Ki Tavo

This past weekend my family and I traveled to Lake Placid for my cousin’s wedding.  It was of course a wonderful affair.  On our return we stopped at a rest stop on I-87.  There was a swarm of travelers.  (And that made me quite nervous for what awaited us on the Tappan Zee Bridge.)  There were people wearing kippahs, veils, turbans and saris.  There was a cacophony of languages to be heard.  It was a glimmer of the new America.  

It is a new America that makes some uncomfortable.  I understand people’s emotions when debating immigration laws.  I sense the worries about jobs.  There are arguments to be made about the benefits of unfettered immigration.  And there are counter arguments about its dangers.  Rational discussions appear to elude us.  The debate appears more a matter of the heart.  And to be honest my heart is with my ancestors.  It is their words that animate my sentiments about immigration.

When we enter the land of Israel and there find a permanent home we are commanded to declare: “My father was a wandering Aramean.  He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there…” (Deuteronomy 26:5)  As soon as we find ourselves in a home we remind ourselves that we were wanderers.  The message is clear.  Home is fleeting.  As soon as we arrive there, we must remind ourselves that we were once wanderers.  Never forget our immigrant past.

We must never become so comfortable and at ease, and at home.  We are forever wandering.  That is the nature of human history.  All are immigrants.  And we forget this to our own peril.  My family arrived in the United States three generations ago.  All but one of my grandparents was born in Eastern Europe.  Does this make my family more American than the new conglomeration of people at a New York rest stop?

36 times the Torah admonishes us to love the stranger.  “When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him.  The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt…”  (Leviticus 19:33-34)  Was this command repeated so many times because it was deemed of utmost importance or because it was so difficult to fulfill?  Perhaps it was for both reasons.

Loving those who are unlike us is exceedingly difficult.  It is contrary to how we often feel.  Over and over again the Torah commands us to fight such impulses.  Despite such challenges we must reach out to those who are strangers.  “…For you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23:9)

Very soon we come to feel at home.  We forget that we too were immigrants.  We then see ourselves as legitimate citizens and others as strangers.  All are immigrants.  All are wanderers.

Ki Tetzei

In a recent column in The New York Times ("Motherlode," August 9, 2012), KJ Dell’Antonia writes: “To the best of my recollection, when I did something wrong as a child, my parents blamed me.  When my children do something wrong, I blame myself.  A good parent would have taught them better.  In our determination to be the very best we can be, we’ve created a catch: when our children fail, we fail.”

The Torah concurs: “Parents shall not be put to death for children, nor children be put to death for parents: a person shall be put to death only for his own crime.” (Deuteronomy 24:16)  Leaving aside the question of capital punishment, which the Torah most certainly finds legitimate and the rabbis make impossible to exact, the Bible and the Jewish tradition we have inherited teaches that an individual is responsible for his or her own crimes, sins and mistakes. 

In the ancient Near East family members were sometimes punished for the crimes of others. In other words if a man harmed another, he was then punished by the same harm being done to a member of his family, often the corresponding member.   Occasionally his family might also be punished along with him.  The Torah declares that such practices are unjust.  Only the individual, found guilty of a crime, is punished.  A child is not punished for a parent’s sin.  A parent does not suffer because of a child’s mistake.

And yet parents feel great pain when their children err.  We struggle and toil so as not to experience this ache.  We don’t want to see them fail. 

Dell’Antonia concludes: “And yet we still have to let them fail.  How egotistical is it to insist that our children’s every action reflects our parenting skills?  They’re not trained Labradoodles.  They’re children, by nature impulsive and prone to selfishness and other flaws.  Smooth their paths and repair their gaffes, and we protect our egos at their expense.  It takes a little lousy parenting (or at least the appearance of it) to let a child grow up.”

Each and every individual must take responsibility for his or her own actions.  We cannot say, “Everyone is doing it.” Or “It is not me but my addiction.” Or “My parents made me do it.”   We cannot offer excuses.  Instead we must take direct responsibility for the sin, mistake or failure.  Our failures are just as much our own as our successes.  I don’t very much like failing.  Still it has always been my contention that we learn far more from these mistakes than our many successes. 

Parents must let go of children.  And children must let go of parents.  There might then be more failures (or at least the appearance of them), nonetheless the successes will feel greater because they too will be our own.

Jennifer Finney Boylan writes (“A Freshman All Over Again,” The New York Times, August 22, 2012): “There are times when I want to tell my students that if they want to learn anything at college, their first step should be defriending their parents. Write them a nice letter, on actual paper, once every week or so, but on the whole: let go. Stop living in their shadows, and start casting your own.”

Love is not the same as reliance.

Israeli Racism: Changing the Discourse

Israeli racism: Changing the discourse | Naomi Schacter | The Times of Israel

It is not that I don't recognize the dangers of Iran or of Hezbullah or of Hamas.  It is just that I have great confidence in the IDF and Israel's security apparatus.  I therefore see the internal threats as more insidious and even dangerous.  While focusing on the external we tend to forget about the internal.  Or because we talk so much about the external we begin to view the internal through a similar lens.

Naomi Schacter writes:

Just as Israel has not just a legal but a moral obligation to act against all racist attacks by its own citizens, so it must maintain a strong moral public face and utter honesty with its own history. The validation of the Israeli Arabs’ historical suffering in the creation of the Jewish state would not invalidate the State of Israel or negate its identity as essentially Jewish. Rather, it would acknowledge that natives of this land suffered loss and deprivation as they were buffeted by world events beyond their control. Admitting the historical facts would only strengthen the state and the Jewish people.

Perhaps Thursday's beating of an Arab youth will be the occasion to refocus our discussion and look within.  Such an accounting (heshbon hanefesh) is long overdue.

Say It Ain't So, Lance

Lance Armstrong's Decision Not To Fight Doping Charges : The New Yorker

Martin Schoeller writes:

That is why I am so deeply appalled by his announcement yesterday that he would no longer fight the charges against him. He said he was tired of the fight. Tired? Really? Armstrong made it clear on several occasions he would fight to the death. (My favorite Lance quote about pain, clearly applicable to the accusations, is, “Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.”) 

Yes, quitting lasts forever. And he did not even have the decency to admit his guilt. Oddly, two of my colleagues—both of whom had ridiculed me mercilessly for supporting Lance—wrote to me today to say that they actually felt sorry for the guy. 

I do not. Lance Armstrong stood for something. He was a man who, despite the hatred, the envy, and the odds, would never quit, would never concede. He was the great American—a man of principle who also won. Now, I am afraid, he is nothing.

I am not surprised about the news.  I remain so disappointed.

Shoftim

What is so terrible about a tree?

In keeping with Deuteronomy’s near obsession with idolatry and its desire to eradicate all objects of foreign worship from the land of Israel, we read: “You shall not set up a sacred post (asherah)—any tree-like object beside the altar of the Lord your God that you make—or erect a stone pillar; for such the Lord your God detests.” (Deuteronomy 16:21-22)  Last week’s theme continues through this week.

An asherah, sacred post, was apparently a standing wooden object erected at a place of worship.  In other words it was a totem pole.  It could have also been a particular type of tree that was deemed sacred by the ancient Canaanites.  Or, perhaps it was a tree that was planted near their temples.  Interestingly the name for a Canaanite goddess was Asherah.  Trees, or wooden objects, were thus associated with this goddess and explicitly forbidden. 

The sentiment is clear.  Anything that even approaches Canaanite religion or worship is forbidden.  The message is emphatic.  We are going to do things differently, most especially in the land of Israel.  And that begins with how we pray. 

But a tree? 

There are times when hiking in the deserts of Israel one is grateful for the shade of a tree.  It is a welcome relief from the afternoon sun.  In a hot, dry climate, shade can offer much relief.  “And the Lord appeared to Abraham by the terebinths (oaks) of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot.”  (Genesis 18:1)  Given that this tree, or cluster of trees, had a particular name indicates that they were familiar to Abraham and his contemporaries.  Perhaps they were used as a landmark.  Then again perhaps these trees were also deemed sacred by his new neighbors.

During Abraham’s time there appears more comfort with the indigenous Canaanite religion.  It was not that the patriarchs believed as the Canaanites did.  But they do appear more at ease living side by side with competing religious practices and ideas.  They allowed such religions to coexist alongside their own.  Rather than uprooting these sacred trees Abraham redefines them.  There he experiences his God.  The Canaanites’ totem pole becomes the site of his covenant with God and the beginnings of our faith. 

Deuteronomy sees such an approach as impossible.  By this time the Israelites wish to become the dominant religion of the land.  They are to be the majority of its inhabitants.  Thus the Canaanites are no longer neighbors but enemies.  In this week’s portion we sense the moment when the Israelites will reclaim the land for our entire nation.  There can be no living side by side with their enemy’s ideas or even with their sacred objects.

Imagine a tall, stately tree that serves as a contemporary destination.  Imagine as well that years ago this same beautiful tree was used to lynch an innocent man or even to hang a guilty criminal.  Would you want such a tree to continue to serve as a landmark for the place you now call home?  This is exactly how the Canaanites were seen.  This is exactly how their sacred trees were viewed.  In the imagination of the ancient Israelites the Canaanite religion was equated with such evils. 

One always imagines an enemy doing horrific and unspeakable acts.  (And sometimes they do.  But many times they do not.  More often the evil-doers are fewer in number than we imagine.)   The Israelites therefore believed that there was no choice but to eradicate even their trees.

Beware of seeing evil lurking under every tree. 

The prophet proclaims: “Nation shall not take up sword against nation; they shall never again know war; every man shall sit under his grapevine or fig tree and no one shall make him afraid.” (Micah 4:4)

Elul

A story.

A young rabbi arrived in an East European town eager to serve his new congregation. During his first day he was given a tour of the town by one of the city’s leaders. Eventually they came to the Jewish cemetery where, as was the custom, all of his rabbinic predecessors were buried in a common section. As they passed by the gravestones something began to become frighteningly clear – the ages on the stones. The life of one rabbi was 34 years, another 28, and yet another was a mere 23 years. In fact there was not one person who survived past 40.

As he began to realize this, the new rabbi started sweating. He began to believe that the community was so difficult; it was killing off its rabbis. His guide, sensing the young rabbi’s growing panic, and fearing that he might leave the new congregation, said, “Let me explain something. Then you can make your choice about leaving or staying. These dates are not the number of years that these people lived. They are instead the number of years that they truly lived their lives.”

You see we have a custom in our community that each person keeps a personal diary and at the end of the day they write down how much of their time was spent serving God – not just through prayer or study, but the number of hours spent living a life of gratitude and not regret, the number of hours living closest to their highest selves, the amount of time reaching out to those in need and living according to what is truly important and not trivial. And then at the end of a person’s life we add up all of the hours in the notebook. That is the number we then put on the headstone. He lived to be 94 not the 38 years engraved there.” And pointing to another stone, he said, “And this rabbi was on this earth for 83 years not 34.”

If we were to count our years in such a manner, measuring the moments giving thanks and living closest to our highest selves, how many years would we apportion? Would we deem ourselves a 100 or a mere 20? Would our tally be counted in years or mere days? When we our remembered how many moments would be counted as if they were penned in such a diary?

Saturday was the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul. According to tradition this day begins a forty-day period of repentance that concludes on Yom Kippur afternoon (September 26). This time is devoted to measuring our years and working to better ourselves. On the High Holidays we read of the Book of Life that measures each and every person’s deeds. We speak of how our actions might engrave our future.

We also speak of how our fate is never written in stone. The High Holidays and the period of repentance that began this weekend is a yearly opportunity to change. Let us seize this opportunity and rewrite our years.

Addendum: I first heard this story at the recent funeral of my mentor and friend, Dr. Jerry Perkoff (z”l). His grandson Jeff Stombaugh shared this tale on that occasion. Jeff is now a first year rabbinical student studying in Jerusalem.

Reeh

In the traditional haggadah we read the following prayer when opening the door for Elijah: “Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you, upon the kingdoms that do not invoke your name, for they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home.  Pour out your wrath on them; may your blazing anger overtake them.  Pursue them in wrath and destroy them from under the heavens of Adonai!”

Added to the haggadah during the bloody Crusades, these words seem out of step with our modern, universal values.  Even though we are sympathetic to the origins of this prayer, our liberal haggadahs have deleted it from our Seders.  We speak instead about the messianic peace that Elijah will announce rather than the vengeance he might exact.

This week’s portion begins with a similar sentiment.  Here it is not a prayer but a command.  “You must destroy all the sites at which the nations you are to dispossess worshipped their gods, whether on lofty mountains or on hills under any luxuriant tree.  Tear down their altars, smash their pillars, put their sacred posts to the fire, and cut down the images of their gods, obliterating their name from that site.” (Deuteronomy 12:2-3)

Again this appears contrary to everything we believe.  Destroying non-believers and their places of worship contradicts everything we hold dear.  How is this any different than what we witnessed at Milwaukee’s Sikh Temple?  How is this different from those who read these words as a mandate to murder and destroy? 

And yet we live in a time when suggesting we have no enemies is equally fallacious.  Thus we are forever sandwiched between those who are unable to name our real enemies and those who see enemies everywhere and anywhere.  Such is our challenge.  There is great confusion about these issues.  People too frequently treat those with whom they disagree as their enemies but extend a hand in peace to those who seek their destruction.  We must fight against those who wish to destroy us.  And we must refrain from denouncing those who disagree with us.

Our times need not be so confusing.  Those who wish to destroy us, who revile the pluralism for which this country stands, are most certainly our enemies.  We must not be afraid to say such words.  Our world has real enemies.  Does that make such prayers legitimate?  Does that make such commands meaningful?  Better perhaps we should pray for peace rather than vengeance while remaining forever on guard and vigilant. 

We must also work to be sure that those with whom we have honest disagreements remain friends.  We dare not confuse friend with enemy.  Articulating a vision of pluralism and an acceptance of different worldviews is paramount.  Let us be clear. When others advocate for our destruction they name themselves as our enemies.  We must remain unafraid of saying so in clear and unmistakable terms.

Attributed to the medieval commentator Rashi’s disciples is a parallel prayer to that found in the haggadah.  “Pour out your love on the nations who have known you and on the kingdoms who call upon your name.  For they show lovingkindness to the seed of Jacob and they defend your people Israel from who would devour them alive.  May they live to see the sukkah of peace spread over your chosen ones and to participate in the joy of your nations.”  Pray for peace.  Remain vigilant.

“See, this day I set before you blessing and curse…” (Deuteronomy 11:26)  These indeed are today’s choices.

What's Standing in the Way of Palestine's Success?

What's Standing in the Way of Palestine's Success? – Tablet Magazine

This is an interesting article about Mitt Romney's recent speech in Jerusalem.  Smith examines the question about the cultural differences between Israeli and Palestinian societies.  Romney suggested that Israel is successful, and Palestinian society is not, because of their cultural heritage.  Palestinians of course cried foul and said, "No it is all because of Israeli occupation." Romney was accused of a major diplomatic gaffe.  Smith writes: "Erekat and Masri are correct—so long as the word occupation is understood in a fuller context. Instead of building a bustling economy, the Palestinians have devoted their energies to waging war against Israel for more than 60 years. The absence of a Palestinian state is proof that this war has been unsuccessful, wasting almost three generations of Palestinian talent."  This is indeed correct.  The culture of victimization in Palestinian society is the root of the disparity.  Most interesting is the fact that outside of Palestine, the Palestinians are successful and their diaspora thrives.  Our cultures might very well be more similar than we wish to admit.  Romney is wrong.  It is not a difference of culture but instead of leadership.  The difference is that Israel's leadership is singularly devoted to nurturing Israeli creativity and success whereas the Palestinian leadership is singularly devoted to destroying Israel.

On a related theme read this recent Tablet article as well: Romney and Einstein: Racists?

Ekev

Our hearts are joined in sorrow with the Sikh community.  What a terrible and unspeakable tragedy.  Even though this murderous attack occurred outside of Milwaukee it should be viewed as an attack here.  And even though it occurred at a Sikh Temple it must be seen against us as well.  This was not the murder of Sikhs alone but an attack against Americans.  This was an attack on American values.  There are those who wish America to be a homogeneous whole.  I prefer difference.  I value heterogeneity.  This country must always stand for pluralism.  We must stand with those of different faiths and proclaim that was not simply against one faith community but an attack on all.  This week we must stand as Americans.  My response to this tragedy is twofold: to mourn the victims and to embrace the multiplicity of cultures that make up the American landscape.  I refuse to say, “Look at what happened to them.”  Instead I say, “Look at what is happening to us!”

This week’s Torah portion contains a familiar if misunderstand verse.  We read “man does not live on bread alone.”  Often this is understood to mean that food is not the only staple of life.  A full life should include literature, music and art (and I would add, sport).  Of course there are those who interpret this verse literally, suggesting that we should eat more than just bread.  Wine is always a nice addition, and perhaps even some cheese.  These are worthy lessons but not the intention of the Torah.  Instead the portion wishes to tell us that the only sustenance we require is faith in God.

Look at the verse in its context: “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. He subjected you to the hardship of hunger and then gave you manna to eat, which neither you nor your fathers had ever known, in order to teach you that man does not live on bread alone, but that man may live on anything that the Lord decrees….” (Deuteronomy 8) 

There appears an ascetic strain within the Torah portion.  It is as if it says, “Rely on God alone.”  The Jewish tradition rejects this and believes that we must take care of our earthly needs in order to reach for the heavens.  We cannot simply have faith in God and say, “Whatever God decrees.”  We cannot, and should not, wait for manna to be provided for us.  Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah taught: “No sustenance (literally flour), no Torah; no Torah, no sustenance.”  We require food and religion.  The two must go hand in hand, the earthly human needs and the lofty heavenly ideals.  If we focus only on heaven we lose sight of the everyday and human.  Judaism teaches that the purpose of our religion is to elevate the earthly.  We lift the everyday toward heaven.

Still the portion seems to suggest otherwise.   It suggests that we only require faith.  I prefer otherwise.  Our tradition comes not to remove us from this world but instead to renew our commitment to it.  I always prefer a good meal and Torah.  

The Ugly Ways Jews Talk to One Another

Daniel Gordis on the Ugly Ways Jews Talk to One Another – Tablet Magazine

Daniel Gordis offers important insights about the state of dialogue, or lack thereof, in the Jewish community.  He observes:

We have no Temple now, of course. We do have a Third Jewish Commonwealth, a state that faces unremitting hatred from its neighbors and much of the international community. Without question, we need to defend it. But as Tisha B’Av looms, we would do well, I think, to ask ourselves what kind of a Jewish world we’re defending and whether, even if we’re successful at preserving the Jewish State, those whose loyalty we desperately need will want to have anything to do with us.

Vaetchanan

For the first time in my life I moved into a home where the mezuzahs were already affixed to the doorposts. Last week we moved our offices into 430 North Broadway where we will be sharing space with Jericho Jewish Center. In the previous office space we placed the mezuzahs on the doorways. We did the same at the Brookville Reformed Church after Reverend Ramirez graciously allowed us to do so. But now there was no need to ask permission. There was no need to purchase mezuzahs to place on our office doors. They were already there. They adorn every doorpost.

Every house, every apartment, every office I ever moved into, this task fell on me. Even at the 92nd Street Y I had to purchase a mezuzah to place on my own office door. Here they were provided. Here others performed this mitzvah for us. Even though it was an extraordinary measure of friendship that we were allowed to affix a mezuzah in the church’s social hall, here at 430 North Broadway the plethora of mezuzahs means something very different.

It means that we share something in common. These mezuzahs serve as an immediate sign that we are among friends.

This week’s Torah portion, Vaetchanan, contains the words of the Shema and its first paragraph’s concluding words: “Inscribe them on the doorposts of your house and your gates.” (Deuteronomy 6:8) Our tradition interprets these words literally. Thus these words are written on a small piece of parchment and placed inside the mezuzah. For millennia this commandment has been observed in this manner. We write the commandment on a parchment and place them on our doorposts and even our gates.

I imagine, especially in ancient times, when Jews traveled far from their homes the mezuzah was a welcome sign. It meant that a traveler could find friends through such a doorway. It means the same today. The Jewish population is at best 14 million. It may feel like more living in our small corner of Long Island but we are not so numerous. We are but a tiny fraction of the world’s population. Thus we require more solidarity. We require more kinship. We don’t have to agree with every Jew (I certainly don’t) but we must stand together as friends.

Sometimes people confuse friendship with agreement. But friendship is at its best not about agreement or flattery but instead about care and concern. We certainly have our differences with our Conservative brethren. There is much in the way that we pray and especially the way that we view innovation and change that separates us, but I would like to believe that we share more in common. Such should be the nature of our emerging friendship with the Jericho Jewish Center.

The mezuzah is a sign of this friendship. It is a sign of a friendship that spans millennia. I know that they were affixed to Jericho Jewish Center’s doors decades ago in fulfillment of the mitzvah contained in the Torah portion. I know then that no one imagined that they would one day serve as welcome for a Reform congregation. Nonetheless that is the purpose they fulfilled this week. I found these mezuzahs most welcoming. May these mezuzahs continue to remind us of the importance of our emerging friendship.

This week I am the traveler who wandered upon a welcome doorway.

And, on another note about friendship, my teacher, Rabbi Donniel Hartman, wrote an interesting article about Governor Mitt Romney’s recent visit to Israel. Rabbi Hartman is an Israeli and so I believe offers helpful insights. I offer his concluding remarks for your consideration. He writes:

As a friend, I am not in need of an echo, nor do I find solace in an unconditional cheering squad. I value my freedom and my right to pursue a policy that others may think is wrong. From my friends, however, I yearn for and desperately need honesty. Don’t tell me only what you think I want to hear, tell me what you think I need to hear. As a true friend, I welcome the times that you push and cajole, for I know that you have my best interests at heart. 

Most importantly, I yearn for your involvement. When honesty is not possible, friendship becomes a formality, carted out at ceremonial moments, a mere testimony to a true feeling that has long passed. We face many critical decisions in the years ahead, decisions that will impact the nature and future direction of our country and at times even its existence. The path forward is often ambiguous, uncertain, and fraught with dangers regardless of which option we choose. We need a friend who will talk to us honestly. We need a friend who will give us the strength to take risks. We need a friend to help us bring out the best of who we want to be in the midst of a reality which often pulls us in the opposite direction.

You can find Rabbi Hartman’s complete article at this link.

Devarim

This coming Shabbat is called Black Shabbat.  It receives this name because of its proximity to Tisha B’Av, the fast day marking the destruction of the first and second Temples.  These were considered the greatest of Jewish tragedies (until the Holocaust occurred) and so the Sabbath preceding the Ninth of Av takes on a mournful tone.  This year however Shabbat is darkened for two additional reasons.

This evening the Olympics will open in London.  While this is usually cause for great celebration and excitement, this year it is colored by sadness.  40 years ago at the 1972 Olympics in Munich 11 Israeli athletes were murdered by Palestinian terrorists.  The International Olympic Committee refuses to observe even a moment of silence at the game’s opening ceremony to mark this yahrtzeit. 

Noted historian Deborah Lipstadt writes: “Never before or since were athletes murdered at the Games. Never before or since were the Games used by terrorists for their evil purposes. Never before or since were those who came to participate in a sports competition murdered for who they were and where they came from.  The proper place to acknowledge such a tragedy is not in a so-called spontaneous moment in front of 100 people, but in a purposeful action by the entire Olympic ‘family.’”  (I have posted more of Lipstadt’s insights on my blog.)  The failure of the IOC to honor the memories of those murdered suggests that they forgive murder for political ends.

Last Shabbat 12 Americans were killed and nearly 60 injured at a Colorado movie theatre.  It is a tragic and dark day when an apparently intelligent man turns to evil ends.  Little can be offered as to why he would commit such a heinous crime.  Why would a promising young PhD student murder innocent people?  All agree that it was an unspeakable act.

Many have also used this occasion to speak about gun control.  Although I fail to understand why anyone, except for the military and law enforcement, needs to own any weapons, I recognize Americans’ right to bear arms.  This right does not however need to be an absolute right.  Rights can be limited and framed without undermining their fundamental value.  Still waiting periods and forbidding the purchase of automatic weapons would not have deterred this shooter.  It might have saved more lives.  But an intelligent, patient, methodical man bent on destruction can inflict great harm.  More laws will not prevent such evil acts.  They might only make them less likely.

Let’s be honest.  Limiting the sale of automatic weapons, armor piercing bullets, explosives and the like minimize risks.  They do not eliminate them.  Gun control laws are sensible.  But dangers can never entirely be prevented.  The more important discussion is how do we better train the human spirit to do good and never harm.  Goodness is not a matter of intelligence.  It is a matter of training the spirit.

It has been a sad week.  First for the failure of others to acknowledge the pain and suffering committed against our people 40 years ago.  Second for the horrible loss of life in our own country and for the debate that seems tragically out of step with the more fundamental problem.  Goodness is something learned.  It is something taught.  Evil cannot simply be legislated against.  Goodness must be inculcated each and every day.

This Shabbat is called the Black Shabbat.  It is also called Shabbat Hazon, the Sabbath of vision.  It receives this name because of its Haftarah.  The prophet Isaiah is chanted as a rebuke not only against the ancient Israelites but against us.  The rabbis believed that we were to blame for our own destruction and in particular the destruction of the ancient Temples.  Isaiah offers this vision: “Wash yourselves clean; put your evil doings away from My sight.  Cease to do evil; learn to do good.  Devote yourselves to justice; aid the wronged.  Uphold the rights of the orphan; defend the cause of the widow.  Come, let us reach an understanding, declares the Lord.”

May we come to such an understanding.

Jewish Blood Is Cheap

The Olympic Committee Seems To Think That Jewish Blood Is Cheap – Tablet Magazine

Deborah Lipstadt's provocative article about why the Olympic Committee refuses to observe a minute of silence  in memory of those Israeli athletes murdered at Munich's 1972 games.  She concludes:

I have long inveighed against the tendency of some Jews to see anti-Semitism behind every action that is critical of Israel or of Jews. In recent years some Jews have been inclined to hurl accusations of anti-Semitism even when they are entirely inappropriate. By repeatedly crying out, they risk making others stop listening—especially when the cry is true. 

Here the charge is absolutely accurate. This was the greatest tragedy to ever occur during the Olympic Games. Yet the IOC has made it quite clear that these victims are not worth 60 seconds. Imagine for a moment that these athletes had been from the United States, Canada, Australia, or even Germany. No one would think twice about commemorating them. But these athletes came from a country and a people who somehow deserve to be victims. Their lost lives are apparently not worth a minute.

I can find no other reason than what Lipstadt suggests.  There is nothing political about remembering those who were murdered in cold blood.  The Olympics are indeed supposed to be about world solidarity.  They are supposed to be above politics.  They are supposed to be about the love of sport.  Terrorism and murder once marred these very competitions.  The only response is to stand in solidarity and remember.  All must stand against such acts of terror.

Mattot-Masei

There are any number of customs that are prevalent at today’s b’nai mitzvah parties whose origins do not trace back to ancient times.  Let’s explore three. 

And the DJ announces, “It’s Hora time.  Everyone to the dance floor!”  And we jump from our seats and join together in dancing and singing the words of Hava Nagila.  “Come, let us rejoice and be happy!  Come, let us sing!  Awake, awake brothers!  Awake brothers with a joyful heart!”  Most people don’t realize that the words to this familiar song are not that old. 

In fact the tune is based on a Hasidic niggun, prevalent among Jews living in 19^th century Ukraine.  It is apparently similar to a Ukrainian folk song.  A niggun is a wordless melody.  They are passed from one generation to the next.  They are typically attributed to specific rebbes, although I have been unable to discover the authorship of Hava Nagila’s tune.  It was the belief of Hasidic Jews that music helps to connect us to God.  Music is the universal language. It was also their belief that no words can suffice in approaching God and so we are left with their wordless melodies.

The Hava Nagila tune was carried by these Hasidic Jews to Jerusalem where Abraham Idelsohn soon discovered it.  He is considered the dean of Jewish musicologists.  Some believe that he authored the accompanying words in 1918 to celebrate the victory of the British in World War I.  The song soon spread throughout Palestine and then made its way to the United States.   By the 1950’s it had become what we recognize today: the staple at parties and simchas.   I wonder, how long before “I Gotta Feeling” achieves such prominence?  

The singing and dancing are of course accompanied by hoisting the 13 year old in a chair and then the siblings and finally the parents.  This appears to be an instance where DJ’s have written a new Jewish custom.  The origins date back to Jewish weddings when the bride and groom were hoisted in chairs and then allowed to reach across the mechitzah with a handkerchief, thereby briefly engaging in mixed dancing.  In such a setting the bride and groom do not touch publicly and so the wedding party helps them to reach out to each other.

In our world such restrictions are obviously not observed.  Bride and groom dance together and are in fact expected and encouraged to slow dance together.  (Susie and I danced to an Elton John song.)  The lifting in chairs has become an expression of unparalleled joy that has now made its way to b’nai mitzvah celebrations.  Dancing is the greatest expression of our joy.  The hora and lifting are quintessential expressions of Jewish joy.  So why do we require expert party enhancers to show us how to dance?  Why do we need experts to show us how to express joy?  What’s wrong with our dancing?

And finally there is the montage.  I always enjoy these photography collections.  I marvel at how privileged is our lot as the countless pictures of different vacation destinations adorn the screens.  I wonder when this custom began?  Although I relish these pictures (especially my own children’s) I remain curious about the purpose of the montage.

This week’s Torah portion marks the conclusion of the Book of Numbers.  The Jewish people are nearing the borders of the land of Israel.  Our portion offers these words: “These are the marching-stages of the children of Israel that they went on from the land of Egypt, by their troops, through the hand of Moses and Aaron.  Moses wrote down their departures, by their marching-stages, by the order of the Lord.” (Numbers 33:1-2)

According to tradition there were 42 stages during the people’s wandering in the wilderness.  Now God instructs the people that they must remember the details of their journey, to recall every place they stopped, to remember if not every moment of their 40 year journey then their departure points.  It is these that Moses must record.  Is this akin to the montage? 

The midrash offers an analogy by way of answering our question: “It is like the case of a king whose son was ill.  He took him to a certain place to cure him.  On their return journey his father began to recount all the stages, saying: ‘Here we slept; here we cooled ourselves; here you had a headache.’ So the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moses: ‘Recount to them all the places where they provoked Me.’’ (Numbers Rabbah 23:3)

Is it possible that the purpose of the montage is not so much that our friends say, “Ooh and ah,” but that instead our sons and daughters should remember all that we have done for them?  Is it possible that the montage finds resonance in this week’s portion?  Let’s be honest, on the surface the montage does not make sense.  It is a review of a life not yet fully lived.  A 13 year old is not yet completely formed.  Then again neither am I.  And then again neither were the Israelites at this juncture.  Still God instructs Moses to recount their journey.  At such milestones we pause and remember all the places where we journeyed.

Each of those moments should be occasions for giving thanks.  Each of those moments should be occasions for singing and dancing!

Our hearts are joined in prayer and sorrow for the victims of this week’s terrorist attack in Bulgaria.  May justice be swift.  May healing be even swifter.   May peace be realized soon in our day. 

The Late Yitzhak Shamir

The Late Yitzhak Shamir: Israel's Grittiest Prime Minister – Tablet Magazine

This is an excellent article about Yitzhak Shamir by Daniel Gordis. He writes:

For all the misgivings many now have about Shamir’s intransigence or his specific policies, part of his legacy is that Jews ought not to pretend not to know what, deep down, they know. Yitzhak Shamir knew what he had seen, both in Europe and then in the Arab world, and he knew what it meant. He was no less ambivalent about the Arabs than he was about the Poles and refused to vote for Begin’s peace treaty with Egypt. Presumably in deference to Begin, he abstained; but he made it clear that he thought Israel was paying far too high a price. Today, three and a half decades later, with the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power in Cairo, and with Israel now missing the Sinai as a buffer, who was wiser? Was it the Nobel Prize-winning Begin who’d turned peacemaker, or Shamir, who had not? Will the sword devour forever? Yes, Shamir sadly believed, it will. Is it possible that he was right?

I continue to pray that he was not, although with each passing day I come to believe that sadly he may indeed have been correct.  My prayers however will forever remain unchanged.  Shalom is always my most fervent prayer.

Hava Nagila

Below is a great video about the meaning and origins of the familiar Hava Nagila.

 

The familiar words are translated as follows:
Come, let us rejoice and be happy!
Come, let us sing!
Awake, awake brothers!
Awake brothers with a joyful heart!

Perhaps the DJ's at so many of our simchas should watch this video to better appreciate the meaning of the song that brings everyone to the dance floor.  Perhaps it would be helpful if we took a few moments to remind ourselves of the meaning of this not so ancient but ever popular song.

I particular like the Hasidic saying that Danny Maseng shares: "There are ten levels of prayer.  And above them is music."  I often find this to be true, especially when praying at the JCB accompanied by our cantor and musicians!

Pinhas

“There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by the power of the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind.  After the wind—an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake.  After the earthquake—fire; but the Lord was not in the fire.  And after the fire—a still small voice.”  (I Kings 19:11-12)

These words were first spoken to the prophet Elijah.  God is not found in the grand and majestic, the awesome and even terrible.  God is instead found in the quiet, in the ordinary, in the unexpected.  God is found in what we must strain to hear.  Each of us holds on to a thread found within our tradition.  And this verse continues to serve as my thread.

These words also form the concluding words of this week’s Haftarah.  The connection between the Torah and Haftarah is clear.  Our Torah portion begins by recounting the deeds of Pinhas who was so zealous in his faith in God that he killed a fellow Israelite who had sexual relations with a Midianite woman.  It is a harrowing story.  Elijah is, as well, given to violence.  He slaughters 450 prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel.   

This summer we again studied with Israel Knohl, the chair of Hebrew University’s Bible department.  He began his lecture by reading from the words of Mohammad Atta (y”s).  He offered this as a modern illustration that monotheism is given to such violence.  Because it is adamant that there is only one God it promotes the destruction of other gods and occasionally, or perhaps too often, their worshippers.  Monotheism is ruthless. It was a harrowing lesson.

The Torah portion reports that Pinhas was rewarded for his zealousness.  “It shall be for him and his descendants after him a pact of priesthood for all time, because he took impassioned action for his God.” (Numbers 25:13)  Yet I still offer the ancient priests’ words when blessing a bar/bat mitzvah student, a wedding couple or a newborn baby.  I bless my own children each and every Shabbat with these words.  Likewise it is the people’s response to Elijah’s actions with which we conclude our Yom Kippur prayers.  “The Lord alone is our God!  The Lord alone is our God!” (I Kings 18:39)

Each of us must hold on to a thread of our tradition.  Too often we discard others.  Every summer I return to Jerusalem in order to confront those threads that I toss aside.  With good reason one might respond.  Yet the faith of the Shalom Hartman Institute and in particular its founder and my rabbi, David Hartman, is that the tapestry will not unravel if I pull and tug on these other threads.  Too often we hold on to a single thread as if it were a heavy anchor line.   

We say, this alone is my faith.  We refuse to look at other threads.  We believe, that our faith is only our own story.  It is only this verse.  The other day we met with a leader of Ateret HaKohanim, a group that helps buy property to settle Jews in the Old City’s Moslem Quarter.  He argued that Jews should be allowed to live in each and every corner of the land of Israel and in particular the city of Jerusalem.  He offered threads from our tradition as proof for his position.  Some of my colleagues argued with him, offering different threads, expertly citing texts from rabbinic writings that supported their positions.  Neither side convinced the other.  Everyone holds on to his thread as if it were an anchor line that can hold a weighty ship in place.

There is in fact no such heavy line. All are mere threads.  Israel Knohl teaches that the Bible is a divine symphony.  Its many different voices are threaded together.  The faith that I renew here is not the attachment to this or that thread but instead the belief that each and every idea must be challenged.  Every accepted answer must be questioned.  It is exhausting to be sure, but I return believing that we are stronger for it.  I have learned from my teachers a courage that the tapestry will never unravel even if I tug and pull at this thread or another.

This year we do not read the Haftarah describing Elijah’s deeds.  Because this coming Shabbat falls a few days after the 17^th of Tammuz, the day that recounts the beginning of the destruction of Jerusalem, we read instead the words of the prophet Jeremiah.  This prophet proclaims to a broken people and a destroyed Jerusalem: “Surely, futility comes from the hills,/Confusion from the mountains./Only through the Lord our God/Is there deliverance for Israel.” (Jeremiah 3:22)

Despite the brokenness standing before him, the prophet’s faith can never unravel.  That is my faith as well.  My faith is this alone. The tapestry can never be unraveled.

Balak

I am again in Jerusalem studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute’s annual conference where I am learning alongside Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Reconstructionist and Renewal rabbis.  Our teachers are the leading thinkers in the Jewish world.   Here I can renew my spirit and rekindle my Jewish passions.   I remain grateful that the congregation and its leadership afford me this time.

Being here during the first two weeks in July provides the most curious of circumstances.  I have for many years only observed July 4^th from afar. This provides an interesting symmetry for it is also true that I have celebrated Israel’s independence day from a distance.  The question then is what does this distance teach us about what we love?

On the surface distance promotes fear and uncertainty.  What we look at from afar we worry about and feel we don’t fully understand.  As I sit here in Jerusalem I for example worry about the weather in the states.  Was there any damage in my neighborhood from the recent storms?  Did trees fall in my back yard or was my basement flooded?  When I sit in my home in New York I worry about Israel’s struggles.  Will there be more violence in Southern Israel now that the Muslim Brotherhood has assumed control of Egypt?  Will there be civil war between Israel’s secular majority and its growing ultra-Orthodox minority?

These are real worries to be sure.  But just as life continues in the states despite the weather so too does life continue here despite worries about security and simmering tensions within Israel’s society.

Distance also affords an appreciation that is sometimes lost when what we love is held too close.  Had I been in Israel for Yom Haatzmaut I would have been occupied by family gatherings and watching official celebrations.  Sitting at a distance I see more clearly Israel’s idealism and founding vision.  When we celebrate Yom Haatzmaut in our synagogues we recall that Israel represents something unparalleled in Jewish history.  Here is a vibrant, albeit cacophonous, Jewish democracy.  Moreover, the modern State of Israel means that the Jewish people have returned to history.  Here we determine our people’s destiny—for better or worse.

Had I been in New York for July 4^th I would have attended barbeques, visited the beach, watched fireworks and undoubtedly grumbled about traffic.  Looking from afar however I see different things. I am reminded instead of the values on which our country was founded.  I see not the simmering tensions that the recent Supreme Court decision still did not resolve, but instead the blessings of American democracy.  In the United States no religious group receives state sanction.  Every community must rise and fall on its own merits.  No one is favored.  No one is advantaged.  Sitting here I do not see the difficulties of raising money to support each and every synagogue or 501(c)(3) but instead only the blessings contained in our founders’ words: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

Israel’s enemy, the Moabite king Balak, commands his prophet Balaam to curse the Israelites.  Instead he stands on the hilltop and looks down on the Israelites from afar and offers a blessing: “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov…How lovely are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.”  (Numbers 24:5)

It is his words, found in this week’s portion, that begin our morning prayers.  When standing in our familiar sanctuaries we recall the person who stood at a distance and looked from afar.

Sometimes even the most intimate of things must be appreciated from a distance.  Sometimes we must behold from afar what we most love.

Hukkat

Years ago my family and I spent a day hiking in the wilderness of Zin.   We complained about the lack of food and water.  We complained that we were still wearing the same clothes since our arrival.  (The airline had lost our luggage.)  Our guide was determined to bring us to the spring of Ein Avdat.  When we finally arrived we asked, “This is a spring?  The water is so dirty.  It looks more like a puddle.”  I am sure our leader thought to himself, “Those spoiled Americans.  They should spend some time in the Israeli army.”

“The Israelites arrived at the wilderness of Zin…  The community was without water, and they joined against Moses and Aaron.  The people quarreled with Moses, saying, ‘If only we had perished when our brothers perished at the instance of the Lord...  Why did you make us leave Egypt to bring us to this wretched place, a place with no grain or figs or vines or pomegranates?  There is not even water to drink.’”    (Numbers 20:1-5)

The Israelites complain a great deal.  The commentators are unforgiving in their judgment of them.  They lack faith in God.  After all they saw: the plagues, the parting of the Sea of Reeds, Mount Sinai, after all these miracles, they still complain.  The commentators are as well unforgiving of their leader Moses and his response to the people.  In this portion Moses loses his temper and strikes the rock, saying, “Listen you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (20:10)  It is for this act that Moses is punished.  Because of this God prevents Moses from entering the land of Israel.

Most agree that he is punished because of his anger.  The leader loses his cool with the people he leads.  But who is ever perfectly tempered?  And who always has perfect faith?  In fact I doubt those who profess blind faith.  I question those who are always so even keeled.  I wonder.  What awakens his passion?  What stirs her to anger?  What arouses doubt in her soul?  What shatters his trust in God?

The most common word for faith in Hebrew is emunah.  Its root is related to the word trust.  Faith is to trust or rely on God.  Abraham Joshua Heschel, however, suggests that a better word for faith is yirah, awe.  We are therefore to stand in awe before God.  This awe moreover calls us to better our world.  Faith does not resolve all questions.  It does not provide certainty.  Instead it asks more of us.  Faith is a call to service.

Most people see questions as contrary to faith.  They believe faith calms the soul and quiets doubt.  But questions are integral to belief.  Thus I believe the more faith, the more questions.  Most people see anger as something to be avoided.  But anger intimates passion.  Why are we not angry that just a few miles from our homes people go hungry?  Only minutes from my house people grumble for water.  Let this make us angry!

I want passions that occasionally rise to anger.  I want as well a faith that is filled with trust and awe, but also many questions.

July-August Newsletter

Below is my message from the July-August 2012 Newsletter.

This past week we began packing up our supplies at the church. After 16 years of calling the Brookville Reformed Church home we are moving on to the next stage in our journey together. The cantor and Kim packed up the Hebrew School supplies. I tended to the ritual items and the prayerbooks. As I packed up the prayerbooks I imagined those who sat in these pews and held them in their hands.

I thought of all those who turned the prayerbook’s pages marking the happy occasions in their lives. And I thought of those who stained them with their tears when they stood up from shiva and returned to their congregation. How many shouts of mazel tov were heard by these siddurim? How many anguished cries poured on to their words? I still believe what I have said many, many times. It is these prayers that have carried us from place to place.

Too often people confuse a congregation with a building. They think the synagogue is a matter of architecture. It is not. It is a matter of the people. And it is a matter of their songs and prayers.

And so on this day I carried once more. I packed up the prayerbooks and brought them to our new home. But even this new building will not define us. The ancient Levites were charged with caring for the tabernacle as the Israelites wandered through the desert. They also shlepped, moving the tabernacle from place to place. There is nothing demeaning or unholy with carrying our sacred books. More than anything else this carrying is what has defined us for generations. For generations we have carried siddurim from one home to another.

And now many people think that our shlepping will end. They confuse arriving at a destination with the conclusion of a journey. In truth this too is only a stage. The journey is always incomplete. That is the religious perspective. To appreciate Jewish history is to understand that we are always journeying and we will never arrive home. That is why throughout our long history of wandering our singular hope was to return to our first home, Jerusalem.

For centuries Jews observed the tradition that a corner of every home built outside of that city must remain incomplete. We must never become too comfortable in any other land. But the modern era has taught us that even though we have arrived home to Jerusalem it also remains incomplete. That dream is only partially fulfilled. And so we cling to the messianic longings of Yerushalayim shel maaleh, the heavenly Jerusalem. We forever hold in our prayers a vision of perfection. No earthly destination can ever be perfect. Not our beautiful homes. Not our ornate sanctuaries.

I am a Jew. I have no home. I have moved from city to city. And so only the prayers of my people have carried me on my journeys. They have been my sails. And they will continue to sustain me.

They will accompany our congregation in whatever building we might find ourselves in. Many will hold these prayerbooks in their hands and they will remember where they once stood and who once held them. They will be strengthened by their words.

I look forward to leading our praying within these new walls. I do not think, however, that the journey is complete. It is never complete.  We are forever journeying.  No matter where we might find ourselves we continue our travels—but always together and with these sacred books carried in our hands.