Teach Your Children to Swim

I love swimming.

Recently I discovered that the first medalist in Olympic swimming was Alfred Hajos-Guttmann.  And who was Hajos-Guttman?  A Hungarian Jew.  He earned two gold medals at the 1896 games in Athens.  He won the 100-meter and 1200-meter Freestyle.  His time for the 100-meter was 1:22.2.  (It gives me some satisfaction that I could have medaled in the 19th century!)

Of course, Hajos-Guttman did not swim in a 50-meter state of the art pool but instead in the cool waters of the Mediterranean in which there were the occasional 12-foot swells.  There is a big difference between swimming in a pool and an ocean!  Even more noteworthy Hajos-Guttman also earned titles in Hungary’s national competitions in running, hurdles, discus and soccer.  Later he coached Hungary’s national soccer team. 

And when he returned to the 1924 Olympics, he competed not in sports but the arts.  Apparently back then it was not just about sports, and sportsmanship, but other disciplines.  Hajos-Guttman earned top honors in architecture. 

And why did Hajos-Guttman take up swimming?  At the age of thirteen his father drowned in the Danube.  It was not so much about the medals but instead about saving life.  In fact, he changed his name to Hajos, which means sailor in Hungarian.

The Talmud teaches that parents are obligated to teach their children many things.  Parents are required to teach their children Torah and a craft.  Why the Jewish tradition requires parents to teach Torah is expected and obvious.  But why a craft?  The rabbis answer their own question and say that if parents don’t teach them a craft it is likened to teaching them to steal.

And then some add, parents must teach their children to swim.  Why?  Because their lives might depend on it. (Babylonian Talmud Sukkah 56b) And I would add, to teach them to ride a bike.  Why?  Because their enjoyment might depend on it.  And one day, getting from one place to another might depend on it.

The Torah reminds us: “And you shall teach them to your children. (Deuteronomy 6)

It all begins with swimming—and maybe riding a bike.

Standing in Israel

What follows are my reflections from the past week of learning at Jerusalem’s Shalom Hartman Institute.

I never get lost in Jerusalem.  Perhaps it is because here I only walk and do not drive.  Or perhaps it is because I started walking these streets forty years ago and have learned my way around.  And now I am thankful to be here once again.

On Shabbat morning I woke up early and walked from the apartment we are renting to the Old City.  I made my way past the King David Hotel and the campus where I first learned about Israel’s landscape, became enthralled with Zionist thinkers and acquainted with Hebrew’s nuances.  The shops that lined the Mamilla mall were closed.  The apartments nearby were quiet.  Forty years ago, this area was dilapidated and filled with abandoned buildings.  It was no man’s land prior to the 1967 war because it marked the division between East and West Jerusalem, between Israel’s and Jordan’s borders.

It was a cool morning and the sky a picturesque blue.  The sun illuminated the stones of the city’s walls.  I approached Jaffa Gate and made my way through the Arab shuk.  A few stores were open.  Their owners sipped Turkish coffee waiting for the afternoon’s tourists.  Hasidic men and their sons raced past me.  I offered the occasional Shabbat shalom and received greetings in return.  The Western Wall plaza was filled with a sea of white tallises.  I made my way through the large throng and touched the stones, offering a quiet prayer.  I turned and climbed the steps toward the Jewish Quarter, past the newly rebuilt Hurva synagogue.

I walked through Zion gate, where Israel’s soldiers entered the Old City in 1967.  Outside the gate one has an extraordinary view of Yemin Moshe, the first Jewish neighborhood built outside the Old City and below of Sultan’s Pool where Susie and I saw Santana perform years ago and of Gey Hinnom, where according to the ancient prophets, people sacrificed children to their false gods.  I reminded myself to walk in the present and not through history.  Jerusalem’s stones can be intoxicating.  They can deceive one into thinking that we are living in a mythic reimagined past.

On Shabbat afternoon we went to a new coffee shop, Cafe Basimta.  A large group of ultra-Orthodox young men and boys gathered there to protest the shop being open on Shabbat.  We made our way through their shouts and screams of “Shabbes” and stood in line for forty-five minutes to order our coffees.  They had run out of pastries and juice because so many had ventured there to protest the protest.  I doubt our purchases will mend the painful rift between Israel’s secular majority and its powerful ultra-Orthodox minority, but it reminded us of where we stand. 

At home, we spend our days talking about, and arguing about, Israel.  We measure our friends and neighbors asking ourselves whether they are sufficiently pro-Israel.  We rightfully become agitated with those who think Israel does not have a right to exist.  We shout and protest, “Stand with Israel.”  As I walk through Jerusalem’s streets, these maddening arguments appear trivial.  Those far away words appear distant from these streets. 

The reality of these streets filled with people walking hurriedly and those strolling casually, the cafes and shops, the cars and buses, the endless construction projects and their noise is my retort.  These debates may very well be of significance back home.  And I certainly worry about the dangerous consequences of the hateful rhetoric leveled against Israel, but here they appear small in comparison to the freedom of my Shabbat walk.  My steps are my response.  Israel’s existence is unshakeable.  It is a privilege to be here and visit Jerusalem on a regular basis.  I belong to a blessed Jewish generation.  Here we are writing a new Jewish story in our ancient land.  I must contribute to this story.    

On another day we visited Mukhmas, a Palestinian community in the West Bank.  We accompanied Israelis who are active in Protective Presence, protecting Palestinian villagers and farmers against settler violence.  We watched as a settler grazed his sheep through the Palestinian’s farmland.  We looked at the newly built settlements ringing the hilltops surrounding the village.  Prior to October 7th there were no such settlements.  Life has become unbearably difficult for Palestinians since that day and we wanted to hear their stories.  Some Israelis are fighting against these injustices.  We wanted to stand with them.

My days are filled learning with Hartman’s master teachers and debating the meaning of ancient and contemporary texts with colleagues.  Together we traveled to Tzur Hadassah, a suburb of Jerusalem.  There we met with Ilana whose son Yannai was killed on October 7th.  He died defending the Zakim base and protecting the recruits and trainees who were under his command.  She continued, “But I do not want to speak about how he died.  I want to speak about how my twenty-year-old son lived.”  She taught us that he believed that we must work on developing the muscle to see and hear others.  Love, he exemplified, is like a muscle that we must train. 

After many tears she offered us some Turkish coffee in his honor.  Ilana then accompanied us on the bus to visit her friend.  Laila is a Palestinian mother whose six-month-old son Qussay was killed by tear gas during the second intifada.  Her son died because soldiers did not allow her and her husband to rush their son to the hospital.  We had planned to travel to her office in Beit Jala to hear her story, but Israeli soldiers did not allow us to travel there because we would have to traverse the small area of the West Bank controlled by the Palestinian authority.  Instead, Laila walked to our bus and spoke to us there. 

She arrived exhausted.  She gathered her strength and shared her story.  She spoke about how she refused to speak about her son’s death for sixteen years.  She only began to speak about her pain when a friend brought her to a meeting of the Parents Circle-Families Forum.  There she met one of the soldiers who stopped her years ago.  When he heard her story, he began sobbing.  His tears aided her healing. 

The Parents Circle-Families Forum is an organization that brings together Israelis and Palestinians who have lost a close family member to the conflict.  Their common bond is their bereavement.  We asked Laila about the protests back home wondering aloud if they gave her strength.  She admitted that at first she welcomed the solidarity from afar but then said, “I realized I don’t care if you are pro-Palestine or pro-Israel.  I only care if you are pro-peace.”  Ilana added, “I don’t want another parent to bury their son or daughter.”

And I realized.  Here, in Jerusalem I am never lost.  I know where I stand.

I stand on Jerusalem’s streets.  I stand in Israel.

Prayer Is a Refuge

Etty Hillesum lived in German occupied Amsterdam.  In June 1943 she chose to be transferred to the transit camp, Westerbork, from where she and her family were deported to Auschwitz and there murdered.  She was twenty-nine years old.  Before leaving Amsterdam, she gave her diary to a friend for safe keeping.  Her words are beautiful and haunting.  She writes,

Sometimes I want to flee with everything I possess into a few words, seek refuge in them. But there are still no words to shelter me.  I am in search of a haven, yet I must first build it for myself, stone by stone. Everyone seeks a home, a refuge. And I am always in search of a few words.  (An Interrupted Life: The Diaries of Etty Hillesum, 1941-43)

Perhaps Hillesum is right.  A refuge is not a physical space but a spiritual one.  We can fashion it with our words.

The Torah reports that the Israelites are to set aside six cities of refuge.  “These six cities shall serve the Israelites and the resident aliens among them for refuge, so that any person who slays a person unintentionally may flee there.”  (Numbers 35) Punishment must be adjudicated by dispassionate courts.  These cities helped to guarantee this by preventing family members from exacting revenge.   

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel of Opatov, affectionately called the Apter Rav, sought to spiritualize the meaning of these cities.  He taught that these six cities correspond to the six words of the Shema.   The word is our refuge.  We escape in prayer.

The Torah relates that there were forty-two stations where the Israelites stayed during their forty years in the wilderness.  (Numbers 33) They camped at these oases on their long and arduous journey.  There they found refuge.

And these forty-two places correspond to the number of words in the V’Ahavta.  Combining these teachings, we discover that our central prayer offers us forty-eight words.  They can serve as our refuge. We can escape to them.  No matter a person’s faith one can always find shelter and protection by loving God.  One can always find refuge in the words of our prayers.

I continue the search for few words.

And there I will build my home.

Catastrophe Stands Nearby

Today marks the seventeenth of Tammuz, a fast day that commemorates the moment the Romans breached Jerusalem’s walls nearly two thousand years ago.  It culminates three weeks later in the full fast day of Tisha B’Av, the ninth of Av, that marks the destruction of the city, the Temple and our exile from our ancestral land.  Like 9-11 and October 7th these days are so painful to recount that their names are the dates history seared into our collective memories. 

The first century historian, Josephus, notes that Jerusalem’s streets were littered with dead.  The Romans were ruthless.  One million were killed.  One hundred thousand were carted off to Rome as slaves.  Jerusalem was leveled.  One might imagine that the rabbinic tales about these days would focus on these horrors and the Romans’ evil ways. 

Instead, the rabbis turn inward.  In answer to the question of how this calamity befell us they looked away from Rome’s misdeeds.  And in typical rabbinic fashion, they asked, “What did we do wrong?”  They ignore history and look within for explanations.  Their answer is contained in a famous Talmudic story.  Here it is.

A certain man had a friend named Kamza and an enemy named Bar Kamza. The man once threw a party and said to his servant: “Go and invite Kamza.”  The servant went and instead invited Bar Kamza. When the man saw Bar Kamza at his party he said to him: “You gossip about me; what are you doing here?  Get out!” 

Bar Kamza replied: “Since I am already here, let me stay, and I will pay you for whatever I eat and drink.”  The man said: “No!”  Bar Kamza said: “Then let me give you half the cost of the party.”  The man again said, “No!”  Bar Kamza said: “Then let me pay for the whole party.  The man still said, “No.”  And he took Bar Kamza by the hand and threw him out.

Bar Kamza then said: “Since the Rabbis were sitting there and did not stop the man this shows that they agreed with what he did.”  And he said to himself: “I will go and inform against them to the government.”

He went and said to the emperor: “The Jews are rebelling against you.”  The emperor said: “How can I be sure?”  Bar Kamza said to him: “Send them an offering and see whether they will sacrifice it.”  So the emperor sent him with a fine calf.  On the way he made a blemish in a place where the Jews count it as a blemish, but the Romans do not.

The Rabbis were inclined to sacrifice the offering in order not to offend the government. Said Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas to them: “But people will then say that we offer blemished animals on the altar.”  They then proposed to kill Bar Kamza so that he would not go and inform against them again.  But Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas said to them: “Is one who makes a blemish on consecrated animals to be put to death?”

Rabbi Yohanan thereupon remarked: “Because of the scrupulousness of Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas our House was destroyed, our Temple burned and we were exiled from our land.  (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b)

What began with an angry exchange at a party spiraled out of control.  Eventually it brought the wrath of our enemies down upon us.  What began with Bar Kamza’s pain led to the suffering of each and every Jew.

The lesson is clear.  Catastrophe always stands nearby. It can begin with the smallest of acts.

We Are Not Monsters!

Last week, at a campaign appearance, New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani referred to AIPAC as monsters and accused the Israel advocacy organization of spending millions in dark money.  And last month, Israel’s ambassador to the United States, Yechiel Leiter, called JStreet, a left-wing Israel advocacy group, a cancer within the Jewish community. 

The demonization of one’s political opponents is not befitting of our leaders.  Moreover, Mamdani only appears in public with those Jews with whom he agrees.  He is pictured with either those on the progressive left or those on the ultra-Orthodox right, who for very different reasons shun the Zionism the majority of New York’s Jews embrace.  He is entitled to his views about Israel, but Mamdani is the mayor now and has a duty to stand with all New Yorkers even those with whom he passionately disagrees. 

Given the dangerous rise of antisemitism the mayor has a profound responsibility to turn the temperature down and not provide any fuel to antisemites.  There have been two instances in the past weeks in which gunmen were apprehended planning mass shootings against AIPAC affiliated legislators and the organization’s offices.   When we use language that dehumanizes our political opponents it opens the door to violence against them and their associates. 

I expect more from our leaders. 

Although Yechiel Leiter’s first duty is to represent Israel’s current government in the United States, he need not disparage the growing number of Jews, and Americans for that matter, who believe that Israel is best served by some political accommodation with Palestinians and that Palestinians’ humanity is deserving of the same concern as Israelis’.  To dismiss such views as cancerous rather than engaging with them is not how leaders are supposed to lead. 

This is what populists do.  They argue that there are sinister forces arrayed against us.  They captivate their followers by saying the only answer is to band together under their banner and eradicate these menacing forces.  True leadership is about bringing people together, not in opposition to a mythic bogeyman but instead around efforts to do the laborious work of fashioning something better.

There are legitimate criticisms of AIPAC and JStreet.  There are reasoned debates to be had about AIPAC’s tactics and its views.  There are likewise debates we should have about JStreet’s methods and opinions.  We must not resort to the demonization of these organizations and the dehumanization of the people who support them.  People are increasingly avoiding doing the hard work of debating with those with whom they disagree, and even with those who they believe hold abhorrent views.

There is a growing movement to fashion circles of like-mindedness and expel differing opinions from our midst.  Last week Brooklyn’s Poetica coffee shop refunded Representative Dan Goldman’s $9.82 and posted, “We don’t serve racists, fascists, homophobes, genocide enablers.  Too bad we didn’t recognize you right away, or we would have turned you away.  We don’t need your money (it’s probably coming from AIPAC anyways).”  How are we going to ever solve the world’s problems if we refuse to engage with those with whom we passionately disagree?

We must not boycott people.  We must not expel our neighbors.  The way our system is supposed to work is people can vote for Goldman’s opponent—as the majority did—or even work on Brad Lander’s campaign, if they so passionately disagree with Goldman.  Stay in the discussion.  Invite opponents over for coffee.  Engage in the debate. 

There is a famous Talmudic story about a rabbinic debate that was similar.  The rabbis were arguing about whether a specific oven could be rendered unkosher.  The majority ruled it could.  Rabbi Eliezer vehemently disagreed.  He would not accept the majority’s ruling and so he brought miracles to prove his point.  The rabbis were so aghast at his methods that they excommunicated him.  This reminds us that we must adhere to the will of the majority even when we think they are misguided.

The story does not end there, however.  The Talmud goes on to say that after Rabbi Eliezer was excommunicated the entire world suffered.  It reports that a third of the world’s olives, wheat and barley were destroyed.  (Babylonian Talmud, Bava Metzia 59b) Everyone suffers when we ostracize someone and banish their ideas.  Even the earth feels the pain of the community’s divisions.  The world’s well-being hinges on including everyone at the table.

I understand people’s passion.  I hear how many are captivated by Palestinian suffering.  I appreciate Mamdani’s anger that organizations such as AIPAC appear indifferent to this pain.  I also understand Leiter’s anger.   JStreet advocates against the very government he supports.  But Mamdani should be mindful of the pain, and fears, of all his constituents.  And Leiter should be more sensitive to the terrible fracturing American Jews are experiencing over Israel’s actions.

Leaders can unite us or they can divide us. 

This week Moses also fails a leadership test.  The people are again complaining.  This time they complain that there is not enough water.  This seems like an understandable and legitimate complaint.  They are wandering in the desert.  We can be sympathetic to their words.  And yet Moses loses his temper with the people and strikes a rock in anger, saying, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (Numbers 20) Because of this Moses is punished.  He is not allowed to enter the land and lead the people into the Promised Land.

Commentators struggle with this passage and wonder why Moses is punished so severely.  Why is he denied the promise after forty years of faithful leadership?  Most rabbis believe it is because he did not follow God’s instructions to the letter.  Moses Maimonides, however, suggests that it is because more is expected of leaders.  They are role models.  They prod us to do better.  They do not get angry with their followers.  They do not sow division and label us as rebels.  This is why Moses is punished.  He failed as a leader.  Maimonides writes, “The greater the person, the more exacting the standards God sets.”  (Shemoneh Perakim, Chapter 4)

Leaders are meant to unite us.

Read “An Open Letter from American Rabbis: Mayor Mamdani Must Apologize” that I signed, along with over 700 of my rabbinic colleagues.

Let’s Go Knicks! Let’s Talk about Character!

It is now familiar lore to New Yorkers, but it bears repeating.  Two years ago, Jalen Brunson signed an extension on his contract.  By signing a year early, he left $113 million on the table, leaving enough room under the salary cap for the Knicks to build a better team.  They added Karl-Anthony Towns and Mikal Bridges.  His unusual sacrifice helped the Knicks build the NBA championship team that we have been cheering on these past weeks.

After Saturday’s extraordinary win, Brunson did not dwell on his MVP honors or the 45 points he scored, but instead on the team’s accomplishments and even spoke about the support staff who he made sure would share in the trophy’s winnings. 

Leadership is about making sacrifices for others.  Leadership is about maintaining the focus on the team. 

This week I am reveling in the Knicks championship run—and the heart-pounding finishes to most of their games.  I am also rejoicing in their captain’s leadership.  I am reveling in Brunson’s exemplary character.  This is what defines great leaders. 

This stands in vivid contrast to Victor Wembanyama who led most of the Spurs to the locker room after their fifth game loss, foregoing the customary handshake line.  Custom is enormously important.  It fosters our spirit.  In this case it perpetuates our belief in the spirit of competition.

Brunson’s character also stands in contrast to Korah and his followers who rebel against Moses’ authority.  The Torah states, “Now Korah took himself, along with Datan and Aviram, to rise up against Moses.  They said, ‘You have gone too far!  For all the community are holy, and God is in their midst.’” (Numbers 16)

On the surface, the criticisms that Korah and his followers bring against Moses appear legitimate.  They are deserving consideration.  Do we not teach that all people are holy and that no individual is holier than another?  Then why does the tradition judge Korah so harshly?  What is his great sin? 

It is contained in the opening statement.  He took himself.  This means that he set himself apart from the community.  He stood outside the group.  Great leaders always stand with the community.  They never say that they are better than others. 

Leadership is about the team.  It is not about the leader. It is about thinking of others first.  It begins with character and self-sacrifice.  It ends with the community.

It does not always finish with wins.  It does always conclude with the team standing together. 

Let’s go Knicks!

It is always about leadership and character.

Don’t Let the Past Torment the Future

Everyone has fears.  Some people are afraid of heights.  Others are terrified of bees.  Some are afraid of being alone.  Others are terrified of large groups.  Some are afraid of the past.  And others are terrified by the future. 

One would think that the Israelites would be afraid of the past.  One would think they were so traumatized by their slavery that they would never want to go back to Egypt.  And yet, time and time again, they pine after Egypt.  They refuse to go forward.  When the spies return from scouting the land, they proclaim, “The country we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers.”  (Numbers 13)  

The people respond, “’Why is God taking us to that land to fall by the sword? It would be better for us to go back to Egypt!’  And they said to one another, ‘Let us head back for Egypt.’”  They appear more terrified by the future than their harrowing past.  I wonder.  Do past traumas limit our ability to see positive futures?  It appears so.

We are a traumatized people.  We are so scarred by our past that we cannot march forward.  The future appears even more terrifying than our past.  Or is it that our past haunts our future?

The scouts continue, “All the people that we saw in the land are giants and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.”  How did they know how they appeared to others?  They could not!  Instead, they projected their negative self-image.  Their doubts colored not only how they saw themselves but how they imagined others saw them. They were so terrified and traumatized by their past that they believed the Canaanites saw them as tiny grasshoppers.  Why?  Because that is how they saw themselves. 

Too often we allow our doubts, and our fears, to color how we see the world.  Our traumatized past overwhelms our future.  The past holds us back.    

In this social media age, we are in even more danger of succumbing to these fears.  The algorithms are designed to make our past choices dictate our future ones.  Facebook and Instagram take us to where we have already been.  It is not about experiencing new adventures but rather about reliving past choices.  And if trauma is part of that past, then social media has us spinning in painful circles rather than marching forward. 

But the task is to march forward. 

How do we remember without becoming overwhelmed by these traumas and fears?  How do we remember Egyptian slavery without becoming enslaved by these memories?  How do we remember our painful history of antisemitism, most especially the Holocaust, without becoming ruled by it?

The Hasidic master, Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, taught, “The whole world is a narrow bridge.  The most important thing is not to be afraid.”  Narrow bridges are indeed frightening.   But bridges are meant to be crossed!  They are invitations to another side.  

The only way to get there is by marching forward.

Don’t Boycott Food, Share Food

I don’t have a sweet tooth and often shun desserts, with one notable exception and that is halva. I first tasted halva when living in Israel.  I have eaten it in Jerusalem’s Arab shuk and its open-air market, Machane Yehudah.  I have relished its sweetness in Jewish homes and Arab. 

As far as I am concerned, the best halva is that produced by Seed + Mill. I always keep a supply of their halva and also their tahini to add to dressings.  (This summer try their chocolate tahini on fresh berries!)  And so, I felt a mixture of sadness, bewilderment and anger when I read that Seed + Mill’s products will now be among those banned by Brooklyn’s Park Slope Food Coop. Last week, the coop voted to ban Israeli products to protest Israel’s mistreatment of Palestinians.

Seed + Mill was founded by three Jewish women, one of whom is Israeli and all of whom call New York City their home.  Its products are produced by Israeli Arabs in northern Israel. Another suggested banned product is Equal Exchange olive oil.  This is produced by Palestinian farmers in the West Bank. I want to shout, “Be more discerning.  Be more exacting.” 

Such boycotts are misguided.  They are ill-informed.  They are unproductive and even counterproductive.  They only manage to assuage anti-Israel activists’ feelings.  Boycotts do not tip the balance toward justice.  Most worrisome of all, boycotts such as these open the door to antisemites who speak about Jewish supremacism, call Jewish shoppers Nazis and accost Israel’s supporters.  I don’t know how else to read about the boycott of the Jewish owned store, Seed + Mill.  I don’t how know else to understand the slurs hurled at the boycott’s opponents.

With this frightening rise in antisemitism, too often fueled by anti-Israel hatred, I was proud that congregants marched in this year’s Israel Day parade.  Now is the time for solidarity with our people.  Now is the time to stand together.  Buy Israeli products—and I would add Palestinian goods as well.  You can start with two of the banned products: Osem’s Bamba snacks and Equal Exchange olive oil.  Eat good food. 

Boycotts create a mythic good versus evil divide as if one side is entirely evil and the other completely innocent.  They foster an intolerance to opposing views.  In the end they denigrate the humanity of those standing in opposition.  Boycotts insist that to support one people’s struggle for self-determination one must reject the other’s. 

Those who voted for the boycott apparently believe there is only one answer to the Israeli Palestinian conflict and that is the dissolution of the State of Israel.  Why?  Because in their minds Israelis are the perennial oppressors and Palestinians the eternal victims.  They advocate a disassociation with anything and everything connected to Israel.  I might be able to understand the arguments to boycott companies that produce Israeli tanks and bombs, but again I would demand exactitude and insist on accompanying bans on Hamas and Hezbollah supporters.  Now I want to scream, “Food is meant to be shared.  It brings people together.  It transcends borders and boundaries.”

We do not, however, live in a mythic world.  In the real world there are nations and borders.  There are friends and foes, enemies and allies.  The Torah declares, “May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!” (Numbers 10) During Shabbat services, these words are proclaimed when the Torah is taken from the ark.  Long ago the Reform movement excised these lines from the service. I imagine my predecessors thought we should not speak about enemies, or by implication war, during prayer services.  But our enemies are real!  And war continues to be our tragic reality.

Let us not be naive.  Let us be discerning and exacting in calling out our enemies.  Let us be clear-eyed where they can be found and where they cannot.

They are not found in the foods we eat!

When I savor halva, I often recall my time tutoring Palestinian Israelis.  When I lived in Israel, I met with these Jerusalemites to tutor them in English.  I would travel to their homes in Beit Safafa where I was greeted with mint tea and sweets, and often halva.  During our weekly meetings, we would discuss their hopes and prayers (and mine!) for a more shared future.  Halva is eaten by Israelis and Palestinians, by Jews and Arabs.

It does not belong to one or the other but both.  Its sweetness can remind us of the promise of a shared peaceful future.

We Are Builders

The story of Samson and Delilah is a familiar tale.  It is made famous by many songwriters.  Bruce Springsteen sings, “Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah.  Baby you can bet their love they didn’t deny.  Your words say split but your words they lie.  Cause when we kiss, fire.”

Samson was a judge in ancient Israel.  He takes the nazarite vow and pledges not to cut his hair or drink wine.  (Numbers 6)  His long hair grants him supernatural strength.  He uses this strength to protect Israel from its enemy, the Philistines.  Delilah eventually seduces Samson and shaves his hair.  Now that he lost his strength, the Philistines capture Samson, gouge out his eyes and imprison him in Gaza.  Samson prays to God asking for renewed strength.  When the Philistines chain him to their Temple’s pillars his strength returns and he brings the house down on himself and all the Philistines.  (Judges 16)

Reverend Blind Gary Davis sings, “If I had my way, I would tear this building down.  If I had my way, I would tear this building down.”  This traditional spiritual about Samson and Delilah is also covered by Springsteen, as well as the Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan. 

The rabbis, however, are uncomfortable with the Samson story.  They were (and are) builders.  They fashioned rabbinic Judaism out of the remnants of the Temple’s destruction.  They were worried about people tearing their buildings down.  They rejected Samson’s zealotry.  The chapter detailing his martyrdom is never read in synagogue.  It is not one of the many Haftarah portions.  They looked away from the nazarite vow proclaimed in the Torah.  They not only rejected violence but could not imagine someone pledging to forsake wine.  They shunned zealots.

Why?  Zealots destroy things—and often themselves.  Remember the Masada story. Fanatics fracture communities.  The rabbis argued that being right is not as important as remaining whole.  We can hold many opinions.  Zealots only see their own opinions and reject everyone else’s.  We can embrace a multiplicity of opinions if we prioritize attaching ourselves to our community.  When we cast people aside because we disagree with them, our communities, and our countries, begin to crumble.

The Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai writes,

From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.

The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.

But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.

If we worry more about remaining whole than about being right, then communities and countries will no longer falter.  There will be less angst, and then perhaps less original music and poems, but there will be more peace.

The rabbis’ answer is never about having it my way.  It is instead about finding our way.

If Not Now, When!

We are increasingly inundated with news of antisemitic attacks.  I could enumerate the details of the far too many incidents.  It is frightening.  It is terrifying.  It is debilitating.  It is dispiriting.  I could detail even more emotions.  Today my focus shifts.  From where do our people draw strength?

Tonight’s holiday of Shavuot offers us hope.  The holiday celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.  Its celebration is marked by a recommitment to learning.  The sixteenth century kabbalists developed the custom of tikkun l’eil Shavuot.  They would spend the entire evening studying to prepare themselves anew for the revelation of Torah.

The custom’s name can be translated as “repairing the night of Shavuot.”  One reason why it is called tikkun—repair is to correct a historical mistake.  According to the ancient rabbis the Israelites overslept the morning they received the Torah.  Maybe they were tired after all that shlepping around the wilderness.  Only after God awakened them with loud blasts of the shofar did they rouse and become attentive. (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:12)  So the mystics urged us to stay up the entire night to correct this mistake.  We can thereby demonstrate our eagerness to show that we are eager to renew our commitment to Torah. 

These days tikkun can offer us something even more profound.  It is not about correcting a historical mistake but instead about repairing our fractured souls.  Antisemitism has accompanied us throughout our history.  The frequency and ferocity of these attacks are unfamiliar to us.  Few of us have witnessed such antisemitism in our own lifetimes.  Now we recognize it was only lying dormant.

What are we to do? 

One answer is found in the holiday of Shavuot.  Throughout our history, and despite the world’s attacks against us, we have stubbornly clung to our faith.  We have not turned aside from our people or looked away from our tradition.  We have not focused on what they are doing, or saying, but instead on what we can do.

We pore over the Torah’s words year after year and find strength and renewed purpose within its verses.  We study the wisdom of our ancient rabbis and discover that the truths they offered two thousand years ago hold contemporary meaning.

Rabbi Hillel used to say, “If I am not for myself, who will be?  If I am only for myself, what am I?  And if not now, when?” (Pirke Avot 1:14)

That remains excellent advice for any age and any time.

It is revelatory that words spoken thousands of years ago still hold meaning. 

Study some Torah.  Repair your soul.

If not now, when!

Why the Wilderness?

The Torah states, “On the first day of the second month, in the second year following the exodus from the land of Egypt, the Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai (bamidbar sinai).”  (Numbers 1)  Why the added emphasis on the midbar—wilderness?  It is a stark place.  In the wilderness of Sinai there is little rainfall, but unlike a desert, the Sinai offers episodic rivulets of water where shrubs grow that can support livestock. 

Why is the Torah not revealed in a lush forest, teeming with life or a rainforest for that matter that offers countless plant and animal species?  Why not on top of the world’s tallest mountain or at least on top of a mountain that climbs higher than neighboring mountains?  The rabbis respond and say that the Torah was revealed in the wilderness precisely because it is a wild and untamed place. 

Midbar sinai is accessible to all.  It is a place that belongs to everyone. 

The Talmud continues: “One should be as open as a wilderness to receive the Torah.”  The sages explain that the wilderness provides a contrast to Egypt, a place that was dominated by monuments fashioned by human hands.  The midbar contained only monuments fashioned by God.  Having hiked through the Sinai I can report that although it is a place of hardship and struggle—it is unbearably hot during the day and uncomfortably cold at night—there is a majesty to its wildness.

Rabbi Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, the Hasidic master, adds: “Only people who are willing to make nothing of themselves, who think of themselves as a midbar, are worthy of having the divine presence rest on them and of attaining the true light of Torah.”  We must be empty like the wilderness in order to receive the Torah.

Perhaps this is why the Torah was revealed in this seemingly inhospitable place.  Revelation is connected to a place that is not easy, a place that is synonymous with struggle and difficulty.  We receive God’s revelation amidst hardship.

We receive the word when traversing a place of difficulty and struggle.

Harvesting Blessings of Abundance

In our kitchen we try to observe the FIFO rule: first in, first out.  The vegetables I purchased last week are cooked and eaten before those I bought this week.  Sometimes however, especially after a trip to the farmer’s market, I am tempted to eat the fresh produce I recently purchased.  They look (and taste!) so much better than those stored in my refrigerator.  Then, inevitably, I end up throwing out last week’s wilted lettuce.

The Torah offers a litany of rewards to those who observe its commandments—many of which are connected to enjoying bountiful harvests.   The Torah proclaims, “You shall eat old produce.” (Leviticus 26) This appears to contradict my penchant for eating freshly picked fruits and vegetables.  One time I was wandering through an orange grove in the land of Israel, and I picked a clementine from a tree. I have never tasted anything so delicious and so sweet.  I picked another, and another, from some more trees.  Who wants to eat old fruit? 

The blessing baffles me.  The Torah continues, “You shall clear out the old produce to make room for the new.”  I am even more confused.  Does the Torah want us to be wasteful with our food and discard old produce?

Throughout the generations, rabbis debated the meaning of the Torah’s blessing.  They suggest it points to the notion that there will be an abundance of food.  Produce will be so plentiful that we will not be able to eat all of it.  It will overflow our food stores.  The land will quite literally produce a bounty of blessings.  These will be evident in the very crops we harvest.  Blessings are tied to the land.  They are connected to the food we eat.

A modern-day commentator, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz writes that the verse points to “a double blessing: first, there will be a surplus of food beyond present consumption which will be placed in storage; and second, the produce will improve with age.”  Fruits and vegetables will behave like wine.  They will miraculously taste better with age.

A fifteenth century commentator, Sforno, writes that last year’s harvest will provide enough food for this year.  The Talmud adds that the land of Israel will be so blessed that it will grow ready-made rolls for breakfast.  (Baba Batra 90b) Imagine buttery, flaky croissants growing on trees! 

The Talmudic rabbis are getting carried away with their imaginations.  Sforno returns us to the here and now.  He comments that the harvest will be so bountiful that Israel will export some of its harvest to feed the needy people of other countries.  He anticipates the worries people might express about exporting food and says there will be so much produce that people will not worry about their own needs. 

They will be so sated that their hearts will naturally look outward and want to provide for others.  I wonder if his intuition is correct.  I know some people whose refrigerators and pantries are always overflowing with food.  (My pantry has multiple bags of Tostitos.  What might happen if one night I cannot find my favorite snack?)

Does an abundance of food make us more apt to share or less?  Do we fixate on our favorite snacks, and delicacies, and begin to think that we cannot do without them?  (I can also probably do without regular helpings of Manchego.)  Does abundance confuse us into thinking that favorites are the same as sustenance?

Let us look outward!  I can live without an endless supply of chips.

Blessings need not be tied to how much food we have.  They are not connected to an abundance of crops but instead an abundance of feelings.  It has much more to do with how full our hearts feel.  And this is something we can fashion.  I can begin filling my heart by sharing food with others, with opening our refrigerators and pantries to others. 

Providing food for others is how we fashion feelings of abundance.

We need not wait for a mythic future filled with blessings.  It is here and now.  It is in our hands.  It is in our hearts.

It’s About More than the Holidays

Nearly 200 years ago, Rabbi Israel Salantar, the founder of the nineteenth century Musar movement, a philosophy that sought to move ethics back to Judaism’s center, told his students that he had an important job for them.  They were to go out and inspect the local matzah factory to certify that its products were kosher for Passover.  

They talked among themselves before their rabbi entered the room.  They had spent weeks studying the laws of Passover and poring over the words of the Talmudic tractate on the holiday.  They had argued amongst themselves whether or not legumes should be permitted on the holiday and how to sell the hametz.  One of them shouted, “How many minutes must transpire from when the flour and water are mixed until the matzah is taken out of the oven?”  “Eighteen minutes,” another shouted. 

The great sage then entered the room.  “We are ready for this task,” his disciples said in unison.  “Rabbi,” one of his students asked. “Is there something we should specifically look for when visiting the factory?”  “Yes. Most definitely,” said Rabbi Salanter.  “When you get there, you will find an elderly woman baking matzah. The woman is poor and has a large family to support. Make sure that the factory’s owners are paying her a living wage.” 

The students stared at each other in astonishment.  One asked, “What about making sure the preparation and cooking take no more than eighteen minutes?”  “That is really not the most important thing, my students,” Salanter said.  “The most important thing is to make sure that the person who is baking this matzah is properly taken care of.  If she is not, then the matzah factory is not worthy of being called kosher.”

Too often people think that holiday observance is what defines a Jewish life and guarantees our Jewish future.  This impression makes sense.  We spend much of our time in the synagogue together reciting the prayers for Shabbat and the holidays.  This week we read about all the major holidays: Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover, Shavuot and even the Omer period we are now in. (Leviticus 23)

Rabbi Israel Salanter reminds us that it is not really about the holidays.  It is instead about how we care for each other.  The Jewish things that define us should be more about how we treat each other.  Do we speak with honesty?  Do we strive for kindness?

I have a great deal of confidence that these ethical demands may be more crucial for our survival than all the matzah we purchase and all the holidays we observe.

Do we speak with honesty?  Do we strive for kindness? 

Do we guarantee our Jewish people’s future?

We Have Returned Home

After nearly three years of war with Hamas, Hezbollah and Iran, as well as the battles against those who deny Israel’s legitimacy, it is sometimes difficult to recall Israel’s founding vision.  On May 14, 1948, when the state was founded, David Ben Gurion declared,

The catastrophe which recently befell the Jewish people – the massacre of millions of Jews in Europe – was another clear demonstration of the urgency of solving the problem of its homelessness by re-establishing in Eretz Yisrael the Jewish State, which would open the gates of the homeland wide to every Jew and confer upon the Jewish people the status of a fully privileged member of the community of nations. (Declaration of the Establishment of the State of Israel)

We wander no more.  The Jewish people have a home. 

There is no better expression of this return to our home and our language than Israeli poetry.  Among my favorite poets is Yehuda Amichai.  His poem, “Tourists,” captures the essence of this vision.

Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at Yad Vashem,
They put on grave faces at the Western Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.

Once I sat on the steps by a gate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists was standing around their guide, and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."

Redemption is not the stuff of poetry.  It is constituted by prose. 

We have returned home!

On this year’s Yom Haatzmaut this is what I affirm and celebrate.

Remembering Primo Levi

It is impossible to comprehend the loss of six million Jews.  It is difficult to come to terms with the devastation of European Jewry.  All we can do is hold on to a few stories.  And so on this year’s Yom HaShoah I remember one person. 

Primo Levi was born in Turin, Italy on July 31, 1919, to middle class Jewish parents.  His father worked for a manufacturing firm.  His mother played piano and spoke fluent French.  Both were well-educated and avid readers.  Although the family was not observant, Primo became a bar mitzvah at a local synagogue.  He excelled in school and studied at the university to become a chemist.  When Mussolini formed an alliance with Nazi Germany, Italy began to enact racial laws.  It was then that Primo Levi discovered his Jewish identity.  His chemistry diploma was stamped with the mark “of the Jewish race.”

In 1943 when Germany took over Italy he and some friends fled to the mountains to join the partisans.  Inexperienced and ill trained, they were soon captured.  When he was told by his Italian captors that resistant fighters were executed, he confessed to being Jewish.  He was sent to an internment camp near Modena.  When the Germans took over the camp, the Italian Jewish prisoners were herded on to cattle cars and shipped to Auschwitz. 

Levi said of the long train trip, “We said to each other things that are never said among the living.  Everybody said farewell to life through his neighbor.”  Of these 650 prisoners only 20 survived the eleven months, when the Russian army liberated Auschwitz on January 18, 1945.  Primo Levi was one of these survivors.  As the Russians approached the SS hurriedly evacuated the camp and forced its Jewish prisoners on a long death march.  Levi was spared this march because he had recently fallen ill with scarlet fever.  His illness spared his life.

His number in the camp was 1-7-4-5-1-7.  He wrote: “We have been baptized.  We will carry the tattoo on our left arm until we die.”  Later in life when Primo Levi was the director of a paint factory and traveled to Germany for business, he wore short sleeve shirts to display his tattoo to his tormentors’ unwitting, or perhaps knowing, accomplices.  He published his first book in 1947.  In Italian the title would be rendered to English as If This is a Man.  Later, in 1961, the book would be translated into English under the title Survival in Auschwitz.  Levi’s chemistry background influenced his writing.

He writes with an almost scientific precision.  He describes Auschwitz without feeling, in direct and seemingly objective terms.  He argued that the camps required a new way of speaking.  He writes, 

Our language lacks words to express this offense, the demolition of a man.  In a moment with prophetic intuition, the reality was revealed to us: we had reached bottom.  It is not possible to sink lower than this. Nothing belongs to us anymore; they have taken away our clothes, our shoes, even our hair; if we speak, they will not listen to us, and if they listen, they will not understand.  They will even take away our name; and if we want to keep it, we will have to find in ourselves the strength to do so, to manage somehow so that behind the name of us what we were still remains.

No book gives voice to the horrors of Auschwitz better than Levi’s work.  It leaves one cold.  It strips away all remnants of sentimentality.  If the book has a hero, it is Lorenzo Perrone who shared his bread and soup ration with Primo Levi.  Soon after the war Lorenzo succumbed to depression and alcoholism, dying on the streets in 1952.  In 1957 when Primo and his wife, Lucia, had a son, they named him Renzo, almost certainly after the man who helped him survive Auschwitz.  Lorenzo never asked for anything in return, yet everyday he shared his ration with Primo.

Primo Levi also battled depression.  He remained tortured by his experiences in Auschwitz.  On April 11, 1987, he fell down the stairs of his third story apartment in Turin.  It was the same apartment in which he was born.  Scholars and writers, and even the town’s coroner, believe his death to be a suicide.  He threw himself down the stairs.  Yet he left no note.  It seems darkly fitting.  He was plagued by questions.  He asked: How could a violinist become a callous taskmaster?  How could a physician become a brutal murderer?

Even Levi’s suicide is a resounding question mark.  It is the question that continues to hover over our generation.  Why do human beings commit such unspeakable evils against each other?  How can we be capable of such demonic hate?

In addition to his many books, Primo Levi authored numerous poems.  He writes:

You who live secure
In your warm houses
Who return at evening to find
Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider whether this is a man,
Who labors in the mud
Who knows no peace
Who fights for a crust of bread
Who dies at a yes or a no.
Consider whether this is a woman,
Without hair or name
With no more strength to remember
Eyes empty and womb cold
As a frog in winter.

Consider that this has been:
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them on your hearts
When you are in your house, when you walk on your way,
When you go to bed, when you rise.
Repeat them to your children.
Or may your house crumble,
Disease render you powerless,
Your offspring avert their faces from you.

The poem is entitled “Shema.”  Our generation’s command is a question.  We ask, “Is this is a man?  Can this be a woman?”

The Holocaust continues to beckon questions.  And we continue to affirm our faith. 

Shema Yisrael!

Prayer Moves Us Beyond the Self

This week we read a harrowing story. Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, bring a sacrifice, but are punished with death.

“Now Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before God alien fire—which had not been enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from God and consumed them.” (Leviticus 10)

What was their sin? The sages offer numerous suggestions. Some say the sacrifice was not specifically commanded by God. But this would suggest that there is no room for spontaneous prayers. Are we only to offer the prescribed prayers and not those of our own hearts? Others suggest it was an alien fire. What is such a fire? Translating the Hebrew as foreign or strange does not remove the question of how can a fire be alien.

Still others argue Nadav and Avihu were intoxicated. They find support for this argument because immediately after this episode a law is transmitted forbidding the consumption of alcohol when performing sacrificial rituals. It is wise not to mix drunkenness and prayer. Who knows what one might say when under the influence!

A few rabbis argue they were overzealous and inexperienced youths. They were impatient with their father Aaron who continued to maintain his position as High Priest, refusing to make room for their younger generation. And yet how can their sin be so great as to merit death? 

The punishment appears extreme. The story continues to trouble me. Perhaps there is still a message to garner. 

When offering a sacrifice, or a prayer, one must let go of selfishness. Nadav and Avihu’s sin was that that they did not carry their fire pans together.  The Torah makes clear: “each took his fire pan.”  They only thought of their own prayers. They were not united. 

The essential prayer always begins in the plural, with “we.” 

Sometimes it is difficult to think of others. We are burdened by our own worries. We reach out to God with our own troubles. This tendency is understandable. It is also not what God asks of each of us. God asks us to think of others, to pray with others in mind.

Is this always possible? It is not. And yet it remains our tradition’s ideal. 

Nadav and Avihu’s prayers are deemed unacceptable. The danger remains. We might become consumed by the fires of selfishness. Our prayers might then wither. 

We spend much of our days focused on our own needs—or those of our family. Prayer offers us the opportunity to think of larger concerns, to expand our reach and place others at the forefront of our concern. 

Prayer is an invitation to move beyond the self and join hands with others.

Passover Celebrates Our Departure

Passover celebrates our departure.  It does not mark our arrival.  That was always a far off dream.

In 1947, the United Nations debated the partition of Palestine.  David Ben Gurion advocated for a Jewish state in our ancient homeland and said,

Three hundred years ago a ship called the Mayflower set sail to the New World.  This was a great event in the history of England.   Yet I wonder if there is one Englishman who knows at what time the ship set sail.  Do the English know how many people embarked on this voyage?  What quality of bread did they eat?  Yet more than three thousand three hundred years ago, before the Mayflower set sail, the Jews left Egypt.  Every Jew in the world, even in America or Soviet Russia knows on exactly what date they left—the fifteenth of the month of Nisan; everyone knows what kind of bread the Jews ate.  Even today the Jews worldwide eat matza on the fifteenth of Nisan.  They retell the story of the Exodus and all the troubles Jews have endured since being exiled.  They conclude this evening with two statements: “This year, slaves.  Next year free.  This year here.  Next year in Jerusalem, in Zion, in Erez Yisrael.”  That is the nature of the Jews.

Arriving remains a hope.  This evening we will conclude our Seders with these same words.  We will proclaim, “Next year in Jerusalem.”  But we have arrived.   Jerusalem is the capital of the modern State of Israel. 

And yet our hopes remain unfulfilled.  Jerusalem does not know peace!   Shalom continues to elude us.  I wonder.  Do others have a problem with our arrival?   Are we destined to wander through history and never know peace. 

Reality never matches our hopes and dreams.  And yet for generations we stubbornly recited these words and affirmed this hope.  And we continue to shout them to this day.

Next year in a Jerusalem at peace!

At our seders I will recall that Passover is first and foremost about hope.  For two thousand years we held fast hope.  This year I will grab hold to hope once again. 

Nothing Is Beneath Us, Everything Can Be Made Holy

For the Hasidic rabbis everything has the potential for holiness.  There is no such thing as the everyday and ordinary.   The twentieth century philosopher Martin Buber comments,

In life, as Hasidism understands and proclaims it, there is, accordingly, no essential distinction between sacred and profane spaces, between sacred and profane times, between sacred and profane actions, between sacred and profane conversations.  At each place, in each hour, in each act, in each speech the holy can blossom forth. (Hasidism and Modern Man)

Everything is laden with potential sparks.  Holiness does not remain in the synagogue’s sanctuary.  It travels with us wherever we go.   Every task offers us an invitation to encounter the divine. 

In ancient times the priest not only attended to the sacrifices but had to do the messy work of removing the ash from the altar.  The priest was even charged with tending to the fire.  The Torah commands, “The fire on the altar shall be kept burning, not to go out: every morning the priest shall feed wood to it.” (Leviticus 6)

These tasks are not left to an assistant or groundskeeper.  They are obligations of the priest.  The behind-the-scenes work is just as important as the public work.  We tend to lavish praise on those who stand in front of the crowds but forget about those who tend to the arduous details before and after the event. 

Recently, as I was leaving a concert late one evening and I noticed two men arriving to the venue wear safety harnesses and carrying heavy ropes.  They were there to take down the lighting and stage works to move the concert to its next city.  They received no applause and no accolades.  That was reserved for David Byrne and his fellow musicians.  The work of these stagehands is a forgotten piece behind the events we so enjoy. 

Jackson Browne sings, “Now the seats are all empty.  Let the roadies take the stage.  Pack it up and tear it down.  They're the first to come and the last to leave.  Working for that minimum wage.  They'll set it up in another town.”

The Torah does not leave such tasks to roadies.  It instead assigns them to the lead performer.  It’s as if to say taking out the trash is just as important as every other chore.   It is not to be denigrated.  And it is not to be taken for granted.

It too can be infused with holiness. 

Next time when faced with a menial task, rather than dismiss it or suggest it is for others, embrace it and ask, “How can this elevate my life?  How can this seemingly mundane task lead to holiness?” 

There is nothing beneath us.  Everything can be made holy.

At each place, in each hour, in each act, in each speech the holy can blossom forth.

Sacrifices and Prayers

This week we begin the Book of Leviticus.  Its chapters are filled with practices we no longer observe, in particular sacrifices.  In ancient times we did not pray as we do today.  Instead, we sacrificed animals and presented meal offerings.  The Torah states, “The bull shall be slaughtered before God; and Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall offer the blood, dashing the blood against all sides of the altar that is at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.” (Leviticus 1). It is hard to connect to these passages and their blood. 

When Jerusalem’s Temple was destroyed, and the place where we performed these sacrifices no longer existed, the rabbis urged us to offer sacrifices of the heart, to offer prayers.  Where the Torah mandated sacrifices, the rabbis instituted prayer services.  Prayer became the legal substitute for sacrifice.  They continued to hope that one day the Temple will be rebuilt and the sacrificial system restored.

The tradition offers this prayer, “Find favor, Adonai our God, in your people Israel and in their prayers.  And return the sacrifice to the Holy of Holies.  In favor accept the fire-offerings of Israel and their prayers in love.  And may the service of Israel your people always be favorable.  May our eyes behold your return to Zion in mercy.  Blessed are You, Adonai, who restores God’s divine presence to Zion.”

To be candid, this is not my prayer.  In fact, our Reform prayerbook eliminates the hope to restore the sacrifices of old while clinging to the desire to return to Zion.  As I often joke to our b’nai mitzvah students who are challenged by such Torah portions, “I am really glad my job does not involve slaughtering animals and sprinkling their blood all over the bima.”  I hold out no hope that these sacrifices will be restored.

And so, what are we to make of these portions?  Do we, along with Moses Maimoindes, view sacrifices as a necessary first stage in the evolution of prayer?  At first, the Jewish people could not begin with the abstract idea of prayers of the heart.  They began with the concrete as a young child does. 

Still, these ancient sacrifices offered something that the abstract cannot.  One can hold them in one’s hands.  The person making the offering had to select the choicest of animals.  It must be without blemish.  That requires careful and thoughtful examination.  One could not approach the sacrifice with nonchalance. 

During prayer services our minds can wander.  They can challenge our attention span.  We prefer some prayers over others.  Some songs speak to us more than others.  Sometimes, we can find ourselves on a different page than what the cantor is singing, especially if I forget to announce the page number.  The concrete sacrifices seem more tangible than our abstract prayers.  They appear easier to grasp.

The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban.  It derives from the word meaning to draw near.  The essence of the korban offering is that one must give up something precious in order to draw near to God.  We make an individual sacrifice in order to get close to something even greater. We give up something we love to get closer to something even better. 

That of course is still the meaning of the word sacrifice.  I am wondering what we must give up so that our prayers can be even more meaningful.  Perhaps it is this.  We must sacrifice our individual desires and needs in order to enter the communal prayer experience. 

Everything about our prayers is about the collective. 

We celebrate together.  We mourn together.  We pray for the sick together.  We do not speak about individual needs, but instead about what we need.  It is about our hope.

We must sacrifice the “I” if but momentarily when entering prayer.  At least for one brief hour every week this is what we must let go of.  We must put aside the thoughts about what I want to do or even what my family needs and think only of the community at large.  Only then can we draw near to something even greater. 

The “I” gets plenty of time in our world.  The “we” deserves far more.

Banish Extremism

Robert Putnam observes, “People divorced from community, occupation, and association are first and foremost among the supporters of extremism.” (Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community)

Rabbinic Judaism was a response to many historical factors.  Among them was the danger of prophecy.  The prophet was the radical individual, and occasional violent extremist (see I Kings 18 where the prophet Elijah slaughters hundreds of prophets of Baal), who preached against the institutions of their day.  They only saw God’s truth.  The prophets were obsessed with their message.  They clung to ideals and abhorred compromise. 

The rabbis shunned extremism.  Rabbi Hisda taught: “If the zealot comes to seek counsel, we never instruct him to act." (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 81b)  The rabbis embraced discussion and debate.  They declared the age of prophecy over.  Radicalism gave way to compromise.  Extremism yielded to the needs of the community.  Our rabbinic forebears taught that it is always best to stay together.  An individual’s needs are secondary to those of the group.  Why?  Because the individual is lifted by community.

We are made better by our association with the group.  The community tempers our worst impulses.  It keeps extremism in check.  Then again sometimes the group can combine for disastrous ends.  Last week we read how the Israelites built a golden calf.  The people gathered against Aaron.  The Torah reports, “When Joshua heard the sound of the people in its boisterousness, he said to Moses, ‘There is a cry of war in the camp.’” (Exodus 32)

And this week we see the Israelites called together to build the tabernacle.  In both instances the gathering turns on the Hebrew root kahal.  There appears but one difference between the two.  In the former, the people gather and, in the latter, the people are gathered.   “Moses gathered the whole Israelite community.” (Exodus 35) 

The difference is one of leadership.  When left without direction and purpose the people resort to their worst impulses.  The building of the tabernacle provides a mission that redirects the people’s inclinations.  They gather for good.

According to the rabbis, the community is a salve.  It is the solution to selfishness.  It is balm against extremism.  It goads us, leading us to our higher moral selves.  But a group without proper leadership can go astray.  Then its worst impulses can lead to ruin.  Without purpose and mission, the group can devolve into sinful ends.

The question remains.  Who will step up and lead the way?