September 11 Sermon
I have many feelings and thoughts as we mark this tenth anniversary of 9-11. They are mostly feelings of pain and loss. I continue to believe that things will never be the same. I also carry with me the searing memory of driving my children home from school after having to pick them up early. As I drove on the LIE I kept looking in the rear view mirror at their faces. I continue to hear their questions, “Abba, what happened? I don’t understand. Someone drove a plane into a building?” I hear as well my inadequate answers. Ten years later here are my still, partial answers.
I wish to address three points. 1. About our enemies. 2. The proper response to our enemies. And 3. Our lingering, incomplete feelings.
1. Let’s say this clearly. We indeed have enemies. This truth seems to evade us. We still appear unwilling to speak these words. There are people who are bent on our destruction. And they are Islamic fundamentalists.
We are so afraid of offending or being labeled politically incorrect that we shy away from this awful truth. I have no quarrel with Islam. We should have no quarrel with Islam. We should however have quarrel with the far too many Muslims who stand silent before what their co-religionists do in their name, and the countless Muslims who celebrate these murders committed in their tradition’s name.
We are as well unable to say loudly how many of our so-called allies support these enemies of ours. Our continued dependence on Mideast oil defames the memory of 9-11. Say what you will about the science of global warming, although I find the evidence inescapable, but it should be a matter of national security that we wean ourselves of oil.
2. In the course of these past ten years we have also lost our way in fighting our enemies. We have resorted to torture. We have shipped suspects to Libya and Syria so that they might be tortured outside of the protections of our democracy. We have contorted our most cherished laws in the name of security. We cannot, we must not ever lose our way again. Terror and fear are insidious. But they need not make us into cowards who forget what makes us really great. It is not shopping! It is democracy.
Terror and fear worm their way into our hearts and souls. They distort our vision. We must always see clearly what this country means. We must always proudly declare the values our country stands for. Moreover we should celebrate exactly what our enemies most hate because it is these very values that have made this nation great.
We live in a country that revels in difference, that is moreover strengthened by difference. We are an overwhelmingly religious people, but never a people where one religion must be chosen over another. The fact that our congregation meets and prays in a church, as frustrating as it might continue to be at times, is cause for celebration on this day.
Our enemies want a world that is only like them, that is absent of Jews and Christians and homosexuals, a world where women are veiled and science is labeled as blasphemy. I want none of that. I want a world where science and religion can learn from each other, where differences are celebrated and cause for new learning. Ten years later my resolve is only stronger. I pray, let my resolve never grow weaker. Let terror and fear never find their way into my soul.
And finally 3. For this point let us return to the Torah portion. I am thinking again about the bird’s nest. We are commanded to shoo the mother bird away before taking the young. We cannot have everything. Even that which is permitted must be regulated. Our freedoms are always framed by compassion. That is the plain meaning of the Torah’s command.
But I am thinking as well about the bird’s nest as a metaphor. Hatchlings are of course blind. They are hidden and shielded from the dangers of the world by their parents. It seems obvious but let’s be clear. Staying in their nest these young birds will never learn to fly. When they fly they may very well succumb to other, greater dangers.
We have learned from 9-11 that staying in the nest does not shield us from all harm. Many died, many were murdered, for the simple act of going to work or walking down the street, or going on vacation, or getting a cup of coffee.
Leon Wieseltier writes: “… Shopping is not the highest expression of the will to live. We are fighting wars abroad that show almost no traces at home, except among the limited segment of the population whose children are fighting them, and we have been differently encouraged in this disconnection by George W. Bush and Barack Obama. When the financial cataclysm occurred, and the hardship in America became unconscionably widespread, we redirected our gaze almost entirely upon ourselves. First materialism, and then a crisis of materialism, turned us inward. After we were attacked, we were wearied. I worry that the insularity of America, which is its natural condition, and also its lasting temptation, is gathering a renewed prestige among Americans. Our insularity is a kind of safety and a kind of blindness. The attacks of September 11 punctured that safety and that blindness: we gained—at what cost!—a broader sense of historical possibility and a broader sense of historical agency. But we are listing. We want the safety back, of course, but I fear that we want the blindness back, too.” (The New Republic, September 15, 2011)
So we can choose to be blind like the hatchlings in this bird’s nest. Or we can choose to fly. 9-11 should have taught us that blindness is no safer than flying. Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote about the insecurity of freedom in his book of the same name. He taught that there is an inherent insecurity in the blessing of freedom. The more freedom, the more insecurity. The more freedoms, the greater responsibilities.
I continue to believe that the greatest danger of terrorism is not external but internal. We can let it seep into our hearts or we can shut it out and continue flying. Insularity will not protect us. It serves no noble purpose. And those purposes are all I am really interested in.
The message of this week’s Torah portion is even more true on this tenth anniversary of 9-11. The concern of our tradition is improving our world. We begin with the small and seemingly insignificant. We begin with a bird’s nest. And from there reach out to the world at large.
No nest is forever safe. And so my only choice is to reach out to the world, and to struggle to better and improve the world. My life is made better, and yes more assured and even more secure, by my reaching to the world. And that is the only response we should focus on.
More on September 11
On Thursday, Leon Wieseltier, Literary Editor of The New Republic, said the following at a 9-11 commemoration at Washington DC's Kennedy Center.
Though we encounter it as suffering, grief is in fact an affirmation. The indifferent do not grieve, the uncommitted do not grieve, the loveless do not grieve. We mourn only the loss of what we have loved and what we have valued, and in this way mourning darkly refreshes our knowledge of the causes of our loves and the reasons for our values. Our sorrow restores us to the splendors of our connectedness to people and to principles. It is the yes of a broken heart. In our bereavement we discover how much was ruptured by death, and also how much was not ruptured. These tears lead directly to introspection.
Here is what we affirmed by our mourning on September 11, 2001, and by the introspection of its aftermath:
that we wish to be known, to ourselves and to the world, by the liberty that we offer, axiomatically, as a matter of right, to the individuals and the groups with whom we live;
that the ordinary lives of ordinary people on an ordinary day of work and play can truthfully exemplify that liberty, and fully represent what we stand for;
that we will defend ourselves, resolutely and even ferociously, because self-defense is also an ethical responsibility, and that our debates about the proper use of our power in our own defense should not be construed as an infirmity in our will;
that the multiplicity of cultures and traditions that we contain peaceably in our society is one of our highest accomplishments, because we are not afraid of difference, and because we do not confuse openness with emptiness, or unity with conformity;
that a country as vast and as various as ours may still be experienced as a community;
that none of our worldviews, with God or without God, should ever become the worldview of the state, and that no sanctity ever attaches to violence;
that the materialism and the self-absorption of the way we live has not extinguished our awareness of a larger purpose, even if sometimes they have obscured it;
that we believe in progress, at home and abroad, in social progress, in moral progress, even when it is fitful and contested and difficult;
that just as we have enemies in the world we have friends, and that our friends are the individuals and the movements and the societies that aspire, often in circumstances of great adversity, to democracy and to decency.
It has been a wounding decade. Our country is frayed, uncertain, inflamed. There is hardship and dread in the land. In significant ways we are a people in need of renovation. But what rouses the mourner from his sorrow is his sense of possibility, his confidence in the intactness of the spirit, his recognition that there is work to be done. What we loved and what we valued has survived the disaster, but it needs to be secured and bettered, and in that secure and better condition transmitted to our children. Our dream of greatness must be accompanied by an understanding of what is required for the maintenance of greatness. The obscenities of September 11, 2001 exposed the difference between builders and destroyers. We are builders. Let us agree, on this anniversary, that it is an honor to be an American and it is an honor to be free.
Though we encounter it as suffering, grief is in fact an affirmation. The indifferent do not grieve, the uncommitted do not grieve, the loveless do not grieve. We mourn only the loss of what we have loved and what we have valued, and in this way mourning darkly refreshes our knowledge of the causes of our loves and the reasons for our values. Our sorrow restores us to the splendors of our connectedness to people and to principles. It is the yes of a broken heart. In our bereavement we discover how much was ruptured by death, and also how much was not ruptured. These tears lead directly to introspection.
Here is what we affirmed by our mourning on September 11, 2001, and by the introspection of its aftermath:
that we wish to be known, to ourselves and to the world, by the liberty that we offer, axiomatically, as a matter of right, to the individuals and the groups with whom we live;
that the ordinary lives of ordinary people on an ordinary day of work and play can truthfully exemplify that liberty, and fully represent what we stand for;
that we will defend ourselves, resolutely and even ferociously, because self-defense is also an ethical responsibility, and that our debates about the proper use of our power in our own defense should not be construed as an infirmity in our will;
that the multiplicity of cultures and traditions that we contain peaceably in our society is one of our highest accomplishments, because we are not afraid of difference, and because we do not confuse openness with emptiness, or unity with conformity;
that a country as vast and as various as ours may still be experienced as a community;
that none of our worldviews, with God or without God, should ever become the worldview of the state, and that no sanctity ever attaches to violence;
that the materialism and the self-absorption of the way we live has not extinguished our awareness of a larger purpose, even if sometimes they have obscured it;
that we believe in progress, at home and abroad, in social progress, in moral progress, even when it is fitful and contested and difficult;
that just as we have enemies in the world we have friends, and that our friends are the individuals and the movements and the societies that aspire, often in circumstances of great adversity, to democracy and to decency.
It has been a wounding decade. Our country is frayed, uncertain, inflamed. There is hardship and dread in the land. In significant ways we are a people in need of renovation. But what rouses the mourner from his sorrow is his sense of possibility, his confidence in the intactness of the spirit, his recognition that there is work to be done. What we loved and what we valued has survived the disaster, but it needs to be secured and bettered, and in that secure and better condition transmitted to our children. Our dream of greatness must be accompanied by an understanding of what is required for the maintenance of greatness. The obscenities of September 11, 2001 exposed the difference between builders and destroyers. We are builders. Let us agree, on this anniversary, that it is an honor to be an American and it is an honor to be free.
Little else needs to be said.
Shoftim Sermon
This week’s Torah portion is about appointing judges and establishing courts. It contains the famous verse: “Justice, justice you shall pursue…” I have been thinking about how we approach the pursuit of justice.
It is not easy to bring justice or peace. That is why our tradition says we must pursue these values. So let’s get out there and try to fix things in our broken country. And let’s get out there and heal things in our far too judgmental families.
Is it mere coincidence that Friday's sermon touched on the same theme as Tom Friedman's New York Times column? Yes. Then again perhaps it is indeed because we need more truth-telling!
We are commanded by our tradition to pursue justice and to pursue peace. We often confuse these two values. We apply justice when we should apply peace.
Societies of course are to be built on justice. Families by contrast are built on peace. Yet we speak about injustice when it comes to family members. You wouldn’t believe what uncle so and so did. How many families sever ties over such perceived injustices?
When it comes to families however we should be talking about peace and not justice. Both notions have to be pursued. It is an interesting word choice. To pursue is to run after. You can’t wait for justice or peace to come to you.
There is a related value to justice. In order to pursue justice you must run after truth. Societies must be built on truth. Forgive my venture into politics, but our politicians seem unable to speak truths anymore. Both Democrats and Republicans refuse to speak honestly and forthrightly about the problems we face. They do not speak truths. Our problems are not going to fix themselves. There are the problems of global warming, joblessness, and poverty to name a few. Yet we appear unable to speak honestly about the problems facing our country.
But when it comes to family and friends there are no shortages of truth. You can hear all of the sordid details of what this family member did to that or this friend did to another. Whereas societies must be built on truth and justice families must be built on forgiveness and peace. You can’t have peace without a lot of forgiveness
I wish we could get it right. Families could certainly use more forgiveness and even forgetfulness. Our society requires more truth and even righteous indignation. We need justice for our country not for our families. We need to speak loudly about the problems facing our country and turn a blind eye to the mistakes we see in our families.
Is it mere coincidence that Friday's sermon touched on the same theme as Tom Friedman's New York Times column? Yes. Then again perhaps it is indeed because we need more truth-telling!
September 11
It was a beautiful August morning. The temperature was a comfortable 70 degrees. I was riding along Asharoken Avenue towards Eatons Neck. My legs felt strong and I was setting a fast pace, despite the gusting head wind. The dune grass blew in the breeze. The waves on the Sound lapped at the expanse of sand. I was riding on my favorite flat, a road that extends for miles along the shoreline. I looked up and saw a blue sky, absent of clouds. It was a perfect morning. I could focus on my riding. I could contemplate the beauty of this moment.
It was almost as if it was an early fall morning. The blue sky was nearly as deep and blue as that of a September day. And then it happened. The perfect blue sky reminded me not of the grandeur of God’s creation but instead of a morning nearly ten years earlier, the morning of September 11. The perfect moment was stolen. Memories of that terror stricken day filled my thoughts. I was taken back to another day, one that began with blue skies and the grandeur of God’s tapestry, but ended in darkness and clouds of smoke and ash.
Ten years ago, on what began as a perfect fall morning, I was driving to my office. I looked to the sky and thought to myself, what an extraordinary day. There were no clouds, only the deep blue sky of an early fall day. I silently offered praise to God for this beautiful creation. And then I turned on the radio to hear reports of the first plane striking the North Tower. Soon I would be driving East on the LIE after collecting my children from school, looking at the empty West bound lanes, save the occasional emergency vehicle careening towards the city, as signs flashed “New York City Closed.”
I lost no family member or friend on that day, not even a member of the synagogue I still proudly serve; yet I remain wounded. Ten years later time moves forward. Eight year olds become eighteen year olds heading to their first semester in college. And time moves backward. Even the sky stands as a silent reminder of that day. Ten years later moments are too often stolen. Terror still finds its way into my soul. A perfect blue sky and a favorite morning bike ride turns into the drive back to our house ten years earlier and my feeble attempts to explain to my then eight year old and five year old what happened to our city. As I drove my children home I knew that the world they were born into had been forever changed. Ten years later I still did not know how.
Every sky would be tinged with that day, every moment would be tempered. Judaism counsels that even at the happiest of occasions, a wedding, we break a glass before adjourning for hours of dancing and celebration. It is taught that we do this in remembrance of the ancient tragedy of the Temple’s destruction. In the midst of great happiness we pause, if only briefly, to remember the tragedy that changed our people forever. With that cataclysmic act we were transformed from a people whose lives revolved around one Temple to a people spread out and oriented towards many temples. Thousands of years later we know what that destruction fashioned. It helped to create a people devoted to prayer rather than sacrifices, Torah study rather than pilgrimages, ordinary acts of lovingkindness rather than priestly rites. Thousands of years later the memory of that searing day is distant, but its import is clear.
Ten years later the memory of September 11 is clear, but its meaning is still unimaginable. Ten years later we do not know yet if we should, or even can, break a glass. We have not yet figured out what this day might mean. But we have come to understand the following. The best of moments are still unexpectedly stolen and transformed into moments of sadness and pain. Ten years later even blue skies can become darkened by memories.
Nonetheless on my return, still riding on Asharoken Avenue, the wind was now at my back and the joy of riding into the future found its way back into my heart.
Shoftim
We live in a world where people often scream about injustice, but rarely take action to correct such failings. The injustices we most often speak about are those that involve people closest to us. We complain about this friend or that. We criticize this family member or another. Rarely do we seek to make amends and make peace.
This week’s Torah portion focuses on justice. In addition to legislating how judges should be appointed, it contains the famous verse: “Justice, justice you shall pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16:20)
We hear this call for justice, but we misapply its message to friends and family. Instead we need to spend more time pursuing justice for our society. Our country faces many problems. There is a growing inequity between rich and poor. On our very own Long Island there are far too many homeless and hungry. The Interfaith Nutrition Network, for example, serves over 300,000 meals per year. There are as well far too many without adequate jobs. We must create more employment opportunities. We need to work to repair the many problems in our broken society.
This is the Torah’s demand. We must pursue justice for the sake of our country. But rather than working to fix these problems we level the charge of injustice against family members and friends. With regard to those closest to us we are instead commanded to pursue peace. According to our tradition Aaron best exemplifies peace making. Why? The Israelites clamored to build a Golden Calf when their leader Moses was busy on the mountaintop communing with God. Aaron was left in charge. He did not as one might expect talk them out of their unholy task. Instead he appears to have helped them. Aaron facilitated the building of the calf. The Torah’s judgment of his actions is harsh.
The rabbis, however, see in Aaron a model of peace making. Their suggestion is extraordinary. Even when family members are straying, or in this case building idols, we are to be like the disciples of Aaron, and make peace. Thus when it comes to family shalom, peace, is the greatest virtue. When it comes to the larger society the greatest value is tzedek, justice. We often confuse which value is to lead the way.
Pursue justice for the society. Pursue peace for family and friends. As the High Holidays approach I pledge to seek justice for our society, and make peace among my friends and family.
Elul
Today (August 30th) begins the Hebrew month of Elul. According to Jewish tradition this day begins a forty day period of introspection and repentance that concludes with the beautiful Yom Kippur Neilah service.
We belong to a remarkable tradition. We believe that human beings are capable of change. We believe that we have the capacity to mend our ways. No one is perfect. All have erred. Let us take these precious days to mend our failures. This is the grand purpose of the upcoming High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah begins the evening of September 28th.
A Hasidic story. Reb Chaim Halberstam of Zanz once helped his disciples prepare for Elul and its goals of teshuvah (repentance) and tikkun (repair) by sharing the following story.
Once a woman became lost in a dense forest. She wandered this way and that in the hope of stumbling on a way out, but she only got more lost as the hours went by. Then she chanced upon another person walking in the woods. Hoping that he might know the way out, she said, “Can you tell me which path leads out of this forest?”
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” the man said. “I am quite lost myself.”
“You have wandered in one part of the woods,” the woman said, “while I have been lost in another. Together we may not know the way out, but we know quite a few paths that lead nowhere. Let us share what we know of the paths that fail, and then together we may find the one that succeeds.”
“What is true for these lost wanderers,” Reb Chaim said, “is true of us as well. We may not know the way out, but let us share with each other the way that have only led us back in.” (Rabbi Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales)
Together we are always stronger. Together we can find ourselves out of any difficulty and surmount any stumbling blocks.
Reeh
Parents tell their teenagers, “You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you get a tattoo.” This often repeated tale is meant to dissuade young adults from following the example of their peers and engraving a tattoo on their bodies. To be honest, the tale is not true.
Tattooing is of course contrary to Jewish tradition, but it would not by itself constitute a reason for the denial of burial rites. Perhaps people suggest it would do so because it is a visible sign, even following death, that the person was not observant of Jewish law. But some people observe many Jewish traditions. Others observe few. The denial of burial for any person would show a supreme lack of compassion in the face of tragedy.
Interestingly the biblical verses prohibiting tattooing connect tattooing to mourning rituals. Our Torah portion states: “You are the children of the Lord your God. You shall not gash yourselves or shave the front of your heads because of the dead. For you are a people consecrated to the Lord your God; the Lord your God chose you from among all other peoples on earth to be His treasured people.” (Deuteronomy 14:1-2)
Apparently in ancient times tattooing was associated with mourning. According to biblical scholars removing of hair and gashing the flesh until blood runs were common mourning rituals. People believed that these acts had an effect on the ghost of the deceased. Or perhaps these acts were performed as self-punishment to assuage feelings of guilt. Judaism however counsels that we tear our garment rather than our flesh. In addition Jewish custom advises men to refrain from shaving when mourning. We are commanded to do the opposite of what our neighbors do.
I understand that tattooing for the dead is a powerful emotional response to grief. People inscribe a name or a symbol on their body as a sign of mourning. It is especially common among soldiers. It is an understandable impulse. Mourners promise themselves that they will never forget, that they must never forget. Inscribing the memory on their bodies fulfills this impulse. It as if to say, “Now I will always remember.” Judaism insists however that memories must be built on stories and words.
Again and again the Torah seeks to distinguish its traditions from those of Israel’s neighbors. Tattooing was viewed as something connected with idolatry. Moreover the Jewish tradition believes that the human body is created in God’s image. We are to care for the body because it is a reflection of the divine. We therefore do not defame the body in any way. The Talmud rules that we are therefore forbidden to inscribe a permanent tattoo on the body, although there is some debate as to whether or not the prohibition only applies to a tattoo with God’s name.
I often think that in addition to the tradition’s reasons we should give weight to modern Jewish history. During the Holocaust Jews were of course forcibly tattooed with numbers. We should therefore not choose to do this to ourselves. This is what our enemies did to us. Let us not do the same.
Parents can of course resort to tales of denying burial rites in order to convince children to obey this prohibition, but I prefer making arguments based on modern Jewish history and the Jewish value that the human body is a reflection of the divine. Of course teenagers being teenagers they may very well not listen to such logic. Their desire is to be like their peers. The Torah wants us to be unlike our neighbors.
Of course in the end the primary job of parents is to love their children.
Ekev
According to rabbinic legend a fetus knows the entire Torah when in the womb. When the fetus is born, however, an angel kisses the baby on the lip, producing the recognized indentation, and the child forgets everything. Now this child must spend a lifetime learning Torah. It is a curious legend. The rabbis imagined that we begin life knowing everything but then forget.
Years ago as my grandmother withered away in a nursing home, we watched her mind become increasingly vacant. Her body remained strong years beyond her mind’s forgetfulness. On the day that we brought her great granddaughter for a visit she attempted to bite her. The adult had became the infant. My young daughter looked at me with questioning eyes. I remember especially the early years of Nana’s dementia. She understood that she was forgetting more and more. In fact when she learned that she would soon become a great grandmother she remarked, “What good will that be if I don’t have my mind.” She knew that her dementia was growing increasingly worse. There grew a terror in her eyes. And then she forgot everything.
For our Jewish tradition forgetting is a cardinal sin. We are commanded again and again to remember: zakhor. In this week’s portion, Ekev, Moses admonishes the people: “Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that He might test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts: whether you would keep His commandments or not.” (Deuteronomy 8:2) We must remember our history, the successes and failures, but especially the trials.
My son Ari recently returned from a youth trip to Israel, Prague and Poland. In Poland he visited the Warsaw ghetto and Auschwitz. I was overwhelmed looking at his pictures. Only from Ari did I come to appreciate the vast expanse of Auschwitz. There was photograph after photograph. There was this angle and yet another. I had never before appreciated the vastness of the Auschwitz complex, so many buildings built only for the purpose of murder and the destruction of my people. I have of course read many books and visited many museums. I have looked at many photographs in these museums and books. But only through my son’s eyes was able to comprehend that there are miles and miles of Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Remembering is not instinctive. Memories must be inculcated. One can learn from others. But remembrance is best achieved by experience. The great historian Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi argues that Judaism believes forgetfulness is terrifying. Zakhor, remember, we are commanded. We must always remember the long way we have travelled. To forget is to be that newborn infant, although touched by an angel, just beginning a lifetime of rediscovering and relearning.
We are the Jewish people because we remember. Our future is dependent on hearing this command and regaining this terror of forgetting. Perhaps this feeling will help us to learn more, to experience more. I forever see it in my grandmother’s eyes. May the forgetfulness of her later years be my inspiration. May my lips never again be touched by an angel.
Years ago as my grandmother withered away in a nursing home, we watched her mind become increasingly vacant. Her body remained strong years beyond her mind’s forgetfulness. On the day that we brought her great granddaughter for a visit she attempted to bite her. The adult had became the infant. My young daughter looked at me with questioning eyes. I remember especially the early years of Nana’s dementia. She understood that she was forgetting more and more. In fact when she learned that she would soon become a great grandmother she remarked, “What good will that be if I don’t have my mind.” She knew that her dementia was growing increasingly worse. There grew a terror in her eyes. And then she forgot everything.
For our Jewish tradition forgetting is a cardinal sin. We are commanded again and again to remember: zakhor. In this week’s portion, Ekev, Moses admonishes the people: “Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that He might test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts: whether you would keep His commandments or not.” (Deuteronomy 8:2) We must remember our history, the successes and failures, but especially the trials.
My son Ari recently returned from a youth trip to Israel, Prague and Poland. In Poland he visited the Warsaw ghetto and Auschwitz. I was overwhelmed looking at his pictures. Only from Ari did I come to appreciate the vast expanse of Auschwitz. There was photograph after photograph. There was this angle and yet another. I had never before appreciated the vastness of the Auschwitz complex, so many buildings built only for the purpose of murder and the destruction of my people. I have of course read many books and visited many museums. I have looked at many photographs in these museums and books. But only through my son’s eyes was able to comprehend that there are miles and miles of Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Remembering is not instinctive. Memories must be inculcated. One can learn from others. But remembrance is best achieved by experience. The great historian Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi argues that Judaism believes forgetfulness is terrifying. Zakhor, remember, we are commanded. We must always remember the long way we have travelled. To forget is to be that newborn infant, although touched by an angel, just beginning a lifetime of rediscovering and relearning.
We are the Jewish people because we remember. Our future is dependent on hearing this command and regaining this terror of forgetting. Perhaps this feeling will help us to learn more, to experience more. I forever see it in my grandmother’s eyes. May the forgetfulness of her later years be my inspiration. May my lips never again be touched by an angel.
Vaetchanan
Every year I study a selected text with parents of upcoming b’nai mitzvah. As many of you know this year I shared a selection from this week’s portion, the V’ahavta. “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might. Take to heart these instructions which I charge you this day... (Deuteronomy 6:4-9)
In particular I explored the meaning of the line: v’shinantam l’vanecha--and you shall teach them to your children. On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything, in particular Torah. They are commanded to teach their children about their Jewish heritage. They are instructed to teach their children values.
In Hebrew there is a common word for teach, m’lamed. Here the Torah uses the word, shinantam. This word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? I asked parents this question “Why would the Torah command that we repeat these words to our children?” Are we to say the words of the V’ahavta over and over again to our children, and even grandchildren?
As a parent I am certain that lessons will most certainly go unheard the moment I have to repeat them over and over again to my children. I say over and over again, “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These admonitions are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. Over the years I have learned that my worst parenting moments are when I resort to repeating myself. In that moment I am the only one who is listening to my words.
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method then what could this unusual word choice mean? The Torah can not be wrong. An insight must be hidden in its words. This is what I have determined. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do. “V’shinantam l’vanecha!”
I look forward to sharing a new text with the upcoming parents of our b’nai mitzvah class of 5772!
In particular I explored the meaning of the line: v’shinantam l’vanecha--and you shall teach them to your children. On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything, in particular Torah. They are commanded to teach their children about their Jewish heritage. They are instructed to teach their children values.
In Hebrew there is a common word for teach, m’lamed. Here the Torah uses the word, shinantam. This word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? I asked parents this question “Why would the Torah command that we repeat these words to our children?” Are we to say the words of the V’ahavta over and over again to our children, and even grandchildren?
As a parent I am certain that lessons will most certainly go unheard the moment I have to repeat them over and over again to my children. I say over and over again, “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These admonitions are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. Over the years I have learned that my worst parenting moments are when I resort to repeating myself. In that moment I am the only one who is listening to my words.
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method then what could this unusual word choice mean? The Torah can not be wrong. An insight must be hidden in its words. This is what I have determined. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do. “V’shinantam l’vanecha!”
I look forward to sharing a new text with the upcoming parents of our b’nai mitzvah class of 5772!
Devarim
For some time after the start of text messaging between father and daughter I believed “LOL” meant “Lots Of Love” rather than “Laugh Out Loud.” To my mind “Lots Of Love” made far more sense. And so in this age of abbreviated slang I find myself lost and out of touch with my daughter. Perhaps that is part of the purpose. Youth always develop words and sayings that cast the older generation outside. Parents struggle to understand their children.
This week’s Torah portion is the first portion in the last book of the Torah, Devarim. It opens with the following statement: “These are the words (devarim) that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan…” (Deuteronomy 1:1) The setting for this final book is Moses’ last speech to the people. Moses is getting old and is about to die. The mantle of leadership will soon be handed over to Joshua. The people are about to enter the land of Israel.
The generation who was enslaved in Egypt has died in the wilderness. Moses’ audience is now the new generation, those people born in freedom. They are the youthful generation who has only known the wilderness and its freedoms. Moses retells the history of their people, the Jewish people. He recounts their successes and failures. He reminds the youth of their obligations and enumerates the laws given in the Torah’s prior books.
Moses reiterates these commandments—at least least that is how Deuteronomy couches his words. Yet of the hundred laws detailed in the Book of Deuteronomy only thirty are found in the Torah’s prior books. Why would Moses frame his words as though they were not new? Why would he think it better to cast new ideas in old garments?
In so doing Moses suggests that this situation in fact requires nothing new. It has been seen and heard before, he believes. But this young generation will live in its own land. They will no longer wander. The generation reared only in freedom, the generation who knew only the vastness of wandering the wilderness, will indeed require many new laws to live their lives in a sovereign land.
Moses believes that the new must be informed by the old. Still Moses struggles to communicate this truth with the youth. In every age we struggle to communicate, to teach, to impart to the younger generation. This very tension exists in our own day, in each of our homes, in each of our lives.
This was part of Larry David’s point in the recent “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Texting slang is not meant for grown ups. It is meant only for the youth who coin its words. Parents sound like tourists struggling to communicate in the country’s native language. It is as if we are not supposed to speak our children’s language. They of course believe that we can never be informed, native speakers. They think, theirs is the language of the freedoms of wilderness. Ours are the words of enslavement, of obligations and laws.
I am left with more questions. How can we communicate the truths that we learned through our own years of struggle and wandering? How can we beseech our children to abide by what we know to be important? I still believe that even the newest situation and circumstance can be informed by the old. How can the generations speak to each other? In Deuteronomy we witness Moses offering poems, to cajole his followers as well as losing his temper, struggling and stammering, to communicate essential truths with the future generation.
And there the problem of communicating between the generations becomes most apparent. The elders either sound like foreigners in their own native land, stammering to speak the words of a future generation or angry, unheeded outcasts, who appear to stubbornly cling to the past. I wish it were as simple as saying with Moses’ concluding words, “Remember the days of old. Consider the years of ages past. Ask your [parents], they will inform you. Your elders, they will tell you…” (Deuteronomy 32:7)
But the reader forgets. We do not know if the Israelite youth listened. Such is the framework for the Book of Deuteronomy.
This is as well the framework of our lives and our goals as parents and teachers. LYA!
This week’s Torah portion is the first portion in the last book of the Torah, Devarim. It opens with the following statement: “These are the words (devarim) that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan…” (Deuteronomy 1:1) The setting for this final book is Moses’ last speech to the people. Moses is getting old and is about to die. The mantle of leadership will soon be handed over to Joshua. The people are about to enter the land of Israel.
The generation who was enslaved in Egypt has died in the wilderness. Moses’ audience is now the new generation, those people born in freedom. They are the youthful generation who has only known the wilderness and its freedoms. Moses retells the history of their people, the Jewish people. He recounts their successes and failures. He reminds the youth of their obligations and enumerates the laws given in the Torah’s prior books.
Moses reiterates these commandments—at least least that is how Deuteronomy couches his words. Yet of the hundred laws detailed in the Book of Deuteronomy only thirty are found in the Torah’s prior books. Why would Moses frame his words as though they were not new? Why would he think it better to cast new ideas in old garments?
In so doing Moses suggests that this situation in fact requires nothing new. It has been seen and heard before, he believes. But this young generation will live in its own land. They will no longer wander. The generation reared only in freedom, the generation who knew only the vastness of wandering the wilderness, will indeed require many new laws to live their lives in a sovereign land.
Moses believes that the new must be informed by the old. Still Moses struggles to communicate this truth with the youth. In every age we struggle to communicate, to teach, to impart to the younger generation. This very tension exists in our own day, in each of our homes, in each of our lives.
This was part of Larry David’s point in the recent “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Texting slang is not meant for grown ups. It is meant only for the youth who coin its words. Parents sound like tourists struggling to communicate in the country’s native language. It is as if we are not supposed to speak our children’s language. They of course believe that we can never be informed, native speakers. They think, theirs is the language of the freedoms of wilderness. Ours are the words of enslavement, of obligations and laws.
I am left with more questions. How can we communicate the truths that we learned through our own years of struggle and wandering? How can we beseech our children to abide by what we know to be important? I still believe that even the newest situation and circumstance can be informed by the old. How can the generations speak to each other? In Deuteronomy we witness Moses offering poems, to cajole his followers as well as losing his temper, struggling and stammering, to communicate essential truths with the future generation.
And there the problem of communicating between the generations becomes most apparent. The elders either sound like foreigners in their own native land, stammering to speak the words of a future generation or angry, unheeded outcasts, who appear to stubbornly cling to the past. I wish it were as simple as saying with Moses’ concluding words, “Remember the days of old. Consider the years of ages past. Ask your [parents], they will inform you. Your elders, they will tell you…” (Deuteronomy 32:7)
But the reader forgets. We do not know if the Israelite youth listened. Such is the framework for the Book of Deuteronomy.
This is as well the framework of our lives and our goals as parents and teachers. LYA!
Masei
The news is filled with murder and violence. Our city recently witnessed the grotesque murder of an eight year old Hasidic boy. Last week Norway was savaged by mass murder. Yesterday in Iraq twelve were murdered in a double bombing outside a bank. Against these painful images we recently watched as Casey Anthony was acquitted of the murder of her baby daughter.
Such killing is not new to society. The Torah offers great detail about how to approach murder and killing. In fact this week’s Torah portion, Masei, suggests several important details. Premeditated murder for example is a capital crime punishable by death.
Intent is determined by the weapon used. “Anyone who strikes another with an iron object so that death results is a murderer.” Anger and hatred as well suggests premeditation. “So, too, if he pushed him in hate or hurled something at him on purpose and death resulted…” (Numbers 35:16-21) However two witnesses must publicly testify against the accused in order to exact the punishment of death. The Torah’s concern is twofold. Its foremost concern is not first of all punishment but justice.
It is also concerned that the land not become defiled by murder. The ancients (perhaps we would do well to find meaning in their idea) believed that God’s presence cannot dwell in a land contaminated by murder. Illustrating this point is the law of cities of refuge. If a person accidentally killed another he may run to a city of refuge. There he could find sanctuary preventing the family member of the killed from seeking vengeance. “You shall provide yourselves with places to serve you as cities of refuge to which a manslayer who has killed a person unintentionally may flee. The cities shall serve you as a refuge from the avenger, so that the manslayer may not die unless he has stood trial before the assembly.” (Numbers 35-9-12)
It is a fascinating law. Apparently the establishment of these cities helped to maintain the holiness of the land. The land would therefore not be defiled twice over, by the spilling of blood in vengeance in addition to the blood of the killed. Most important the cities of refuge allow justice to be served. Anger and vengeance must never rule our decisions—even and perhaps especially in the case of murder. Today, we are understandably angry and desire punishment.
Yet justice must be given time. Although murderers act in anger we must not do the same. There is the danger that in the pursuit of justice we may become as well murderers if we are not careful and deliberate. Only time can guarantee that we do not also become guilty. The cities of refuge seek to establish this balance. They allow for the gathering of information. They allow for deliberate thought. They allow for justice to emerge.
Yet today I feel as if justified anger overwhelms my concern for justice. The Hasidic Gerrer Rebbe (1799-1866) responds. “In theory, a person who killed another, even if only through negligence, does not deserve a place anywhere, because a person who killed has no place in God’s world. That is why special places had to be set aside where killers could remain.”
In theory there should be no place on earth for someone who takes another life. All human beings are created in the divine image. The Talmud reminds us: “To destroy a life is to destroy a world.” Even a city a refuge therefore seems an unjust refuge.
And so I am left with only one simple prayer. May there come a day, even one day, and then perhaps many days, when we no longer read of violence and murder.
Mattot
This week’s Torah portion is Mattot and begins with a discussion about vows and promises. “If a man makes a vow to the Lord or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips.” (Numbers 30:3) It should be noted that the Torah offers different laws about the vows made by women. I, however, read the opening verse as applying to both men and women.
Often we pledge to go on diets, exercise more, perhaps study more Torah, not yell at our children (or parents), or reconnect with friends. We have the best of intentions when we make these vows, yet we often find it difficult to fulfill these promises beyond their initial days or weeks. The summer is filled with the best of intended promises. We hear such words, “I have more time now so I will finally read that book I have sitting on my shelf.”
At the wedding ceremonies that fill the summer months, couples recite ancient vows affirming their newly claimed love. But how do they sustain the passion of that first moment throughout the years? How do we remain true to our words throughout the many trials and challenges that follow?
An eighteenth century Hasidic rabbi, Tzvi Hirsch, the Maggid of Voydislav, responds: “If a man makes a vow he will certainly not break his word, but merely keeping his word is not enough. He is commanded: ‘He must carry out all that has crossed his lips’—that he must fulfill the vow with same fervor as at the time that he took the vow. In most cases, when a person makes a vow he do so in a flush of enthusiasm, whereas the fulfillment of that vow is done without passion, as if he is forced to do so. The Torah therefore stresses: ‘You shall do—as you vowed.’"
This is the critical observation. We passionately affirm, “I promise to…” Yet when we go to fulfill such promises it feels as if our enthusiasm has been drained. It is all about obligation and no longer about celebration. It is easy to make promises—perhaps far too easy. But how do we hold ourselves to the words we speak? How do we guarantee the passion with which we first spoke the words will accompany the fulfillment of the promise? How do we fulfill our vows with enthusiasm and vigor?
Sometimes married couples ask me to perform a renewal of vows. To be honest it is my favorite ceremony at which to officiate. When a husband and wife, after being married for some fifty years, kiss again it confirms the insight of the great Hasidic master. Wedding celebrations are of course beautiful and grand. They are about the future and all its potential. They are about promises for the future.
A renewal of vows by contrast is about the fulfillment of those promises. Such ceremonies are the realization that we can indeed spend years filling our youthful promises with devotion and enthusiasm. May we find the passion to carry our vows through many years. May we discover the commitment to see many of our promises to fruition.
Often we pledge to go on diets, exercise more, perhaps study more Torah, not yell at our children (or parents), or reconnect with friends. We have the best of intentions when we make these vows, yet we often find it difficult to fulfill these promises beyond their initial days or weeks. The summer is filled with the best of intended promises. We hear such words, “I have more time now so I will finally read that book I have sitting on my shelf.”
At the wedding ceremonies that fill the summer months, couples recite ancient vows affirming their newly claimed love. But how do they sustain the passion of that first moment throughout the years? How do we remain true to our words throughout the many trials and challenges that follow?
An eighteenth century Hasidic rabbi, Tzvi Hirsch, the Maggid of Voydislav, responds: “If a man makes a vow he will certainly not break his word, but merely keeping his word is not enough. He is commanded: ‘He must carry out all that has crossed his lips’—that he must fulfill the vow with same fervor as at the time that he took the vow. In most cases, when a person makes a vow he do so in a flush of enthusiasm, whereas the fulfillment of that vow is done without passion, as if he is forced to do so. The Torah therefore stresses: ‘You shall do—as you vowed.’"
This is the critical observation. We passionately affirm, “I promise to…” Yet when we go to fulfill such promises it feels as if our enthusiasm has been drained. It is all about obligation and no longer about celebration. It is easy to make promises—perhaps far too easy. But how do we hold ourselves to the words we speak? How do we guarantee the passion with which we first spoke the words will accompany the fulfillment of the promise? How do we fulfill our vows with enthusiasm and vigor?
Sometimes married couples ask me to perform a renewal of vows. To be honest it is my favorite ceremony at which to officiate. When a husband and wife, after being married for some fifty years, kiss again it confirms the insight of the great Hasidic master. Wedding celebrations are of course beautiful and grand. They are about the future and all its potential. They are about promises for the future.
A renewal of vows by contrast is about the fulfillment of those promises. Such ceremonies are the realization that we can indeed spend years filling our youthful promises with devotion and enthusiasm. May we find the passion to carry our vows through many years. May we discover the commitment to see many of our promises to fruition.
Pinhas
As people ascend to the main exhibition halls in the newly renovated Israel Museum they walk alongside water cascading down a constructed rivulet. James Snyder, the museum’s director, explained its symbolism to the group of rabbis. The water cleanses. We enter the exhibitions with unencumbered souls. Water washes away whatever we bring in and we enter the museum with open minds.
In ancient times sacrifices were offered on the heights of the Temple. On Sukkot especially the sacrifices reached their zenith. This week’s Torah portion offers details of the Sukkot sacrifices. 70 bulls were slaughtered on the altar, in addition to 14 rams, 98 lambs and seven goats. It was a bloody week long celebration. At the conclusion of Sukkot was the long since forgotten holiday of Simhat Beit HaShoeva, the water drawing celebration. Copious amounts of water were poured over the Temple and its altar.
In a land where water is so scarce it is remarkable to reflect on the central ritual of this holiday. At the conclusion of the dry season and prior to the beginning of the winter rains water is dumped as if it were a plentiful commodity. My teacher and the chair of Hebrew University’s Bible Department, Yisrael Knohl, offers two possible explanations. There was the practical and the philosophical. On the one hand this much water was required to clean the Temple. After so many sacrifices the Temple required a thorough washing. On the other hand what could be a better statement of faith than to dump out water before the winter rains (hopefully) began. It was if our people said, “God, we firmly believe that You will soon provide water for our crops and our rituals.”
It is interesting to ponder the fact that whereas water figured so prominently in ancient times, and in this land of Israel, it is no longer prominent in our rituals, especially in Reform circles. In traditional homes the mikvah, the ritual bath is still observed as well as netilat yadayim, the ritual washing of hands before eating. We by contrast only add the prayer for rain to our liturgy, beginning at the conclusion of Sukkot. This additional line connects us to the seasons of the land of Israel. Is this single line enough?
This past week I hiked the streets of Jerusalem and the Old City. In short order I was reminded of the necessity of always bringing plenty of water to withstand Jerusalem’s summer heat. I longed for abundant water. It occurred to me that it is no wonder that here water became central to our rituals. It is unfortunate that we take water for granted and no longer give such prominence to its preciousness. We drink it, bathe in it, play in it, but no longer pray with it. Perhaps if we restored the centrality of the land of Israel to our philosophy we would regain the importance of water to our ritual life. Then again perhaps if we restored the importance of water to our rituals we would rekindle the importance of the land of Israel to our faith.
Yet it is hard to appreciate water living in an area where it is sometimes too abundant. It is true that our tradition assigns no blessing over the drinking of water. It is used in blessings, but we recite no blessing over it as we do with other foods and drinks. There is no blessing because it is a blessing. And here in Israel one appreciates better the blessing of mayyim hayyim, living waters.
According to the Talmud one has not experienced true joy until one celebrates Simhat Beit HaShoeva. What faith it is indeed to pour water over every inch of the Temple precinct at the hoped for onset of the rainy season. So with our ancestors let us dance and celebrate that God will again provide for us these living waters. And let us as well regain a better appreciation of mayyim hayyim. Let us reclaim the centrality of the land of Israel and its city of Jerusalem.
Let us open our minds to the power of water and the beauty of Israel.
The West Bank
Yesterday we boarded buses and set out for a most interesting tour about the landscape and topography of a future peace agreement.
We first met with Danny Siedemann, a lawyer and leading proponent of the Israeli peace camp, who argued that any peace agreement begins and ends where we stood in East Jerusalem's Sheikh Jarrah. Despite the neighborhood's overwhelmingly Arab character in recent years Jews have moved into a number of homes and established a Jewish enclave there. They have made the grave of Shimon HaTzaddik into a Jewish pilgrimage site. In Danny's view if such "settlements" are allowed to continue it will destroy any hope of a two-state solution, by eliminating the possibility of Palestinian contiguity.
A divided land represents the only hope for peace. It is ugly but it is the reality of this place and promises the best future. Two nations for two peoples.
From this overlook we traveled to the West Bank community (settlement) of Beit Aryeh. It is a modest community of Israelis who primarily work in the aircraft industry. They are not religious ideologues. They live there because of the settlement's proximity to Ben Gurion airport. It is like any small town. It is not a few trailers on a hilltop. There are street signs and street cleaners. There are parks and community centers. There we meet with retired Colonel Danny Terza, the chief architect of the seam zone barrier that was erected during the second intifada to prevent terror attacks. Something it helped to successfully curtail. He explained to us the importance of retaining control of the hilltops in order to guarantee Israel's security. The afternoon offered a hazy sky, but still with little effort, we could make out the runway of Israel's international airport. How could Israel relinquish security control over all of the West Bank? When looking at a map it is impossible to appreciate how the land's mountains and valleys come into play. Standing here, peering at Ben Gurion's runway in the visible distance, we better appreciated the importance of the West Bank in terms of Israel's security. We continued to travel the roads of the territories.
To the left, the settlement of Halamish, to the right the Palestinian town of Nablus. Our bus turned off the main road into the West Bank's Area A. In the Oslo Accords Area A came to enjoy full Palestinian control, as opposed to Area C where Israel maintains complete control. In Area B Israel maintains control over security and the Palestinians over civilian affairs. We were escorted by a Palestinian jeep through Arab towns to the site of the future town of Rawabi. Israelis no longer travel to such places and do not travel in Area A. Although we were traveling in a bullet proof bus I never once felt unsafe. There we met with developer Bashar El Masri, a wealthy Palestinian who hopes to transform the current situation from conflict into peace while still making a profit. He is developing the first Palestinian planned city. Imagine Columbia, Maryland only in the middle of the West Bank. He believes that building such a city and addressing the socio-economic issues will help to create the opportunities for peace.
Like the settlers he is also creating facts on the ground. If he succeeds there will soon be impressive Palestinian facts alongside Jewish facts on this land. I wonder if the facts are less about reality and more about what you believe. Here you can deny the others' facts just as easily as you create your own. Whose language do you speak? Whose facts do you support? I was also left pondering this observation. Many Israelis speak of security and history. This Palestinian, and his employees, spoke of peace and the future. In a world that embraces youth and technology speaking of the past will not endear us to the world. With such eloquent spokesmen who will win over the hearts of the world? And even more important to this rabbi, who will win over the hearts of our young people? Their language is as well one of peace and the future.
We first met with Danny Siedemann, a lawyer and leading proponent of the Israeli peace camp, who argued that any peace agreement begins and ends where we stood in East Jerusalem's Sheikh Jarrah. Despite the neighborhood's overwhelmingly Arab character in recent years Jews have moved into a number of homes and established a Jewish enclave there. They have made the grave of Shimon HaTzaddik into a Jewish pilgrimage site. In Danny's view if such "settlements" are allowed to continue it will destroy any hope of a two-state solution, by eliminating the possibility of Palestinian contiguity.
A divided land represents the only hope for peace. It is ugly but it is the reality of this place and promises the best future. Two nations for two peoples.
From this overlook we traveled to the West Bank community (settlement) of Beit Aryeh. It is a modest community of Israelis who primarily work in the aircraft industry. They are not religious ideologues. They live there because of the settlement's proximity to Ben Gurion airport. It is like any small town. It is not a few trailers on a hilltop. There are street signs and street cleaners. There are parks and community centers. There we meet with retired Colonel Danny Terza, the chief architect of the seam zone barrier that was erected during the second intifada to prevent terror attacks. Something it helped to successfully curtail. He explained to us the importance of retaining control of the hilltops in order to guarantee Israel's security. The afternoon offered a hazy sky, but still with little effort, we could make out the runway of Israel's international airport. How could Israel relinquish security control over all of the West Bank? When looking at a map it is impossible to appreciate how the land's mountains and valleys come into play. Standing here, peering at Ben Gurion's runway in the visible distance, we better appreciated the importance of the West Bank in terms of Israel's security. We continued to travel the roads of the territories.
To the left, the settlement of Halamish, to the right the Palestinian town of Nablus. Our bus turned off the main road into the West Bank's Area A. In the Oslo Accords Area A came to enjoy full Palestinian control, as opposed to Area C where Israel maintains complete control. In Area B Israel maintains control over security and the Palestinians over civilian affairs. We were escorted by a Palestinian jeep through Arab towns to the site of the future town of Rawabi. Israelis no longer travel to such places and do not travel in Area A. Although we were traveling in a bullet proof bus I never once felt unsafe. There we met with developer Bashar El Masri, a wealthy Palestinian who hopes to transform the current situation from conflict into peace while still making a profit. He is developing the first Palestinian planned city. Imagine Columbia, Maryland only in the middle of the West Bank. He believes that building such a city and addressing the socio-economic issues will help to create the opportunities for peace.
Like the settlers he is also creating facts on the ground. If he succeeds there will soon be impressive Palestinian facts alongside Jewish facts on this land. I wonder if the facts are less about reality and more about what you believe. Here you can deny the others' facts just as easily as you create your own. Whose language do you speak? Whose facts do you support? I was also left pondering this observation. Many Israelis speak of security and history. This Palestinian, and his employees, spoke of peace and the future. In a world that embraces youth and technology speaking of the past will not endear us to the world. With such eloquent spokesmen who will win over the hearts of the world? And even more important to this rabbi, who will win over the hearts of our young people? Their language is as well one of peace and the future.
Balak
“How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel! ” (Numbers 24:5)
I arrived in Jerusalem Sunday evening as the sun was setting on the first day of the week. I found again a city filled with life and vitality.
The rabbis suggest that the world was granted ten measures of beauty, but nine were given to Jerusalem. I have read this Talmudic text many times. Often I have found it to be exaggerated. I have been privileged to see many beautiful cities. I love San Francisco with its hills and jagged Pacific coastline. I hear that Paris is an extraordinarily beautiful city and Venice a lover’s paradise. There are even days when the beauty of our very own Long Island is stunning.
Yet when I am here I feel the rabbis’ sentiment. I believe that this city of Jerusalem does indeed hold nine measures of beauty. It is difficult to fathom when we sit in New York reading of Israel’s struggles and Jerusalem’s conflicts. We see only problems and difficulties. From afar the city’s beauty is obscured. From near it is stunning and beautiful. And so on that day when I returned to my beloved Jerusalem I beheld only nine measures of beauty.
Those who know me well must ask: how could I love a city where I am so far from the ocean and the sea? Yehuda Amichai responds: “And there are days here when everything is sails and more sails, even though there’s no sea in Jerusalem, not even a river.” In another poem he even calls Jerusalem the Venice of God, describing it as a “port city on the shore of eternity.” Even though there is no sea here one nonetheless senses the ocean’s waves.
I have long sought the words to describe my swelling emotions when I visit this city. I reach to the poet. I set out upon the city’s streets to find the words.
Soon after arriving, on the second afternoon when I had my first break from classes, I walked the streets of Jerusalem. I traveled from my rented apartment on trendy Emek Refaim to the Tayelet overlooking the city, through the Old City’s Zion Gate to the Western Wall and through the Arab shuk back to the apartment, by way of Jaffa Gate and King David Street. Despite the fact that I touched the very stones that generations of Jews had only hoped to feel and that beneath my feet I imagined Abraham walking with his son Isaac and David planning the building of the Temple, the view that took my breath away was that from the Tayelet, the promenade overlooking the Southern walls of the Old City.
There I saw the golden dome of the Dome of the Rock, the top of the Church of Holy Sepulchre peering above the city’s buildings and the Hurva synagogue, destroyed decades ago by the Jordanians but now rebuilt. I looked to the left of the Old City’s walls and saw the windmill of Yemin Moshe, the first neighborhood built outside the Old City’s walls. And to the left of this was the expanse of the ever growing new city of West Jerusalem.
And it is actually this view of the cranes building the new city that always makes my heart swell. It is not the ancient but in fact the new. It is that we have returned to this place that for generations we only dreamed of, and spoke about, and sang to, and prayed for. It is not only the political success of modern Israel or its many achievements here in Jerusalem. It is instead that here, even on an ordinary bustling street, I see the Torah’s words of this week’s portion: “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!”
Here our dreams have become real. Here we are not only rebuilding our ancient city. We are also constructing our very dreams. No city is perfect of course. The reality is not yet the ideal.
Still there is always a moment here when I see only nine measures of beauty and believe that I am once again privileged to return to the port city on the shore of eternity.
Hukkat
Often ritual acts are performed in remembrance of long since abandoned, or even forgotten, practices.
We place a shank bone on the Passover seder plate. We do so in remembrance of the Passover sacrifices offered in the ancient Temple. The Temple was destroyed 2,000 years ago yet the tradition insists that we continually remember its power and grandeur. Likewise we salt the Shabbat hallah in order to remember that the sacrifices were salted. Despite the fact that we continue to observe these customs few people explain these customs with words about the Temple and its sacrifices.
The rituals surrounding death and mourning offer even more examples. We wash our hands after returning to the shiva house from the cemetery. Its origins are found in this week’s Torah portion, Hukkat. “When a person dies in a tent, whoever enters the tent and whoever is in the tent shall be impure for seven days… A person who is pure shall take hyssop, dip it in water, and sprinkle it on the tent and on all the vessels and people who were there… The pure person shall sprinkle it upon the impure person on the third day and on the seventh day, thus purifying him by the seventh day.” (Numbers 19:14-20)
Once the Temple was destroyed we could no longer perform such intricate purification rituals. Yet we still wash our hands following the funeral. Often this ritual is given different meaning. It is explained as a symbolic cleansing. We wash to move from death towards life. We no longer believe that death defiles or renders us impure. Yet its presence requires restorative powers. We summon our strength. We rely on our rituals.
In this week’s Torah portion as well Moses buries both his brother Aaron and his sister Miriam. I imagine that Moses had to summon all his strength in order to persevere after suffering these personal losses. But how could he perform the rituals that would help him move from death to life? His brother Aaron was the priest who alone was commanded to perform these purification rituals.
And Miriam as well was associated with water. According to legend while she was alive wells miraculously appeared wherever the Israelites camped. When she died the Israelites were without water. In fact immediately following her death the Torah reports that the community was without water and complained against Moses. How could Moses then mourn his sister? How could Moses perform the rituals that would aid in his recovery?
Our situation is similar. We no longer have a Temple. Sometimes we no longer even recall why we perform these acts. Yet they still help us move from death to life. Water helps restore the soul.
Every time I walk through the doors of a shiva house past the pitcher of water (may such days be infrequent) I do not think of the ancient sacrifices. I offer instead a silent prayer. May the waters Miriam brought to her people bring healing to today’s grieving family. May this family soon arrive to the day when their tears no longer sting their cheeks.
Korah
This week’s portion, Korah, details the great rebellion against Moses and his authority. Korah and his followers gathered against Moses saying, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16:3)
One can understand their complaints. It is easy to imagine what people might have been saying about Moses. “Can you believe this guy? He keeps telling us he is talking to God and that everything is going to be wonderful. The land is so beautiful he keeps promising. But when are we going to arrive there? Will we ever get there? Day after day we eat this manna. Day after day we schlep. We keep walking and walking. Every day is the same. And then this guy Moses keeps changing the original plan.”
One can be sympathetic to their grumblings. On the surface the criticisms appear legitimate. Examine the Torah’s words. Judaism does indeed believe that everyone can speak to God. Our religion requires no intermediary. Moses is not holier than any other human being. Yet Korah and his followers are severely punished. Why?
Midrash Tanhuma suggests an answer. It imagines Korah asking Moses these questions: “Does a tallit all of blue still require blue fringes? Does a room full of Torah scrolls still require a mezuzah?” In the rabbinic imagination Korah’s questions are brimming with disdain. His words suggest that he questions the entire system. It is because he is so disrespectful that he is punished.
We often do the same. We highlight inconsistencies in our religious systems, and political systems, not to correct but instead to mock. It is of course far easier to poke fun and reject rather than affirm and improve.
We appear to live in an age when too many have become Korah. We seek to amuse. We mock those with whom we disagree. We even call those with whom we disagree: traitors. Our culture measures an argument’s winner not by the merit of the ideas but by the reactions of the participants. If someone is made to cry or stammer then they have lost the argument, even better if they are made to do so on TV. We no longer debate ideas. Instead we attack others.
We have become Korah. And for this we should ask forgiveness and mend our ways. If we are ever going to make it to the promised land and improve our society we must not attack each other. We must instead debate and argue about the ideas that might change our world.
What Korah failed to understand we as well fail to grasp. We are all in this together. And we are all in the wilderness. We had better master debating the ideas that matter without seeking to undermine the entire system. We had better figure out a way to argue with each other while not shouting words of hate.
Of those who left Egypt only two made it to the promised land. I do not wish to be standing alone in the land. I do not wish to remain in the wilderness.
Shelach Lecha Sermon
Given this week’s news, and last week’s, and perhaps even the week before, I have been thinking about how incredibly disappointing people can be. People really have the remarkable ability to disappoint. This of course was the theme of my weekly email message. I am not going to retell that Talmudic story and its sordid details at services, but here is the question for this evening: what is the meaning of being human? As human beings we are capable of untold depths, but also of course great heights. People can indeed disappoint, but also surprise.
We find this theme in the week’s parsha, Shelach Lecha. It tells the story of the spies who are sent to scout the land of Israel. Twelve spies are sent; two different reports return with them. Ten report the following: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of great size…and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13:32-33) Joshua and Caleb however say, “The land that we traversed and scouted is an exceedingly good land… Have no fear then of the people of the country, for they are our prey: their protection has departed from them, but the Lord is with us. Have no fear of them!” (Numbers 14:7-9)
It is a remarkable contrast: the same experience yet entirely different responses. Some spies see only the challenges and difficulties. Joshua and Caleb see instead possibilities. Joshua and Caleb see only milk and honey. The other spies see giants; they imagine mythic figures who will overpower them. For this good report Joshua and Caleb, and they alone, are rewarded with being able to enter the land of Israel. They are the only two of the generation who leave Egypt allowed to enter the land. It was of course the same experience for all twelve spies, yet they offered different responses and therefore discovered different outcomes.
There was an interesting article in The New York Times about this week’s events. It made the claim that male politicians are far more likely to be felled by sex scandals. Women politicians by contrast are not so frequently embroiled in such things. The reporter suggested that this was because women better understand how precarious their achievements are and therefore don’t want to jeopardize these hard earned positions. Sheryl Gay Stolberg also made the claim that men go into politics to be somebody and women by contrast go into politics to change things.
I thought this last point was an interesting claim. I am not going to weigh in on this male-female dichotomy, but I am sure it will make for interesting debates at home between husbands and wives. Instead I wish to focus on the claim that the goal is not to make something of ourselves but instead to make something of the world. I believe, I have always believed, that this is our God-given task. And so I guess in the Time’s reporter’s estimation, my belief shows your rabbi’s feminine side. We are called upon to improve our world, to make things better, even if only a little bit.
Now I am not usually a fan of CNN or the TV news in general, especially this week. It is not just because of CNN’s biased reporting about Israel. It is instead that TV is actually no longer news. It all seems to be approaching reality TV, and even Jersey Shore. It is because TV reporting spends far too much time talking about people’s mistakes and foibles.
But CNN also has this wonderful program called, "Everyday Heroes". It showcases ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Here is one such story. Yuval Roth, is an Israeli whose brother was kidnapped and murdered by Hamas terrorists in 1993. Since then he has become active in a group that brings together Palestinians and Israelis who have both suffered loss, whether by terrorists or the IDF’s weapons. (The result of course is the same even though the moral legitimacy is clearly different.) In this group Yuval discovered a need.
Many Palestinians require medical attention in Israel but can’t afford to get to Israeli hospitals. So Yuval created an organization that now comprises some 200 volunteers. These volunteers help transport Palestinians to and from the West Bank. One young three year old Palestinian girl requires frequent dialysis and has been driven some 500 times by the group. In 2010 the group drove 90,000 kilometers helping Palestinians traverse Israeli checkpoints and reach medical care in Israel. Yuval said the following: “I lost my brother, but I didn't lose my head. This activity gives me an essence for life. I have learned the price of the conflict is a lot more than the price of making peace. We are all human beings.”
Many people might understandably look at this situation and make a different choice. Many people might again understandably allow grief to turn into anger. But Yuval demanded of himself something different. He chose instead to make something of this world. He did not set out to make a name for himself. He chose instead to transform his small piece of the world. Whether or not he helps to make peace in the Middle East is not the point. He is helping to bring healing to others. To a greater or lesser extent each of us is faced with a similar choice.
We have to decide. We can look in the mirror (forgive me, I cannot resist) and say like our former congressman, “Wow don’t I look fine?” Actually in case this is unclear, you are not supposed to say that. You are also not supposed to say with the ten spies, “I am but a puny little grasshopper.” Or we can say what we are supposed to say, “What good can I bring to this world?” What can I make of this world? What can I change? What healing can I bring to others?
In the end Anthony Wiener’s sin was not that he tweeted a picture of himself, however lewd and salacious it might have been. His failure was one of leadership. The moral issues are only between him and his wife. His sin was instead that he actually thought it was all about himself. Leadership, and politics, are supposed to transcend the self. His failure to see this was his great undoing, and our shame. It is never supposed to be about ourselves. Ok, maybe that is an impossible ideal. It is not supposed to be only about ourselves.
Try thinking about others first. Try thinking about what the world need you to do first. Because the more of us who live by Joshua’s and Caleb’s example the better. That is, the better the world will be for it. Thinking about others and our world is really supposed to be our most important job. It is all of our jobs. But it is especially the job of our leaders.
Below is the CNN video clip of Yuval Roth.
Shelach Lecha
I have been thinking about a famous Talmudic story. I have added a few embellishments and modern idioms, but the salacious details are the Talmud’s. Such stories are not new to the Twittersphere. They are part and parcel of our Talmud, and even our Bible as well.
Once a man, who was very scrupulous about the mitzvah of tzitzit, heard of a certain prostitute in one of the towns by the sea who accepted four hundred dollars for her services. He wired her the four hundred dollars and scheduled an appointment. When the day arrived he came and waited at her door, and her attendant came and told her, “That man who sent you the four hundred dollars is here and waiting at the door;” to which she replied, “Let him come in.”
When he came in she prepared for him seven beds, six of silver and one of gold; and between one bed and the other there were steps of silver, but the last were of gold. She then went up to the top bed and lay down upon it naked, seductively motioning to the man to climb to the top, golden bed. He quickly climbed the silver beds in his desire to sit naked with her, when all of sudden the four tzitzit of his tallit struck him across the face as he climbed on top of the golden bed; whereupon he jumped off the bed and sat on the ground.
She followed him off the bed and sat on the ground next to him and said, “By the Roman Capital, I will not leave you alone until you tell me what blemish you saw in me.” He replied, “By the holy Temple, never have I seen a woman as beautiful as you; but there is one commandment which the Lord our God has commanded us, it is called tzitzit, and with regard to it the expression ‘I am the Lord your God’ is written twice, signifying I am the God who will exact punishment in the future and I am the God who will give reward in the future. Now when the tzitzit hit me in the face they appeared to me as four witnesses testifying against me.”
She said, “I will not leave you until you tell me your name, the name of your town, the name of your teacher, the name of your school in which you study the Torah.” So he wrote all this down on piece of paper and handed it to her, returning to his town. She then arose and divided her estate into three parts; one third for the government, one third to be distributed among the poor, and one third she took with her in her hand; her sexy lingerie, however, she retained.
She then came to the school of Rabbi Hiyya, and said to him, “Master, give instructions to me that you might make me a convert.” He replied, “My daughter, perhaps you have set your eyes upon one of my disciples?” She thereupon took out the handwritten note and handed it to the Rabbi. Rabbi Hiyya said, “The two of you should go and get married.”
And that very lingerie which she had spread out for him for an illicit purpose she now spread out for him lawfully. And so this is the reward of the mitzvah in this world; and as for its reward in the future world we do not know how great it will prove to be. (Babylonian Talmud, Menahot 44a)
The Torah portion states: “That shall be your tzitzit; look at them and recall all the commandments of the Lord and observe them, so that you do not follow your heart and eyes in your lustful urge.” (Numbers 15:39)
Whether it is Twitter, Facebook, sexting, or a gold bed, our eyes do stray. It is not a sickness to be treated or a disease to be cured. It is instead human. Rabbi ben Zoma states: “Who is a hero? The person who conquers his, or her, evil inclination.” (Pirke Avot 4:1) I am forgiving of human weaknesses. I am unforgiving when people’s mistakes, and sins, are excused as addictions. When we err, we have no choice but to admit our errors and change our ways. When we face addictions, as difficult and painful as it may be, we have no choice but to conquer them.
Everyone does err, and even stray. Our tradition teaches that rituals help to focus our attention towards our divine purpose. It is always helpful to have reminders. It can be the mezuzah on our doorposts, or the tallit on our shoulders. The intention is that they help to bring out the best in us.
And when we think of veering, rituals can help to redirect our thoughts—and we hope and pray as well, even guide our actions.
Behaalotecha Sermon
Some brief words of Torah before we conclude this special Shabbat service and celebrate this year's confirmation students.
Have you ever walked around the cocktail hour at a bar/bat mitzvah party and said, “What no lamb chops?”
Our Torah portion states: “Then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna to look to!’” (Numbers 11:4-6)
It is remarkable that people are so often ungrateful for the many blessings they have. The Israelites had just earned freedom, and yet all they wanted to do was go back to Egypt. They complained and complained and said at least there they could cucumbers and melons.
Freedom is of course an enormous blessing. It is part of what we celebrate as we mark confirmation this evening. But freedom comes with enormous responsibility. At times this responsibility overwhelms the blessings. We rebel under the weight of the responsibility. We complain, “I have so much to do…”
Abraham Joshua Heschel called this the “insecurity of freedom” in his book about our responsibility to speak out against injustices. Freedom is not about doing whatever you want. It is about doing what you need to do. Moreover it is about doing what the world needs you to do.
My hope and prayer on this Shabbat is that we look more at what we have than what we don’t have. I pray that we affirm all our blessings each and every day. And not curse the few things we have not yet achieved. My hope and prayer is that we live up to the responsibilities of freedom.
Then we will never say, “What where are the lamb chops, or the cucumbers or the melons?” You can look at the world like the Israelites did in our parsha. Or you can look at the world and the many things you do have and count your blessings. I believe they are always plentiful. Our blessings are especially plentiful when you look at all the things that you must do and see them as blessings. You can look at the world and say, “Wow look at the many blessings I can achieve by virtue of the responsibilities I have.”
Then nothing is a burden and everything a blessing.
The 19th century poet and minister, Phillips Brooks, wrote (I thank Rabbi Marc Gellman for bringing this poem to my attention):
Do not pray for easy lives;
pray to be stronger men [people].
Do not pray for tasks equal
to your powers; pray for
powers equal to your tasks.
Then the doing of your work
shall be no miracle, but
you shall be a miracle.
Every day you shall wonder
at yourself, at the richness
of the life which has come to
you by the grace of God.
Amen v‘amen!