Elul

Although I have never traveled to the national parks of the Western United States I have always found the yellow leaves and white bark of the aspen to be the most beautiful of trees.  Recently I discovered that each stand of trees is not a collection of individual trees but instead limbs of the same organism.  In fact the world’s largest living organism is a stand of quaking aspens in Utah’s Fishlake National Forest.  The stand covers over 100 acres and consists of some 47,000 trees.  Scientists have determined that these trees are in fact one organism, identical to each other genetically and connected by a single root system.  The lesson is clear.  They appear to be individuals but are in fact a unified community.

In one month we will gather to celebrate Rosh Hashanah and then ten days later Yom Kippur.  This period is called the Ten Days of Repentance.  Its intent is to focus our efforts on changing, on correcting our failings and mending our relationships.  According to the tradition, this period actually begins with Rosh Hodesh Elul, the first of the Hebrew month of Elul. That day was yesterday.  By this reckoning there are not ten days for repentance and repair but instead forty.

This number mirrors the days and nights Moses spent on Mount Sinai communing with God.  Like Moses we are supposed to use these days to draw near to God.  Unlike Moses we are to draw closer to God by drawing near to family and friends.  We are meant to use these days to seek out those we have wronged, to offer apologies, to grant forgiveness and at least try to better ourselves. 

Too often we think that such efforts are solitary.  We look within, examine our deeds and quietly vow what we will change.  The tradition views repentance as instead communal.  We recite the Viddui, the litany of wrongs, in the plural.  We say:  “Do not be deaf to our pleas, for we are not so arrogant and stiff-necked as to say before You, our God and God of all ages, we are perfect and have not sinned; rather do we confess; we have gone astray; we have sinned, we have transgressed.”  Our prayers on these days are in the plural.  The communal “we” gives us strength to examine our character and correct our wrongs.

We are lifted by the community. We are made better by standing together.  There is strength to be found when praying with others.  There is fortitude to be discovered when saying, “For the sin we have committed...”

 

In the Fall the aspen’s leaves turn a bright, incandescent yellow.  In that large stand, the leaves of all 47,000 trees turn as one.

Beauty is in fact communal.   We are at our best when we stand with others.  Repentance is a joint effort.  There is no greater beauty, and strength, than a wrong that has been mended and a relationship repaired.

Photograph by Paul C. Rogers, Western Aspen Alliance

Reeh

The Book of Deuteronomy emphasizes that worship in general, and the sacrifices in particular, can no longer be performed in sanctuaries throughout the land, but must instead be centralized and moved to one location.  That location will later become Jerusalem and its Temple.  “When you cross the Jordan and settle in the land that the Lord your God is allotting to you, and He grants you safety from all your enemies around you and you live in security, then you must bring everything that I command you to the site where the Lord your God will choose to establish His name: your burnt offerings and other sacrifices…” (Deuteronomy 12: 10-11)

Why would the one God need to be confined to this one place?  Moreover, how can God be confined to one location?  Historians and scholars have puzzled over this law, frequently repeated throughout Deuteronomy.  Biblical scholars suggest that the reasons for this law are political.  In their view it was written during a time when Israel’s leaders wanted to centralize worship, and power, in the capital.  Moses Maimonides, on the other hand, argues that sacrifice is an inferior form of worship.  Prayer is therefore the ideal.  Over time Jewish law works to limit sacrifice.  Deuteronomy is therefore a step in this educational process.  Before eliminating sacrifice entirely, it is limited and confined to Jerusalem's Temple.  Sacrifices can only be performed in this one location.

Sefer HaHinnukh, a medieval commentary, offers an interesting explanation.  It suggests that a sanctuary can only inspire people if it is unique and unparalleled.  When we can do something anywhere and everywhere it loses its power and grip over our lives.  This is of course why the Western Wall is such a powerful place and why it holds greater meaning to far more Diaspora Jews than Israeli Jews.  For us it is a place of pilgrimage.  Because we can only visit it infrequently it gains power.      

Yet, with the destruction of the Temple in the second century, Judaism became purposefully decentralized.  Many rituals were moved to the home.  Each and every home became a sanctuary and is called by our tradition, mikdash maat, a small sanctuary.  The sanctuary became not so much about location but instead about experience.  Place became secondary to time.  This is how Judaism remains.  We mark as holy, days. 
    

The Israeli songwriters Eli Mohar and Yoni Rechter capture this sentiment when singing about Tel Aviv, a city that a mere 100 years ago was only a patch of sand. 

My God—here we have no Wall, only the sea.

But since you seem to be everywhere

you must be here too.

So when I walk here along the beach

I know that you are with me

and it feels good.

And when I see a tourist

beautiful and tanned

I look at her not only for myself, but also for you

because I know that you are in me

just as I am in you

and maybe I was created

so that from within me you can see

the world you created

with new eyes.

In Tel Aviv there are no ancient walls.  And yet this city is also holy becomes it teems with renewed Jewish life.  Thus, wherever we might find ourselves we mark Shabbat as holy.  This is why the Sabbath day is called by Abraham Joshua Heschel, a sanctuary in time.

Ekev

I am often asked whether or not Judaism believes in heaven and hell.  Usually the question is framed in the following manner.  “Rabbi, Judaism does not believe in heaven and hell, right?”  The answer comes as a surprise to most.  On the contrary, Judaism does believe in heaven, and even hell.  Of course with all things Jewish the answer does not end there.

First of all our terminology is different.  We call heaven, olam haba, the world to come and hell, gehinnom, or as it is sometimes rendered in common parlance, gehenna.  These ideas developed during the rabbinic period, alongside their development within early Christianity.  Our images for these otherworldly abodes, however, are different.  Judaism hesitated to codify a description of olam haba and gehinnom.  It left their details to rabbinic imaginations and preserved disagreements about its contours.  Nonetheless it resolutely affirmed these ideas.

Judaism believes that if God is all-powerful and just, then the only way that the inequities we observe in this world can be rectified is through the belief in the world to come. There the scales are re-balanced.  Olam haba can be an extraordinarily comforting idea.  It offers healing to believe that in heaven God cares for the souls of our beloved dead. 

Still I recognize that there are difficulties with these ideas.  Too often the reward of heaven, and the punishment of hell, is used to instill fear.  I would prefer that people do good for its own sake.  Even more troubling is the fact that too often heaven becomes the focus of people’s faith and action.  The more fervently they hold on to the other world the more they appear to let go of their engagement with this world.  The here and now becomes a mere gateway to a better, future place.  In extreme instances there even grows a desire to rush to get this other world.  Then our fragile world becomes victimized by this belief.  Focus on today rather than tomorrow!

This week’s Torah portion alludes to this question in raising the issue of reward and punishment.  The medieval commentator, Rashi, notices an unusual word in the opening of the portion.  “And if you do obey these rules and observe them carefully, the Lord your God will maintain faithfully for you the covenant…He will favor you and bless you and multiply you…” (Deuteronomy 7-12-13)  The second word literally means, “On the heels of” meaning as a consequence of and thus Rashi writes: “If you will heed the minor commandments which one usually tramples with his heels, i.e. which a person treats as being of minor importance then God will keep His promise to you.”  Even the smallest of mitzvot can accumulate for good.

The 19^th century chief rabbi of St. Petersburg and a leader of the Mussar ethical movement, Yitzhak Blazer, adds: “A person must realize that sometimes a negligible action on his part can decide his fate in this world and in the World to Come.  Imagine a man who comes to a train station and finds that he has only enough money to take the train to the station before the one where he wishes to go.  Because he is missing those few pennies, he will be forced to get off the train at the station before his, and will never reach his destination.  The same is true in heavenly matters: sometimes a person does not take a small action, and because of that he will lack sufficient good deeds to tip the scales in his favor.”

Whether or not one believes in heaven, or even hell, a reminder that even the smallest of actions has lasting impact is always required.  This can be enough to transform the here and now.

Vaetchanan

This week’s Torah portion contains one of our most well-known prayers, the Shema and V’Ahavta.  “Hear, O Israel!  The Lord is our God, the Lord is one.  You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” (Deuteronomy 6:4)

We recite this prayer every time we gather as a community, but have we ever paused to think about its meaning and ponder its words.  What does it mean to love God?  Moreover, how does one love God?  Love can sometimes be challenging and difficult.  This is why there are so many songs and poems about love, especially those about losing love. The ancient rabbis, in their wisdom, recognized this difficulty.   

The Sefat Emet, a great Hasidic master, teaches that everyone wants to love God, but distractions and obstacles often get in the way.  By performing mitzvot he taught, we remove these obstacles and distractions and let our souls fulfill their natural inclination of loving God.  In his worldview righteous acts are a balm, helping to fill our hearts with generosity, compassion and love.

The Midrash, on the other hand, notices that there are only three mitzvot that command love.  We are commanded to love the neighbor.  We are commanded to love the stranger.  These commandments are given in the Book of Leviticus.  We are commanded to love God later, in the Book of Deuteronomy.  The Midrash comments: this teaches that we learn to love God by practicing love of God’s creatures, by loving our fellow human beings.  We begin by loving those closest to us and thereby reach towards God.

Both of these commentaries recognize that although love might be cherished and sought after it is often a difficult to achieve.  Nonetheless as Rabbi John used to say, “All you need is love. All you need is love.  All you need is love, love.  Love is all you need.”  Amen.   Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Women of the Wall Rosh Hodesh Av

Here is a video of Monday's prayer and protest with Women of the Wall.

Devarim

Proclaim Liberty to the Wall

The Talmud reports that the Temple was destroyed because of baseless hatred among Jews.  On Monday, on Rosh Hodesh Av, the day that begins the intense mourning period for the destruction of the Temple, I witnessed the Talmud’s words come to life.

I accompanied my wife and 300 other women and joined Women of the Wall for their monthly prayer group.  We were called Nazis and Amalekites, Israel’s ancient sworn enemy.  A few eggs were thrown.  My friend’s daughters were spit on.  We continued to pray.  We sang, “Ozi v’zimrat yah—my strength and songs to God will be my salvation.” (Psalm 118:14)

The morning began, ironically enough, at Liberty Bell Park where the police insisted we gather before traveling to the Wall.  There we boarded buses for the short drive to the Dung Gate.  We were accompanied by police cars and then escorted by officers through the entrance to the Western Wall plaza.  Haredi, ultra-Orthodox, leaders had bused Haredi girls to the Wall ahead of our arrival and filled the women’s section with 5,000 young girls.  The police determined that it would be impossible for Women of the Wall to pray at the Wall and so they only allowed the group into an area just inside the entrance.  We stood in a group, enclosed by police and their barricades, and surrounded by thousands of screaming Haredi men on one side and women on the other.  They shouted at our prayers.  They blew whistles to drown out our singing of Hatikvah.

I never imagined that in the sovereign Jewish state my wife and I would require police protection to pray as we have done all our lives....

Continue reading here

Matot-Masei

Although I am currently in Jerusalem studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute, my thoughts turn to today’s holiday of July 4^th.  I have been thinking about the soldiers who over the centuries fought to gain our independence and still, continue to fight to guarantee our freedom.  I have been thinking about the pain these battles and wars continue to take on our soldiers.

This past fall there was a powerful article in The New Yorker (Dexter Filkins, “Atonement”) about one soldier’s journey to gain forgiveness from the Iraqi family he harmed.  On April 8, 2003 he and his fellow Marines had mistakenly shot twenty innocent Iraqi civilians.  That day continues to haunt many of the soldiers of Fox Company, Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marine Regiment. 

Years later, one of its soldiers Lu Lobello sought out one of the survivors.  Margaret Kachadoorian had made her way, along with her only surviving child, to Glendale California.  She agreed to meet with Lobello.  From that meeting and their tentative and emerging friendship, he gained a measure of forgiveness.  She gained a measure of healing.

Whether or not you agree with the war in Iraq we must stand with our fellow citizens who fight in our nation’s military.  This article was a reminder that we must recognize the cost and pain to their lives, as well as to the lives of their families.

This week we read about the Israelite’s war with the Midianites.  God commands the people: “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites…”  It is a bloody campaign.  In this war, the Israelites killed all the Midianite men, took the women and children as captive and destroyed all their towns.  The Torah offers a ritual for those returning from battle.  “You shall then stay outside the camp seven days; every one among you or among your captives who has slain a person or touched a corpse shall cleanse himself on the third and seventh days.” (Numbers 31:19)

The war with the Midianites is disturbing in its ruthlessness.  Nonetheless the ritual cleansing for Israel’s soldiers is an interesting, and perhaps almost forgotten, footnote.  Even in biblical times there was recognition of the struggle for soldiers to return from battle to home.  But we continue to focus on the horrors of the wars fought in our name.  Why would God command us to destroy the Midianites?  How could God desire vengeance?  We argue about the reasons our country went to war in Iraq.  We continue to debate whether or not it was a justified campaign.  We forget about our soldiers.

Our countries have fought many wars.  Here in Israel the reminders are inescapable.  As I wander Jerusalem’s streets, I walk among memorials: “Here fell…during the battle for Jerusalem during the Six Day War.”  The cost of America’s more recent wars is more distant and for far too many, remote.  We tend to forget about the pain that walks among our soldiers.  Our leaders offer familiar tropes about our soldiers’ sacrifices, and I am sure there will be mention of these today, but too little about their continued pain.  On this July 4^th we would do well to remember their torment.

The Israeli poet, Eliaz Cohen, writes:

You hold back the stream of tears.  We go out for a breath of air on
            the porch
here I prepared a little corner to write the unfinished novel
now from the fig tree in the year the last leaf falls
everything is filled with symbols you say
you fall on my neck, weeping bitterly
my good, loyal soldier, now at long last it is permitted to cry.

On this July 4^th, amidst the barbeques and celebrations, pause, if but for a moment, and remember and offer a tear for our soldiers’ pain.

Pinhas

I am pleased to share that this week’s "Torah Thoughts" was published and distributed nationally by the Jewish Federations of North America.  It can be found at this link and read below.

The Talmud counsels: “Rabbi Hisda taught: 'If the zealot comes to seek counsel, we are never to instruct him to act.'" (Sanhedrin 81b)

And yet the Torah reports that Pinhas was rewarded for his actions.  Here is his story. The people are gathered on the banks of the Jordan River, poised to enter the land of Israel.  They have become intoxicated with the religion of the Midianites, sacrificing to their god, Baal-Peor and participating in its festivals.  Moses tries to get the Israelites to stop, issuing laws forbidding such foreign practices, but they refuse to listen.  God becomes enraged. 

"Just then one of the Israelites came and brought a Midianite woman over to his companions...  When Pinhas saw this he left the assembly and taking a spear in his hand he followed the Israelite into the chamber and stabbed both of them, the Israelite and the woman, through the belly."  The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, "Pinhas has turned back My wrath from the Israelites by displaying among them his passion for Me, so that I do not wipe out the Israelite people in My passion."  (Numbers 25)  Pinhas' passion tempers God’s anger.  Thus Pinhas renews the covenant between God and the people.  

It is for this reason that Pinhas’ memory is recalled at the brit milah ceremony.  As we renew the covenant through the ritual of circumcision we recall Pinhas.  We then welcome the presence of the prophet Elijah who, in the future, will announce the coming of the messiah.  We pray, “This is the chair of Elijah the prophet who is remembered for good.” Perhaps this young child will prove to be our people’s redeemer. 

Elijah is as well a zealot.  He, like Pinhas, has a violent temper and deals with non-believers with an equally heavy hand.  He kills hundreds of idolaters and worshipers of Baal.  So why are these the heroes we recall when we circumcise our sons?  Is it possible that the rabbis saw this ritual and its demand that we hold a knife to our sons as a zealous act?  Was this their nod to the intense passion that is required to perform this mitzvah? 

The Torah suggests, in this week’s portion, that an act is made holy by one’s intention, that the ends justify even extreme means.  Pinhas succeeded in ridding the Israelites of idolatry.  Elijah as well bests the prophets of Baal, bringing the people closer to monotheism.  They are thus revered by our tradition.  I remain troubled and even appalled.  I wonder: why must our passions lead to zealous actions? 

Zealousness and passion are too often intertwined.  Passion is desired.  Zealousness must be quelled.  The knife can be an instrument of holiness or a tool for murder. 

My teacher, Professor Israel Knohl, once remarked 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 exacting, and even ruthless.  While I hold firm to its belief I remain distant from the actions it too frequently deems holy.  

And so I draw a measure of comfort from the very same prophet whose actions I abhor.  Elijah’s story concludes with a beautiful estimation of where we might find God.  It is not in a thunderous voice or mighty actions. "There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks, but the Lord was not in the wind...  After the earthquake—fire; but the Lord was not in the fire.  And after the fire, a still, small voice."  (I Kings 19)

This is the Haftarah that is often paired with this week’s portion.  The rabbis offer this reading as a counterweight.  We require passion, but not zealousness.  Not every disagreement is a threat that necessitates radical action.  Believing in one God does not require that we destroy others, or their followers.  A plurality of beliefs does not negate our own firmly held convictions.

The Rabbis teach! If the zealot comes to seek counsel, we are never to instruct him to act. Rely instead on the still, small voice.

Balak

Balak, the king of the Moabites, grew frightened by the growing numbers of Israelites, saying,  “Now this horde will lick clean all that is about us as an ox licks up the grass of the field.” (Numbers 22:4)  He sent for the prophet Balaam and commanded him to curse the Israelites.  Balaam saddled his donkey for the journey.  Lo and behold the donkey saw an angel of the Lord and spoke to Balaam preventing him from cursing the Israelites.  The animal helped to open the prophet’s eyes so that he might bless the people.  The story’s irony cannot be missed.  The prophet is blind.  The animal sees.

A talking donkey?  The tradition of course views this as a miracle that we should not question.  The 20^th century Jewish philosopher, Franz Rosenzweig, suggests that he believes the story only when it is read in synagogue or perhaps it is better to say, at that moment he suspends disbelief and doubt.  He said, “On the Shabbos when they read it from the Torah, I believe it.”

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes: “Taken literally, the whole story is obviously silly.  Or is it?  Even though it makes us uncomfortable, animals can and do know things hidden from human perception and people do routinely communicate with them.” (Lawrence Kushner and David Mamet, Five Cities of Refuge)

Anyone who has a pet will affirm this observation.  Animals have an awareness that humans sometimes lack. Birds for example are able to weather hurricanes and storms far better than we are.  Not only are the blessed with the ability to fly outside of the storm’s path but they are also endowed with an inner barometer that forewarns them about impending storms.  Each species of birds has developed different strategies for dealing with the weather.

Since the hurricane we have noticed, for example, that the local osprey have changed their nesting patterns.  In the days following the storm we spied an osprey on our neighbor’s front lawn.  Recently as I rode towards Target Rock along West Neck Road I discovered an osprey nest on the edge of the causeway.  In the past these birds could only be seen off in the distance atop tall poles.  Since Hurricane Sandy they apparently were forced to build nests in whatever trees were still left standing.

Usually when riding, I never stop, except at traffic lights of course.  But this moment took my breath away.  There, only a few feet above the road was an osprey nest with chicks in it.  Their parent (I have no way of determining whether it was the mother or father) stood near its young with a fish in its talons.  I stopped to marvel at nature.

I breathed in God’s creation.  I discovered amazement at its ability to find rejuvenation.  Even after the devastation of Superstorm Sandy nature returns and is restored.   I listened to the osprey’s call and its chicks’ whistle.  And like Balaam I sang: “How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob/ Your dwellings, O Israel!/ Like palm-groves that stretch out,/ Like gardens beside a river,/ Like aloes planted by the Lord,/ Like cedars beside the water…” (Numbers 24:5-7)

Hukkat

The Israelites are nearing the end of their wandering and will soon cross into the Promised Land. They will require new leadership.

We see the beginnings of this transition in this week’s portion. We read of the deaths of Miriam and Aaron. We also learn that Moses will only be allowed to take the people to the edge of the land. He is punished for an incident that occurs in this Torah portion. The people were without water and again they complained against Moses and Aaron. God instructs these leaders to command a rock to provide water.

Instead Moses hits the rock with his staff. He and his brother Aaron scream at the people, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you from this rock?” (Numbers 20:10) Water flows from the rock, but still God is disappointed and responds, “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.” (20:12)

For millennia rabbinic commentators debated Moses’ sin. Was it that that he did not follow God’s instructions to the letter? Was it that he hit the rock rather than commanding it? Perhaps he did not give proper credit to God for the miracle. Or was it instead that he showed condescension and disdain towards the people he led.

Rabbi Alexander Zusia Friedman, an early 20th century Orthodox leader of Polish Jewry, who was murdered in the Holocaust, wrote: “There is a deeper leadership lesson behind the incident of Moses striking the rock. In order to secure obedience Pharaoh appointed taskmasters who shouted, “Do it or else!” Once the Torah is given, the leaders are to direct the people by speaking and teaching. When people refuse to follow, one should inspire them with words—not sticks.” (Wellspring of Torah)

His interpretation offers an inkling to Moses’ sin. Sometimes successful leadership is a matter of tone. It is about temperament. Moses lost patience with the people he led. His frustration is understandable. Too often the people failed to appreciate the blessings of freedom and instead saw only its struggles and challenges. Nonetheless leadership demands understanding. It requires patience. This week, the elderly Moses loses faith with the people he leads.

And so Moses is forbidden from entering the Promised Land. More often than not we see this as God’s punishment for our hero’s great sin. Perhaps we should read this not so much as punishment but instead as God’s recognition that people will no longer follow a leader who exhibited such disdain towards them. The people could no longer follow a leader who shouted, “Listen, you rebels…”

Today’s leaders no longer have miracles to support their pronouncements. They no longer carry sticks. They have only their speaking and teaching. Sometimes we are tempted to think this is not enough. We see our leaders become frustrated when their visions appear unattainable. We witness people becoming disheartened when dreams go unfulfilled. We are tempted to resort to sticks, to coercion. Then we become like Pharaoh’s taskmasters.

And then no one reaches the Promised Land.

Korach

This week’s Torah portion is about Korach and the rebellion he leads.  Korach and his followers rebel against Moses and his leadership, claiming: “You have gone too far!  For the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst.  Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16:3)  Korach is severely punished for questioning Moses.

There is a debate regarding Korach’s sin.  What was his terrible wrong?  Most agree that he should not have questioned Moses during such a difficult period.  The people were wandering through the wilderness.  They required decisive leadership.  The community needed to be unified.  Korach sought to sow divisiveness when unity was demanded. 

But there appears more to Korach’s words.  Yeshayahu Leibowitz, an Israeli scientist and Jewish philosopher, offers an intriguing interpretation.  Korach’s sin is revealed in his claim that “all the community are holy.”  Korach implies that the people have already achieved their goal of holiness and nothing more is demanded of them. (Etz Hayim Torah Commentary)

The Torah challenges us, however, to become holy.  “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” the Holiness Code admonishes us. (Leviticus 19).  What follows then are primarily a list of ethical demands.  The intention is clear.  What makes us holy are our every day actions.  “Do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich…  Love your neighbor…  You shall have an honest balance and honest weights…”    

But there are people who believe that just by virtue of their being Jewish they are already as close to God as they need to be.  They do not see the challenge in the Torah’s command.  They see it only as privilege.  Chosenness in this worldview is not the call to improve the world that it must be for the Jewish people to realize its birthright but instead only a blessing conferring privilege. 

Holiness is a goal that we must strive to achieve each and every day.  It must forever remain a future goal not a present day boast.  The sin of Korach was not that he sowed dissent, but instead that he thought the work was already finished. He believed that there was nothing more he needed to do.  There were no improvements to be made.  His world was already holy, he appeared to believe. 

Holiness must not be a claim of privilege.  It is a demand of us made each and every day, each and every hour, each and every moment.  We become holy by what we do.  Our birthright only acquires holiness through our actions.

Shelach Lecha

Leon Wieseltier, The New Republic’s literary editor, writes:

How much can an idealist know about the world and still not be defeated by it?  Consider love: blind love is surely an inferior sort of love—the expression of the fear that the object of love may not be sufficient to justify it; but hope, too must face the problem of ignorance.  With too little knowledge, hope may be a delusion; with too much knowledge, hope may be destroyed.  To some extent, idealism is always a defiance of the facts—but defy too many of the facts and you court disaster.  People who wish to change the world have a special responsibility to acquaint themselves with the world, in the manner of scouts or spies. (“Flaking Paint and Blemishes,” The New Republic, June 10, 2013)

Herein we gain insight to the sin of the spies detailed in this week’s portion.  Moses commands twelve spies to scout the land of Israel.  Ten bring back a negative report.  “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, and so we must have looked to them.”  (Numbers 13:32-33)

Really?  Every single one of the inhabitants was a giant?  And you were tiny grasshoppers? 

The Hasidic master, Menahem Mendel of Kotzk, teaches:

Did the spies lie?  Did they make up what they told the people?  Obviously not; they told the people exactly what they had seen….  The truth is not necessarily as things appear, but stems from the depths of the heart, from the sources of one’s faith.  Truth and faith go hand in hand, and a person does not acquire truth easily and by a superficial glance.  What is required is hard work and effort, wisdom and understanding.  The spies did not work at finding the truth in God’s word. 

Two spies return with a positive report.  They do not deny the challenges ahead and the battles that will confront the Israelites.  They are also imbued with confidence and seek to inspire the Israelites about their mission.  These spies were Joshua and Caleb.  “Caleb hushed the people before Moses and said, ‘Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of [the land], for we shall surely overcome it.’” (Numbers 13:30)  For this reason Joshua and Caleb are the only people among all the Israelites who were born in Egypt as slaves who were allowed to cross into the freedom that would be found in the land of Israel.  The people who followed them across the Jordan River were born in the wilderness and not in slavery.  Can a slave ever see freedom?  Their eyes could only see giants.  Those who only see giants blocking their path can never truly achieve liberation.

Joshua and Caleb did not offer the people an unrealistic assessment.  They did not suggest an overly optimistic appraisal.  Their message was the proper mixture of reality and hope.  You can only lead a people to a better future if it is a realistic future.  You can only change the world if you know the world.

I recall a modern example.  Years ago, in March 2002, I was in Israel at a rabbinic convention.  It was during the height of the second intifada and there were daily terrorist bombings in Jerusalem.  One morning we gathered to hear Shimon Peres.  The night before the Moment Café was bombed and eleven people were murdered.  One of the young women who lost her life worked in the Foreign Ministry with Shimon Peres who was then Foreign Minister.  He spoke to us about her life, and her funeral that he had just returned from, but then turned to his vision for a new Middle East in which Arab states and Israel would share trade and commerce in a manner similar to the European Union.  I thought to myself, “Is he blind?  How can we build a new Middle East when suffering daily terrorist attacks?”  I want a new Middle East as well.  I want a Middle East at peace.  My dreams must be tempered by present realities.

Ideals cannot ignore reality.  Then again dreams are how we move forward.  Visions are how we change our destiny.  Allow reality, allow terrorism and fear, to obscure your ideals and the world will indeed never change.  Allow dreams to blind you, so that you only see visions of perfection and not present threats, and you will never find security and quiet.  Going about our everyday lives is indeed dependent on being unafraid.  Building a better future is secured by continuing to hold ideals in our hearts.

I turn to Wieseltier’s insights: “The world may thwart our efforts to improve it, but it cannot thwart our conceptions of it improved; and that is our advantage over it.  We can always resume the struggle.” I rely on Hasidic intuitions.  Truth and faith must go hand in hand!

Behaalotcha

An intriguing verse is found in this week’s portion: “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat!  We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled.  There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna to look at!’” (Numbers 11:4-6)

What is so great about cucumbers that would cause people to weep?   Obviously it is not about the objects themselves but instead a longing for the past, even when it was one of slavery.  We tend to mythologize the past.  As soon as we confront struggles and challenges with the new direction we have chosen, or for that matter were dragged into, we long for the past, even when that reality was not in our best interest.  How else can we explain the Israelites craving leeks and onions?  I certainly doubt they were making chicken soup in Egypt!  Now that they are confronting hardships and difficulties they long for the past—even when it tasted terrible.

This week I discovered another lesson about these foods.  In next week’s portion, the scouts travel the land of Israel and bring back a report.  They speak of the foods of this new land.  In the land of Israel there are to be found for instance grapes, figs and pomegranates.  David Arnow points out that these are perennials.  By contrast the foods of Egypt are annuals.  They have to be replanted every year. 

Grapes, figs and pomegranates produce for many years, although they take several years to mature and bear fruit.  They of course require care and nurturing, but they remain a long-term solution to hunger.  The lesson becomes clear.   It was not only Pharaoh who enslaved the Israelites but also the very foods of Egypt.  These they had to plant year after year.  Still they long for the familiar.  They long for the very tools by which they were enslaved.

I wonder to what foods are we enslaved.  In our modern society where we are far removed from the processes of planting, growing and harvesting our foods have we become chained to certain foods?  Would our gullets shrivel without sugar or corn syrup, chicken or steak?  There is growing evidence that many of the foods of modern culture pose health dangers, especially in the quantities that we eat them, yet we continue to claim that we cannot do without.

I am left wondering.  Are we once again languishing in Egypt, dependent on yearly crops that do not promise a better long-term future?  Is it possible to look beyond the yearly cycle of planting and harvesting and instead plan not only for our children but even our great grandchildren’s future?  Can the very foods we eat become part of a grander dream?

The prophet proclaimed a messianic vision:  “And every man shall sit under his grapevine and fig tree and no one shall terrify him.”  (Micah 4:4)

Naso

This week’s Torah portion contains the priestly blessing.  “The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to Aaron and his sons: Thus shall you bless the people of Israel.  Say to them: The Lord bless you and protect you!  The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you!  The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!”  (Numbers 6:22-26)

In ancient times the priests uttered this blessing on a daily basis.  In Sephardic synagogues as well the priestly blessing is recited during the morning prayers.  In Ashkenazi synagogues, however, it is only recited on Passover, Sukkot and Shavuot and Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  This priestly ritual, known by its Yiddish name dukhanen, is re-enacted by those who trace their lineage to the ancient priests. 

Among those who attend Reform synagogues, this threefold priestly blessing is associated with the blessing the rabbi offers at weddings, baby namings and b’nai mitzvah.  On these occasions it is offered not to the Jewish people as a whole but to an individual or couple.

In its traditional formulation it was a blessing offered for the Jewish people.  “Thus shall you bless the people of Israel.  Say to them…”  But the grammar is then incorrect.  The “you” of the blessing is in the singular not the plural.  Why would a blessing directed to “them” be formulated in the singular?

Rabbi Simhah Leib, a Hasidic rebbe, comments: “The priestly blessing is recited in the singular, because the most important blessing that the Jewish people can have is unity.  This was attained at Mount Sinai, where our Sages tell us on the verse, ‘and Israel camped there’—and the word for ‘camped’ is in the singular—that ‘they were as one person with one heart.’”

People often mistake unity for agreement.  A group can be unified but not always agree.  Disagreements, passionate debates, are part of any marriage or community. There must, however, be a unity of purpose and mission.  Sometimes I wonder if the Jewish people have lost this unified vision.  Do we continue to share the belief that the purpose of leading a Jewish life is not only to teach Jewish observance to our children and our children’s children, to make sure that each and every child has a bar or bat mitzvah, but instead as Elie Wiesel once said, “to make the world more human?”

That remains the vision I hold before my eyes.  “The mission of the Jewish people has never been to make the world more Jewish, but to make it more human.”  Perhaps this is why unity is our most important blessing and prayer.  Can we ever fulfill such a grand vision if we remain divided? 

Unity must remain our most fervent prayer.  “…May the Lord grant you peace.”

The Forgotten Holiday

What follows is my May-June newsletter article.

One would think that a holiday that offers cheesecake as its required delicacy would be among our most popular.  On Shavuot it is customary to eat dairy foods so cheesecake and blintzes are its traditional foods. 

Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.  Contained in the Torah are the laws for slaughtering meat.  Thus we can only eat dairy until the time we receive these specific laws.  In addition the Torah is likened to milk and honey.  It is as sweet as honey and as pure as milk.  It is for these reasons that we eat dairy.

Still, despite these favorite foods, Shavuot remains the forgotten holiday.  It could not of course be more important in its message.  So why is it neglected?  Perhaps this is because its primary observances are not found in the home, like the seder of Passover, but instead in the synagogue.  At Shavuot services we read the Ten Commandments.  In addition it is customary that we stay up all night studying Torah in a Tikkun L’eil Shavuot. 

Sometimes I wonder if this holiday is better suited for college students with their late night study habits.  Purim, with its wild parties and drinking, and Shavuot with its similar last minute, all night cramming for an exam, should be most appealing to college age students.  Then again the reason for Shavuot’s neglect can also be found in the Torah.  The Torah does not in fact delineate an exact date for the holiday. 

Instead it is calculated in relation to Passover which is accorded the date of the fourteenth of Nisan.  We are commanded to count seven weeks from Passover to Shavuot.  Shavuot’s name means “weeks.”  The Omer period connects the freedom from Egypt with the revelation at Sinai.  The Jewish contention is obvious.  The freedom celebrated on Passover is meaningless if not wedded to the Torah revealed on Shavuot.

Still, in this lack of a fixed date we discover Shavuot’s true meaning.  One day alone cannot be assigned to Torah.  This must be our occupation each and every day. 

The fulfillment of being granted freedom is only discovered when married to something greater.  We may be free to do whatever we want and whatever we please (and of course eat anything we desire).  But meaning and fulfillment are only discovered, and revealed, when tied to something.  On Shavuot we receive the answer.  Torah is how we discover this meaning.

Shavuot grants meaning to Passover.  Torah lends fulfillment to freedom.

Shavuot

The holiday of Shavuot begins this evening.  It marks the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.  Each of the major holidays has a megillah assigned to them.  On Passover we read Song of Songs.  On Sukkot we read from Ecclesiastes.  On Shavuot we read from the Book of Ruth.  This fascinating story tells the tale of Ruth, a Moabite, who marries into the Israelite family of Naomi.  Sadly their husbands die and so Naomi urges her to return to her own country.

Ruth refuses and pledges herself to Naomi and her people.  “Do not urge me to leave you, to turn back and not follow you. For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God.  Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.  Thus and more may the Lord do to me if anything but death parts me from you.” (Ruth 1:16-17)

And with these words Ruth pledges herself not only to her mother in law but to the Jewish people.  Why is this story assigned to Shavuot?  One reason is that just as the Jewish people choose the Torah so too does Ruth.  Her personal choice is mirrored in the people’s communal decision to accept the Torah’s privileges and responsibilities. 

There is, however, another reason hidden within the tale.  Ruth is a Moabite.  The Moabites were Israel’s enemy.  She is therefore the stranger par excellence.  No one can be more distant from the Jewish people.  Yet she still chooses to wed herself to the Jewish people.  Even more significantly she is welcomed into the communal fold.

When Ruth and Naomi arrive in Bethlehem, one of the city’s leading citizens, Boaz, treats them with compassion.  Boaz lives by the Torah’s command: “When you reap the harvest in your field and overlook a sheaf in the field, do not turn back to get it; it shall go to the stranger, the orphan, and the widow—in order that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings.” (Deuteronomy 24:19)  The Book is therefore a test of society’s ability to live by the commandments of the Torah.  Ruth is a stranger.  She is an orphan.  She is a widow. 

These categories represent the powerless in ancient Israelite society.  They lack a protector.  Boaz rushes, without hesitation and doubt, to Ruth’s defense. “When Ruth got up again to glean, Boaz gave orders to his workers, ‘You are not only to let her glean among the sheaves, without interference, but you must also pull some stalks out of the heaps and leave them for her to glean, and not scold her.’” (Ruth 2:15-16)  The fact that Ruth and Boaz are later married, and live happily ever after, is secondary.

Boaz welcomes the stranger, the orphan and the widow.  His act reminds us of our own obligations.  The Book of Ruth calls us once again to the demands of a life wedded to Torah.  As we celebrate the giving of the Torah we must also ask about its central obligations.  The Book of Ruth spells out these obligations.  Always reach out to those in need. 

Each and every year when we read this book we are asked by its story if we are living up to these demands.  Are we treating with compassion the weakest and most vulnerable in our society?

Boaz and Ruth have a child and a measure of joy is restored in Naomi’s heart.  She is told, “Blessed be the Lord who has not withheld a redeemer from you today!” (Ruth 4:14)  And then we read the most unlikely of epitaphs.  Their great grandson is King David.  From David’s line, the tradition teaches us, the messiah will be called.

The redemption of the world does indeed begin with one act of kindness.

Bamidbar

There is an interesting, and perhaps even strange, verse that concludes this week’s Torah portion.  Its meaning, and understanding, is dependent on how we translate its words.  “But let them not go inside and witness the dismantling of the sanctuary, lest they die.” (Numbers 4:20)

In ancient times the Israelites traveled through the wilderness, carrying with them the portable tabernacle and its sacred objects.  Their sanctuary was portable.  It was the job of certain members of the Levites to dismantle this tent of meeting as they journeyed from place to place.  In essence they had to break down camp and pack it up.  Apparently no one else could witness this task.  This could diminish the power of the sanctuary in their eyes.  To see it as it was dismantled could lesson its holiness.

All of us have attended concerts, shows, or even weddings and b’nai mitzvah.  There is a certain majesty that is of course absent when you see the empty room before it is set up for the ceremony or performance.  The magic is not yet there.  It is even more disheartening to see all of the trappings of the pomp and circumstance dismantled, or (and I find this especially disquieting) the leftover food discarded in trash cans.  The excitement and enthusiasm of the celebration are now behind us.  They linger only in our memories.  The Torah suggests that to see the sanctuary taken apart diminishes these memories.

Perhaps this is the message that Jackson Browne sings about.  Sing it with me!  “Now the seats are all empty/ Let the roadies take the stage/ Pack it up and tear it down/ They're the first to come and last to leave…”   Such appears the plain meaning of the text.

But the literal translation of the verse offers another interpretation.  The verse is literally rendered: “Let them not come and look at the sacred objects even for a moment, lest they die.”  Here it is not the dismantling that causes problems but instead just looking at these sacred objects.  How could looking at an object lead to death?  There must be spiritual message that we can uncover.  How we look at objects and the meaning we invest in them is now our question.

In our basement are piles of forgotten things.  There can be found old toys, discarded furniture, even computer hard drives.  Over the years we have accumulated too many things.  To wander in our basement is to tour our family’s history, from cribs to toddler beds to now (and years behind schedule) a new queen size bed.  Shira’s bunk bed was only just given away to our neighbor’s young daughter.  (May she enjoy many happy sleepovers underneath its covers!)  We seem to find it difficult to discard these once precious objects.

We should take counsel from our tradition.  Judaism views objects as tools.  They do not have meaning in and of themselves.  We invest meaning in them.  An ordinary piece of jewelry becomes a wedding band, a silver goblet a kiddush cup.  How are these ordinary objects transformed and invested with holiness?  It is by our use.  It is how we use them day in and day out that gives them meaning.  It is also of course how they were used by generations prior to us.  In fact our most precious kiddush cup is rather plain.  It is treasured because it was given to us by Susie’s grandparents who in turn received it from their grandparents.  It is for this reason that many couples use a grandparent’s wedding band at their wedding ceremonies.  

Other times we invest too much meaning in objects.  Our children believe that they must have the latest iPhone or iPad, the best sneakers or lacrosse stick.  Is your computer running Windows 8 or perhaps Mountain Lion?  Are you playing basketball in the sneakers that Lebron James recommends?  We are led to believe that our gadgets and clothing must be the most up to date and contain the latest innovations.  Advertisements prod us with suggestions that we can buy greater meaning, and of course better athletic prowess, by purchasing ever-newer products.  We come to believe that meaning is immediately seized as soon as we take hold of these objects.  In truth it is always how we use them.  We grant meaning to them.

And here we discover the greater lesson contained in the Torah portion.  When we look at objects, and fail to see the people grasping them, when we invest life saving or life altering qualities in this gadget or another, then a spiritual death creeps into our souls.

We invest meaning in the objects we hold.  They can never confer meaning to our lives.

Behar-Bechukotai

The Torah is quite literal in its understanding of human events.  It proposes the following: if you do good then you will receive many blessings.  If you do bad then evil will befall you.  This week’s portion proclaims: “If you follow My Laws and faithfully observe My commandments…you shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land.…  But if you do not obey Me and do not observe all these commandments …  I in turn will do this to you: I will wreak misery upon you—consumption and fever, which cause the eyes to pine and body to languish…” (Leviticus 26)

This theology does not of course comport with reality.  Each of us can name any number of righteous people whose lives were sadly cut short.  Far too many people who fill their lives with noble pursuits are not blessed with a fair allotment of years.  We can also name others who never, for example, gave a penny to tzedakah yet who still live a long, healthy, untroubled life.  The equity and justice that the Torah promises is never apparently realized or matched by our everyday experiences.

Our tradition offers many explanations for this discrepancy between the Torah’s promises and our observations.  I favor the suggestion that what we read in the Torah is not so much theology but instead a prayer.  Who among us would not pray that everything be perfectly measured and fairly balanced?  I pray that the world and our lives could be measured by such perfect justice.  Such is not our reality.  But it remains my prayer.

Yet in one regard the Torah’s literalism appears to match recent, contemporary experiences.  The Torah also declares: “You shall faithfully observe My laws and all My regulations, lest the land to which I bring you to settle in vomit you out.” (Leviticus 20:22)  The Torah is of course speaking in particular about the land of Israel.  That land remains the place to which we lavish the most concern.  The Torah contends that continuing to reside in that land is intimately tied to our behavior. 

Still this phrase has been whirling in my thoughts these past months.  Our experiences of this past year suggest even more that nature has a temper.  My hometown is, for example, once again besieged by record breaking floods.  Our own Long Island is still struggling to recover from Hurricane Sandy.  High school students in the Rockaways only just returned to their school on Monday.  Why is there still debate?  Scientists agree that many of these changes are caused by global warming. 

We are indeed responsible for these changes.  We have failed to live up to the Torah’s mandate “to till the earth and tend it.” (Genesis 2:15)  We are stewards of God’s nature.  While Judaism clearly teaches that we can use nature for our own benefit we also have a responsibility to care for it and ensure that our children and grandchildren can derive the same benefit.  There are not an infinite number of natural resources to forever be exploited.

We have failed to live up to this challenge.  The hurricanes signal our failure as much as they indicate nature’s fury.  Yet there is time to mend our mistakes and fashion a different future for our descendants.  There are opportunities to renew our commitment to this biblical command to be stewards of the earth.

Only one time does the Torah state that God will remember the land.  It occurs in this week’s portion: “Then will I remember My covenant with Jacob; I will remember also My covenant with Isaac, and also My covenant with Abraham; and I will remember the land.” (Leviticus 26:42)  What prompts this remembrance by God?  It is our repentance.  It is our recognition of our failures.  God is moved by our repentance.  We need only change.

I wonder.  Is it possible that the Torah is correct and that our present reality is the realization of its prophecy?  Is it also possible that God could be moved by our repentance and that we can once again live in harmony with the land?

For Our Teachers and their Students

Tom Friedman writes:

And that’s why the faster, more accessible and ultramodern the Internet becomes, the more all the old-fashioned stuff matters: good judgment, respect for others who are different and basic values of right and wrong. Those you can’t download. They have to be uploaded, the old-fashioned way, by parents around the dinner table, by caring but demanding teachers at school and by responsible spiritual leaders in a church, synagogue, temple or mosque. 

And our prayerbook reminds us:

When Torah entered the world, freedom entered it. The whole Torah exists only to establish peace. Its highest teaching is love and kindness. What is hateful to you, do not do to any person. That is the whole Torah; all the rest is commentary. Go and learn it. Those who study Torah are the true guardians of civilization. Honoring one another, doing acts of kindness, and making peace: these are our highest duties. But the study of Torah is equal to them all, because it leads to them all. Let us learn in order to teach. Let us learn in order to do!

All the emails, blog posts, Facebook friends, Tweets, Instagram photos in the world cannot replace the good old-fashioned stuff of Torah and the hard work of its most important teachers, parents and grandparents.

"For our teachers and their students, and the students of the students, we ask for peace and lovingkindness, and let us say, Amen."

Leon Wieseltier on the Boston Massacre

The Boston Massacre and Our Emotional Efficiency | The New Republic

Leon Wieseltier observes that we might be better served by some righteous indignation and anger rather than by the suggestion of far too many that we move on, rebuild and even put the Boston Marathon attack behind us.  He writes:

Vigilance, increased and intense, is not a victory for the terrorists. Mourning, and the time it takes, is not a victory for the terrorists. Reflection on all the meanings and the implications—on the fragility of our lives—on terrorism and theodicy—is not a victory for the terrorists. A less than wholly sunny and pragmatic view of the world is not a victory for the terrorists. What happened on Boylston Street was not a common event, but it was not a singular event. There is a scar. Taking terrorism seriously is not a victory for terrorism.

The cliches about rebuilding and standing taller are not always the best responses.  They are unhelpful when mourning the loss of a loved one.  Time does not in fact heal.  What time instead offers is how to keep on living despite the loss.  We learn how to live only with those imperfect memories.  We struggle to continue telling our father's or mother's story or as in this case, a child's.  But is that ever possible when the loss is outside the natural order and one discovers oneself mourning a child, ripped from one's arms by the anger of a terrorist?  Is anger really then a misplaced emotion?

Years later there still must be tears.  There is nothing wrong with that.  In fact crying is sometimes the best, and only, response, we have.  Jeremiah laments:

A cry is heard in Ramah—

Wailing, bitter weeping—

Rachel weeping for her children.

She refuses to be comforted

For her children, who are gone. (Jeremiah 31:15)

When approaching this massacre continued tears may in fact lead to continued anger and perhaps even prevent us from moving on.  Is that wrong, Wieseltier reminds us.  We are angry that these two human hearts can be so twisted by hate that they would construct a kitchen made bomb whose only intention was to murder, and especially maim, as many people as possible.  Those tears should continue to burn in our hearts.  Anger can serve a noble purpose.

Being angry at the right things, and people, can serve to make us better--and perhaps even our world better--or at least safer.  The attempt to quickly repair the destruction and erase the anger can turn us away from the work that must be done.  Moving on may be incorrect.  Moving forward--and now in a new and different direction--is the only task.