Shelach Lecha

Some thoughts about the weekly Torah portion and contemporary events...  There is currently a heated debate about the limits of secrecy and the public disclosures about the Obama administration’s clandestine efforts against Iran and Al Qaeda.  In particular the current administration is accused of using its covert successes for political gain.  Let me offer a few contributions to this discussion.

It should first be noted that all presidents use the spy agencies for their own political advantage.  President Bush certainly used them to bolster his desire to invade Iraq.  In fact it now appears that the claims of WMD were based on faulty intelligence at best or completely fabricated reports at worst.  When making such judgments about our leaders we tend to be more forgiving of those politicians we support and more critical of those we don’t like.  Such is human nature.  We must therefore cast these feelings aside and debate these matters in an open and honest way.

Secrecy always advantages the person in power.  The powerful shape the discussions by controlling the dissemination of information.  That is why a democracy must debate even its most secretive efforts.  In a democracy the application of military power, whether clandestine or not, must be debated openly.  The specifics of how that power is wielded should be kept from public view, however.  Troop placements, weapons’ capabilities, covert methods and the like should not be disclosed.  Otherwise security is potentially compromised.  Still, the questions about the use of computer viruses, for example, have never been forthrightly discussed.

There seems little doubt in my mind that these weapons might one day be turned against us.  Yet I still believe it is worth these risks in order to stop Iran from building nuclear weapons.  Whether to use such weapons is however a legitimate point of debate.  I believe as well that we should assassinate Al Qaeda leaders using any means necessary.  Yet again this is a legitimate point of public debate.  It does not compromise American security to debate these questions.  It instead strengthens American democracy.  While I might be fascinated about the specific methods I don’t need to know them.

And so we must argue about what we believe are the goals of such methods.  When states use violence to protect its citizens or project good other values are inevitably compromised.  Do we agree that drone attacks and cyber warfare are legitimate?  Steven Aftergood said, “Secrecy cloaks not only the operations, but their justification and rationale, which are legitimate subjects of public interest.”  (The New York Times)

“The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Send men to spy the land of Canaan…’  (Numbers 13:1)  Ten of the spies return with a worrisome report.  “We cannot attack that people, for it is stronger than we….  The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers.  All the people that we saw in it are giants…  and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves…”  (13:31-33)  Joshua and Caleb, while not denying the details of the report, offer encouraging words, suggesting that the Israelites would be successful in their attack.

God becomes enraged with the ten spies and the people’s subsequent lack of faith.  God says in effect, “How can they doubt that they will be successful?  It does not matter how mighty their adversaries might be.”  God withdraws support.  The Israelites still attack.  They are defeated.  “And the Amalekites and Caananites who dwelt in that hill country came down and dealt them a shattering blow at Hormah.” (14:45). 

Throughout the centuries commentators have argued that the Israelites were defeated because they lacked faith.   They marched forward without their leader Moses and without the symbol of their faith, the Ark of the Covenant.  Is it possible, however, that the spies report was accurate and that the Israelites were not ready to defeat a more powerful enemy?  Do we see instead see a glimmer of democracy when the spies bring their report to the entire people?  Perhaps it is not as the Torah and our subsequent tradition would suggest all about having the correct attitude and faith.  Perhaps it is instead about the accuracy of the report and reaching a consensus among the people.

Forty years later Joshua finally leads the people against the same giants of the land, although now the Israelites are only those who were born in the wilderness and not those born into slavery.  The Haftarah reports the details of how the Israelites now scout the land.  Joshua, like Moses, first sends spies to the region of Jericho.  They find their way to the house of a harlot named Rahab and stay there for the night.  (Such operational details we might not wish to know!) 

She hides them from the town’s soldiers and confides in them an assessment of her people’s mood.  “I know that the Lord has given the country to you, because dread has fallen upon us, and all the inhabitants of the land are quaking before you…”  (Joshua 2:9)  The spies then make their way back to Joshua and offer a brief, but positive report, although only to Joshua.  Is Joshua less democratic than his predecessor?   Is waging a successful war and the secrecy it too often entails contrary to the democratic spirit?  Joshua then successfully leads the people in battle against the inhabitants of the land, conquering the land of Canaan for the first time.

We appear to find ourselves in similarly turbulent times.  And I get nervous when leaders speak too readily about making war.  I also get nervous when leaders speak too easily about making peace with our sworn enemies.  I am left to rely on my confidence in democracy and the legitimacy of the debate it must foster.  Secrecy offers me little comfort.

I am left as well to rely on the courage of Joshua. “Be strong and resolute…” (Deuteronomy 31:23)

Behaalotcha

This week’s Torah portion retells the story of Miriam criticizing Moses.  “Miriam spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman he had married.”  (Numbers 12:1)  We learn elsewhere, in Exodus, that Moses’ wife is Zipporah who is a Midianite.  Here it suggests that she is dark-skinned and therefore perhaps from Ethiopia.  Regardless she is not an Israelite.  Was this the basis of Miriam’s criticism of her brother Moses?

Their brother Aaron now joins the critique and he and Miriam offer more harsh words, “Has the Lord spoken only through Moses?  Has He not spoken through us as well?”  (12:2)  Were they jealous of their brother Moses?  Did they want to lead the Israelites as well?  Did they believe, as Judaism does, that everyone and anyone can have a relationship with God?  This criticism appears well founded.

Nonetheless, the medieval commentator, Rashi, suggests an alternative explanation.  He imagines Miriam criticizing her brother for neglecting his wife.  Moses is singularly devoted to his mission and on call for God at all hours of the day and night.  Miriam therefore worries about her sister in law’s well being.  She worries about her brother’s marriage and family.  This is a fascinating comment from a man who in addition to his day job wrote a line-by-line commentary to the entire Bible and Talmud.  I wonder how Rashi had time for his family.  Is the best teaching offered by the very person who falls short of fulfilling its words?  Miriam reminds us, no job is more important than family.

Nonetheless it is Miriam who is punished and stricken with leprosy.  Aaron is left alone to plea for his sister, “O, my lord, account not to us the sin which we committed in our folly.” (12:11)  The rabbis draw a parallel between this disfiguring disease and gossip.  They suggest that it was not what Miriam said but the manner in which she spoke the words.  The tradition is clear.  Even if the words are true they should not be spoken unless absolutely necessary and then only in private.  Critique becomes gossip when it finds its way into the public domain.

The rabbinic insight is clear.  Gossip is as disfiguring as leprosy.  A Hasidic story relates that just like a feather cast to the wind, such words can never be collected.  Once gossip is shared it can never be withdrawn.  The damage to a person’s reputation might never be undone.  Beware of what is posted and texted!  Moreover gossip disfigures the gossiper.

This might very well be the greater of the rabbis’ teachings.  Like a disfiguring disease a person’s character unravels when he or she gossips.  The rabbis remind us that gossip not only damages the person about whom we talk but also belittles the person who speaks such words.  Gossip damages everyone—even and including the person who listens.

And so we pray for all the times we resorted to gossip to entertain.  We pray for all the moments we gossiped in order to give ourselves a greater sense of self worth. We pray for all the minutes we inclined our ears to the gossip that others shared.  We pray with Moses, “O God, pray, heal her.” (12:13) Heal us! 

Naso Sermon

Let me offer some very brief words of Torah. I cannot pass up the opportunity to teach when so many people are here, but I also don’t want to stand in the way of the delicious dinners that await us.

The Torah portion contains the vow of the Nazir. As a measure of extra piety a person could pledge to abstain from alcohol, not cut his hair and avoid contact with the dead. It should be self-evident that I am not a Nazir. (That is a bald joke not a drinking joke.) The most famous Nazirites were Samuel and Samson. (I am thankful to those who caught the Springsteen reference in the email blast. “Romeo and Juliet, Samson and Delilah…’Cause when we kiss, Fire.”)

But the question for this evening is about vows, oaths and promises. People make promises all the time. There are the familiar New Year’s pledges of promising to work out more. I promise to eat less, drink less. I pledge to give more to tzedakah. I vow to learn more, or attend services more often. Whatever forms these personal vows take, the question is about their efficacy and value. More often than not they quickly become empty and soon go unfulfilled.

We make far more promises to ourselves and our family and our friends than we keep. More often than not we have good excuses why these remain unfulfilled. This is why Judaism actually frowns up making vows and pledges. Our tradition so values words that it worries when words are spoken that can soon become false. In fact in traditional circles when someone makes a promise, they will say, bli neder. This means that it is not a vow. It is not a promise made to God or using God’s name. For then a promise to God would become false and we would then transgress something greater, namely Ten Commandment #3: You shall not swear falsely by the name of the Lord. This is also the origins of the beautiful Kol Nidre prayer. It serves to nullify unwitting vows.

This is the concern of our tradition. Our words matter, they can shape reality. In our age when words have become abbreviated in the flurry of text messages we would do well to recall this message. Be careful of what we promise. It would be better simply to do. People become disheartened by good that is promised and remains unfulfilled; then we become disheartened, we become discouraged. Our lives, and the lives of those around us, are enriched by goodness that is performed. That and that alone will sustain us.

Naso

Years ago I hiked in the Judean desert to Wadi Qelt.  There I discovered small caves dug into the sides of the mountains.  These were caves for Christian monks who had pledged to live a life of solitude and denial.  Their meager rations were placed in a bucket that was then lowered from the cave’s mouth.  There was one small cave for each monk.  My friends and I looked at each other and said, “How un-Jewish!”  Denying yourself food is not the Jewish way.  Yom Kippur, despite its importance, is not emblematic of our tradition.

This week’s Torah portion, Naso, describes the ancient Nazirite vow in which a person pledged to abstain from alcohol, refrain from cutting his hair and avoid contact with the dead.  This was a voluntary rite and could be made as a life-long pledge or for as brief a period as one month.  By making this vow an individual sought a deeper connection to God and an increased measure of holiness.  The most famous of Nazirites were Samuel, the prophet who we read about on Rosh Hashanah, and Samson who of course lost his spiritual powers when Delilah seduced him into cutting his hair.  (I’m driving in my car, I turn on the radio…)   The New Testament records that John the Baptist was a Nazirite.  This practice eventually fell out of favor.  Such asceticism continues in other religious traditions but Judaism long ago rejected such practices.

Judaism instead developed an approach of moderation.  It does not forbid drinking.  Instead it uses wine to sanctify Shabbat and holidays.  It views wine as a way to elevate celebrations.  Life is intended to be enjoyed and wine helps serve that purpose.  Judaism did not as well forbid sexual relations or view them as sinful.  There is no celibate tradition within Judaism.  Instead it framed sex within proper relationships.  When a relationship is sanctified by marriage sexual relations are not only permitted between husband and wife but commanded.  Yes it really is a mitzvah.  By the way according to traditional sources it is the husband’s commandment and the wife’s right.  Moreover it is not only for the sake of procreation but more importantly for the purpose of enjoyment.  This is Judaism’s realistic view of such worldly matters.  There are pleasures in this world that help to elevate and sanctify our lives. 

Nothing is unholy.  Everything is but waiting to be made holy.   The Nazirite and his monkish practices were thus pushed aside by our Jewish tradition.

But even in ancient days there was one thing that even the Nazirite could not deny himself.  He could never shut out the community.  Unlike the monks who lived like hermits in the Judean desert Jewish “monks” could never choose solitude.  Even the most pious of Jews could never choose to be alone.  There is no extra measure of holiness in that.  To be a Jew is to be part of the community.  The congregation can never be shut out.

Hillel suggests: “Do not separate yourself from the community.”  For the Jew the greatest holiness can only be achieved with others, never without.

Shavuot

During the days of early spring we were awakened at sunrise by a knocking on our window. It was a bird that was banging his beak on the glass. At first I thought it must be because there were some bugs on the windowsill. I investigated to see if I could remove this food. I discovered no such enticement. Then I learned that he was fighting with the bird he saw in the window. That other bird was in fact his reflection in our newly cleaned windows.

I shouted, “Stupid bird! You are fighting with yourself. You gain nothing in these efforts. You impress no one by your incessant pecking.” The bird failed to heed my advice. I began to regret cleaning the windows.

The holiday of Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. It begins on Saturday evening. The Torah is likened to a mirror. In it we can perceive a vision of our better selves. The Torah is not a reflection of what we are but instead an intimation of what we can become.

Too often we look in mirrors and see only our imperfections. How much time is spent tending to our appearances? We scan Facebook for new pictures of our tagged selves. “Wow, I look great in that picture. Damn, I am so bald.” We look again and again in the mirror, at this angle and that, to glean our most flattering pose. We fight with our reflections.

The bird finally stopped its pecking when I placed a piece of white paper on the outside of the window. It was not a particularly attractive option. The paper appeared to diminish our home’s sheen. Nonetheless it proved effective. I reasoned, aesthetics are secondary to sleep.

There is a tradition that the white spaces of the Torah are even more important than the black, calligraphed letters. Why? It is there that we discover our truer selves. It is there that we write our destiny. We are guided by the beautiful letters. But we find ourselves in between the writing. We discover our path in the white spaces.

Now the bird does what birds are intended to do. He flies.

The choice is ours. Do we look at ourselves in the mirror and see only our imperfections. Or do we see what we can become? Do we imagine that we too can fly? And then see a vision of our truer selves.

This we discover every time we peer into the unfurled Torah. And it is that reflection we should always hold before our eyes.

Bamidbar

This week’s portion begins the fourth book of the Torah, Numbers. The English name comes from the Greek and Latin translations and has to do with what occurs in the opening chapters. The first chapter begins with a census, with a counting of the Israelites. The Hebrew name in contrast comes from one of the first words, Bamidbar and means “in the wilderness.”

According to the accompanying Haftarah, Hosea, wilderness has both a positive and negative meaning. It can be the place where we hunger for food, and seek to quench our thirst. It can mean the desert. It is also the place where two lovers can be alone, where God and Israel can be joined. The prophet Hosea uses both of these images.

Hosea first chastises the Israelites, accusing them of disavowing their relationship with God. “Else will I strip her naked/And leave her as on the day she was born:/And I will make her like a wilderness,/Render her like desert land,/And let her die of thirst.” (Hosea 2:5) Later, the prophet offers a promise of redemption. “Assuredly,/I will speak coaxingly to her/And lead her through the wilderness/And speak to her tenderly./I will give her vineyards from there,/And the Valley of Achor as a plow land of hope…” (Hosea 2:16)

The wilderness can be a place of thirst, of wanting. It can also be a place of renewal and hope. There we can struggle for survival. In the wilderness we can as well discover our destiny.

The book’s English name suggests nothing of this dual meaning. It suggests nothing of the importance of this place, of the significance of the wilderness. But it is in the wilderness that we find meaning. Place is open for interpretation. There, in the wilderness, we can see little water, or the miraculous wells that sustained the people Israel. There we can see the desert’s daytime sweltering heat and its evening chilly air, or the Torah we received on Mount Sinai and the bonds of community strengthened by our journey.

This wilderness that might be called in English a God-forsaken land is transformed by our tradition into a place of promise and hope. It is a place where the unexpected and miraculous occurs. Why was the Torah given in the wilderness?, the rabbis ask. It is because this place belongs to no one. A midbar is by definition not part of any state, it is within no country’s borders. Therefore the Torah belongs to everyone.

The question remains. When we venture into the wilderness of our lives, will we see the miracles that continue to dot our landscape, or will we only see the mountains’ harshness? Will we see that there is so little water or instead the promise that we can be alone with those closest to us? Any place is what we make of it. Will we see the wilderness as a place of distance or a place of nearness?

The prophet reminds us, it is often such a distant place that can bring us closer to our God.

The Meaning of Our Bible

On Shabbat Behar-Behukotai we presented our sixth graders with their own Tanakh.  What follows is my sermon marking this occasion.

This evening we will present our sixth graders with a Tanakh.  Each will receive a beautiful Hebrew Bible, containing the Torah, Prophets and Writings.  This will become the foundation for their future studies.  I am not of course only talking about bar/bat mitzvah studies.  I am speaking about their future Jewish lives.

Our lives as Jews revolve around two books.  Most people of course think that our Jewish lives revolve around one place, the synagogue, or maybe around one person, the rabbi or the cantor.  But this is not the case.  Although we are overjoyed to be sharing this sanctuary with our Jericho Jewish Center friends, this is not what makes us Jewish.

This is the place where we might feel most comfortable asserting our Jewish identity.  This is the place where we learn more about being Jewish, and where we of course pray, together, to our God.  This is where we feel most keenly the power of community.  But if our Judaism ends here, if it ends when we leave these doors, then it offers us nothing.

For our Jewish lives to have greater meaning it must be carried out of these doors.  It must be taken to our homes, to our businesses, to even the most mundane of activities, like greeting others on the streets.  This is why two books are central.  It is because these can be carried.  These two books are: the Siddur and the Tanakh.  The Siddur you received in fourth grade.  Tonight you will add to your Jewish backpack, the Tanakh.

These are meant to be carried.  They are not intended to collect dust on your shelves.  They are meant to be used; they are meant to be taken with you.  They are meant to accompany you.

While you can of course write your own prayers, and offer any prayer of the heart, sometimes (and Judaism would say, more often) it is better to offer the familiar.  It is better to stand on the shoulders of those who traveled before us.  There are many prayers for peace, for example.  But it is easier, and more comforting, to stand on the shoulders of Shalom Rav.  Then we are connected with previous generations, and future generations.  Then we are connected with Jews throughout the world, who like us offer this prayer in the evenings.

It is the same with the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible.  Recently one of my students asked me about our different Torah scrolls.  I began by explaining the differences in calligraphy styles.  But he was curious about something different.  He wanted to know if there are different Reform and Conservative versions.  Of course not, I exclaimed.  But a good question nonetheless.  We have different prayerbooks so why not different Bibles.

Sometimes the differences in the Jewish world make one think that we are reading different Bibles.  It certainly appears this way at times.  But the point of being Jewish and calling the Jewish people our own is not the interpretations we arrive at but where we start.  And we start with Torah; we begin with the Bible.  That has always been the opening, the beginning, the gateway to a Jewish life.

People too often think that the gateway is the door to a synagogue.  But in truth it is one book, even more than that second book.  The Siddur varies from community to community, from country to country, from generation to generation.  It would not be Jewish prayer if the Shema was absent or the Amidah.  There have to be those landmarks so that all of us can find our way through Jewish prayers.  Still there are differences depending on who you are praying with.

But this book, the Torah is the same for everyone.  Jews throughout the world are concluding the Book of Leviticus this Shabbat.   All are reading Behar-Behukotai.  That is what connects us to Jews throughout the world.  While I might say that a certain verse means one thing and someone else another, we begin with the same verse, we begin with the same portion.  We begin with the same book.

The secret to our success, the secret of our survival is this book.  The fact that we could carry it with us from place to place, that it could be  handed literally from one generation to another, and that it could be interpreted differently for different times and different circumstances ensured our survival.  If everyone had to shlep to one holy place we could never have made it.  So instead we carried this Bible with us.  That more than anything else sustained us.

Two books hold the secret to our survival.  One, the siddur, we rewrite in each and every generation.  The other, the Tanakh, we reinterpret in each and every generation.  Carry them both in your backpacks and our Jewish future will be guaranteed.

Then you can stand anywhere.  And anywhere can become your Jewish home.

Behar-Behukotai

The Book of Leviticus that we now conclude is filled with details about the sacrificial cult, the establishment of the priesthood and the maintenance of the sanctuary.  Even in ancient times maintaining the temple was an expensive undertaking.  Thus scholars suggest that the final chapter (Leviticus 27) was an addendum to the book, saying in effect this is how we are going to pay for the preceding.   Everyone was asked to make votive offerings of silver or animals to help support the temple.  In this spirit I want to thank all who participated in last night’s dinner and fundraiser.  As in ancient days we as well depend on such offerings.  Thank you!  Most of all I continue to remain grateful for our spirit of friendship and community.

Within our portion we also find details about land ownership.  “When you sell property to your neighbor, or buy any from your neighbor, you shall not wrong one another.” (Leviticus 25:14)  The Talmud expands this rule to apply to more than real estate transactions and suggests that egregious overcharging is grounds for canceling any agreement.  (Baba Metzia 47b)  Even more interesting the Midrash expands this ruling further saying that you must not wrong another with harmful words. (Vayikrah Rabbah 33:1)

Thus you are not even supposed to ask a merchant the price of something when you have no intention of buying it.  Why?  First of all you might then deceive yourself into thinking that you can afford to purchase the item.  Most important you might raise the hopes of the merchant.  He or she might come to believe that you intend to buy the item.  In fact you might just be gathering information so you can buy it for less on the Internet.   While many stand guilty of doing this (including me!) we might be better served to heed the tradition’s caution.  Piety begins with our words.  It extends to each and every situation, each and every setting.  We cannot leave our sacred words in the synagogue, or even in our homes.  They must find their way to the streets and the stores as well.

Judaism has long taught that words matter.    With them we can raise someone’s hopes.  With them as well we can ruin someone’s day.  Even when it comes to business transactions our tradition believes that words must be used fairly and wisely.  We cannot say whatever we want, bending the truth, in order to make a deal.  Words are a priceless commodity.  Our culture trades them as if they do not matter, as if their valuation is zero.  Our Jewish tradition in contrast believes that their value is beyond measure.

We cannot use our words in one way in our personal lives and another in business.  In all contexts our words must reach for holiness.  They can break another’s spirit, or lift them out of despair.  The Midrash offers a metaphor: “Ben Sira said, ‘A glowing coal is before him.  He blows upon it and it burns; he spits upon it and it goes out.’”  Such are the power of our words.

We must always remember that with our words we can both ignite and extinguish.  In the synagogue, in our homes, in our businesses, in every situation our words matter.  With them we can wrong another.  With them we can right another.

Emor Sermon

This week’s Torah portion contains details about the priests.  There were extra requirements to serve as a priest.  It was not just a matter of birth.  An example: “The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God.  No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too short or too long; no man who has a broken leg or a broken arm; or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye…” (Leviticus 21:16-20)

This appears objectionable.  Of course we welcome the disabled to the bima.  I believe all, for example, should have a bar mitzvah.  Jewish law of course suggests that only someone who has the requisite understanding can recite the prayers or read from the Torah.  Therefore someone who is mentally incapacitated is prevented from these rituals.  But in our congregation we make sure that every child has this opportunity.  I believe that even an autistic child should have a bar/bat mitzvah.  This bima is open to all.

On the surface I therefore disagree with the Torah’s strictures.  Why should the priest have such stringent requirements? No touching the dead, marrying a divorced woman, no shaving in addition to the above.  The list goes on and occupies two chapters.

Then again, if we look not at the specifics of the list and instead at the principle, perhaps we can uncover meaning for ourselves.  We should expect more from our leaders.  Our leaders should live according to more stringent standards.  Since I focused on surgeons in my email let’s look at that again.  While we should not care if they shave their beards, we should care if we ran into them drinking and partying the night before our mother’s surgery.  Those who have extra responsibilities must live according to more exacting standards.  That is the point of the Torah’s restrictions.  For the ancients the priest was as important to a person’s and the world’s health as a surgeon is in our own age.  Extra responsibilities means extra standards.  That is the message in a nutshell.

This is why I do expect more from our politicians.  I expect them to live by higher standards.  While I am not surprised when powerful people go astray—we need only think of the Edwards trial or a past president’s indiscretions to illustrate this point. Or we can look at King David’s sinful behavior for a biblical example.  The Bible’s disappointment in David should mirror our own.  Just because we are not surprised by such behavior does not mean that it is permissible.  More responsibility means more standards.  That is the message.

It is why I also expect more of my country than of other countries.  The mission of America is not just to protect us, its citizenry, but also to rescue those in distress; we are to help the world.  Later we will look at Elie Wiesel’s speech about this mission.  In his eyes the lesson of the Holocaust is that we must reach out to those who are suffering; we cannot, we must not remain indifferent.

This is also why even though I am bothered when others, most especially our newspapers’ op-ed columnists, hold Israel to a different standard than every other country in the world, I remind myself that Israel should be held to a different standard.  If it sees itself as a leader of the Jewish people, as representative of the Jewish people worldwide, then it has responsibilities that transcend its protection of its citizens.  Both Israel and America argue that their meaning extends beyond their borders.  If we see ourselves as having more expansive responsibilities then we must live by more demanding standards.

That is the message of these lists of strictures regarding the priests.  But it is not just about our country, or about our leaders, or even our doctors.  It is actually about all of us.  When God first spoke to the Israelites at Sinai God said that the entire people must be a kingdom of priests.  That means that everyone must live by these more exacting standards.

You can object to the specifics of the Torah.  And we might as well have different specifics to add.  But I hope we will not object to the overriding message.  Every single one of us must live by higher standards.  We must live by more exacting strictures.

Our everyday moral choices really do matter.

We never know who might be watching—and who might be following us.  Each and every day every one of us is a leader.  We never know if our lives might depend on it.  We never know—the world could very well depend on us.  Everything could really depend on each of us living by these exacting standards.

That is this week’s message.  Let’s step up and not shy away from these exacting standards. Let’s do the more demanding.  Let’s live by the most stringent ideals.

Emor

Sunday’s Times featured an interesting article entitled “The Outsourced Life.”  Noted sociologist Dr. Hochschild argues that we seek professionals for more and more of our personal decisions.  “As we outsource more of our private lives, we find it increasingly possible to outsource emotional attachment….  Focusing attention on the destination, we detach ourselves from the small — potentially meaningful — aspects of experience. Confining our sense of achievement to results, to the moment of purchase, so to speak, we unwittingly lose the pleasure of accomplishment, the joy of connecting to others and possibly, in the process, our faith in ourselves.”

Years ago when I went to my first bar mitzvah there was no such thing as party enhancers.  My friends and I made the party.  It did not matter if we danced expertly or not, as long as we danced.  (There were no give aways as well, only sweaty hugs of joy when the evening ended.)  As the article makes clear, years ago there were no life coaches offering personal direction for a fee.  To help answer our questions of what we should do there were instead parents, siblings, spouses and friends.  Granted sometimes the advice and counsel was not solicited.  Still it was always free and offered with our best interests at heart. 

Hundreds of years ago many Jewish rituals were performed in the home and not in the synagogue.  To be certain these rituals were expertly observed the lighting of Shabbat candles and morning blessings for example were moved into the synagogue.  With this move from the home into the synagogue, more fell on the hands of rabbis and cantors. We turn to professionals to lead our rituals and celebrations.  We turn to experts for the most intimate of advice.  We are hesitant to dance if not led by the hand of experts.  

The Torah portion opens with details about the requirements of the priesthood.  In ancient days they and they alone performed our rituals. Only someone descended from Aaron, only a person without any perceived defects could offer a sacrifice.  “The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God.”  (Leviticus 21:16-17)  These priests were trained in the intricacies of the sacrificial rites. 

The reliance on these experts was because the ancient Israelites believed that the world would collapse if the sacrifices were performed incorrectly.  They were in effect the surgeons of their day.  For such important and intricate work only experts would do.  Lives depended on their expertise.

There are of course those in the Jewish world who view today’s rituals in a similar manner and perceive them likewise as surgery.  A misplaced word, an incorrect blessing, a forgotten candle lighting and the world tumbles toward destruction.  Such is not my view.  Life is not surgery.  Prayer is not akin to the ancient sacrifices sacrifices. Rabbis are not priests.  Cantors are not the descendants of Aaron.  Our spiritual lives need not be left for surgeons.

I would rather we stumble and offer these prayers ourselves.  I would rather we join with our cantor and sing our tradition’s songs.  I would rather we dance—even when it appears out of step.  Let joy be our own.  Let our people’s rituals and prayers not be left to experts. 

Let living our lives not be left to surgeons.  Let our lives not be lived by experts.  There are times when life appears as hard and demanding as surgery, but in the end our lives should only be lived by ourselves.

Yom HaShoah Sermon

My sermon delivered on Friday, April 20, when we observed Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Commemoration  Day.

“Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket.”

I am, for many reasons, quite inspired by Gino Bartali’s story. In truth I remain inspired by so many of these stories of bravery and heroics. These stories comprise those of the Righteous among the Nations, Hasidei Umot Ha-olam.

There are many stories of course that help us remember the Shoah. Far too many of them are stories of death and murder. There are as well many stories of survival. Each year our students are privileged to hear Annie’s story.

I wonder, how many stories cannot be told by the six million Jews murdered. There are fewer stories still of those who saved Jews, of those who risked their own lives for neighbors and even strangers. On this evening I choose to recount another story of the righteous among the nations. I urge you to visit Yad VaShem’s website and read more of these stories.

Why did these people risk everything? Why did they endanger their own lives, their family’s? They were by and large simple, pious, everyday people. They were not for the most part university educated. The movie Schindler’s List captures this, portraying Oskar Schindler as an accidental hero. Schindler did not set out to be a savior. Thus all these righteous were the embodiment of that Italian cyclist.

Nearly 24,000 people have been officially recognized by Yad VaShem as righteous. The criteria are exacting. They must have risked their own lives; they must have done so not for financial gain. Furthermore Jewish witnesses must testify to their acts. Rather than offer a sermon interpreting the meaning of the Holocaust, I want to tell one more story. It is the story of Gertruda Babilnska.

Gertruda was born in 1902 in Belarus to a Catholic, working family. When she was 19 years old she went to Warsaw to find work. She found a job there with a wealthy Jewish family working as their nanny. The family decided to leave for Palestine and offered to take Gertruda along but she decided to stay in Poland. Soon she found work with another Jewish family, the Stolowicks. She took care of their baby daughter. Sadly the baby girl died at a young age, but Gertruda stayed with the family now helping to care for the mother, who was stricken with grief and despair. In 1936 they had a son, Michael, and Gertuda became his nanny.

In 1939 the Germans attacked Poland. Mr. Stolowick was in Paris on business and was never able to rejoin his family. Mother, son and nanny decided to leave Poland and make their way to Vilna. After a harrowing journey on bombed out roads they finally made it to Vilna. There they lived among the Jewish refugees. Gertruda managed to make a little money, helping the family to survive. Her command of German was apparently extremely helpful in finding work.

The mother, Lidia, soon fell ill and died in April 1941. She was buried in Vilna’s Jewish cemetery. Before her death she asked Gertuda to take care of her child and take him to Palestine after the war ended. Two months later the Germans attacked the Soviet Union. Now Vilna was also in occupied territory. Gertruda said, “I was left alone with a circumcised 5 year old child.”

Soon the killings began and the ghetto was established. Gertruda managed to live outside of the ghetto, securing false papers for Michael stating that he was a Christian and her nephew. The situation was to say the least extremely dangerous and difficult. On one occasion when Michael fell ill she was forced to go into the ghetto to find a Jewish doctor because she was afraid that a non-Jewish doctor might reveal their secret.

When the war finally ended Gertruda decided to fulfill her promise to Lidia and take the boy to Palestine. First she went with the child back to Belarus to see her family. They tried to deter her but she was adamant about fulfilling her pledge. She and Michael joined the Jewish refugees seeking to make their way to Palestine. They lived in a DP camp in Germany until finding a ship to set sail on. Since immigration to Israel was illegal they arranged passage on a Hagganah ship. Again despite assurances from the Hagganah that they would care for the boy, Gertruda insisted that she accompany Michael. They secured passage on a ship called the Exodus. It sailed from France in 1947 (Michael was 11 years old by then).

As we know the British refused to allow the Exodus passengers to disembark in Palestine. The boat was forced back to Hamburg. And Gertruda and Michael again found themselves in a DP camp. Still undeterred she made the journey again, arriving in Israel with Michael in 1948. She settled in Israel where she raised Michael as her son. She lived in a small room and made a living cleaning houses.

Although Gertruda remained a devout Catholic until her death, she fulfilled her promise to Lidia. She continued to raise Michael as a Jew. In June 1962 Gertruda helped to plant a tree in her honor at Yad VaShem.

At Yad VaShem the avenue of the righteous is flanked by trees honoring such heroes. It lines the walk to and from the museum. In coming to terms with the enormity of the Holocaust, if that were ever possible, we must always speak about the extraordinary evils that were perpetrated by one person against another. We must pledge never to become naïve to these evils. We must remember that such evils can be found within the human heart. But we must also speak about the extraordinary good that same heart is capable of. Ordinary, everyday people can risk everything to save another.

On this Yom HaShoah I look to that heart, the heart capable of extraordinary good. I remember Gertruda Babilinska. I remember Gino Bartali.

“Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket.”

Yom Haatzmaut Sermon

My sermon delivered on Friday, April 27th when we celebrated Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day.

I have often wondered why sympathy is more compelling than joy. Why does Yom HaShoah appear to be more observed than Yom Haatzmaut? Why does our people’s suffering draw us in more than our celebrations? We appear to respond more to the call of Jewish suffering and victimhood than to our joys and celebrations.

A friend could be a case in point. He will respond to my posts about the Holocaust with comments such as, “That was an amazing video.” Yet about my love of Israel he will say, “You are going there again!?”

I worry about American Jews’ ongoing commitment to Israel. About remembering the Holocaust I have less doubt given the extraordinary number of Holocaust museums that dot the American landscape. We live in an age where high school students across this land read Anne Frank’s diary and Elie Wiesel’s Night. Even in school districts where there are no Jews, students learn about the Holocaust. That was part of the power of the film “Paper Clips.”

My friend Reverend Hart could be more evidence of this truth. He read these books growing up in Holland, Michigan. Yet the first Jew with whom he had a lengthy discussion about these events was with his friend the rabbi. How many have read Shai Agnon, Amos Oz, AB Yehoshua or David Grossman in their schools? Such Israeli authors are relegated to college classes on Israeli literature.

And so seeing the Jews as victims, even seeing ourselves as victims still holds greater appeal. This is what the Zionist revolution was intended to cure. Its goal was to end Jewish victimhood and replace it with Jewish power. But these days we appear offended by Jewish power. We recoil when we see images of Israeli soldiers hitting protestors. We should of course be offended by such abuses of power. We are upset when we see Prime Minister Netanyahu wave his finger at President Obama and lecture him on Jewish history. We should be upset by such a lack of diplomacy. It would be better to offer such lectures in private. But this should not mean that Jewish power is offensive.

One should not confuse one soldier’s mistakes with the Israeli army’s mission; one should not confuse its leaders’ occasional missteps with the legitimacy of history’s first Jewish democracy. Israel has succeeded in restoring the Jewish people to history. Because of Zionism we are writing our own history—for better or worse.

The reality of Israel is messy and imperfect. A story. Only yesterday I joked about Israeli brashness with our sofer. The Torah scribe was at our offices to repair our scroll. For me it was also an occasion to learn more about his craft. We spoke about a computer program that checks the Torah scroll for errors. He shared with me that when he first used the program it kept telling him that he was making his koof wrong. Apparently his are more curved than the program’s programmed angular dimensions. Every time it saw his koof it would scream, “Mah zot—what’s this?” I joked, “It must be an Israeli program.” If it was made here it would say, “Please check your koof.” It was of course made in Israel.

Our American sensibilities are uncomfortable with Israeli brashness, with its vigorous debates, with its yelling and screaming, its imperfections. The reality of Israel cannot be so easily packaged.

Israel is no longer some idealized memory of a distant past. While it is tied to ancient Israel and its kingdom, it is not a memory, it is not a dream, it is no longer only a prayer. This is part of the dilemma. The Holocaust is a memory. And memories can be fashioned. Israel is a living, every day, reality. And realities can not be packaged. This is why more often than not our support for Israel is couched in terms of portraying Israel as a victim in need of our support. That is appealing—that fits into our programmed packaging. We receive letters asking for our support of Israel because it suffers Hamas rocket attacks—still, and is threatened by Iran’s nuclear weapons. I am not trying to suggest that Israel does not face grave threats. I am not trying to minimize the need for the IDF to remain strong and vigilant, and for us to advocate for the US to continue its unwavering support of Israel.

I do however object that these appeals strike this note of suffering and victimization. I think it only feeds Palestinian rejectionism. For decades the Palestinians and their leadership have portrayed Israel as a European transplant in the Arab Middle East, as Europe’s guilt offering for the Holocaust. Our continued use of this language of suffering and victimization undermines the very support we seek to engender.

We speak of Israel as a victim in need of our saving. And then we are saddened when Israel does not fit into this image, when it does not live up to its highest ideals. We are embarrassed when we see it fall short of our idealized visions. We grow distant when its leaders speak more like conquering kings intoxicated by the holiness of the land rather than compassionate prophets intoxicated with the sacredness of the pursuit of justice. I find such occasions to be instead moments to engage even more with Israel; I find them to be moments not of distance but of nearness. I believe it is my duty to support Israel and to help it live up to its self-proclaimed vision.

Israel’s Declaration of Independence states: “Israel will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights of all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture…” We desperately want it to be perfect, to fit into some neat packaging. When it does not, we grow distant. Too often we then revert to a language of victimization. We cry, “Israel is under attack.”

We are then presented with two apparently conflicting and opposing choices: either justice for a better Israel or security for a safer Israel. Support AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) or NIF (New Israel Fund). Why not both? Why must they be in conflict? Why can’t I advocate for a more secure Israel and a better Israel?

When Ben Gurion was prime minister there was the infamous White Paper that Britain issued limiting Jewish immigration to Palestine. Some argued that the early Zionists should not therefore fight alongside the British against Hitler’s Germany. Ben Gurion observed that he would fight the White Paper as if there were no war and the war as if there were no White Paper. Leon Wieseltier reminds us of this story and then states: “To be sure, the settlements are a terrible blunder, but centrifuges are spinning in Iran. To be sure, centrifuges are spinning in Iran, but the settlements are a terrible blunder… We should fight the centrifuges in Iran as if there are no settlements and the settlements as if there are no centrifuges in Iran.”

The Jewish community appears organized around these two choices. We are presented with what we are told are two conflicting choices. Choose one. Choose security or justice. I however forever want both. I want a more secure Israel and a more just Israeli society.

We are left with an Israel that is not neatly packaged. It has its flaws. This should not distance us from the state. It should be occasion for us to engage even more. Yes Israel faces threats. This does draw our support, although not our visits. And so we must visit even more.

I believe these two days of Yom HaShoah and Yom Haatzmaut mark the twin pillars of a modern Jewish identity. Both must be observed. We must remember the Holocaust and celebrate Israel. Israel is a nation of real people; it is not perfect. It is loud and boisterous. Most important it is not about being victims. And I refuse to compel my support by such portrayals. I want only the living reality—with all its achievements and all its imperfections.

I can celebrate Israel—even though it does not comport to all my dreams. There is much for us to continue to work on. That should be the case with every dream. Everything requires continued refinement.

I will continue to work to better Israel. And I will defend Israel. I will clamor for a more secure Israel. And I will advocate for a more just Israel.

Most of all I will sing, and I will celebrate Israel, because no imperfections can ever deter me from this love. No risks will distance me from this place.

We live in an unparalleled age. We are indeed a free people in our land, the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim

The holiness code detailed in Leviticus 19 opens with the command: “You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.”

The chapter then goes on to describe in exquisite detail the means to achieving holiness.  Surprisingly these laws are not by and large about rituals but instead about ethical precepts.  Do not steal.  Do not place a stumbling block before the blind.  Love your neighbor.

Throughout, the words of neighbor and fellow, stranger and poor are repeated.  We are commanded to love the neighbor. Do not hate your fellow in your heart.  Leave the gleanings of the field for the poor and stranger.

In ancient times it was not only a mandate to give tzedakah to the poor but to allow them to gather their own food.  Farmers were commanded not to pick their vineyards bare or gather the fallen crops.  These were left for the poor and stranger.  This not only allowed them to gather necessary food but preserved their dignity as well.  It is this command that is one of the opening dictates of chapter 19 and therefore creates the framework for the entire holiness code.  Concern for others is this chapter’s overarching theme.

Curiously there is also an introductory command about the shelamim offering.  On the surface one would think that this is about rituals and not ethics.  However the Torah also commands: “[The offering] shall be eaten on the day you sacrifice it, or on the day following; but what is left by the third day must be consumed in fire.  If it should be eaten on the third day, it is an offensive thing…”  (Leviticus 19:6-7)  One might surmise that the basis of this law is a concern for health.  In an age prior to refrigeration it would be disgusting to eat meat that was sitting on the table for three days!

This however is not the intention of the law’s prohibition.  The shelamim offering was a voluntary sacrifice that was offered by individuals or families in order to thank God.  Much of the sacrificial animal was eaten and enjoyed in a grand feast.  Wine was of course served.  The Torah deems it offensive if it was not a shared meal.  It was not acceptable for there to be leftovers.  That could only mean that not enough people were invited.  In a chapter that mandates the gleanings of the field be left for the poor and stranger how could even portions of a festive meal likewise be left uneaten?

This shelamim offering was meant to be shared.  The circle must be enlarged on occasions when we offer thanks.  One’s gratitude is expanded by sharing it with others.  The framework of this chapter and its fundamental teaching are that all the laws come to solidify our commitments to the larger community.  The chapter opens: “Speak to the whole community of the children of Israel…”  Edah, community, is its primary concern.  Every detail contained in its verses comes to strengthen the bonds of community.  We reach out to the neighbor and fellow.  We welcome the stranger and poor.

Even if a sacrifice emerged from private gratitude it only gained its true meaning by being shared with others.  It is not a proper thank you if it remains private.  Joy and gratitude must be surrounded by neighbors and fellows.  Even the poor and the stranger must be invited in.

Holiness is about sharing.  It is about drawing others into community.  And that is why the shelamim offering shares a root meaning with shalom, peace.  

Tazria-Metzora

Public figures appear to speak with increasing regularity and extraordinary confidence about God’s ways.  How can one be so sure about such mysteries?  How can a human being be certain about God’s judgments?

This week’s Torah portion speaks at great length about leprosy, a disease seen in ancient times as divine punishment.  The Torah advises the following if one’s house becomes infected:  “When you enter the land of Canaan that I give you as a possession, and I inflict a leprous plague upon a house in the land you possess, the owner of the house shall come and tell the priest, saying, “Something like a plague has appeared upon my house.”  (Leviticus 14:34-35)

The Hasidic master, Rabbi Kalonymos Kalmish Shapira, suggests this interpretation: “Even if he is a scholar and knows the exact definition of a leprous plague, he must still use the phrase, ‘like a plague,’—for a person is never able to tell whether what is happening to him is a curse or an event.  All he can say is that it looks like a curse….” (Sacred Fire, Metzorah, April 13, 1940)

Who in fact is to say that such a disease is a punishment from God?   Such things are beyond human understanding.   They remain a mystery.  Yet many speak confidently of God’s ways.  And many people blindly follow such prognosticators. 

Primo Levi, an Italian Jewish chemist and author, writes: “It is, therefore necessary to be suspicious of those who seek to convince us with means other than reason, and of charismatic leaders: we must be cautious about delegating to others our judgment and our will.  Since it is difficult to distinguish true prophets from false, it is as well to regard all prophets with suspicion.  It is better to renounce revealed truths, even if they exalt us by their splendor or if we find them convenient because we can acquire them gratis.  It is better to content oneself with other more modest and less exciting truths, those one acquires painfully, little by little and without shortcuts, with study, discussion, and reasoning, those that can be verified and demonstrated.” (The Reawakening)

Truth is revealed not in pronouncements but through hard work.  Discerning truth requires debate.  It requires teachers and students.  It requires learning. Truth is never granted without effort. 

Primo Levi survived Auschwitz. Rabbi Kalonymos Kalmish Shapira was murdered in Trawniki.  Both of their writings continue to be studied.

And I will continue to study and learn.  One day, I trust, glimmers of truth will become revealed.  That trust is my faith.

Yom Haatzmaut

64 years of independence deserves celebration!  64 years of Jewish sovereignty is cause for us to fill our sanctuary with music and song!

The Prayer for the State of Israel opens with the words: “Our Father in heaven, Rock of Israel and its Redeemer, bless the State of Israel, the first flowering of our redemption…”  This prayer was composed soon after the State of Israel was established in 1948.  Although its original version is attributed to the chief rabbis of the time, Rabbis Yitzhak Herzog and Ben Zion Uziel, it is widely believed that the Nobel Laureate, Shai Agnon, actually authored the prayer, especially this opening line.

Agnon remains the only Israeli author to be recognized by the Nobel committee for his achievements in literature and thus the only author recognized by them for his mastery of Hebrew.  In his 1966 acceptance speech he proclaimed in this reborn language: “As a result of the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem and Israel was exiled from its land, I was born in one of the cities of the Exile. But always I regarded myself as one who was born in Jerusalem.”

All Jews are bound to the city of Jerusalem.  All remain connected to the State of Israel.

Agnon continued: “In a dream, in a vision of the night, I saw myself standing with my brother-Levites in the Holy Temple, singing with them the songs of David, King of Israel, melodies such as no ear has heard since the day our city was destroyed and its people went into exile. I suspect that the angels in charge of the Shrine of Music, fearful lest I sing in wakefulness what I had sung in dream, made me forget by day what I had sung at night; for if my brethren, the sons of my people, were to hear, they would be unable to bear their grief over the happiness they have lost. To console me for having prevented me from singing with my mouth, they enable me to compose songs in writing.”

And thus Agnon reclaimed the power of the Hebrew language, weaving Jewish history and a mastery of biblical and rabbinic images with the modern experience.  He reminds us that our return to the land of Israel has restored music and song to our people.  It is our most fervent dream realized.

Israel represents the beginnings of our redemption because it signifies the Jewish return to our sacred land.  There we have reestablished Jewish sovereignty.  His prayer captures this tenant of our modern Jewish faith, the centrality of the State of Israel.  It is certainly not a perfect place, but Agnon reminds us that the chain of history was reclaimed by the modern state and there our faith restored.

The Palestinians’ denial of the Jewish historical connection to the land of Israel is one of the great stumbling blocks to making peace.  Their insistence that Israel represents a foreign, European transplant in the Arab Middle East, that Israel is only about recompense for the Holocaust, stands in the way of many efforts to establish peace between two peoples who both have legitimate claims to the same land.  Denying the other’s claims will never lead to peace!  We must therefore never do likewise.         

It is true that there are many things that are new about the modern State of Israel.  Yet it is also a fundamental truth that its meaning hearkens back to ancient days.  It represents not a rupture in history but an unbroken chain, stretching from God’s promise to Abraham to the modern day Knesset.  Some might become uncomfortable when ascribing such religious meaning to a modern state.  But the danger is only when we begin to see modern events as a reenactment of ancient days.  Then we begin to erode the democratic character of the State of Israel.  Israel must forever remain both democratic and Jewish. 

One can derive great meaning from standing in the very city that King David proclaimed as his capital.  But we are not King David.  And these are not messianic days.

They are only the beginning of our redemption.  And that is a great start, and one worthy of great fanfare and celebration.

Leon Wieseltier: The Lost Art

Leon Wieseltier: The Lost Art | The New Republic
My teacher Rabbi David Hartman often jokes that we should criticize Israel like a mother not like a mother in law.  A mother criticizes in order to refine.  A mother in law criticizes for the sake of criticizing and even belittling.  Even though this is not my personal experience it contains an important lesson about how we approach Israel.  Criticizing with love is the goal.  The notion that our love is negated by our criticism comes from a deep insecurity about our relationship with the State of Israel.  We must criticize.  But we must not only criticize.  We must also defend.  We must do both.

Leon Wieseltier offers these insights in his recent, brilliant article:

So Israel must be defended and Israel must be criticized. Almost nobody any longer practices the lost art of doing both at the same time, with similar emphasis, out of equally intense convictions, in a single breath. Instead there is the party of security and the party of justice, as if the country, any country, can endure without both. The debate is a stale contest in cursing between gangs, a tiresome exchange of to-be-sure sentences, uttered by people with anxieties about credibility, or worse, with no such anxieties at all. To be sure, the settlements are a terrible blunder, but centrifuges are spinning in Iran. To be sure, centrifuges are spinning in Iran, but the settlements are a terrible blunder. When I studied the history of Zionism as a young man, I was impressed by Ben-Gurion’s remark, about Britain’s restrictions upon Jewish immigration to Palestine even as Hitler was conquering Europe, that he would fight the White Paper as if there were no war and the war as if there were no White Paper. It seemed almost impossible and altogether correct. There is never only a lone danger or a lone ideal. We should fight the centrifuges in Iran as if there are no settlements and the settlements as if there are no centrifuges in Iran. Welcome to the gang of no gang.

And we must always celebrate Israel's existence.  We live in remarkable times.  There exits a sovereign Jewish state!  But nothing, and no one, is ever above criticism.  And many things, most especially the modern State of Israel, is deserving of our love.

And of course my mother, and my mother in law.

Shemini

The rabbis often spin mountains of interpretation from one phrase, a sermon from a single nuance or a new teaching from a seemingly insignificant word choice. The story of Nadav and Avihu contains an interesting example in this long list of interpretations.

This week’s Torah portion describes in brief detail the brothers’ sacrifice and death at the “instance of the Lord.” Aaron’s sons bring sacrifices and are then killed. The Torah offers no reason. Rabbis are left to ponder. Some suggest it was because they brought an “alien fire.” Others surmise it was because God had not explicitly commanded this sacrifice. A number even write that they must have been intoxicated even though the story does not mention such an infraction. The prohibition against priests drinking alcohol while offering a sacrifice follows soon after this episode. And so a thin connection is made between the two.

The list of possible interpretations is endless. The young priests were overly ambitious. They sought to usurp their father Aaron’s and uncle Moses’ jobs. Lost however in these interpretations is a focus on the Torah’s word choice. “Now Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan…” (Leviticus 10:1) It does not say that they took their fire pan. Each stood alone, apart and by themselves, when bringing the offering before God.

Their sin was that they did not pray together. They did not consult each other. They did not even defer to their father. They only saw themselves. They each acted independently. Perhaps this is why they were punished.

I don’t of course believe that death is a fitting punishment for those who lead a solitary existence, whose spiritual pursuits are in the singular. Solitude can sometimes be beneficial. It offers quietude and often much needed inner contemplation. The Jewish contention however is that solitude leads to a death of the spirit. We are never at our best when alone. Even our ideas require others. Otherwise we only hear the agreement of our own voices.

Buried in one of the many recent articles about the sale of Instagram was a comment by their venture capitalist, Steve Anderson. The original idea for the company came from Kevin Systrom. Before funding his venture Anderson insisted that Systrom find a business partner. He worried about the echo chamber of a one-person start up.

Even the greatest of ideas need others to help refine them. If you only talk to yourself about your thoughts and creative impulses then you only hear agreement. In addition if you have been blessed with a healthy dose of self-confidence then too often you hear praise and adulation ringing in your ears. Ideas do not emerge from our minds in perfect form. They are perfected in discussion with others. They are refined by sacred disagreement.

In order for new ideas to become great ideas they require others. This is why professionals need to go to conferences. This is why I travel every summer to Jerusalem to study. There I can sit and talk with colleagues. There the music is not the chords of praise and agreement, but instead those of disagreement and challenge. There, I hope, a few ideas are fashioned into great ones.

Had Nadav and Avihu held one fire pan together their sacrifice might have been received. The fact that it was an alien fire might even have been forgiven. Working together, standing as one, is always better than standing apart. Brothers should be able to stand together, especially when saying thank you to their God.

While solitude is not a sin, greatness is only achieved when two stand as one.

Wiesel Rejects Holocaust Analogy

Elie Wiesel Rejects Netanyahu's Comparisons of Iranian Threat to the Holocaust | The Times of Israel
For years Wiesel has steadfastly rejected any comparisons to the Holocaust.  He has argued that the Holocaust is unique in its evils.  There have of course been too many examples of genocides throughout history and even since Auschwitz.  Yet none are the same as the Holocaust.  The Holocaust should only be used to describe one historical event, namely the systematic and intentional destruction of much of European Jewry by the Nazi regime and its supporters.  Loosely calling other evils and threats holocausts or potential holocausts diminishes the meaning and import of the Holocaust.  Such is Wiesel's point.  He said, “Only Auschwitz was Auschwitz. I went to Yugoslavia when reporters said that there was a Holocaust starting there. There was genocide, but not an Auschwitz. When you make a comparison to the Holocaust it works both ways, and soon people will say what happened in Auschwitz was ‘only what happened in Bosnia.’”  The comparison becomes especially dangerous when applied to threats.  Although Iran and its nuclear ambitions represent a grave existential threat to the State of Israel and its citizens, as well as to the United States, comparing it to the Holocaust actually brings about harm by limiting Israel's strategic options.  In this manner the Holocaust is used to belittle naysayers and those who might advocate non-military action.  I do not pretend to know what the best way of dealing with the Iranian threat might be, but calling it a potential Holocaust suggests that only the military option will suffice.  That might very well be the best and only option, but let that be because that is the best strategic option.  Let not our careless use of language limit our responses.  Only Auschwitz is Auschwitz.  Wiesel's caution is well taken.

Yom HaShoah Siren

In Israel there is a moment of silence that marks the nationwide observance of Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Commemoration Day).  At 10 am the air raid siren is sounded for two minutes.  Many stand at attention, even stopping their cars in the middle of the highway.

Yom HaShoah

In our never-ending pursuit of health and fitness we enter cycling races, triathlons and masters swim meets. Even our weekend golf games become fierce competitions as we bet on the winners of each hole. For many, and in particular middle-aged men, even the healthiest of exercise regimens can turn into such competitions. Marathons have become so popular that gaining a spot in New York City’s has become increasingly difficult. Participation in triathlons has increased ten fold, surpassing two million competitors this past year.

Training for such endurance sports, or perfecting one’s golf game, or playing just about any sport these days, requires time, commitment and investment. Despite my well-known passion for cycling and its events, I sometimes forget the primary purpose of my life. Simply put that purpose is to bring a measure of goodness to an increasingly fractured world.

On the days that I forget this command I remember the story of Gino Bartali, an Italian cycling legend. One might think that I admire him for his extraordinary cycling accomplishments. He won the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948 and the Giro d’Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946. In addition he won the Giro’s mountain stages a record seven times and stood on the winner’s podium over 170 times. He accomplished these feats despite the fact that he could not compete during the most promising years of his career.

Yet it was precisely because of what he did during those years, during the years of World War II, that he is my hero. It was during those years that he helped to save hundreds of Jews from the Nazis. Yad VaShem is still researching the details of his story in order to determine whether Bartali merits the designation of Righteous among the Nations, the highest honor given to those non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. I first learned of Gino’s story from a fellow cyclist. Here are the details of that story.

Gino Bartali began working for the underground in September 1943 after the Germans occupied much of Italy. During this time over 10,000 Italian Jews were deported to concentration camps.  7,000 died there. His clandestine job was to smuggle documents to a convent that produced false papers for persecuted Jews. And so Bartali rode from his home to the convent, from Florence to the outskirts of Assisi and back again, with these smuggled papers hidden in the frame of his bicycle. He convinced the soldiers guarding the road that he was on a 235-mile training ride. He rode this route at least 40 times. On other occasions he also rode to Genoa (145 miles from Florence), where he would pick up money to distribute to Jewish families.

Florence was liberated in August 1944 so in one year’s time he rode over 10,000 miles. His efforts helped to save some 800 Jews. Only yesterday it was also revealed that Bartali hid a Jewish family in his cellar during that painful year of the German occupation.

Giorgio, then a young boy, still remembers the day the British entered Florence and he was able to leave Gino Bartali’s basement and walk the city’s streets. “I went out and saw a British soldier with the word ‘Palestine’ and the Star of David embroidered on his shoulders. [The soldier was a member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade.] I went up to him and started to hum the Hatikvah. He heard me and spoke to me in English. I understood that we were free, thanks to Gino…”

Bartali remained humble and even secretive about his clandestine, and dangerous, wartime efforts. On one occasion, however, he offered a few words about his remarkable deeds. Bartali said, “Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."

Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther. We must always remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.

One of the greatest and most successful professional cyclists understood this. Let his example be my inspiration!

Addendum

One might wonder how the details of Bartali's heroics came to light.  Here is that convoluted story.

Despite the fact that he was secretive about his wartime efforts, he did share a number of details with his son Andrea. As they would ride their bicycles together Bartali would sometimes point out where he had hid in a ravine, but always insisted that his clandestine efforts never be revealed. It was his son, who after his father’s death in May 2000, began sharing what he knew.  Even he did not know all of the remarkable details.  The son only broke his pledge of silence because of an unusual circumstance. Paola Alberati, an Italian professional cyclist and political science student, met Bartali’s mechanic, Ivo Faltoni, who was one of the only people who knew of Bartali’s clandestine wartime efforts.  I imagine that the mechanic helped him hide the documents in his bicycle frame.  And so Faltoni began researching the details of the Italian cyclist’s heroics. The political science student uncovered police records detailing their suspicions about Bartali and revealing the dangers that he faced.  Newspaper stories followed and witnesses emerged.  One Jewish survivor said to Andrea, “I wouldn’t have been born if your father hadn’t helped and protected my parents.”  And that is why we are only now learning of Gino Bartali's greatest achievements.