Yom Kippur and Walking Together
A Hasidic tale. Rabbi Hayim of Tzanz used to tell this parable: A man, wandering lost in the forest for several days, finally encountered another. He called out: “Brother, show me the way out of the forest.” The man replied: “Brother, I am also lost. I can only tell you this: The ways I have tried lead nowhere; they have only led me astray. Take my hand, and let us search for the way together.” Rabbi Hayim would add: “So it is with us. When we go our separate ways, we may go astray. Let us join hands and look for the way together.”
On Yom Kippur we recount our sins. We examine our ways so that we might mend our wrongs and repair our mistakes. In fact the Hebrew word for sin, cheyt, is better translated as missing the mark. Sin implies that one is tainted by an action, that repair is nearly impossible. Missing the mark, however, suggests that repair is more a matter of getting back on the proper path. And how do we get back on that path? With the help of others.
This is why the Viddui, the confession of sins, is recited in the plural. We recite a litany of wrongs not because we believe that every one of us has done every one of these wrongs, but instead because we are strengthened by we. “For the sin we have committed…” We are lifted by the exclamation of “we.” We are weakened by I.
That is the power of Yom Kippur. We join with others in order that each of us might better repair our own individual lives.
Let us join hands and look for the way together.
On Yom Kippur we recount our sins. We examine our ways so that we might mend our wrongs and repair our mistakes. In fact the Hebrew word for sin, cheyt, is better translated as missing the mark. Sin implies that one is tainted by an action, that repair is nearly impossible. Missing the mark, however, suggests that repair is more a matter of getting back on the proper path. And how do we get back on that path? With the help of others.
This is why the Viddui, the confession of sins, is recited in the plural. We recite a litany of wrongs not because we believe that every one of us has done every one of these wrongs, but instead because we are strengthened by we. “For the sin we have committed…” We are lifted by the exclamation of “we.” We are weakened by I.
That is the power of Yom Kippur. We join with others in order that each of us might better repair our own individual lives.
Let us join hands and look for the way together.
Spotify and Synagogues: A Meditation on the Synagogue
What follows is the written text of my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon exploring why we need the synagogue.
I would like to speak this morning about ancient history. On this Rosh Hashanah I wish to meditate on history and wonder aloud about our future. For this occasion I have unearthed a number of artifacts. Here is the first show and tell item. It is of course a record album, an exhibit of classic vinyl. I uncovered this in my basement buried in the boxes from our move eleven years ago to our current home. There remain my albums stacked neatly in the moving boxes, never again to be unpacked until this very moment. Some of my younger students might be marveling at this object. Yes, this is what I once used to play music. To put this in contemporary terms, this double album contains 26 songs, a mere fraction of the 1,000 songs presently on my iPhone.
This of course is no ordinary album. It is Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I recall the discussions when this album came out. It was the most ancient of days. The year was 1979. There was the excitement and enthusiasm of that moment when in December of that year I finally got my hands on the album. I held the prize in my fingers. My friends and I marveled at the cover graphics. We even argued about the hidden meanings found in the track order. As those Saturday evenings would drag on into Sunday mornings, we would run back and forth to the turntable to replay track 6 of side 3. (“Hello, hello, hello…Is anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home.”)
That’s what it was like in ancient days. That was the experience of listening to music. Some might be looking at this relic, especially those on our Israel Committee, and saying, “Did he have to pick Pink Floyd? Did the rabbi have to choose Roger Waters given his hatred of Israel and his activism in the BDS movement (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions)? I pledge we will examine these issues in more detail on Yom Kippur. This album remains a world to its own. I recall those days with fondness when I hold it in my hands.
But what of music today? It has been a mere thirteen years since the invention of the iPod. My current b’nai mitzvah students know of no other world. We shared music in ancient times not on Facebook but by making mix tapes. That is how we shared our love of Pink Floyd or the Eagles or if we want to march into the 80’s, Squeeze and the Talking Heads. (“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack… And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’”) And now even downloading music is a thing of the past. What was revolutionary a decade ago, our children by and large no longer do. There is Spotify and Grooveshark. For a mere $10 per month I can have access to 20 million songs. Gone is the sense of holding the music in my hands. Gone is the sense of owning music. For my young students music is only shared. It is about playlists and individual songs rather than albums and tracks. It is about Facebook discussions like “I can’t believe Steven Moskowitz is listening to Hotel California again.”
I hold now a second piece of history in my hands. This is a book. I would like to think that this is not yet ancient history, but I wonder what the future holds for the book in the fast paced digital age? The movement from scrolls, with which we of course still read, to those few, precious books made for wealthy individuals to the mass production of books by Gutenberg in 1440 helped to democratize learning. And yet the piles of books, the rows upon rows of filled to overflowing bookshelves are no longer the most common feature of a Jewish home. My Kindle, this small little device, can hold over 1,000 books. I can have access to a library of books on my iPhone.
Lest this sound like another advertisement, for another $10 per month I can have unlimited access to 700,000 books. Then again there is something about the feel of a book in the hand. The People of the eReader does not have the same ring to it. And this book that I clutch is again no ordinary book. It is my prized collection of Emily Dickinson poems. There is of course an Emily Dickinson app given that she is among this country’s greatest poets, but a book represents a journey, a book tells a story separate even from its words.
And I can tell you the story of my discovery of this book. I had boarded the subway to make my journey uptown from Penn Station when I looked up from my folded paper (remember how we used to fold the paper so as not poke the person next to us) to discover this sign called Poetry in Motion. Launched by the MTA and the Poetry Society of America in 1992 the subway cars were now decorated not only with advertisements but poems. And there I read “Hope is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –.”’ I did not know then that poem #254 could so capture my heart. I exited the subway to find a bookstore and purchase this book: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. I recall that each and every time I hold this book in my hands and discover another of her lines. Among the dog-eared pages I find again “A smile so small as mine might be/Precisely their necessity –“ (#1391).
Leafing through the pages of these poems I continue the journey. For my children their journeys will be very different. Children’s journeys are of course supposed to be different than their parent’s. Books might no longer line their shelves but the written word, I hope and pray, will continue to stimulate their minds and penetrate the soul. Still I wonder what might be lost without a book under their arms, without books lining their shelves. How will they still leaf through pages and discover anew a poem to stir the soul?
The third show and tell item in this meditation on history I cannot even wrap my hands around. It is the synagogue. It is likewise undergoing radical transformations. Like music and poetry, it too is ancient yet changing. What will the synagogue be like in an age when so much is shared for such little expense? People might not be asking this question so directly but I see it forming on their lips. They ask, if I can have all access to music and books for $10 per month why can’t I have all access to Judaism for just as little? And so here is my response to why the synagogue must survive. Before we can even answer this question we must ask a more basic question: why be Jewish. So let me tell you straight out. Why be Jewish.? Because Judaism offers a path of meaning. Because Judaism tackles questions with which we are still wrestling. Because Judaism offers a road to bring healing to the world.
These answers are uncovered in the book. The answer is unfurled in the edges of a scroll. And that takes some work to uncover. Let’s be honest if you want something akin to the convenience of eReaders and iPhones you can go elsewhere. You can find a tutor to come to your house. You can hire a “rabbi” who will officiate at a bar or bat mitzvah three months from now. If you just want the ceremony you can do that. But synagogue is first and foremost about community. Hebrew School is a misnomer. It is not about learning Hebrew as much as it is about teaching our children to attach themselves to their community and to fall in love with their faith. That is why it matters that they sit across the table from others. Learning is not a solitary activity for the Jew. It is done with others. Sure you can read by yourself. Sure you can even practice your alef-bet by yourself. But you can only truly learn with others.
This is why as well learning is supposed to be a life long pursuit. That in a nutshell is one of the reasons why I run away to Jerusalem every summer. So I can study surrounded by others, so that my head can be filled with the arguments and debates that have sustained our people. And why must we learn? Because we believe that Torah is meant to better the world. I don’t mean to suggest that we should convert the world to being Jewish, but I do mean to say that if Judaism is to matter it has to matter not just for ourselves and our own individual needs, but it has to matter for the world. Abraham Joshua Heschel, the unparalleled 20th century rabbi, remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential…. Hence we learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.” (Pikuach Neshama: To Save a Soul)
If Torah is only about lighting candles 18 minutes before sunset or about answering questions such as is this oven kosher or not and not about is it ethical to lay off employees so as to increase the stock price, is it moral to wage war against ISIS, then it is meaningless. Torah must be relevant for our lives today. It must have meaning for the here and now. If Torah is only about personal meaning and not even more importantly about the betterment of the world, then it loses its significance. If it remains here and does not venture to the streets, to our offices, to our homes then it lacks profound truth. We must live lives that become Torah.
Do you want to know why we should survive? Here is why. The world desperately needs these answers or at the very least a place where we can debate these questions. Do you want to know why the synagogue must survive? It is the address where these values are learned and re-engaged; it is where community is fostered and Torah is brought to the world.
That is why the synagogue was created. 2,000 years ago there was only one address to be Jewish. The only address was the Temple in Jerusalem. There we would bring our sacrifices to the priest to be offered on the Temple’s altar. There was no local address for Judaism in each and every town. It was centralized in the Temple. And then in 70 CE the Romans destroyed the Temple and nearly wiped us out completely when they leveled Jerusalem. All that remains of that grand structure is the Kotel, the Western Wall. Out of that tragedy the synagogue was born. The rabbis developed a portable faith that was independent of place that was separated from even the holiest of places. We could go anywhere. All we needed was a book, the Torah, and the songs of our prayers. Even more importantly all we needed was each other. Synagogue comes from the Greek translation of the Hebrew Beit Knesset, a house of assembly. What makes a synagogue a synagogue is not a building but the people. If you have the required ten, you have a synagogue, whether you are in Jerusalem, or Brookville or Jericho or Oyster Bay.
The Rabbis fashioned Judaism out of the Bible; they made wandering and journeying part of the enterprise. They recognized that even though we might, until realizing this dream in the present day, longed for Jerusalem, our lot would be to wander throughout the lands. In each city, in every town, in all the countries of our dispersion, the synagogue became the primary address for teaching Torah, for bringing Torah to successive generations and the world at large. We would forever be wanderers. We would forever journey. We would learn new things in every land, we would discover new truths in every city and we would relearn our ancient teachings in the synagogue, now on Temple Lane. In a way we carried the synagogue, as we carry a book, from place to place. We held it in our hands. We carried its meaning in our hearts. We marveled at its architecture. We looked at the album cover. We continue to wander.
The Torah is of course on its most literal level about a journey. First it tells the story about the discovery of God. Abraham looks up and realizes that there can only be one God who made the heavens and the earth. It is then about God responding to our suffering and freeing us from Egypt. But it is mostly about 40 years of wandering through the wilderness. That is the majority of the story. It is about the trials and misfortunes of the longest camping trip ever described. “Moses, I can’t believe you forgot to pack more food!” the people scream over and over again. But it is worth the journey, and the grumblings and the complaining, because there is a promise of a new home in the land of Israel. And then on the shores of the Jordan River, Moses gives one final speech followed by another final speech filled with advice, but mostly filled with warnings about what to do and of course mostly what not to do. And then he dies. God buries him on Mount Nebo.
And the Torah then does the most surprising of things. It ends. The Torah concludes on the wrong side of the river. It ends with the promise unfulfilled, with the dream unrealized. Our most important book ends with the journey incomplete. And what do we do? We roll the scroll back to the beginning and start reading the story all over again. “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth…” In the synagogue and the Torah reading cycle that is central to this institution we ritualize the journey over the destination. The journey always continues we remind ourselves year after year. On Simhat Torah we sing for joy not because we have arrived at some destination but because we can begin again. The wandering always continues.
People think that the synagogue is fixed, that is immovable and never changing. People think that a synagogue is a building. It is not. The building is a tool. It serves the congregation. It must never become the other way around. This is the most important lesson I learned, and I hope all of us learned, from our fifteen years of wandering and schleping the Torah scroll all over Long Island. I never felt it inauthentic to serve a congregation without its own building, I never felt that we were anything less than even the grandest and oldest of synagogues. Having our own building makes the teaching easier. You don’t have to wonder anymore where your rabbi is. The address is clear. It is simpler.
But with this simplicity comes some dangers. Will we become overly focused on the building? Will we lose sight of what has made us a holy congregation? Will we lose sight of the people who have made this a special and unique community? The great Hasidic rabbi, the Kotzker rebbe taught: To what is the one who looks out only for himself and his (or her) own perfection compared to? To a tzaddik in a fur coat. If the house is cold and a person wishes to warm himself, he has two choices: to light a fire or put on the fur coat. What is the difference between lighting a fire and putting on the fur? When the fire is lit, I am warm as well as others. We are warmed when I light a fire. When I put on the fur coat only I am warm. We must remain on guard never to become that tzaddik who wraps himself in a fur coat and fails to help light the fire that warms all.
The St Louis congregation in which I grew up recently celebrated its 140th anniversary. That may appear really old, but 140 years is a mere speck on the Jewish timeline. Each synagogue only gains its ancient voice because it does not stand alone. It is tied to all other synagogues, some of which are no more, others of which continue to thrive, some of which are brand new. The synagogue moves through history. Movement is part of its very nature. Think about prayer, another central feature of synagogue life. We stand up and sit down. We bow and bend our knees. We beat our chests on Yom Kippur. The Hasidic masters sway to and fro, moving their bodies to the rhythm of prayer. And I have heard that on the North Shore of Long Island some even dance to their prayers. We continue to move.
I worry that some might think that the journey is now complete. We have arrived at a building. We have survived the wandering. But the journey continues. The holy work of fashioning community forever marches on.
We need the synagogue. Why? Because we need each other. The point of community is to enlarge our circle of friends and solidify our friendships. You can only teach the value of community with others, with peers. That is the essence of minyan, the quorum required for prayer. While the synagogue was a response to a catastrophic change, an answer to the question of how are we going to keep being Jewish without a center, it was also a response to a need. The spirit will always require a poem to stir its being. The soul will always need music and song, no matter the cover.
The Jewish spirit is nurtured by the synagogue. It is this institution that gives it life, that nurtures our souls and brings the values of Torah to the world.
There is a legend about the Temple that once stood in Jerusalem. It is about its windows. Ancient buildings like the castles and churches we visit throughout Europe constructed their windows so as to funnel the natural light from the outside in. In other words the windows cut into the building’s thick stonewalls were wider on the outside and thinner on the inside. The Temple’s windows were the opposite. They were larger on the inside. Their purpose was to funnel the light from the inside to the outside, to bring the meaning and content gained within to the world at large. That is the purpose of the synagogue: to bring light to the outside, to build a fire together to warm the community. The purpose is to bring Torah to the world.
As much as we are overjoyed about our new building, it is really not about the building. The building is not the dream. The building serves the dream.
Back to Pink Floyd. “All in all it was all just bricks in the wall. All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.”
It is not the building. It is something far grander and more eternal. It is the light that comes from within.
I would like to speak this morning about ancient history. On this Rosh Hashanah I wish to meditate on history and wonder aloud about our future. For this occasion I have unearthed a number of artifacts. Here is the first show and tell item. It is of course a record album, an exhibit of classic vinyl. I uncovered this in my basement buried in the boxes from our move eleven years ago to our current home. There remain my albums stacked neatly in the moving boxes, never again to be unpacked until this very moment. Some of my younger students might be marveling at this object. Yes, this is what I once used to play music. To put this in contemporary terms, this double album contains 26 songs, a mere fraction of the 1,000 songs presently on my iPhone.
This of course is no ordinary album. It is Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I recall the discussions when this album came out. It was the most ancient of days. The year was 1979. There was the excitement and enthusiasm of that moment when in December of that year I finally got my hands on the album. I held the prize in my fingers. My friends and I marveled at the cover graphics. We even argued about the hidden meanings found in the track order. As those Saturday evenings would drag on into Sunday mornings, we would run back and forth to the turntable to replay track 6 of side 3. (“Hello, hello, hello…Is anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home.”)
That’s what it was like in ancient days. That was the experience of listening to music. Some might be looking at this relic, especially those on our Israel Committee, and saying, “Did he have to pick Pink Floyd? Did the rabbi have to choose Roger Waters given his hatred of Israel and his activism in the BDS movement (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions)? I pledge we will examine these issues in more detail on Yom Kippur. This album remains a world to its own. I recall those days with fondness when I hold it in my hands.
But what of music today? It has been a mere thirteen years since the invention of the iPod. My current b’nai mitzvah students know of no other world. We shared music in ancient times not on Facebook but by making mix tapes. That is how we shared our love of Pink Floyd or the Eagles or if we want to march into the 80’s, Squeeze and the Talking Heads. (“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack… And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’”) And now even downloading music is a thing of the past. What was revolutionary a decade ago, our children by and large no longer do. There is Spotify and Grooveshark. For a mere $10 per month I can have access to 20 million songs. Gone is the sense of holding the music in my hands. Gone is the sense of owning music. For my young students music is only shared. It is about playlists and individual songs rather than albums and tracks. It is about Facebook discussions like “I can’t believe Steven Moskowitz is listening to Hotel California again.”
I hold now a second piece of history in my hands. This is a book. I would like to think that this is not yet ancient history, but I wonder what the future holds for the book in the fast paced digital age? The movement from scrolls, with which we of course still read, to those few, precious books made for wealthy individuals to the mass production of books by Gutenberg in 1440 helped to democratize learning. And yet the piles of books, the rows upon rows of filled to overflowing bookshelves are no longer the most common feature of a Jewish home. My Kindle, this small little device, can hold over 1,000 books. I can have access to a library of books on my iPhone.
Lest this sound like another advertisement, for another $10 per month I can have unlimited access to 700,000 books. Then again there is something about the feel of a book in the hand. The People of the eReader does not have the same ring to it. And this book that I clutch is again no ordinary book. It is my prized collection of Emily Dickinson poems. There is of course an Emily Dickinson app given that she is among this country’s greatest poets, but a book represents a journey, a book tells a story separate even from its words.
And I can tell you the story of my discovery of this book. I had boarded the subway to make my journey uptown from Penn Station when I looked up from my folded paper (remember how we used to fold the paper so as not poke the person next to us) to discover this sign called Poetry in Motion. Launched by the MTA and the Poetry Society of America in 1992 the subway cars were now decorated not only with advertisements but poems. And there I read “Hope is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –.”’ I did not know then that poem #254 could so capture my heart. I exited the subway to find a bookstore and purchase this book: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. I recall that each and every time I hold this book in my hands and discover another of her lines. Among the dog-eared pages I find again “A smile so small as mine might be/Precisely their necessity –“ (#1391).
Leafing through the pages of these poems I continue the journey. For my children their journeys will be very different. Children’s journeys are of course supposed to be different than their parent’s. Books might no longer line their shelves but the written word, I hope and pray, will continue to stimulate their minds and penetrate the soul. Still I wonder what might be lost without a book under their arms, without books lining their shelves. How will they still leaf through pages and discover anew a poem to stir the soul?
The third show and tell item in this meditation on history I cannot even wrap my hands around. It is the synagogue. It is likewise undergoing radical transformations. Like music and poetry, it too is ancient yet changing. What will the synagogue be like in an age when so much is shared for such little expense? People might not be asking this question so directly but I see it forming on their lips. They ask, if I can have all access to music and books for $10 per month why can’t I have all access to Judaism for just as little? And so here is my response to why the synagogue must survive. Before we can even answer this question we must ask a more basic question: why be Jewish. So let me tell you straight out. Why be Jewish.? Because Judaism offers a path of meaning. Because Judaism tackles questions with which we are still wrestling. Because Judaism offers a road to bring healing to the world.
These answers are uncovered in the book. The answer is unfurled in the edges of a scroll. And that takes some work to uncover. Let’s be honest if you want something akin to the convenience of eReaders and iPhones you can go elsewhere. You can find a tutor to come to your house. You can hire a “rabbi” who will officiate at a bar or bat mitzvah three months from now. If you just want the ceremony you can do that. But synagogue is first and foremost about community. Hebrew School is a misnomer. It is not about learning Hebrew as much as it is about teaching our children to attach themselves to their community and to fall in love with their faith. That is why it matters that they sit across the table from others. Learning is not a solitary activity for the Jew. It is done with others. Sure you can read by yourself. Sure you can even practice your alef-bet by yourself. But you can only truly learn with others.
This is why as well learning is supposed to be a life long pursuit. That in a nutshell is one of the reasons why I run away to Jerusalem every summer. So I can study surrounded by others, so that my head can be filled with the arguments and debates that have sustained our people. And why must we learn? Because we believe that Torah is meant to better the world. I don’t mean to suggest that we should convert the world to being Jewish, but I do mean to say that if Judaism is to matter it has to matter not just for ourselves and our own individual needs, but it has to matter for the world. Abraham Joshua Heschel, the unparalleled 20th century rabbi, remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential…. Hence we learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.” (Pikuach Neshama: To Save a Soul)
If Torah is only about lighting candles 18 minutes before sunset or about answering questions such as is this oven kosher or not and not about is it ethical to lay off employees so as to increase the stock price, is it moral to wage war against ISIS, then it is meaningless. Torah must be relevant for our lives today. It must have meaning for the here and now. If Torah is only about personal meaning and not even more importantly about the betterment of the world, then it loses its significance. If it remains here and does not venture to the streets, to our offices, to our homes then it lacks profound truth. We must live lives that become Torah.
Do you want to know why we should survive? Here is why. The world desperately needs these answers or at the very least a place where we can debate these questions. Do you want to know why the synagogue must survive? It is the address where these values are learned and re-engaged; it is where community is fostered and Torah is brought to the world.
That is why the synagogue was created. 2,000 years ago there was only one address to be Jewish. The only address was the Temple in Jerusalem. There we would bring our sacrifices to the priest to be offered on the Temple’s altar. There was no local address for Judaism in each and every town. It was centralized in the Temple. And then in 70 CE the Romans destroyed the Temple and nearly wiped us out completely when they leveled Jerusalem. All that remains of that grand structure is the Kotel, the Western Wall. Out of that tragedy the synagogue was born. The rabbis developed a portable faith that was independent of place that was separated from even the holiest of places. We could go anywhere. All we needed was a book, the Torah, and the songs of our prayers. Even more importantly all we needed was each other. Synagogue comes from the Greek translation of the Hebrew Beit Knesset, a house of assembly. What makes a synagogue a synagogue is not a building but the people. If you have the required ten, you have a synagogue, whether you are in Jerusalem, or Brookville or Jericho or Oyster Bay.
The Rabbis fashioned Judaism out of the Bible; they made wandering and journeying part of the enterprise. They recognized that even though we might, until realizing this dream in the present day, longed for Jerusalem, our lot would be to wander throughout the lands. In each city, in every town, in all the countries of our dispersion, the synagogue became the primary address for teaching Torah, for bringing Torah to successive generations and the world at large. We would forever be wanderers. We would forever journey. We would learn new things in every land, we would discover new truths in every city and we would relearn our ancient teachings in the synagogue, now on Temple Lane. In a way we carried the synagogue, as we carry a book, from place to place. We held it in our hands. We carried its meaning in our hearts. We marveled at its architecture. We looked at the album cover. We continue to wander.
The Torah is of course on its most literal level about a journey. First it tells the story about the discovery of God. Abraham looks up and realizes that there can only be one God who made the heavens and the earth. It is then about God responding to our suffering and freeing us from Egypt. But it is mostly about 40 years of wandering through the wilderness. That is the majority of the story. It is about the trials and misfortunes of the longest camping trip ever described. “Moses, I can’t believe you forgot to pack more food!” the people scream over and over again. But it is worth the journey, and the grumblings and the complaining, because there is a promise of a new home in the land of Israel. And then on the shores of the Jordan River, Moses gives one final speech followed by another final speech filled with advice, but mostly filled with warnings about what to do and of course mostly what not to do. And then he dies. God buries him on Mount Nebo.
And the Torah then does the most surprising of things. It ends. The Torah concludes on the wrong side of the river. It ends with the promise unfulfilled, with the dream unrealized. Our most important book ends with the journey incomplete. And what do we do? We roll the scroll back to the beginning and start reading the story all over again. “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth…” In the synagogue and the Torah reading cycle that is central to this institution we ritualize the journey over the destination. The journey always continues we remind ourselves year after year. On Simhat Torah we sing for joy not because we have arrived at some destination but because we can begin again. The wandering always continues.
People think that the synagogue is fixed, that is immovable and never changing. People think that a synagogue is a building. It is not. The building is a tool. It serves the congregation. It must never become the other way around. This is the most important lesson I learned, and I hope all of us learned, from our fifteen years of wandering and schleping the Torah scroll all over Long Island. I never felt it inauthentic to serve a congregation without its own building, I never felt that we were anything less than even the grandest and oldest of synagogues. Having our own building makes the teaching easier. You don’t have to wonder anymore where your rabbi is. The address is clear. It is simpler.
But with this simplicity comes some dangers. Will we become overly focused on the building? Will we lose sight of what has made us a holy congregation? Will we lose sight of the people who have made this a special and unique community? The great Hasidic rabbi, the Kotzker rebbe taught: To what is the one who looks out only for himself and his (or her) own perfection compared to? To a tzaddik in a fur coat. If the house is cold and a person wishes to warm himself, he has two choices: to light a fire or put on the fur coat. What is the difference between lighting a fire and putting on the fur? When the fire is lit, I am warm as well as others. We are warmed when I light a fire. When I put on the fur coat only I am warm. We must remain on guard never to become that tzaddik who wraps himself in a fur coat and fails to help light the fire that warms all.
The St Louis congregation in which I grew up recently celebrated its 140th anniversary. That may appear really old, but 140 years is a mere speck on the Jewish timeline. Each synagogue only gains its ancient voice because it does not stand alone. It is tied to all other synagogues, some of which are no more, others of which continue to thrive, some of which are brand new. The synagogue moves through history. Movement is part of its very nature. Think about prayer, another central feature of synagogue life. We stand up and sit down. We bow and bend our knees. We beat our chests on Yom Kippur. The Hasidic masters sway to and fro, moving their bodies to the rhythm of prayer. And I have heard that on the North Shore of Long Island some even dance to their prayers. We continue to move.
I worry that some might think that the journey is now complete. We have arrived at a building. We have survived the wandering. But the journey continues. The holy work of fashioning community forever marches on.
We need the synagogue. Why? Because we need each other. The point of community is to enlarge our circle of friends and solidify our friendships. You can only teach the value of community with others, with peers. That is the essence of minyan, the quorum required for prayer. While the synagogue was a response to a catastrophic change, an answer to the question of how are we going to keep being Jewish without a center, it was also a response to a need. The spirit will always require a poem to stir its being. The soul will always need music and song, no matter the cover.
The Jewish spirit is nurtured by the synagogue. It is this institution that gives it life, that nurtures our souls and brings the values of Torah to the world.
There is a legend about the Temple that once stood in Jerusalem. It is about its windows. Ancient buildings like the castles and churches we visit throughout Europe constructed their windows so as to funnel the natural light from the outside in. In other words the windows cut into the building’s thick stonewalls were wider on the outside and thinner on the inside. The Temple’s windows were the opposite. They were larger on the inside. Their purpose was to funnel the light from the inside to the outside, to bring the meaning and content gained within to the world at large. That is the purpose of the synagogue: to bring light to the outside, to build a fire together to warm the community. The purpose is to bring Torah to the world.
As much as we are overjoyed about our new building, it is really not about the building. The building is not the dream. The building serves the dream.
Back to Pink Floyd. “All in all it was all just bricks in the wall. All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.”
It is not the building. It is something far grander and more eternal. It is the light that comes from within.
Rosh Hashanah and Rekindling Our Story
A story. The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, was legendary in his ability to beseech God and thereby gain protection for his people. On one occasion, when the people of his town faced a grave danger the Baal Shem Tov left his modest home and walked deep into the forest. He found there a particular spot and kindled a fire. As he sat by the warmth of the fire, he recited a prayer asking for God’s protection and care. The great rebbe arrived back to town and discovered the threat had passed. Everyone believed that it was the Baal Shem Tov’s actions that had saved the community.
Some time later the Jews of the town again found themselves facing danger. Their rebbe, the Baal Shem Tov’s disciple, remembered what his teacher had done a generation earlier. He resolved to do the same. He walked deep into the forest, found the exact same spot, and likewise kindled a fire. Then he realized that he did not remember the words of the Baal Shem Tov’s prayer. And so he sat by the fire and meditated on God’s protective nature. Once again the danger passed and the town was spared.
A generation later the same situation arose. Again the Jewish community felt threatened by its neighbors. The leader of the community, the Baal Shem Tov’s disciple’s disciple, went into the forest. He soon discovered that he did not know where in the forest to go and he also did not know the words of the master’s prayer. Still he found a spot and lit a fire. And again the danger passed and the community survived.
The Rhizener rebbe, four generations after the Baal Shem Tov, found himself facing a similar struggle. He did not know the prayer. He did not know the place in the forest. He did not even know in which forest the Baal Shem Tov prayed so many generations earlier. He did not know how to light the special fire. What did he do? He told the story of the Baal Shem Tov and his disciples. The community was once again spared.
Sometimes all we require is a story.
Rosh Hashanah is about retelling our stories. It is about reconnecting with our past. It is about rekindling the fire.
Whether we know the exact place or even the words of every prayer, we are united by our common story.
On Rosh Hashanah it is written and Yom Kippur it is sealed…
Some time later the Jews of the town again found themselves facing danger. Their rebbe, the Baal Shem Tov’s disciple, remembered what his teacher had done a generation earlier. He resolved to do the same. He walked deep into the forest, found the exact same spot, and likewise kindled a fire. Then he realized that he did not remember the words of the Baal Shem Tov’s prayer. And so he sat by the fire and meditated on God’s protective nature. Once again the danger passed and the town was spared.
A generation later the same situation arose. Again the Jewish community felt threatened by its neighbors. The leader of the community, the Baal Shem Tov’s disciple’s disciple, went into the forest. He soon discovered that he did not know where in the forest to go and he also did not know the words of the master’s prayer. Still he found a spot and lit a fire. And again the danger passed and the community survived.
The Rhizener rebbe, four generations after the Baal Shem Tov, found himself facing a similar struggle. He did not know the prayer. He did not know the place in the forest. He did not even know in which forest the Baal Shem Tov prayed so many generations earlier. He did not know how to light the special fire. What did he do? He told the story of the Baal Shem Tov and his disciples. The community was once again spared.
Sometimes all we require is a story.
Rosh Hashanah is about retelling our stories. It is about reconnecting with our past. It is about rekindling the fire.
Whether we know the exact place or even the words of every prayer, we are united by our common story.
On Rosh Hashanah it is written and Yom Kippur it is sealed…
Nitzavim-Vayelech and Hidden Good
There is a legend about thirty-six righteous individuals who are so good and so noble that the world is sustained by their deeds. They are called the Lamed Vavniks (the Hebrew letters lamed and vav add up to thirty six). Crucial to this legend is the fact that their identities must always remain obscured. If but one of their names is revealed, another must take his place. Otherwise the world might teeter and even collapse.
It is interesting to note that according to this tradition, our well-being is not only placed in the hands of a few righteous individuals, but in their identities remaining concealed. Why is it so important that they remain hidden? It is because the world really does require hidden sparks of goodness.
Doing good should not be predicated on recognition or reward but instead on the needs of others, on the requirements of the world at large. That is the message of the Lamed Vavniks. They do good only because the world needs it. Their reward remains in God’s hands. The Torah teaches: “The secret things belong to the Lord our God; and those things revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may observe all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 29:28)
The Hasidic rebbe, Menahem Mendle of Kotzk opines: “The world thinks that a tzaddik nistar—a hidden righteous person—is a person who conceals his righteousness and his good deeds from others. The truth, though, is that a tzaddik nistar is one whose righteousness is hidden and concealed from himself, and who has no idea whatsoever that he (or she) is righteous.”
How different the world might be if good was so ordinary that even the doer remained unaware.
It is interesting to note that according to this tradition, our well-being is not only placed in the hands of a few righteous individuals, but in their identities remaining concealed. Why is it so important that they remain hidden? It is because the world really does require hidden sparks of goodness.
Doing good should not be predicated on recognition or reward but instead on the needs of others, on the requirements of the world at large. That is the message of the Lamed Vavniks. They do good only because the world needs it. Their reward remains in God’s hands. The Torah teaches: “The secret things belong to the Lord our God; and those things revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may observe all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 29:28)
The Hasidic rebbe, Menahem Mendle of Kotzk opines: “The world thinks that a tzaddik nistar—a hidden righteous person—is a person who conceals his righteousness and his good deeds from others. The truth, though, is that a tzaddik nistar is one whose righteousness is hidden and concealed from himself, and who has no idea whatsoever that he (or she) is righteous.”
How different the world might be if good was so ordinary that even the doer remained unaware.
Ki Tavo and Treasures
What is a treasure?
I can treasure something.
Some people treasure cars, others shoes.
More often people treasure not that which is the most costly but that
which was given to them. They then hold
in their hands a keepsake. The possession
acquires value because of the giver rather than because of its monetary
value. My most valued kiddush cup is not
that which is even the most beautiful but that which was given to Susie and me
by her grandparents and which served the family for several generations.
I can treasure a book, the Torah. I wonder.
Does it matter which scroll I read or is it the words that I spend my
years examining and pondering that are the more important and therefore the
most treasured?
I can treasure someone.
Most treasure family, a spouse, children, parents and grandparents. I wonder.
Do their actions make me treasure them less? If I become disappointed with them do I love
them any less? On the contrary, if they
do something which makes me proud do I treasure them even more? I think not.
They are treasured because of who they are. They can do right or even wrong, but they are
family and will always be treasured and loved.
So too the Jewish people.
In the Torah we are called God’s treasure, an "am segulah," a treasured
people. Is God’s love dependent on what
we do? “And the Lord has affirmed this
day that you are, as He promised you, His treasured people… (Deuteronomy
26:18) We are treasured because God
promised. The giver grants
sanctity. The giver lends meaning to the
treasure.
The cup with which we sanctify Shabbat reminds me of our
grandfather.
And yet the verse continues: “…His treasured people who
shall observe all His commandments.” Grand expectations are placed upon our
shoulders. We expect so much of those we
love.
Are we loved any less if we fall short?
Not by God. But most
certainly by ourselves.
Ki Tetze, Birds and the Breath of Goodness
According to Moses Maimonides this week’s portion contains
72 mitzvot, far more than any other Torah portion. Within this plethora of commandments we
discover: “If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on
the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings
or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young,
in order that you may fare well and have a long life.” (Deuteronomy 22:6-7)
This is an interesting command. It is important to note that the Torah does
not just deal with ritual life but with ethical obligations. Moreover the Torah’s concern extends not just
to human beings but to all of God’s creatures.
Still, one wonders how this act is a measure of compassion. The tradition reasons that the mother must be
sent away so that she does not see her young taken. Human beings are allowed to make use of God’s
creation, and even creatures, but with this permission comes certain
responsibilities. We must not cause undo
suffering to animals. The Torah
therefore takes the mother’s pain into account.
This is why this mitzvah is connected to long life. This reward mirrors that promise offered for
the commandment to honor parents. The
vast majority of mitzvot do not have such a reward attached to them. These are two of the few instances. Of course this raises the question. If I do not show honor to my parents, if I
fail to let the mother bird go, will I not be rewarded with long life?
The Talmud offers a story.
Elisha ben Abuyah, a colleague of Rabbi Akiva, once saw a young boy
climb a tree to fetch eggs from a nest. In
observance of the command, he shooed the mother bird away before taking the
eggs. When climbing down from the tree
he fell and died. Elisha saw this and
rejected his Jewish faith. How could
there be a good and just God, he reasoned, and apparently said very loudly.
Such is the question that has occupied Jewish thinkers for
generations. While Elisha’s is among the
most radical that our tradition preserves (he is deemed a heretic by his
colleagues but not written out of their book), I prefer the reasoning of Moses
Maimonides, the great medieval philosopher.
He writes in his Guide
of the Perplexed: “Consider the
environment in which we have our being: the more urgently a thing is needed by
living beings, the more abundantly (and cheaply) it is found. The less dependent on anything, the rarer
(and more expensive) it is. Thus the
things man needs most, for instance are air, water, and food… This is a mark of God’s goodness and bounty.”
(Guide, III:12)
When we look at the world we tend to forget that even the
air we breathe is a gift from God. We
make long lists of all the things we need (among them, a long, healthy life)
and when we don’t receive but one of these we ask, where is God? Maimonides counsels us that we need to look
at the world differently, we need to look at God differently. Look at how plentiful the air we breathe
is. Look at how quenching is the water I
drink.
I admit his advice is sometimes difficult, and challenging,
to follow. Most people don’t know that
Maimonides faced a similar struggle.
Fourteen years prior to penning these words, his brother drowned in a
ship wreck in the Indian Ocean. In
addition to losing his only brother much of the family fortune was lost. Maimonides was forced to devote more time to
his medical profession in order to support his family, as well as his brother’s.
For a full year following his brother’s death the person who
most believe was the greatest Jewish thinker who ever lived spent a year in
bed, depressed beyond all consolation.
He wrote to a friend: “Now my joy has been changed into darkness; [my
brother] has gone to his eternal home, and has left me prostrated in a strange
land. Whenever I come across his
handwriting in one of his books, my heart grows faint within me, and my grief
reawakens.”
With the litany of our tradition’s blessings it is curious
that the no blessing is mandated for water and air, and yet they are as much a
sign of God’s bounty as the hallah we will taste, and bless, tomorrow evening.
Take counsel from Maimonides’ words. Take heart from his life.
Sometimes it really does take years to see again the beauty and wonder in God’s world.
Sometimes it really does take years to see again the beauty and wonder in God’s world.
Elul and Good People
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote: “The good person is not
he who does the right thing, but he who is in the habit of doing the right
thing.”
It is simple, and perhaps easy, to do a single good deed, to
volunteer at a soup kitchen on a Sunday, to write a check to a needy charity,
to offer one apology to a person wronged, or to attend Rosh Hashanah and Yom
Kippur services. These are all worthy
endeavors but Judaism is not about the solitary act but instead about a litany
of acts, a lifetime of doing right. Our
faith is about creating a discipline of doing, about ritualizing behaviors.
This is why Judaism sets aside not two days for the task of
repentance, or even ten, but instead forty.
On Tuesday, with the new moon of Elul, this forty day period of
introspection and repair began. It began
with Rosh Hodesh Elul, gains momentum with the meditative Selichot service (on
Saturday, September 20th at 7 pm), further intensifies with the
prayers of Rosh Hashanah and reaches a crescendo with the fasting of Yom
Kippur. These forty days mirror the days
Moses spent on Mount Sinai communing with God.
They are intended so that we might turn inward and examine our ways and
repair our wrongs.
Repentance, teshuvah, is about turning and changing. This of course is no simple task. It is not about reciting one Al Cheyt, one
moment of apology, one solitary word of forgiveness, but instead about building
a life centered on words and deeds. It
is about stringing together a few acts until they become a habit. That cannot
be accomplished in a mere two days, no matter how meaningful our services are, no
matter how heartfelt our praying and singing might be.
Each of these days we are granted an opportunity for renewal
and repair. Set aside moments during the
course of this month and ask yourself what you would like to change, from whom
you would like to offer an apology and seek forgiveness.
We are given a blessing each and every one of these days to create new habits. And from there we begin to build the title of good person.
We are given a blessing each and every one of these days to create new habits. And from there we begin to build the title of good person.
Reeh, Friends and Enemies
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 murderous 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 echoes these sentiments and begins with a similar refrain. 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 from the hate filled words of the Hamas’ charter or the savagery of ISIS? How are our Torah’s words different from those who read their tradition’s words as a mandate to murder and destroy?
And yet we live in a time when suggesting we have no enemies is equally problematic. Thus we are trapped between those who are unable to name our real enemies and those who see enemies everywhere and anywhere. A.B. Yehoshua, a leading Israeli novelist, recently argued that this is in fact the crucial dilemma facing Israel. The failure to call Hamas an enemy rather than a terrorist state prevents Israel from confronting Hamas and its rockets and tunnels. The fight against terror is never ending. Confronting an enemy by contrast offers two clear options: negotiations or war.
Yehoshua writes: “Let us not forget: The Palestinians in Gaza are our permanent neighbors, and we are theirs. We will never halt the bloody destruction by talking of ‘terror.’ It will require negotiation, or a war against a legitimate ‘enemy.’" (“Israel Needs to Stop Calling Hamas a Terrorist Organization,” The New Republic, August 13, 2014)
Terrorism is a tactic. And the so-called war on terror is an unhelpful euphemism that avoids the challenge of naming our enemies. Only by naming our enemies can we truly confront today’s struggles.
Our times need not be so confusing. Those who wish to destroy us and proclaim it in such unmistakable terms, those 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? I recoil from these words. Better perhaps that we should pray for peace rather than seeking vengeance. Still we must remain 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. We must avoid euphemisms that confuse the moral challenge.
We pray: “May God, who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, bless the soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God, from the border of Lebanon to the desert of Egypt, and from the Great Sea to the Aravah, on land, in the air, and on the sea. May the Lord cause the enemies who rise up against us to be struck down before them. May the Holy Blessed One preserve and rescue our soldiers from every trouble and distress and from every plague and illness, and may God send blessing and success in their every endeavor….” (Prayer for the Welfare of Israel Defense Forces Soldiers)
Pray for peace. Remain vigilant. Fight against our enemies when they rise up against us.
Remain clear-sighted. Know who is an enemy. Remember who is a friend.
Added to the haggadah during the murderous 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 echoes these sentiments and begins with a similar refrain. 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 from the hate filled words of the Hamas’ charter or the savagery of ISIS? How are our Torah’s words different from those who read their tradition’s words as a mandate to murder and destroy?
And yet we live in a time when suggesting we have no enemies is equally problematic. Thus we are trapped between those who are unable to name our real enemies and those who see enemies everywhere and anywhere. A.B. Yehoshua, a leading Israeli novelist, recently argued that this is in fact the crucial dilemma facing Israel. The failure to call Hamas an enemy rather than a terrorist state prevents Israel from confronting Hamas and its rockets and tunnels. The fight against terror is never ending. Confronting an enemy by contrast offers two clear options: negotiations or war.
Yehoshua writes: “Let us not forget: The Palestinians in Gaza are our permanent neighbors, and we are theirs. We will never halt the bloody destruction by talking of ‘terror.’ It will require negotiation, or a war against a legitimate ‘enemy.’" (“Israel Needs to Stop Calling Hamas a Terrorist Organization,” The New Republic, August 13, 2014)
Terrorism is a tactic. And the so-called war on terror is an unhelpful euphemism that avoids the challenge of naming our enemies. Only by naming our enemies can we truly confront today’s struggles.
Our times need not be so confusing. Those who wish to destroy us and proclaim it in such unmistakable terms, those 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? I recoil from these words. Better perhaps that we should pray for peace rather than seeking vengeance. Still we must remain 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. We must avoid euphemisms that confuse the moral challenge.
We pray: “May God, who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, bless the soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God, from the border of Lebanon to the desert of Egypt, and from the Great Sea to the Aravah, on land, in the air, and on the sea. May the Lord cause the enemies who rise up against us to be struck down before them. May the Holy Blessed One preserve and rescue our soldiers from every trouble and distress and from every plague and illness, and may God send blessing and success in their every endeavor….” (Prayer for the Welfare of Israel Defense Forces Soldiers)
Pray for peace. Remain vigilant. Fight against our enemies when they rise up against us.
Remain clear-sighted. Know who is an enemy. Remember who is a friend.
Ekev, Bread and Faith
This week we read the famous line: “…man does not live on
bread alone.” But what exactly does this
oft-quoted phrase mean?
First
let’s examine the context:
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. The
clothes upon you did not wear out, nor did your feet swell these forty years. Bear
in mind that the Lord your God disciplines you just as a man disciplines his
son. Therefore keep the commandments of the Lord your God: walk in His ways and
revere Him. (Deuteronomy 8:2-6)
Looking at the larger context we learn that
this is a lesson about tough love. God
subjects the Jewish people to hardships throughout their wanderings in order to
test their devotion. God further tests
the people so that they might learn that there is only one true source of
sustenance and that is God. Well, sign
me up!
How is this motivating? How is this a compelling argument for faith? Who wants to be hungry? Who wants to be disciplined?
Perhaps the larger lesson is different. While we may not wish to look toward God as
the source of hardships, discipline and tests, they are a part of life. The notion that life will never offer us
challenges, that the road will always be even, is of course mistaken. Everyone, even our children, will face
difficulties. All of us will encounter
hardships.
So we must see even these hardships as
opportunities. And how might we gain
this change of heart? By looking to God.
The idea is not that we should observe God’s
commandments so that we might never face difficulties. It is not as well that we have to prove our
faith to God, as the Torah appears to suggest, but instead that these
challenges can be openings to allow God in.
Bread might sustain our bodies, but life is
sustained by far more.
After every meal our tradition counsels us
that we are supposed to recite a blessing. This too is found in this week’s
portion. “When you have eaten and are
full, then you shall bless the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 8:10) The Hasidic rabbi, Shlomo of Karlin,
comments: “By blessing God you will become full.”
The fullness of our hearts can only come from singing
praises to God. Being satisfied comes
not from a belly filled with bread but instead from giving thanks.
A meal is much more than the food on our plates.
Only faith can fill the heart.
Only faith can fill the heart.
Vaetchanan and Pleading for Peace
For all his successes and triumphs, our hero Moses is denied setting foot on the Promised Land. Because he grew angry at the Israelites and hit a rock, God states that he will not be allowed to enter the land of Israel.
This week Moses begs God to change this decree: “I pleaded with the Lord… Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan…” (Deuteronomy 4:23-25)
The commentators are bothered that Moses pleads. Begging appears beneath him. His words seem undignified for a leader. They wonder as well how Moses can question God’s judgment. The medieval writer, Moses ibn Ezra, suggests that even in this instance, Moses, who the tradition calls “Moshe Rabbeinu—Moses, our Teacher,” is offering a lesson. And what is it that he teaches the people? It is a lesson about the supreme value of living in the land of Israel. It is as if to say, “Living in the land is worth pleading.”
The modern commentator, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, reads this passage differently. He suggests that Moses is not asking for forgiveness, but instead arguing that he did not even commit a wrong. The decree is therefore unjustified and should rightfully be annulled. What chutzpah! In the end Moses’ request is partially fulfilled. God responds to his plea and allows him to see the land from afar. Moses is allowed to glimpse the beauty of Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel.
I continue to wonder. For what is it appropriate to plead? For what can I beg God?
These weeks an answer begins to emerge. How about peace? Let my plea be heard! Let shalom be granted—even if but partially. Does such a plea appear undignified?
I continue to rely on the Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai.
Not the peace of a cease-fire
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill,
that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace
without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,
without words, without
the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be
light, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds –
who speaks of healing?
(And the howl of orphans is passed from generation
to the next, as in a relay race:
the baton never falls.)
Let it come
like wildflowers,
suddenly, because the field
must have it: wildpeace.
Please God. I plead. Vaetchnanan!
This week Moses begs God to change this decree: “I pleaded with the Lord… Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan…” (Deuteronomy 4:23-25)
The commentators are bothered that Moses pleads. Begging appears beneath him. His words seem undignified for a leader. They wonder as well how Moses can question God’s judgment. The medieval writer, Moses ibn Ezra, suggests that even in this instance, Moses, who the tradition calls “Moshe Rabbeinu—Moses, our Teacher,” is offering a lesson. And what is it that he teaches the people? It is a lesson about the supreme value of living in the land of Israel. It is as if to say, “Living in the land is worth pleading.”
The modern commentator, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, reads this passage differently. He suggests that Moses is not asking for forgiveness, but instead arguing that he did not even commit a wrong. The decree is therefore unjustified and should rightfully be annulled. What chutzpah! In the end Moses’ request is partially fulfilled. God responds to his plea and allows him to see the land from afar. Moses is allowed to glimpse the beauty of Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel.
I continue to wonder. For what is it appropriate to plead? For what can I beg God?
These weeks an answer begins to emerge. How about peace? Let my plea be heard! Let shalom be granted—even if but partially. Does such a plea appear undignified?
I continue to rely on the Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai.
Not the peace of a cease-fire
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill,
that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace
without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,
without words, without
the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be
light, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds –
who speaks of healing?
(And the howl of orphans is passed from generation
to the next, as in a relay race:
the baton never falls.)
Let it come
like wildflowers,
suddenly, because the field
must have it: wildpeace.
Please God. I plead. Vaetchnanan!
Tisha B'Av, Tragedy and Renewal
On Tuesday, the Jewish world will observe the saddest day in our calendar, Tisha B’Av.
This day commemorates the destruction of the first Temple by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E. and the second by the Romans in 70 C.E. According to tradition it also marks the expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290 and from Spain in 1492. This day has therefore become the day on which we mark our many collective tragedies.
In 70 not only was the Temple destroyed but the city of Jerusalem also decimated. Most of its inhabitants were murdered or carted off to Rome as slaves. (For visitors to Italy one can see this depicted on the Arch of Titus.)
And yet out of this devastation grew rabbinic Judaism. The rabbis authored prayers whose words echoed longings for a different, and renewed, Jerusalem. “Blessed are You, Adonai, Guardian of Israel, whose shelter of peace is spread over us, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem.” Even at weddings they counseled that we pause to remember this great tragedy and shatter a glass.
If not for this great calamity, the Judaism we know and love, the Jewish life of synagogue and home, would not exist.
Rabbi Yitz Greenberg writes:
Out of every tragedy comes the sparks of something new and different.
In 1492 Queen Isabella ordered that the Jews be banished from Spain. The edict was signed on March 31, 1492. The Jews, who had enjoyed there a golden age, were given only four months to leave the country. And thus four months later on the ninth of Av (Tisha B’Av) all the Jews left Spain.
And the next day, Columbus set sail.
We know the rest of that story.
This day commemorates the destruction of the first Temple by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E. and the second by the Romans in 70 C.E. According to tradition it also marks the expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290 and from Spain in 1492. This day has therefore become the day on which we mark our many collective tragedies.
In 70 not only was the Temple destroyed but the city of Jerusalem also decimated. Most of its inhabitants were murdered or carted off to Rome as slaves. (For visitors to Italy one can see this depicted on the Arch of Titus.)
And yet out of this devastation grew rabbinic Judaism. The rabbis authored prayers whose words echoed longings for a different, and renewed, Jerusalem. “Blessed are You, Adonai, Guardian of Israel, whose shelter of peace is spread over us, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem.” Even at weddings they counseled that we pause to remember this great tragedy and shatter a glass.
If not for this great calamity, the Judaism we know and love, the Jewish life of synagogue and home, would not exist.
Rabbi Yitz Greenberg writes:
The Rabbis’ fundamental theological breakthrough was a ‘secularization’ insight. God was becoming less visible, more hidden. The Destruction was a signal that manifest divine activity was being curtailed. God would not stop the Romans or save the Temple (even though God had destroyed the Egyptians at the Red Sea). Still the covenant was not being disowned; it was being renewed…. The original covenant remained, but humans became more active and responsible. (The Jewish Way)It is in our hands. The peace of Jerusalem is within our grasp. This is what we must continue to believe.
Out of every tragedy comes the sparks of something new and different.
In 1492 Queen Isabella ordered that the Jews be banished from Spain. The edict was signed on March 31, 1492. The Jews, who had enjoyed there a golden age, were given only four months to leave the country. And thus four months later on the ninth of Av (Tisha B’Av) all the Jews left Spain.
And the next day, Columbus set sail.
We know the rest of that story.
Writing Out, Drawing In
Below is my commentary published by Ten Minutes of Torah - Reform Voices of Torah - D'varim.
There is great power in language, in our words. It draws us in. Every time we recite the words, Adonai Eloheinu, "the Eternal our God," we write ourselves into the Jewish story. Yet, the very same language that writes us in, the very same stories that draw us in, also write others out. There can only be an "us" if there is also a "them." This is the implication of the portion's words, "The Eternal our God spoke to us at Horeb . . ."
There remain some for whom these words are foreign, who are cast aside by them. Hidden within this concept of us are the words "not them"—and the even more painful "not you."
It is these thoughts that continue to haunt me after officiating at a particularly tragic funeral. A young couple asked me to help them bury their child. Because one parent is Jewish and the other Christian, only half the mourners were Jewish. I wondered, was I helping the mourners with the words I recited, especially those said in Hebrew? Were the tradition's words that are our inheritance and bring our people so much comfort instead making half of those present feel excluded?
As we turned to the ritual of placing the shovels full of earth into the grave, I invited all to participate. Some quietly asked me if it would be OK for them to take part given that they are not Jewish. I answered with an emphatic, "Yes, of course." Everyone took turns: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins; friends, rabbis, and pastors; Jews and Christians. No one stopped until the task was completed and the mitzvah fulfilled.
I smoothed over the earth that now reached the edges of the grass. I thanked all for participating. We were united by the work of our hands.
An ordinary shovel had become an instrument of holiness. A minyan of sorrow had been formed. Perhaps tragedy makes us one. Suffering and pain can draw us together. In that moment, standing at that grave, I discovered that there are moments when there is only us and no them. Such was the gift and teaching of a child now gone.
Words might exclude. Actions unite.
There is great power in language, in our words. It draws us in. Every time we recite the words, Adonai Eloheinu, "the Eternal our God," we write ourselves into the Jewish story. Yet, the very same language that writes us in, the very same stories that draw us in, also write others out. There can only be an "us" if there is also a "them." This is the implication of the portion's words, "The Eternal our God spoke to us at Horeb . . ."
There remain some for whom these words are foreign, who are cast aside by them. Hidden within this concept of us are the words "not them"—and the even more painful "not you."
It is these thoughts that continue to haunt me after officiating at a particularly tragic funeral. A young couple asked me to help them bury their child. Because one parent is Jewish and the other Christian, only half the mourners were Jewish. I wondered, was I helping the mourners with the words I recited, especially those said in Hebrew? Were the tradition's words that are our inheritance and bring our people so much comfort instead making half of those present feel excluded?
As we turned to the ritual of placing the shovels full of earth into the grave, I invited all to participate. Some quietly asked me if it would be OK for them to take part given that they are not Jewish. I answered with an emphatic, "Yes, of course." Everyone took turns: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins; friends, rabbis, and pastors; Jews and Christians. No one stopped until the task was completed and the mitzvah fulfilled.
I smoothed over the earth that now reached the edges of the grass. I thanked all for participating. We were united by the work of our hands.
An ordinary shovel had become an instrument of holiness. A minyan of sorrow had been formed. Perhaps tragedy makes us one. Suffering and pain can draw us together. In that moment, standing at that grave, I discovered that there are moments when there is only us and no them. Such was the gift and teaching of a child now gone.
Words might exclude. Actions unite.
Masei, Jewish Power and Its Agitations
On Passover we sing Vehi Sheamda in a tune that belies its meaning: “This promise has stood us and our parents in good stead. For not only has one enemy stood over us to annihilate us. But in every generation enemies have stood over us to annihilate us. Yet the Holy One keeps the promise to save us from their hands.”
The world is once again convulsing with hatred of the Jews. Israel is fighting an enemy whose stated mission is to destroy us. Synagogues are desecrated in France. Throughout Europe people once again riot against the Jewish state. The distinction that some pretend exists is no more. There is no difference between anti-Israel sentiment and antisemitism. (Loving criticism of Israel does not of course make the critic anti-Israel.)
Amos Oz, a leading Israeli novelist, writes...
The world is once again convulsing with hatred of the Jews. Israel is fighting an enemy whose stated mission is to destroy us. Synagogues are desecrated in France. Throughout Europe people once again riot against the Jewish state. The distinction that some pretend exists is no more. There is no difference between anti-Israel sentiment and antisemitism. (Loving criticism of Israel does not of course make the critic anti-Israel.)
Amos Oz, a leading Israeli novelist, writes...
Mattot, Arguments and Destructions
We read this week: “Moses spoke to the heads of the
Israelite tribes, saying…” (Numbers 30:2)
It is rare that the Torah addresses the leaders and not the
people as a whole. In most instances the Torah states instead, “Moses
spoke to the people, saying…” (Numbers 31:1)
Why in this instance would Moses speak to the tribal heads rather than
the people?
Perhaps the secret can be discerned in the laws detailed in
this chapter. Here we read about the concept
of making vows. The Hatam Sofer, a
leading rabbi in 19th century Germany, asks the very same questions
and opines that this law is directed at leaders because people in public office
are more often tempted to make promises that they cannot keep. It is as if to say, “Be on guard of the words
and promises you make.”
I would like to suggest a different reason.
On Tuesday we marked the 17th of Tammuz, the fast
day commemorating the beginning of the destruction of Jerusalem. It is this day, nearly two thousand years
ago, that the Romans breached the walls surrounding the city. The city and the Temple were destroyed three
weeks later on Tisha B’Av (the ninth of Av).
This period of mourning marks the Jewish people’s greatest tragedy, until
the modern period and its Holocaust. The
loss of the Temple, the destruction of Jerusalem and the slaughter then of so many
Jews is still remembered even at Jewish weddings by the breaking of the glass.
It was of course the Romans, and prior to that the
Babylonians, who destroyed the first and second Temples, but yet the rabbis
engaged in what was sometimes wrenching introspection in order to uncover how
the Jewish people might have been at fault for their own destruction. They more often than not suggested that it
was because of baseless hatred of one Jew for another. The seeds of our demise were sown by how we screamed
and yelled at each other.
The rabbis of course believed in argument and especially
passionate debate. They taught that
truth can only emerge when we openly argue and debate with one another. We read: “Any debate that is for the sake of
heaven, its end will continue; but that which is not for the sake of heaven, its end will
not continue. What is a debate for the sake
of heaven? The debate between Rabbis
Hillel and Shammai. And a debate that is
not for the sake of heaven? The debate
of Korah and his entire band of rebels.” (Avot 5:17)
There is a fine line between a positive and negative
argument. It rests in how we approach
those with whom we disagree. The rabbis
offer us an important insight. While we
might be strengthened by debate, we are weakened by tribal divisions. When we debate we must ask, are we arguing so
that truth might emerge? Or are we
arguing instead to draw divisions between us?
This is why Moses speaks to the tribal heads. Our very survival depends on how our leaders
argue and debate. It rests in how leaders
speak to one another.
Pinhas, Sirens and Children at Play
On Tuesday evening at approximately 10 pm, as I walked home from the Shalom Hartman Institute where I am spending two weeks studying and learning, the sirens sounded throughout Jerusalem. I was midway between the Institute and the apartment I rent in Jerusalem’s German Colony. I had never heard these warning sirens before except to indicate the minute of silences observed on Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron. I heard two booms. I quickened my pace, but still paused to look both ways before crossing the busy thoroughfare of Emek Refaim, finally making it back to my apartment in a few minutes. Then I thought that perhaps I should go downstairs to the miklat, bomb shelter. I joined others in the basement outside of the locked shelter. After waiting there the required ten minutes we said our good evenings and returned to our apartments.
I have since learned that I handled my first missile attack incorrectly. It takes a Hamas rocket approximately 90 seconds to reach the Jerusalem area and so as confident I might have been about my quickened pace I was actually supposed to dart into a nearby building. Now I have read the guidelines issued by the Home Front Command: “When the alert siren or an explosion are heard, it is necessary to complete the process of protection, depending on the time available to you and to act according to the following instructions… If outside – enter the closest building, depending on the time available. If there is no building or cover/shelter nearby, or if you are in an open space, lie down on the ground and protect your head with your hands.” Oops! I have also, much to the JCB staff’s delight, secured a key to the bomb shelter.
Truth be told the threat of injury or harm from a rocket here in Jerusalem is minimal....
This post continues on The Times of Israel Ops & Blogs.
I have since learned that I handled my first missile attack incorrectly. It takes a Hamas rocket approximately 90 seconds to reach the Jerusalem area and so as confident I might have been about my quickened pace I was actually supposed to dart into a nearby building. Now I have read the guidelines issued by the Home Front Command: “When the alert siren or an explosion are heard, it is necessary to complete the process of protection, depending on the time available to you and to act according to the following instructions… If outside – enter the closest building, depending on the time available. If there is no building or cover/shelter nearby, or if you are in an open space, lie down on the ground and protect your head with your hands.” Oops! I have also, much to the JCB staff’s delight, secured a key to the bomb shelter.
Truth be told the threat of injury or harm from a rocket here in Jerusalem is minimal....
Balak, Zionism, Visions and Fantasies
My teacher Rabbi David Hartman once wrote: “Israel represents the birth of a healthy society that seeks to create a nation like all other nations. The demythologization of the Jewish people is one of the great gifts of Israeli society to the Jewish people.”
And yet at times this demythologization is almost too painful to behold.
Yesterday Jews protested the murder of three Israeli teenagers, shouting “Death to the Arabs.” It is also suspected that as revenge for the deaths of Gilad Shaar, Naftali Frenkel and Eyal Yifrach an East Jerusalem Arab teen, Muhammad Hussein Abu Khdeir, was murdered. Naftali Frenkel’s uncle responded: “There is no difference between blood and blood. A murderer is a murderer, no matter his nationality and age. There is no justification, no forgiveness and no atonement for any murder.”
Being in Jerusalem during these days I have the keen sense that our nation’s character is being tested. There are moments of great pride and solidarity.
At the funeral for these three teens, President Shimon Peres said, “We prayed, each of us alone and all of us together, for a miracle. We prayed that that we will see them return in peace to their families, to their homes and to us all. Sadly we were hit by the tragedy of their murder and a deep grief enveloped our people. We are an ancient people, united and deeply rooted. Our story is full of tears but the soul maintains the Torah. These three boys exposed the depth of our people and the heights it can reach.”
And yet there are other moments of embarrassment and shame. Rabbi Noam Perel, the leader of the Bnei Akiva youth movement, said, “The government of Israel is gathering for a revenge meeting that isn't a grief meeting. The landlord has gone mad at the sight of his sons' bodies. A government that turns the army of searchers to an army of avengers, an army that will not stop at 300 Philistine foreskins…” The myth and even fantasy of an ideal people is shattered. Who continues to idealize our people and cling to the notion that all Jews are animated by the Torah’s decree that every human being is created in the image of God?
Part of the Zionist project is the desire to be a nation like all other nations. And yet with the achievement of sovereignty comes the painful reminder that each and every day our Jewish character is tested. In the diaspora we wish Israel only to live up to our fantasies, to our images that it unique among the family of nations and always lives up to its founding principles. Israel may very well be unique but it is not always perfect. I wonder, is Judaism up to the challenge of sovereignty?
My teacher’s words ring in my ears during these painful days. A nation of our own means that our values will always be tested and that we will sometimes fall short. That is why David Hartman founded the center here in Jerusalem. In his mind the State of Israel was the greatest of experiments. Can our values be held up to the exposure of sovereignty? Singing Shalom Rav and clinging to the Jewish value of shalom when it was only a messianic dream, when we lacked political power and our lives were entirely in the hands of others was not a great challenge by comparison.
Holding on to life and preserving Jewish lives without negating the lives of others and without even denouncing the humanity of our enemies, is the supreme test that is the State of Israel’s lot. Each and every day this is challenged.
We wish to be a great nation, an example for Jews throughout the world, and even a light to other nations of the world. This is part of the dream of continuing to build up the State of Israel. This place is not only for us, but an example for all. Such is the dream of the nation we call our home as well. Great nations wish not only to serve their citizens but the world.
This is the vision of the Declaration of Independence that we celebrate on July 4th. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
We will continue to be tested. I continue to hope and pray that one day all the world will say along with the prophet Balaam,
“How wonderful 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)
Sitting here in Jerusalem one has the feeling that we may very well hold that judgment in our hands—during these days.
And yet at times this demythologization is almost too painful to behold.
Yesterday Jews protested the murder of three Israeli teenagers, shouting “Death to the Arabs.” It is also suspected that as revenge for the deaths of Gilad Shaar, Naftali Frenkel and Eyal Yifrach an East Jerusalem Arab teen, Muhammad Hussein Abu Khdeir, was murdered. Naftali Frenkel’s uncle responded: “There is no difference between blood and blood. A murderer is a murderer, no matter his nationality and age. There is no justification, no forgiveness and no atonement for any murder.”
Being in Jerusalem during these days I have the keen sense that our nation’s character is being tested. There are moments of great pride and solidarity.
At the funeral for these three teens, President Shimon Peres said, “We prayed, each of us alone and all of us together, for a miracle. We prayed that that we will see them return in peace to their families, to their homes and to us all. Sadly we were hit by the tragedy of their murder and a deep grief enveloped our people. We are an ancient people, united and deeply rooted. Our story is full of tears but the soul maintains the Torah. These three boys exposed the depth of our people and the heights it can reach.”
And yet there are other moments of embarrassment and shame. Rabbi Noam Perel, the leader of the Bnei Akiva youth movement, said, “The government of Israel is gathering for a revenge meeting that isn't a grief meeting. The landlord has gone mad at the sight of his sons' bodies. A government that turns the army of searchers to an army of avengers, an army that will not stop at 300 Philistine foreskins…” The myth and even fantasy of an ideal people is shattered. Who continues to idealize our people and cling to the notion that all Jews are animated by the Torah’s decree that every human being is created in the image of God?
Part of the Zionist project is the desire to be a nation like all other nations. And yet with the achievement of sovereignty comes the painful reminder that each and every day our Jewish character is tested. In the diaspora we wish Israel only to live up to our fantasies, to our images that it unique among the family of nations and always lives up to its founding principles. Israel may very well be unique but it is not always perfect. I wonder, is Judaism up to the challenge of sovereignty?
My teacher’s words ring in my ears during these painful days. A nation of our own means that our values will always be tested and that we will sometimes fall short. That is why David Hartman founded the center here in Jerusalem. In his mind the State of Israel was the greatest of experiments. Can our values be held up to the exposure of sovereignty? Singing Shalom Rav and clinging to the Jewish value of shalom when it was only a messianic dream, when we lacked political power and our lives were entirely in the hands of others was not a great challenge by comparison.
Holding on to life and preserving Jewish lives without negating the lives of others and without even denouncing the humanity of our enemies, is the supreme test that is the State of Israel’s lot. Each and every day this is challenged.
We wish to be a great nation, an example for Jews throughout the world, and even a light to other nations of the world. This is part of the dream of continuing to build up the State of Israel. This place is not only for us, but an example for all. Such is the dream of the nation we call our home as well. Great nations wish not only to serve their citizens but the world.
This is the vision of the Declaration of Independence that we celebrate on July 4th. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
We will continue to be tested. I continue to hope and pray that one day all the world will say along with the prophet Balaam,
“How wonderful 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)
Sitting here in Jerusalem one has the feeling that we may very well hold that judgment in our hands—during these days.
Three Boys
There are certain moments that unite us as a Jewish people. They should as well unite all human beings but sadly even the murder of these three young boys fails to stir the hardened hearts about us.
Yesterday we learned that these three boys, kidnapped eighteen days ago, were murdered soon after they were captured. Their bodies were discovered yesterday in hastily dug graves outside of Hebron. It was announced at 8:30 in the evening here in Israel.
My friends and I were in the midst of a lecture when our phones began flashing news alerts. Still our learning continued and then at its conclusion the sad news was announced to the assembled group. We stood together and as one. A colleague recited El Malei Rachamim and offered prayers for these three young souls. We sang Hatikvah. We stood quietly and then offered each other hugs as well as the occasional tears.
I am thankful to once again be in Jerusalem to renew my learning. I walk the city’s streets in the cool desert evenings and breath in the air of this remarkable and beloved city. But today the air is thick with grief and mourning. There is worry about what tomorrow will bring.
We recall the memories of Gilad Shaar, Naftali Frenkel and Eyal Yifrach. I pray that their families and friends discover some measure of consolation. May our nation one day find peace.
For now our hearts are joined in sorrow and our people united in grief.
Yesterday we learned that these three boys, kidnapped eighteen days ago, were murdered soon after they were captured. Their bodies were discovered yesterday in hastily dug graves outside of Hebron. It was announced at 8:30 in the evening here in Israel.
My friends and I were in the midst of a lecture when our phones began flashing news alerts. Still our learning continued and then at its conclusion the sad news was announced to the assembled group. We stood together and as one. A colleague recited El Malei Rachamim and offered prayers for these three young souls. We sang Hatikvah. We stood quietly and then offered each other hugs as well as the occasional tears.
I am thankful to once again be in Jerusalem to renew my learning. I walk the city’s streets in the cool desert evenings and breath in the air of this remarkable and beloved city. But today the air is thick with grief and mourning. There is worry about what tomorrow will bring.
We recall the memories of Gilad Shaar, Naftali Frenkel and Eyal Yifrach. I pray that their families and friends discover some measure of consolation. May our nation one day find peace.
For now our hearts are joined in sorrow and our people united in grief.
Hukkat, Soccer, You and We
The hero of the Torah, Moses, is not allowed to enter the Promised Land. The reason for this is because of what happens in this week’s portion.
The people were once again complaining. This time they were screaming for water. Moses is instructed to order a rock to provide water. Instead Moses hits the rock in anger and shouts at the people, “Listen you rebels!” (Numbers 20) Because Moses did not follow God’s instructions, hitting the rock and screaming at the people he was punished and told that he would only see the dream from afar, that he would not be allowed to lead the people into the land of Israel.
It seems a rather harsh punishment for a man who devoted so many years to leading a rather difficult people through even more difficult circumstances. Then again we can discern a lesson from this: one moment of anger can undo a lifetime of work. On the other hand Moses’ sin might not so much have been about his anger but as some commentators suggest the fact that he separated himself from the community he led. He screamed “you” instead of shouting “we.”
Anger is not always inappropriate. There are many injustices that are deserving of our indignation. Sometimes we can only right wrongs when we sing as one and say, “We shall…” Perhaps Moses was right to get angry but wrong to see himself apart from the community. So much more can be accomplished, and overcome, and even righted when we are joined together as one.
Like many I have been reveling in soccer these past days. (Go USA!) Futbol is a wonderful sport to watch at the World Cup level. Most games are low scoring by our American standards. For a goal to be scored most of a team’s players are usually involved moving the ball up the field (nay, pitch) and then into the net. It is a beautiful thing to see a team of eleven working in concert with another. That is soccer at its best.
This is the reason why the referee can issue a red card if a player hits his own teammate. Such an act happened in a recent Cameroon game. The referee did not see it so there was no penalty, but the sportscasters noted it and replayed it for all to witness. For all of FIFA’s scandals (may the 2022 games be moved from Qatar to the US!) it makes a remarkable statement about the value of teamwork by delineating a penalty for acting so egregiously against one’s own team.
Very little can be accomplished when there is dissension and disunity. Much can be achieved when we restrain our own egos (even the greatest and most skilled soccer players sometimes only pass the ball to the goal scorer; take that LeBron!) and say together, “we.” Leadership must always be about saying what we can do, rather than here is what you must do.
It seems to me that the tone of so many of today’s leaders is more about what the other guy is doing wrong rather than what we can, and must, accomplish together. Too often I hear Moses’ words in the mouths of our leaders, “Listen you rebels…listen you rebels…” We need more to say, “we” and far less to say, “you.”
In the moment that Moses said “you” and not “we” he actually became the rebel and was denied his lifelong dream.
The people were once again complaining. This time they were screaming for water. Moses is instructed to order a rock to provide water. Instead Moses hits the rock in anger and shouts at the people, “Listen you rebels!” (Numbers 20) Because Moses did not follow God’s instructions, hitting the rock and screaming at the people he was punished and told that he would only see the dream from afar, that he would not be allowed to lead the people into the land of Israel.
It seems a rather harsh punishment for a man who devoted so many years to leading a rather difficult people through even more difficult circumstances. Then again we can discern a lesson from this: one moment of anger can undo a lifetime of work. On the other hand Moses’ sin might not so much have been about his anger but as some commentators suggest the fact that he separated himself from the community he led. He screamed “you” instead of shouting “we.”
Anger is not always inappropriate. There are many injustices that are deserving of our indignation. Sometimes we can only right wrongs when we sing as one and say, “We shall…” Perhaps Moses was right to get angry but wrong to see himself apart from the community. So much more can be accomplished, and overcome, and even righted when we are joined together as one.
Like many I have been reveling in soccer these past days. (Go USA!) Futbol is a wonderful sport to watch at the World Cup level. Most games are low scoring by our American standards. For a goal to be scored most of a team’s players are usually involved moving the ball up the field (nay, pitch) and then into the net. It is a beautiful thing to see a team of eleven working in concert with another. That is soccer at its best.
This is the reason why the referee can issue a red card if a player hits his own teammate. Such an act happened in a recent Cameroon game. The referee did not see it so there was no penalty, but the sportscasters noted it and replayed it for all to witness. For all of FIFA’s scandals (may the 2022 games be moved from Qatar to the US!) it makes a remarkable statement about the value of teamwork by delineating a penalty for acting so egregiously against one’s own team.
Very little can be accomplished when there is dissension and disunity. Much can be achieved when we restrain our own egos (even the greatest and most skilled soccer players sometimes only pass the ball to the goal scorer; take that LeBron!) and say together, “we.” Leadership must always be about saying what we can do, rather than here is what you must do.
It seems to me that the tone of so many of today’s leaders is more about what the other guy is doing wrong rather than what we can, and must, accomplish together. Too often I hear Moses’ words in the mouths of our leaders, “Listen you rebels…listen you rebels…” We need more to say, “we” and far less to say, “you.”
In the moment that Moses said “you” and not “we” he actually became the rebel and was denied his lifelong dream.
Korah, Revolutions and Altalena Moments
On June 20, 1948 a ship, the Altalena, carrying arms and
fighters bound for the fledgling army of the newly founded State of Israel,
reached the shore off the coast of Tel Aviv.
There was only one problem. The
arms shipment was arranged by the more radical Irgun led by Menachem Begin and
not by David ben Gurion and the Israel Defense Forces. Begin and ben Gurion had only recently made
an agreement to bring the Irgun under the leadership of the IDF. In addition a truce had recently been
brokered between Israel and the Arab armies.
Ben Gurion was adamant that the Altalena and its cargo of
weapons and fighters surrender to the IDF.
There could be only one leader and one army during this trying moment in
Israel’s history. Begin refused to
compromise. He insisted that at the very
least the arms be guaranteed to the Irgun fighters in their new IDF units. Ben Gurion believed that such compromises
would only create an army within an army.
The IDF concentrated forces on the beach and fired on the
Altalena. One shell hit the ship and
caught fire. Fearing that the ship would
explode many jumped into the Mediterranean Sea.
IDF machine gunners continued their fire. Sixteen Irgun fighters were killed. Three IDF soldiers were also killed in the
confrontation. The details of this
incident continue to be debated; the decisions remain controversial. Its memories as well continue to haunt many who struggled
to establish the state during its early years.
Yitzhak Rabin was the commander of the IDF forces assembled at the beach.
I remember meeting an Irgun fighter a year after Rabin’s
assassination. He said in response to my
pain about the assassination and what I termed a great tragedy for the State of
Israel and the Jewish people, “I will not shed a tear for the man who was
responsible for killing my brothers.”
This week we read about Korah’s rebellion against Moses’
leadership. On the surface Korah’s
criticisms appear legitimate. In
essence, he argues that Moses concentrates all the power in his own hands. God’s judgment is harsh, and even
ruthless. Korah and all his followers,
as well as their households, are killed.
“Scarcely had Moses finished speaking all these words when the ground
under them burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with
their households, all Korah’s people and all their possessions.” (Numbers
16:32-33)
Every revolution has such moments of clarity, and yes even
of ruthless violence, against one’s own people.
A nation can only be built, a people created if there is a clarity of
vision. Sometimes, history teaches us, such
ideals can only be upheld by defending them with arms. Leaders always believe
that their decisions are decisive, that they can bend the arc of history, that
they, and they alone, are leading their people through such a revolutionary
moment and that all who oppose them are rebels.
Who is labeled a rebel and who called a great leader is left to the
judgment of history. It is only looking
back through the lens of history that we gain these insights. In the throes of these moments there is only
pain.
Three Israel teenagers were kidnapped a week ago: Naftali
Frankel, Gilad Shaar, and Eyal Yifrach.
Despite extensive searches throughout the West Bank and in particular
Hebron they have yet to be found. The
Jewish people are united in prayer. May
they soon be returned home to their families in peace and in full health! And yet I wonder if the Palestinians and
their leadership have reached a moment of decisiveness. The Palestinian Authority Prime Minister, Mahmoud
Abbas, directed his ire at the kidnappers and said, “These three boys are human
beings like us, and they should be returned to their families.”
And while I recognize and am deeply pained by the
celebrations of the kidnapping in the Palestinian street and as well by the
unity government formed between the Palestinian Authority and Hamas, I offer this
tentative hope that this moment can become one of decisive leadership when
those who wish only for the destruction of Israel rather than the creation of a
Palestinian State are excised from the Palestinian polity, when a clear vision
of something beautiful and lasting is offered to the Palestinians and to this
conflict filled region. That would be
such an occasion to offer sweets to one another.
Revolutions require such decisive moments.
I continue to hope and pray that one day I will look back on these days, through the blessing of history, and see today’s moment as the time when the vision of two states for two peoples was clarified and reborn.
For more details on the Altalena Affair visit the Jewish Virtual Library.
I continue to hope and pray that one day I will look back on these days, through the blessing of history, and see today’s moment as the time when the vision of two states for two peoples was clarified and reborn.
For more details on the Altalena Affair visit the Jewish Virtual Library.
Shelach Lecha, Wild Things and Faith
“And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed
their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible
claws.” (Maurice Sendak, Where the
Wild Things Are)
And ten of the spies sent by Moses to scout the land report:
“The land that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of
great size; we saw the giants and the children of giants, and we looked like
grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers
13:32-33)
Max, the hero of Sendak’s book, overcomes his fears, and in
particular his anger, by imagining that he is their ruler, that he is their
master. Imagination is a powerful
tool. Within it we discover the secret
of our success. Within it are the sparks
of creativity. This is exactly the
wisdom of Judaism’s insights about the yetzer hara, often translated as the
evil inclination. Within this we
discover, for example, desire and drive.
These traits can lead us toward passion, commitment and love, or lust.
They can move us toward invention and achievement on the one hand, or jealousy
and vengeance on the other. The
creative spirit hovers between these extremes.
We learn as well that imagination can conspire against us,
creating fear in our hearts. That is
part of the lesson of Maurice Sendak’s brilliant book. The line between fear and hope is thin. It is also the lesson of this week’s
portion. It is hard to believe that there
were in fact giants who ruled the land of Israel. The evidence of this truth are the Torah’s words:
we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves.
Faith is about how we perceive ourselves. Ten of the spies lacked faith in their assigned
task and in their ability to achieve their destined goal. This is why the people are condemned to
wander for forty years before returning to this crossroad once again.
Only Joshua and Caleb believed that the people would
succeed. They scouted the same land and
saw the same sights and yet they returned with a message of hope. Curiously the details of their report are not
found in the Torah. We only read: “Caleb
hushed the people before Moses and said, ‘Let us by all means go up, and we
shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it.’” (Numbers 13:
30) Perhaps they, like Max, mastered
their emotions, summoned their faith and overcame their fears. Perhaps the men of the land were indeed
giants, but Joshua and Caleb nonetheless did not see themselves as
grasshoppers.
Although Hebrew offers the term emunah for faith, the
tradition more often uses yirah and in particular yirat hashamayim. This phrase can be translated as fear of
heaven or as I prefer, awe. Yet the lesson
remains. Fear and awe are near to one another. Faith is a matter of how we regard heaven, of
what we believe our relationship is to God, of how we imagine ourselves in
regard to the Almighty.
It is true God is a giant by comparison. And yet this does not mean we must see
ourselves as puny grasshoppers.
Fear, and faith, are a matter of how we see ourselves.