.
The Unetanah Tokef prayer affirms life’s randomness. I admit this is disquieting. We crave certainty. And still we sing its words with joy. We offer this upbeat tune that belies the prayer’s frightening imagery. And that tune is the truer word. The song exemplifies our best response. That energetic, and lively, way we sing Unetanah Tokef summarizes how we should approach all this randomness and uncertainty. “B’rosh Hashanah…” The secret is the song. Prayer is not really about theology. It is instead about the music. Only that can fill the cracks in our hearts. Only the song can placate our fears.
When I lie awake at night, I can still hear the crunch as my body smashed into that car. I also can still feel the hand of a stranger on my shoulder. I can still hear his words, “You are going to be alright.” And I can also still feel my grandfather’s hand on my back when I first learned how to ride a bike. I can still hear his voice from fifty some years ago, “You’re doing it Steven. No more training wheels. You’re riding a bike.” These feelings will get me back on the road. His shouts of joy behind me carry me forward. Our tradition’s songs pacify my fears.
There is a road forward. It is carved by finding a new self. It is paved with two emotions. Be joyful. Get angry. That is the path to a new self. That is the road forward.
Get angry. And ignite action. Be joyful. And spark happiness. These must be our twin responses to all this uncertainty. Hold both of these together. Hold both of these at once.
Addendum: I later discovered that three of my ribs were indeed fractured and my rotator cuff suffered some tears. Nonetheless, I am still very lucky.