Ekev and Feeding Compassion
The Talmud reports that Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: It is forbidden to eat before feeding one's animal. (Brachot 40a)
What is the import of this ruling? It would be cruel to eat in front of our hungry animals and pets. Our concern for God’s creation extends to animals as well as to humans. Compassion is taught by caring for pets. Attending to their cries, and pangs of hunger, molds a caring heart.
The rabbis derive this law from the following verse: "I will give grass in your fields for your cattle, and then, you shall eat and be satisfied." (Deuteronomy 11:15) Because the Torah speaks first about cattle and then about human beings, the rabbis rule that we must feed our animals before satisfying our own hunger.
It is fascinating that the ancient rabbis derive this teaching from the order of the verse’s words. Their reasoning reminds us that we live in a world not only where words matter but also the order of these words. They continue to teach us that compassion begins by reaching out to others first. Only then can we reach out to ourselves. Only then do we become sated.
Can compassion really be taught by sprinkling a few crumbs of food in a fish tank or by filling a dog’s or cat’s bowl with food before sitting down to our own meals? The Talmud’s answer is yes. Yes, absolutely. Before my hunger is satisfied I must first provide for others, I must first reach out to others. I must, in this case, reach down to those who cannot care for themselves, and provide for them. It begins by pausing, and noting the needs of other creatures.
Our spiritual hunger is sated when we turn to others, when we open our hands to all of God’s creatures.
What is the import of this ruling? It would be cruel to eat in front of our hungry animals and pets. Our concern for God’s creation extends to animals as well as to humans. Compassion is taught by caring for pets. Attending to their cries, and pangs of hunger, molds a caring heart.
The rabbis derive this law from the following verse: "I will give grass in your fields for your cattle, and then, you shall eat and be satisfied." (Deuteronomy 11:15) Because the Torah speaks first about cattle and then about human beings, the rabbis rule that we must feed our animals before satisfying our own hunger.
It is fascinating that the ancient rabbis derive this teaching from the order of the verse’s words. Their reasoning reminds us that we live in a world not only where words matter but also the order of these words. They continue to teach us that compassion begins by reaching out to others first. Only then can we reach out to ourselves. Only then do we become sated.
Can compassion really be taught by sprinkling a few crumbs of food in a fish tank or by filling a dog’s or cat’s bowl with food before sitting down to our own meals? The Talmud’s answer is yes. Yes, absolutely. Before my hunger is satisfied I must first provide for others, I must first reach out to others. I must, in this case, reach down to those who cannot care for themselves, and provide for them. It begins by pausing, and noting the needs of other creatures.
Our spiritual hunger is sated when we turn to others, when we open our hands to all of God’s creatures.
Vaetchanan and Swimming Torah
This week we find the words of the V’Ahavta in the week’s portion. “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might. Take to heart these instructions which I charge you this day... (Deuteronomy 6:4-9)
Two words found in the V’Ahavta summarize life’s most important work: v’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children. On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything. The Talmud explores the specifics. Parents must teach their children Torah. Okay we expected that answer from the great repository of Jewish wisdom. The Talmud continues: parents are required to teach their children a craft. Why? Rabbi Judah responds: Those who do not teach them a craft teach them thievery. And some say: to teach them to swim too. Why swimming? It is because their lives may depend on it. (Kiddushin 29b)
I love that ancient rabbinic statement—and not just because I am an avid swimmer. It is instead because it encapsulates much of what I believe our tradition is supposed to represent. Judaism sees Torah not only as the imparting of values but also of providing our children with practical skills (craft) and even with survival skills (swimming). To raise up our children into independent adults they must be able to discern right from wrong on their own. They must be able to fend for themselves, facing challenges—again on their own. They must be able to survive without us—yet again, on their own.
Sure you can swim with friends but no one, not even parents, can do the swimming for you.
The teaching of values, the imparting of traditions can continue between parents and children well into adulthood but children must carve out their own path and make their own way. They must meander through life’s struggles on their own. Today it sometimes appears otherwise. Nonetheless I continue to believe that despite technological innovations, a parent might not be, and perhaps should not be, a phone call (or text) away. Let go. Let them swim into uncharted waters. Trust in your teachings. Take faith in your Torah.
Curiously the Torah uses shinantam for teach rather than the more common m’lamed. This particular word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? My repeated admonitions to my children are more often than not my worst parenting moments. “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These exhortations are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. I am the only one who hears my repeated words. “Don’t swim so far from shore!”
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method then what could this unusual word choice mean? An insight must be hidden in the verse’s words. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah portion means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do over and over, again and again.
So let them see you swim. And get them swimming on their own.
Take this to heart. Our children are supposed to swim farther and faster than we ever could have managed, and than we ever could have imagined.
Two words found in the V’Ahavta summarize life’s most important work: v’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children. On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything. The Talmud explores the specifics. Parents must teach their children Torah. Okay we expected that answer from the great repository of Jewish wisdom. The Talmud continues: parents are required to teach their children a craft. Why? Rabbi Judah responds: Those who do not teach them a craft teach them thievery. And some say: to teach them to swim too. Why swimming? It is because their lives may depend on it. (Kiddushin 29b)
I love that ancient rabbinic statement—and not just because I am an avid swimmer. It is instead because it encapsulates much of what I believe our tradition is supposed to represent. Judaism sees Torah not only as the imparting of values but also of providing our children with practical skills (craft) and even with survival skills (swimming). To raise up our children into independent adults they must be able to discern right from wrong on their own. They must be able to fend for themselves, facing challenges—again on their own. They must be able to survive without us—yet again, on their own.
Sure you can swim with friends but no one, not even parents, can do the swimming for you.
The teaching of values, the imparting of traditions can continue between parents and children well into adulthood but children must carve out their own path and make their own way. They must meander through life’s struggles on their own. Today it sometimes appears otherwise. Nonetheless I continue to believe that despite technological innovations, a parent might not be, and perhaps should not be, a phone call (or text) away. Let go. Let them swim into uncharted waters. Trust in your teachings. Take faith in your Torah.
Curiously the Torah uses shinantam for teach rather than the more common m’lamed. This particular word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? My repeated admonitions to my children are more often than not my worst parenting moments. “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These exhortations are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. I am the only one who hears my repeated words. “Don’t swim so far from shore!”
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method then what could this unusual word choice mean? An insight must be hidden in the verse’s words. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah portion means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do over and over, again and again.
So let them see you swim. And get them swimming on their own.
Take this to heart. Our children are supposed to swim farther and faster than we ever could have managed, and than we ever could have imagined.
Tisha B'Av, Tragedies and Celebrating
According to tradition Tisha B’Av marks far more than the destructions of the First Temple in 586 B.C.E. by the Babylonians and the Second Temple by the Romans in 70 C.E. The Mishnah adds even more calamities. On this day the ten spies returned to Moses with a negative report about the land of Israel, sowing discontent among the people and ensuring our wandering would last 40 years. On this day in 135 C.E. the Romans crushed the Bar Kokhba revolt, killing over 500,000 Jews and leveling the city of Jerusalem and its Temple Mount. In 135 our wanderings outside of the land began yet again and did not of course end until the modern era with the birth of the State of Israel.
Later tradition suggests even more tragedies occurred on Tisha B’Av. The First Crusade in which nearly one million Jews were killed in Europe began on the ninth of Av. On this day as well, the Jews were expelled from England in 1290, France in 1306 and Spain in 1492. On this day, in 1941, Heinrich Himmler (y”s) received approval for the Nazis’ murderous final solution. And in 1942 the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto began on Tisha B’Av.
How can this be? How can all these tragedies begin on this same day? To be honest I am skeptical about the historicity of these ascriptions. It is doubtful that all these events did in fact begin on Tisha B’Av. So the question is what does this conflation of all these tragedies into one day say about our tradition. Why does our tradition fold all these calamitous events into Tisha B’Av?
Over the centuries the narrative is further enhanced. Our victimization comes to revolve around this one day. There are those who even see in these tragedies the sins of our people. Our victimization then becomes our responsibility. These tragedies become our doing. The Talmud blames the destruction of the Temple on sinat chinam, baseless hatred among Jews.
Thus Tisha B’Av is the antithesis to modernity and Zionism. We have now a sovereign nation. We have now a strong State of Israel. Of course there are threats. But with sovereignty we will no longer be victims. We are no longer at the mercy of foreign powers. It might, especially during these days, appear otherwise but Zionism teaches that history is now ours to be written. Our generation can defend ourselves like no prior generation. Zionist philosophy refuses to see the Jewish people as eternal victims. Current threats must not transform us once again into seeing ourselves as victims.
Perhaps that is the intuition of our tradition. Why one day? To suggest that one day is enough. Yes there are other days associated with historical events (Tzom Gedaliah, Tenth of Tevet and Seventeenth of Tammuz), but these are minor fast days and do not have the import of Tisha B’Av. And so this single day suggests that one day is in fact enough to beat our chests and lament our losses.
The hallmark of our tradition is that it codifies joy over mourning, celebration over tragedy. A single day is enough to mourn the many catastrophes that have befallen our people for we could in fact fill a calendar year with a list of tragedies. And so myth and memory are folded together and wrapped into the Ninth of Av. We observe all calamities on one day. The rest of the days in the calendar are reserved to affirm the present and look toward the future.
The tradition suggests that if every today becomes the eighth of Av with its trepidation and fear and every tomorrow the ninth of Av with its mourning and lament, we will be unable to celebrate, we will be unable to sing. And then we will be unable, or unwilling, to march forward toward the tenth of Av.
One day is enough to look back and cry. The remainder must be left to celebrate.
Later tradition suggests even more tragedies occurred on Tisha B’Av. The First Crusade in which nearly one million Jews were killed in Europe began on the ninth of Av. On this day as well, the Jews were expelled from England in 1290, France in 1306 and Spain in 1492. On this day, in 1941, Heinrich Himmler (y”s) received approval for the Nazis’ murderous final solution. And in 1942 the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto began on Tisha B’Av.
How can this be? How can all these tragedies begin on this same day? To be honest I am skeptical about the historicity of these ascriptions. It is doubtful that all these events did in fact begin on Tisha B’Av. So the question is what does this conflation of all these tragedies into one day say about our tradition. Why does our tradition fold all these calamitous events into Tisha B’Av?
Over the centuries the narrative is further enhanced. Our victimization comes to revolve around this one day. There are those who even see in these tragedies the sins of our people. Our victimization then becomes our responsibility. These tragedies become our doing. The Talmud blames the destruction of the Temple on sinat chinam, baseless hatred among Jews.
Thus Tisha B’Av is the antithesis to modernity and Zionism. We have now a sovereign nation. We have now a strong State of Israel. Of course there are threats. But with sovereignty we will no longer be victims. We are no longer at the mercy of foreign powers. It might, especially during these days, appear otherwise but Zionism teaches that history is now ours to be written. Our generation can defend ourselves like no prior generation. Zionist philosophy refuses to see the Jewish people as eternal victims. Current threats must not transform us once again into seeing ourselves as victims.
Perhaps that is the intuition of our tradition. Why one day? To suggest that one day is enough. Yes there are other days associated with historical events (Tzom Gedaliah, Tenth of Tevet and Seventeenth of Tammuz), but these are minor fast days and do not have the import of Tisha B’Av. And so this single day suggests that one day is in fact enough to beat our chests and lament our losses.
The hallmark of our tradition is that it codifies joy over mourning, celebration over tragedy. A single day is enough to mourn the many catastrophes that have befallen our people for we could in fact fill a calendar year with a list of tragedies. And so myth and memory are folded together and wrapped into the Ninth of Av. We observe all calamities on one day. The rest of the days in the calendar are reserved to affirm the present and look toward the future.
The tradition suggests that if every today becomes the eighth of Av with its trepidation and fear and every tomorrow the ninth of Av with its mourning and lament, we will be unable to celebrate, we will be unable to sing. And then we will be unable, or unwilling, to march forward toward the tenth of Av.
One day is enough to look back and cry. The remainder must be left to celebrate.
Mattot-Masei, History, Hope and Worries about Iran
On the day that images from Pluto were beamed back to earth from 3 billion miles away, we are debating the inner workings of something far closer to home, the intricacies of the human heart. It is around our view of the heart that the arguments about the recent Iran nuclear deal spin.
President Obama appears to believe that within every human being there is a seed of evil and that therefore all people are redeemable because all are sinful. It is this view that colors his foreign policy decisions and in particular his approach to Iran. Prime Minister Netanyahu by contrast believes that some are unredeemable, that there are those so inclined toward evil that we can only say, “Do not cross this line.” While hope might be on Obama’s side, history stands on Netanyahu’s.
I do not trust the intentions of Iran’s leaders...
President Obama appears to believe that within every human being there is a seed of evil and that therefore all people are redeemable because all are sinful. It is this view that colors his foreign policy decisions and in particular his approach to Iran. Prime Minister Netanyahu by contrast believes that some are unredeemable, that there are those so inclined toward evil that we can only say, “Do not cross this line.” While hope might be on Obama’s side, history stands on Netanyahu’s.
I do not trust the intentions of Iran’s leaders...
Pinchas, Shas, Reform Jews and Our Inheritance
Yesterday Israel’s Religious Affairs Minister David Azoulay, from the ultra-Orthodox Shas party, suggested that Reform Jews should not be considered Jewish. He said, “Let's just say there's a problem as soon as a Reform Jew stops following the religion of Israel. I can't allow myself to say that such a person is a Jew."
This week we read about Zelophehad’s daughters. They approach Moses demanding that the law of inheritance be revised so that their father’s memory will endure. They say, “Our father died in the wilderness…. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27) Justice demands the law be changed.
Right wing parties often criticize Reform, accusing it of picking and choosing from the tradition...
This week we read about Zelophehad’s daughters. They approach Moses demanding that the law of inheritance be revised so that their father’s memory will endure. They say, “Our father died in the wilderness…. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27) Justice demands the law be changed.
Right wing parties often criticize Reform, accusing it of picking and choosing from the tradition...
Balak and the Eye of Faith
I am presently in Jerusalem studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute where I am once again participating in its annual conference. I feel privileged to return to this place year after year to recharge my spiritual batteries and reacquaint myself with the tradition I so love. I am surrounded by colleagues who share my love of learning, debate and even argument, as well as devotion to Israel. I remain grateful to my congregation and its leadership for allowing me this time for rejuvenation.
Given this yearly pilgrimage to Jerusalem, I realize that for the past fifteen years I have only observed July 4th from afar. Every year I have found myself here in Jerusalem for July 4th. I have also by the way marked Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day, in May while at home on Long Island. It occurs to me that these days look far different from a distance. I cannot of course see the fireworks from here, but I wonder is it possible that the miracles of Israel and the United States shimmer more brightly from afar? From this distance, I only see successes rather than struggles. When nearby the flames appear far more intense, and perhaps even frightening. From afar I tend only to see the glow.
Balaam looked out at Israel and rather than curse the Jewish people as his king had commanded him, offered words of blessing: “Mah tovu…
Given this yearly pilgrimage to Jerusalem, I realize that for the past fifteen years I have only observed July 4th from afar. Every year I have found myself here in Jerusalem for July 4th. I have also by the way marked Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day, in May while at home on Long Island. It occurs to me that these days look far different from a distance. I cannot of course see the fireworks from here, but I wonder is it possible that the miracles of Israel and the United States shimmer more brightly from afar? From this distance, I only see successes rather than struggles. When nearby the flames appear far more intense, and perhaps even frightening. From afar I tend only to see the glow.
Balaam looked out at Israel and rather than curse the Jewish people as his king had commanded him, offered words of blessing: “Mah tovu…
Hukkat, Forgiveness and Righteous Anger
The rabbis imagine King Solomon, considered the wisest figure in the Bible, saying, “I have labored to understand the word of God and have understood it all, except for the ritual of the red heifer.” (Numbers Rabbah 19:3)
I struggle to understand a great many things. In particular I labor to understand the events of this past week.
These words echo in my thoughts. “I forgive you! You took something very precious from me. I will never talk to her again. I will never, ever hold her again. But I forgive you. And have mercy on your soul.”
Nadine Collier, the daughter of 70-year-old Ethel Lance, one of the nine victims murdered at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, uttered these words. They were said at the bond hearing of confessed murderer Dylann Roof. I find these sentiments both remarkable and incomprehensible.
Whereas forgiveness is central to Christian teachings, although the depths of such forgiveness may very well exceed that of many Christians, justice is paramount to Judaism. How can murder ever be forgiven? How can a human being offer something that belongs to God? And yet, forgiveness of another, and especially of such an egregious crime, prevents someone from wallowing in anger.
Then again, the lack of justice, and the familiar repetition of such massacres, gnaws at my soul. I turn angry. Once again the combination of guns, mental illness and racism have transformed hatreds into massacres. Add Charleston to the list of Newtown, Oak Creek and Aurora to name a few.
Forgiveness has its virtues. It is a balm for the soul. Perhaps it allows the mourners to remain closer to those they lost. Their forgiveness makes more room for their remembrances. They can remember their loved ones. They can mourn their losses rather than fixating on the justice that continues to appear ever more distant.
Commentators suggest that the bizarre sacrificial ritual of the red heifer, detailed in this week’s portion, is a method for safeguarding the ritual cleanliness of the priesthood. It guarantees that his sins might not despoil the sacrifices. We no longer offer sacrifices. We have no method for ensuring our purity. All human beings are given to wrongdoing. We cannot be rescued from our wrongs by the sprinkling of blood. Instead we must engage in repentance. The turning of the heart is within our hands. Forgiveness, however, remains in the hands of others. Forgiveness is elusive.
I return to my anger. Some, and perhaps these days we might say far too many,are given to evil.
When will we say, “Enough?” Is removing the Confederate flag enough? Symbols of hate are indeed powerful. But such hatred must be banished from the heart. How can we transform our anger into action and address the constellation of problems (and not just their symbols) that make this a recurring tale.
Even our president has been relegated to the role of chief priest. He leads us in mourning. He intones our tragedies. But such massacres are not tragedies. A tragedy is unavoidable. I remain convinced that we can do so much more to eliminate the litany of such mass murders. Let us say, “Enough!” Let us be stirred to action.
Anger has its merits. It can serve to build a better society. Let our anger be transformed into righteousness. Forgiveness remains with God.
I struggle to understand a great many things. In particular I labor to understand the events of this past week.
These words echo in my thoughts. “I forgive you! You took something very precious from me. I will never talk to her again. I will never, ever hold her again. But I forgive you. And have mercy on your soul.”
Nadine Collier, the daughter of 70-year-old Ethel Lance, one of the nine victims murdered at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, uttered these words. They were said at the bond hearing of confessed murderer Dylann Roof. I find these sentiments both remarkable and incomprehensible.
Whereas forgiveness is central to Christian teachings, although the depths of such forgiveness may very well exceed that of many Christians, justice is paramount to Judaism. How can murder ever be forgiven? How can a human being offer something that belongs to God? And yet, forgiveness of another, and especially of such an egregious crime, prevents someone from wallowing in anger.
Then again, the lack of justice, and the familiar repetition of such massacres, gnaws at my soul. I turn angry. Once again the combination of guns, mental illness and racism have transformed hatreds into massacres. Add Charleston to the list of Newtown, Oak Creek and Aurora to name a few.
Forgiveness has its virtues. It is a balm for the soul. Perhaps it allows the mourners to remain closer to those they lost. Their forgiveness makes more room for their remembrances. They can remember their loved ones. They can mourn their losses rather than fixating on the justice that continues to appear ever more distant.
Commentators suggest that the bizarre sacrificial ritual of the red heifer, detailed in this week’s portion, is a method for safeguarding the ritual cleanliness of the priesthood. It guarantees that his sins might not despoil the sacrifices. We no longer offer sacrifices. We have no method for ensuring our purity. All human beings are given to wrongdoing. We cannot be rescued from our wrongs by the sprinkling of blood. Instead we must engage in repentance. The turning of the heart is within our hands. Forgiveness, however, remains in the hands of others. Forgiveness is elusive.
I return to my anger. Some, and perhaps these days we might say far too many,are given to evil.
When will we say, “Enough?” Is removing the Confederate flag enough? Symbols of hate are indeed powerful. But such hatred must be banished from the heart. How can we transform our anger into action and address the constellation of problems (and not just their symbols) that make this a recurring tale.
Even our president has been relegated to the role of chief priest. He leads us in mourning. He intones our tragedies. But such massacres are not tragedies. A tragedy is unavoidable. I remain convinced that we can do so much more to eliminate the litany of such mass murders. Let us say, “Enough!” Let us be stirred to action.
Anger has its merits. It can serve to build a better society. Let our anger be transformed into righteousness. Forgiveness remains with God.
Korah, Arguments and Disagreements
“Jane, you ignorant…” With these words Dan Aykroyd would begin his counterpoint to Jane Curtin’s point on Saturday Night Live’s Weekend Update. We of course knew this line was coming, but still we laughed. Why? Because we understood that this is not how people are supposed to argue and debate.
This week we read about Korah and his rebellion against Moses and his leadership. History deems it a rebellion rather than a revolution. Here is why. Korah’s followers exclaim, “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord over us?” (Numbers 16:12) They do not argue, they attack. They infer that Egypt, the land of their slavery, is the Promised Land. They lash out at Moses.
I am sure there were legitimate criticisms of Moses’ leadership style. He is overly passionate and given to fits of anger. He is hesitant to share the burden of leadership. He, and he alone, is privileged to speak face to face with God. And yet Korah does not offer such critiques. He attacks the person.
The rabbis draw from this story a lesson about arguments and disagreements. They teach that machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of heaven, is how we uncover the truth and strengthen our commitments. “An argument for the sake of heaven will have lasting value, but an argument not for heaven’s sake will not endure. What is an example of an argument for heaven’s sake? The debates of Hillel and Shammai. What is an argument not for heaven’s sake? The rebellion of Korah and his associates.” (Avot 5:19)
Rabbis Hillel and Shammai did not agree on much. Hillel was forgiving and open-minded. Shammai was strict and demanding. The Jewish people required both rabbis. The Jewish people survived because of both of their schools of thought, the Jewish community was strengthened by their divergent interpretations. The truth was uncovered in their fiery debates and frequent disagreements. Hillel and Shammai shared a love of Torah and a devotion to the Jewish people. Both admired the other. These rabbis compromised for the sake of community.
And while I do not wish to return to my parent’s basement and what my imaginations have fashioned into a mythic past in which people only argued for heaven’s sake, I do feel that we have entered a new era in which SNL’s comedy skit has proven sadly prescient. It appears that we argue to destroy the other rather than learning from the debate and dialogue. Today it appears that ideology is more important than community, principles more important than country.
We suggest that those who sit across from us, that those who disagree with us, do not love the United States, the State of Israel or the Jewish people. How many times do we say, “If you really loved Israel then you would not vote for… If you really loved the United States then you would vote for…” Such statements are not arguments. They are attacks. Such exclamations do not lead to uncovering of truths, but instead to its unraveling.
I hold different commitments than I did when I sat watching SNL. I have changed my views. Why? Because I was open to the opinions of others. I did not turn away from disagreement. I listened to those I love and to those who share my passions. Why is it that changing one’s mind or adapting one’s views is viewed as betrayal and disloyalty rather than the badge of honor our community and nation require?
There are many ways to love the State of Israel. There are many ways to love the United States. There are even different ways to love the Jewish community. I do not hold a cornerstone on truth. It is instead teased out in discussion and dialogue.
We have a choice to make. We can be like Korah and Moses or instead Hillel and Shammai. If we refuse to sit across the table from those with whom we passionately disagree then we cut ourselves off from learning.
Truth can only emerge through loving disagreements.
On a tragic note we join together in sadness and prayer for the community of Charleston in which a gunman murdered nine people while praying in church. We pray for those injured, murdered and grieving. We join together as well as in indignation, and even anger, that we live in an age in which schools and houses of worship are not the sanctuaries of safety and security that they should rightfully be. We must do more to safeguard our nation from such murderous hate.
This week we read about Korah and his rebellion against Moses and his leadership. History deems it a rebellion rather than a revolution. Here is why. Korah’s followers exclaim, “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord over us?” (Numbers 16:12) They do not argue, they attack. They infer that Egypt, the land of their slavery, is the Promised Land. They lash out at Moses.
I am sure there were legitimate criticisms of Moses’ leadership style. He is overly passionate and given to fits of anger. He is hesitant to share the burden of leadership. He, and he alone, is privileged to speak face to face with God. And yet Korah does not offer such critiques. He attacks the person.
The rabbis draw from this story a lesson about arguments and disagreements. They teach that machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of heaven, is how we uncover the truth and strengthen our commitments. “An argument for the sake of heaven will have lasting value, but an argument not for heaven’s sake will not endure. What is an example of an argument for heaven’s sake? The debates of Hillel and Shammai. What is an argument not for heaven’s sake? The rebellion of Korah and his associates.” (Avot 5:19)
Rabbis Hillel and Shammai did not agree on much. Hillel was forgiving and open-minded. Shammai was strict and demanding. The Jewish people required both rabbis. The Jewish people survived because of both of their schools of thought, the Jewish community was strengthened by their divergent interpretations. The truth was uncovered in their fiery debates and frequent disagreements. Hillel and Shammai shared a love of Torah and a devotion to the Jewish people. Both admired the other. These rabbis compromised for the sake of community.
And while I do not wish to return to my parent’s basement and what my imaginations have fashioned into a mythic past in which people only argued for heaven’s sake, I do feel that we have entered a new era in which SNL’s comedy skit has proven sadly prescient. It appears that we argue to destroy the other rather than learning from the debate and dialogue. Today it appears that ideology is more important than community, principles more important than country.
We suggest that those who sit across from us, that those who disagree with us, do not love the United States, the State of Israel or the Jewish people. How many times do we say, “If you really loved Israel then you would not vote for… If you really loved the United States then you would vote for…” Such statements are not arguments. They are attacks. Such exclamations do not lead to uncovering of truths, but instead to its unraveling.
I hold different commitments than I did when I sat watching SNL. I have changed my views. Why? Because I was open to the opinions of others. I did not turn away from disagreement. I listened to those I love and to those who share my passions. Why is it that changing one’s mind or adapting one’s views is viewed as betrayal and disloyalty rather than the badge of honor our community and nation require?
There are many ways to love the State of Israel. There are many ways to love the United States. There are even different ways to love the Jewish community. I do not hold a cornerstone on truth. It is instead teased out in discussion and dialogue.
We have a choice to make. We can be like Korah and Moses or instead Hillel and Shammai. If we refuse to sit across the table from those with whom we passionately disagree then we cut ourselves off from learning.
Truth can only emerge through loving disagreements.
On a tragic note we join together in sadness and prayer for the community of Charleston in which a gunman murdered nine people while praying in church. We pray for those injured, murdered and grieving. We join together as well as in indignation, and even anger, that we live in an age in which schools and houses of worship are not the sanctuaries of safety and security that they should rightfully be. We must do more to safeguard our nation from such murderous hate.
Shelach Lecha, Sailing and Fear
This past Sunday I participated in the annual blessing of the fleet. The clergy from Oyster Bay each took turns blessing the boats that paraded in front of the dock. We blessed kayakers and clammers, yachts and sailboats. We offered spontaneous prayers asking God to provide first and foremost safety and protection, but also sun, wind and enjoyment. In the case of the clammer I prayed for a bountiful harvest as well. (I am sure there is a joke to be found there. Did you hear about the time the rabbi prayed for clams?) It was a beautiful afternoon. There was comradery in our prayers. There was joy on the vessels.
John Augustus Shedd, an early 20th century American author, writes: “A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”
Setting sail presents unexpected dangers. And yet how do we forge new paths and discover new truths if we don’t set out?
Can a blessing offer protection for the journey?
The tradition prescribes the traveler’s prayer: “May it be Your will, Lord our God and God of our ancestors, to guide us in peace, sustain us in peace, to lead us to our desired destination in health and joy and peace, and to bring us home in peace. Save us from every enemy and disaster on the way, and from all calamities that threaten the world….”
Only the harbor offers protection. Only staying at home offers security.
The spies return from scouting the land of Israel with a report: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of great size… and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13:32)
Joshua tries to reassure the Israelites. “Caleb hushes the people.” Moses becomes disenchanted. God grows angry. The people’s fears will not be quelled.
God decrees that they must remain in the wilderness for forty years. Only those born in freedom in the wilderness will journey to the Promised Land. It appears that the heart of a slave only knows fear.
They are unable to set sail. They remain forever in the harbor. They deny themselves the blessings of this new land. They see giants. They view themselves as tiny grasshoppers. They do not take to heart “[the land] does indeed flow with milk and honey!” (Numbers 13:27) They deny themselves discoveries. They remain forever in the known. The future must be for their children to seize.
Fear paralyzes. It distorts our vision. It discolors our dreams. It dissuades us from setting out. How many remain afraid to travel to Israel today?
We remain at home. We stay within the harbor.
If only we could seize the courage to go forward. If only we had faith in the words of our prayers. “Lead us to our destination in peace.”
Peace remains in God’s hands. It remains within our grasp to lift the anchor and raise the sails.
John Augustus Shedd, an early 20th century American author, writes: “A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”
Setting sail presents unexpected dangers. And yet how do we forge new paths and discover new truths if we don’t set out?
Can a blessing offer protection for the journey?
The tradition prescribes the traveler’s prayer: “May it be Your will, Lord our God and God of our ancestors, to guide us in peace, sustain us in peace, to lead us to our desired destination in health and joy and peace, and to bring us home in peace. Save us from every enemy and disaster on the way, and from all calamities that threaten the world….”
Only the harbor offers protection. Only staying at home offers security.
The spies return from scouting the land of Israel with a report: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of great size… and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13:32)
Joshua tries to reassure the Israelites. “Caleb hushes the people.” Moses becomes disenchanted. God grows angry. The people’s fears will not be quelled.
God decrees that they must remain in the wilderness for forty years. Only those born in freedom in the wilderness will journey to the Promised Land. It appears that the heart of a slave only knows fear.
They are unable to set sail. They remain forever in the harbor. They deny themselves the blessings of this new land. They see giants. They view themselves as tiny grasshoppers. They do not take to heart “[the land] does indeed flow with milk and honey!” (Numbers 13:27) They deny themselves discoveries. They remain forever in the known. The future must be for their children to seize.
Fear paralyzes. It distorts our vision. It discolors our dreams. It dissuades us from setting out. How many remain afraid to travel to Israel today?
We remain at home. We stay within the harbor.
If only we could seize the courage to go forward. If only we had faith in the words of our prayers. “Lead us to our destination in peace.”
Peace remains in God’s hands. It remains within our grasp to lift the anchor and raise the sails.
Behaalotecha, Shepherds and Wandering
The greatest of our biblical heroes begin their careers as simple shepherds. Why? It is because shepherding demonstrates the necessary credentials to transform a group of distinct individuals into a community. Abraham, Moses and David gently guide their animals throughout the wilderness, even taking note of a stray sheep or goat. Even God is praised with the words: “The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me to still waters…” (Psalm 23:1)
And yet the people often refuse to be guided. The Book of Numbers is a record of these refusals, and rebellions. Moses struggles to lead the Jewish people forward; they over and over again wish to go backward. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all!’” (Numbers 11:4)
They would rather be penned in as slaves than wandering the wilderness free. How quickly they forget their sufferings and pains! They cling to fanciful imaginations of yesterday. This pull of a mythic past is so strong that they long for what must have been a sliver of fish and wilted leeks. They prefer the certainty of yesterday’s morsel rather than the bounty of God’s manna. Moses grows angry. He struggles to urge them forward. They only want to stay put. They wish to remain in the past.
The Book Numbers elucidates this tension. On the one hand we read of Moses urging them toward the promise and the dream, although the unfamiliar and unknown, and on the other the people clinging to their memories of the past. Memories appear more certain. How quickly yesterday’s troubles become forgotten. How quickly the imagination refashions the past. A meager ration of cucumbers and melons become a meal.
The hand of the shepherd guides them forward. They rebel. “If only we had meat to eat!”
Then again perhaps the true meaning of our heroes being shepherds is that a shepherd is first and foremost a wanderer. I admit that this may very well be my singular theme, but perhaps the spiritual message of the Torah is that God wants us to remain forever wanderers. Moses points to the future. The people look to the past. God affirms the present. Keep wandering. Keep moving, even if in circles. That of course is the Torah’s primary story line. “And whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out on their journey accordingly…” (Numbers 9:17) The Torah is primarily a record of forty years of wandering.
God apparently does not want us to become attached to any one place or location. We remain in each encampment but a few days. The cloud of glory lifts. The people move on. In the Torah the Promised Land remains but a dream.
The dream is held at a distance. We continue to affirm the present.
Thus the defining book of the Torah is Numbers. In fact its name in Hebrew is “Bamidbar—in the wilderness.” The wilderness belongs to no nation. It belongs to no one—except God. It is as if to say the Torah is found both nowhere and anywhere.
And it is there that we must remain—forever wandering, forever moving. Our holiest of books is defined by the midbar, the wilderness. It is defined by a scrappy landscape in which animals roam free although gently guided by the hand of their shepherd.
It is also the place in which our people wander—but free.
And yet the people often refuse to be guided. The Book of Numbers is a record of these refusals, and rebellions. Moses struggles to lead the Jewish people forward; they over and over again wish to go backward. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all!’” (Numbers 11:4)
They would rather be penned in as slaves than wandering the wilderness free. How quickly they forget their sufferings and pains! They cling to fanciful imaginations of yesterday. This pull of a mythic past is so strong that they long for what must have been a sliver of fish and wilted leeks. They prefer the certainty of yesterday’s morsel rather than the bounty of God’s manna. Moses grows angry. He struggles to urge them forward. They only want to stay put. They wish to remain in the past.
The Book Numbers elucidates this tension. On the one hand we read of Moses urging them toward the promise and the dream, although the unfamiliar and unknown, and on the other the people clinging to their memories of the past. Memories appear more certain. How quickly yesterday’s troubles become forgotten. How quickly the imagination refashions the past. A meager ration of cucumbers and melons become a meal.
The hand of the shepherd guides them forward. They rebel. “If only we had meat to eat!”
Then again perhaps the true meaning of our heroes being shepherds is that a shepherd is first and foremost a wanderer. I admit that this may very well be my singular theme, but perhaps the spiritual message of the Torah is that God wants us to remain forever wanderers. Moses points to the future. The people look to the past. God affirms the present. Keep wandering. Keep moving, even if in circles. That of course is the Torah’s primary story line. “And whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out on their journey accordingly…” (Numbers 9:17) The Torah is primarily a record of forty years of wandering.
God apparently does not want us to become attached to any one place or location. We remain in each encampment but a few days. The cloud of glory lifts. The people move on. In the Torah the Promised Land remains but a dream.
The dream is held at a distance. We continue to affirm the present.
Thus the defining book of the Torah is Numbers. In fact its name in Hebrew is “Bamidbar—in the wilderness.” The wilderness belongs to no nation. It belongs to no one—except God. It is as if to say the Torah is found both nowhere and anywhere.
And it is there that we must remain—forever wandering, forever moving. Our holiest of books is defined by the midbar, the wilderness. It is defined by a scrappy landscape in which animals roam free although gently guided by the hand of their shepherd.
It is also the place in which our people wander—but free.
The Torah is discovered nowhere and anywhere. It is found instead in wandering.
Naso, Privilege and Desire
In ancient times we were divided by classes and tribes. In fact the reason why King David chose Jerusalem as the capital of our ancient land was because the city was ruled by no one tribe. It was the Washington, D.C. of ancient days.
The Torah offers a record of these divisions. “All the Levites whom Moses, Aaron, and the chieftains of Israel recorded by the clans of their ancestral houses, from the age of thirty years up to the age of fifty, all who were subject to the duties of service and porterage relating to the Tent of Meeting…” (Numbers 4:46)
The Levites were charged with attending to the sacrificial rituals. The Cohenim, priests, were the most privileged of this tribe. In a traditional synagogue the aliyas are still awarded by this division: Cohen, Levite and Israelite. And on the High Holidays the Cohenim rise to bless their congregation. These honors are not earned. They are a matter of birth.
With the development of rabbinic Judaism, following the destruction of the Temple, the rabbis eliminated most of these tribal distinctions. Privilege was earned. It became instead a matter of learning. If you studied enough, if your Hebrew was proficient and your knowledge sufficient, you could lead prayer services. A serious Jewish life, a deepened Jewish experience, became open to all who showed commitment and desire.
The Torah became not the provenance of a cherished few, but instead the possession of all. In that moment we became the people of the book and a “kingdom of priests.” We must continue to earn this title.
Rabbi Akiva did not start out as the greatest of rabbinic sages. In fact his father in law, Kalba Savua, rejected him as a suitor for his beloved daughter Rachel because Akiva came from such a lowly station. He was a mere shepherd and worked for the wealthy Kalba Savua. Legend suggests that he began his rabbinic studies without even knowing the alef-bet. And yet he studied and learned. Through hard work and devotion he became the greatest of rabbis.
His wife Rachel in turn remained devoted to Akiva even after her father cut them off. They were so impoverished, the Talmud suggests, that she was even forced to sell her hair for food. The privileged Kalba Savua rejected Akiva the shepherd. But then twelve years later Akiva returned with thousands of students. Kalba Savua now opened his arms to his son in law.
Privilege and station are earned through learning.
We discover that our rabbinic forebears upended the Bible’s system of class and tribes. Merit was achieved through knowledge. A meritocracy was born. Its foundation remains study and learning.
This is why Jews continue to have such a love affair with American democracy. Success is not a matter of birth. It is not a matter of tribe or class. It is instead a matter of learning. It is a matter of hard work and desire.
In order for a meritocracy to be sustained two things must be maintained. The gates of study must be open to each and every person regardless of lineage. And perhaps even more important, the heart of each and every person must be open to learning.
It begins not with birth but with desire.
The Torah offers a record of these divisions. “All the Levites whom Moses, Aaron, and the chieftains of Israel recorded by the clans of their ancestral houses, from the age of thirty years up to the age of fifty, all who were subject to the duties of service and porterage relating to the Tent of Meeting…” (Numbers 4:46)
The Levites were charged with attending to the sacrificial rituals. The Cohenim, priests, were the most privileged of this tribe. In a traditional synagogue the aliyas are still awarded by this division: Cohen, Levite and Israelite. And on the High Holidays the Cohenim rise to bless their congregation. These honors are not earned. They are a matter of birth.
With the development of rabbinic Judaism, following the destruction of the Temple, the rabbis eliminated most of these tribal distinctions. Privilege was earned. It became instead a matter of learning. If you studied enough, if your Hebrew was proficient and your knowledge sufficient, you could lead prayer services. A serious Jewish life, a deepened Jewish experience, became open to all who showed commitment and desire.
The Torah became not the provenance of a cherished few, but instead the possession of all. In that moment we became the people of the book and a “kingdom of priests.” We must continue to earn this title.
Rabbi Akiva did not start out as the greatest of rabbinic sages. In fact his father in law, Kalba Savua, rejected him as a suitor for his beloved daughter Rachel because Akiva came from such a lowly station. He was a mere shepherd and worked for the wealthy Kalba Savua. Legend suggests that he began his rabbinic studies without even knowing the alef-bet. And yet he studied and learned. Through hard work and devotion he became the greatest of rabbis.
His wife Rachel in turn remained devoted to Akiva even after her father cut them off. They were so impoverished, the Talmud suggests, that she was even forced to sell her hair for food. The privileged Kalba Savua rejected Akiva the shepherd. But then twelve years later Akiva returned with thousands of students. Kalba Savua now opened his arms to his son in law.
Privilege and station are earned through learning.
We discover that our rabbinic forebears upended the Bible’s system of class and tribes. Merit was achieved through knowledge. A meritocracy was born. Its foundation remains study and learning.
This is why Jews continue to have such a love affair with American democracy. Success is not a matter of birth. It is not a matter of tribe or class. It is instead a matter of learning. It is a matter of hard work and desire.
In order for a meritocracy to be sustained two things must be maintained. The gates of study must be open to each and every person regardless of lineage. And perhaps even more important, the heart of each and every person must be open to learning.
It begins not with birth but with desire.
Memorial Day's Fallen
On Monday our nation will observe Memorial Day. Its barbeques and beach parties belie the
day’s somber theme. Like the Shavuot that precedes it its meaning and import is forgotten. Memorial Day is a day intended
to remember and mourn those who were killed while serving our country, those
who died defending the land we call home.
Among the many thousands I urge you to take these names into your hearts. These are the names of the 50 American Jewish
casualties of our wars since 9-11 and although these names are no more precious
than the thousands of others casualties they hold a special place in our hearts
as American Jews.
In addition I commend this article about the Normandy Kaddish Project. My cousin and fellow Long Islander Alan
Weinschel has made it his mission to photograph the 149 Jewish gravestones on
Normandy Beach. He has called us to
remember these names on the Shabbat closest to the anniversary of D-Day.
May the many sacrifices we recall on this Memorial Day strengthen our commitment to American ideals.
Shavuot: The Torah's Many Faces and Multiple Voices
Saturday evening begins the holiday of Shavuot. It remains an orphan among Jewish holidays. Passover with its glorious seder is more compelling. Even Sukkot with its back to nature like pull offers more. The High Holidays with their grandeur and majesty beckon us to attend. Shavuot appears forgotten. And yet Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. Could there be a greater theme?
The moment of the giving of our Torah, zman matan torateinu, was an extraordinary event. “All the people saw the thunder and the lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance.” (Exodus 20:15) It was so miraculous that the people saw what normally could only be heard. They saw thunder! I wonder. Do we still retreat from the Torah?
Shavuot remains distant. The midrash suggests a cure. “All the people saw”—sounds of thunder and flashes of lightning. How many sounds could there have been, and how many flashes of lightning? Rather, what it means is, each person heard according to his (or her) capacity, as it is written in the Psalms: “The voice of the Lord is koach—strength or capacity.”
Each of us must find our own path to Torah. Even though we read Torah in community, even though Shavuot is celebrated as a congregation, the way into finding our Torah is found within our own heart. It begins within our own minds. It begins by inclining our ears toward the gift of Torah—matan Torah.
The tradition also teaches that there are seventy faces of the Torah, shivim panim latorah. This is often explained to mean that there are seventy different ways of reading our most sacred text, but on this occasion I prefer to understand this to mean that there are seventy different pathways. I recognize that such numbers might appear overwhelming or even off putting, but I hope instead to see it as welcoming.
We can each find its face. We can each discover its voice within our own heart. The Torah is no longer found on Sinai. It is discovered instead in our hearts.
The Torah offers many faces and speaks with even more voices.
We need not travel far to discover this gift. We need only see its voice and behold its face.
The moment of the giving of our Torah, zman matan torateinu, was an extraordinary event. “All the people saw the thunder and the lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance.” (Exodus 20:15) It was so miraculous that the people saw what normally could only be heard. They saw thunder! I wonder. Do we still retreat from the Torah?
Shavuot remains distant. The midrash suggests a cure. “All the people saw”—sounds of thunder and flashes of lightning. How many sounds could there have been, and how many flashes of lightning? Rather, what it means is, each person heard according to his (or her) capacity, as it is written in the Psalms: “The voice of the Lord is koach—strength or capacity.”
Each of us must find our own path to Torah. Even though we read Torah in community, even though Shavuot is celebrated as a congregation, the way into finding our Torah is found within our own heart. It begins within our own minds. It begins by inclining our ears toward the gift of Torah—matan Torah.
The tradition also teaches that there are seventy faces of the Torah, shivim panim latorah. This is often explained to mean that there are seventy different ways of reading our most sacred text, but on this occasion I prefer to understand this to mean that there are seventy different pathways. I recognize that such numbers might appear overwhelming or even off putting, but I hope instead to see it as welcoming.
We can each find its face. We can each discover its voice within our own heart. The Torah is no longer found on Sinai. It is discovered instead in our hearts.
The Torah offers many faces and speaks with even more voices.
We need not travel far to discover this gift. We need only see its voice and behold its face.
StandwithUs
Last evening we hosted a program with StandwithUs, an educational organization deeply involved in combating BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) and antisemitism on the college campus. Shahar Azani, Rabbi David Siegel and Professor Robin Charlow were incredible, outstanding speakers. They contributed a great deal to our understanding of the issues as well as sharing their personal experiences. I do however remain biased. My favorite speaker was none other than Shira Moskowitz! Below is the text of her prepared remarks. I hope that many find her words equally inspiring. I hope my young students hear as well her call to action.
It had been a month since resolution AR 3-050 had been brought before our Central Student Government (CSG). The resolution called for the University of Michigan to create a committee that would look into the ethics of the university’s investments. However, this resolution was inextricably tied to the BDS movement because the only companies it singled out were ones that had operations in the West Bank.
I was working the Hillel booth at Springfest, a campus wide fair. We asked students to draw a representation of their core values on quilt to be displayed alongside the winning art from the Hillel art competition based on the same theme. One Hillel student had incorporated Nelson Mandela into her piece which was on display at Springfest. When I was left alone at the booth, students from SAFE (Students Allied for Freedom and Equality), the group that had created the BDS related resolution, approached me. They asked how we could incorporate Nelson Mandela into our art since Israel is an apartheid state. I calmly replied that this was a student’s personal representation and that students in Hillel have a wide rang of views about Israel, social justice, and all other issues. Then the student began to yell at me while her friend videotaped. I said nothing, afraid of where this video would end up and how it could be taken out of context and used against me personally and Hillel. When they walked away I burst into tears. I had never felt so belittled and dehumanized. My privacy had been invaded and I had been attacked.
Unfortunately over the course of that semester, Winter 2014, these were feelings that I and my fellow classmates had become accustomed to. This resolution had divided our campus. You were either for it or against it. There was no room to fall into the gray areas that have shaped the Israel-Palestinian conflict for the past 2,000 years. Many Jewish students felt they could only voice their positive feelings for Israel because they worried that challenging their own beliefs could be misconstrued as weakness or used as ammunition by the other side. As such, it became impossible for students to learn from one another and to share their stories on a campus rife with such hostility and tension.
When students are unable to question and challenge their own beliefs and those of other members of their campus community, the beauty of a college education is lost and the likelihood that something meaningful will occur and that ideas can flow freely becomes less and less.
Although tension had been rising since early December when students from SAFE slipped eviction notices under the doors of dorm rooms to simulate the experience of Palestinians living in the West Bank, it was not until CSG decided to table the resolution that this tension bubbled over.
Students from SAFE hosted sit-ins at the student government offices. CSG representatives received death threats for speaking out against the resolution and some were even walked to class by university police officers. A Jewish friend of mine felt uncomfortable sharing her opinions in class because her professor had expressed his support for the resolution and the BDS movement. Students were called Anti-Semitic slurs for wearing IDF t-shirts, Jewish star necklaces, and other symbols of their pride for Israel and Judaism. Michigan no longer felt like the warm and friendly campus community I had grown to love.
In the end, the resolution was voted down but a statement had been made. Divestment was here to stay at the University of Michigan. This past year, a new but extremely similar resolution was brought in front of CSG. This resolution failed to pass by only a small margin but created much less tension because of the student government’s decision to vote immediately.
While this experience was both eye opening and important for me, what left me frustrated was its lack of constructive outcomes. What had we achieved besides pushing people further apart? Although we are just one college campus, this matters. The students organizing both in favor of and against this resolution are the future leaders of our world. Our college campuses are a microcosm of our society and so it is our responsibility to continue educating, engaging, and debating, three things that are unattainable when polarizing movements infiltrate campuses.
I do not support BDS. I do however support peace, human rights, and a two-state solution. I hope that students on college campuses will not let internationally divisive movements prevent them from having meaningful dialogues that will one day allow them to reshape the society we live in.
It had been a month since resolution AR 3-050 had been brought before our Central Student Government (CSG). The resolution called for the University of Michigan to create a committee that would look into the ethics of the university’s investments. However, this resolution was inextricably tied to the BDS movement because the only companies it singled out were ones that had operations in the West Bank.
I was working the Hillel booth at Springfest, a campus wide fair. We asked students to draw a representation of their core values on quilt to be displayed alongside the winning art from the Hillel art competition based on the same theme. One Hillel student had incorporated Nelson Mandela into her piece which was on display at Springfest. When I was left alone at the booth, students from SAFE (Students Allied for Freedom and Equality), the group that had created the BDS related resolution, approached me. They asked how we could incorporate Nelson Mandela into our art since Israel is an apartheid state. I calmly replied that this was a student’s personal representation and that students in Hillel have a wide rang of views about Israel, social justice, and all other issues. Then the student began to yell at me while her friend videotaped. I said nothing, afraid of where this video would end up and how it could be taken out of context and used against me personally and Hillel. When they walked away I burst into tears. I had never felt so belittled and dehumanized. My privacy had been invaded and I had been attacked.
Unfortunately over the course of that semester, Winter 2014, these were feelings that I and my fellow classmates had become accustomed to. This resolution had divided our campus. You were either for it or against it. There was no room to fall into the gray areas that have shaped the Israel-Palestinian conflict for the past 2,000 years. Many Jewish students felt they could only voice their positive feelings for Israel because they worried that challenging their own beliefs could be misconstrued as weakness or used as ammunition by the other side. As such, it became impossible for students to learn from one another and to share their stories on a campus rife with such hostility and tension.
When students are unable to question and challenge their own beliefs and those of other members of their campus community, the beauty of a college education is lost and the likelihood that something meaningful will occur and that ideas can flow freely becomes less and less.
Although tension had been rising since early December when students from SAFE slipped eviction notices under the doors of dorm rooms to simulate the experience of Palestinians living in the West Bank, it was not until CSG decided to table the resolution that this tension bubbled over.
Students from SAFE hosted sit-ins at the student government offices. CSG representatives received death threats for speaking out against the resolution and some were even walked to class by university police officers. A Jewish friend of mine felt uncomfortable sharing her opinions in class because her professor had expressed his support for the resolution and the BDS movement. Students were called Anti-Semitic slurs for wearing IDF t-shirts, Jewish star necklaces, and other symbols of their pride for Israel and Judaism. Michigan no longer felt like the warm and friendly campus community I had grown to love.
In the end, the resolution was voted down but a statement had been made. Divestment was here to stay at the University of Michigan. This past year, a new but extremely similar resolution was brought in front of CSG. This resolution failed to pass by only a small margin but created much less tension because of the student government’s decision to vote immediately.
While this experience was both eye opening and important for me, what left me frustrated was its lack of constructive outcomes. What had we achieved besides pushing people further apart? Although we are just one college campus, this matters. The students organizing both in favor of and against this resolution are the future leaders of our world. Our college campuses are a microcosm of our society and so it is our responsibility to continue educating, engaging, and debating, three things that are unattainable when polarizing movements infiltrate campuses.
I do not support BDS. I do however support peace, human rights, and a two-state solution. I hope that students on college campuses will not let internationally divisive movements prevent them from having meaningful dialogues that will one day allow them to reshape the society we live in.
And for those who have not yet had a chance to watch the thirty minute film about BDS, "Crossing the Line 2," I urge you again to watch it.
Behar-Bechukotai, Nature's Fury and Blossoming Trees
This week’s Torah portion, Behar-Bechukotai, makes clear that the land of Israel is particularly dear. It is of course the holy land. This is why it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord. Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield. But in the seventh year the land shall have a sabbath of complete rest, a sabbath of the Lord: you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard…” (Leviticus 25)
One might therefore think, especially with the success of modern Zionism, that only the land of Israel is holy. But in fact all lands are sacred. The earth, the very ground beneath our feet, must be held dear.
Our blessings do not say, for example, “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of Israel,” but instead “the fruit of the earth—borei pri ha-adamah.” The Psalms declare, in a decidedly universal tone, “The earth is Adonai’s and all that it holds; the world and all its inhabitants. For God founded it upon the ocean, set it on the farthest streams.” (Psalm 24)
Leviticus however speaks of the land, using the Hebrew word ha-aretz, the land. Yet the intention is clear. It is the earth, the world and all its lands, that is to be held sacred. The Psalmist again declares: “How many are the things You have made, O Lord; You have made them all with wisdom; the earth is full of Your creations.” (Psalm 104)
Recently I have been meditating on this psalm and thinking about the power of nature. Ironically it is often nature’s fury that reminds me of nature’s majesty. There was of course the recent devastating earthquake in Nepal. May its victims soon find comfort. In recent months and years we have witnessed hurricanes, tsunamis, floods, tornadoes, droughts and wild fires. The psalmist continually reminds us. “God looks at the earth and it trembles; God touches the mountains and they smoke.” We are reminded that nature is both majestic and furious.
At times all we can rescue from the earth’s devastating fury is to sing God’s praises. The psalmist again: “I will sing to the Lord as long as I live; all my life I will chant hymns to my God.” We likewise affirm God when seeing the ocean, hearing thunder, happening upon a rainbow or looking at blossoming trees.
Then again I wonder: how much of nature’s recent fury is within our hands? The drought in California? The tremors in Oklahoma? Are these truly acts of God? We must therefore instill reverence not only before God but before nature. For too long we have believed that we are masters of nature, that we can control nature. Recent events suggest otherwise. We can continue piling more and more sand on Long Island’s beaches but the ocean will eventually win. And God thundered, “Who closed the sea behind its doors…” (Job 38)
I am not of course suggesting that we give up these efforts entirely, that we turn aside from all attempts. We do however require far more humility before the earth’s power. Reverence combined with knowledge would be a much better approach. We would do well to remind ourselves again and again of God’s admonition to Job: “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? Speak if you have understanding.” We cannot tame nature. We can instead live with reverence and humility.
All lands are indeed holy. It is not just one land. It is not just our backyard but all the earth. Zionism implies that only one land is holy. The Torah was given in Sinai, in the wilderness. It was given there to make clear that it was given to all. It was given there moreover so that no land can claim the Torah as its sole possession. The midbar, the wilderness of Sinai, reminds us that all the earth is sacred.
Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, is of course my favorite land. It is my beloved because so much of Jewish history occurred there. I love nothing more than to hike its wadis and play in its waterfalls. But it is not the only land. The reverence for the land that the sabbatical year suggests is something that we must apply to all lands. We must restore a reverence for the earth and the land.
We can no longer afford to do whatever we want with any land. We can no longer treat the earth with contempt. We must restore a reverence for the earth in our hearts and souls.
Perhaps it begins with a blessing and prayer. The trees are again blossoming! “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe who has withheld nothing from His world and who has created beautiful creatures and beautiful trees for mortals to enjoy.”
One might therefore think, especially with the success of modern Zionism, that only the land of Israel is holy. But in fact all lands are sacred. The earth, the very ground beneath our feet, must be held dear.
Our blessings do not say, for example, “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of Israel,” but instead “the fruit of the earth—borei pri ha-adamah.” The Psalms declare, in a decidedly universal tone, “The earth is Adonai’s and all that it holds; the world and all its inhabitants. For God founded it upon the ocean, set it on the farthest streams.” (Psalm 24)
Leviticus however speaks of the land, using the Hebrew word ha-aretz, the land. Yet the intention is clear. It is the earth, the world and all its lands, that is to be held sacred. The Psalmist again declares: “How many are the things You have made, O Lord; You have made them all with wisdom; the earth is full of Your creations.” (Psalm 104)
Recently I have been meditating on this psalm and thinking about the power of nature. Ironically it is often nature’s fury that reminds me of nature’s majesty. There was of course the recent devastating earthquake in Nepal. May its victims soon find comfort. In recent months and years we have witnessed hurricanes, tsunamis, floods, tornadoes, droughts and wild fires. The psalmist continually reminds us. “God looks at the earth and it trembles; God touches the mountains and they smoke.” We are reminded that nature is both majestic and furious.
At times all we can rescue from the earth’s devastating fury is to sing God’s praises. The psalmist again: “I will sing to the Lord as long as I live; all my life I will chant hymns to my God.” We likewise affirm God when seeing the ocean, hearing thunder, happening upon a rainbow or looking at blossoming trees.
Then again I wonder: how much of nature’s recent fury is within our hands? The drought in California? The tremors in Oklahoma? Are these truly acts of God? We must therefore instill reverence not only before God but before nature. For too long we have believed that we are masters of nature, that we can control nature. Recent events suggest otherwise. We can continue piling more and more sand on Long Island’s beaches but the ocean will eventually win. And God thundered, “Who closed the sea behind its doors…” (Job 38)
I am not of course suggesting that we give up these efforts entirely, that we turn aside from all attempts. We do however require far more humility before the earth’s power. Reverence combined with knowledge would be a much better approach. We would do well to remind ourselves again and again of God’s admonition to Job: “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? Speak if you have understanding.” We cannot tame nature. We can instead live with reverence and humility.
All lands are indeed holy. It is not just one land. It is not just our backyard but all the earth. Zionism implies that only one land is holy. The Torah was given in Sinai, in the wilderness. It was given there to make clear that it was given to all. It was given there moreover so that no land can claim the Torah as its sole possession. The midbar, the wilderness of Sinai, reminds us that all the earth is sacred.
Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, is of course my favorite land. It is my beloved because so much of Jewish history occurred there. I love nothing more than to hike its wadis and play in its waterfalls. But it is not the only land. The reverence for the land that the sabbatical year suggests is something that we must apply to all lands. We must restore a reverence for the earth and the land.
We can no longer afford to do whatever we want with any land. We can no longer treat the earth with contempt. We must restore a reverence for the earth in our hearts and souls.
Perhaps it begins with a blessing and prayer. The trees are again blossoming! “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe who has withheld nothing from His world and who has created beautiful creatures and beautiful trees for mortals to enjoy.”
Emor, Lag B'Omer and Playlists
Before leaving on a recent long car ride I downloaded a Spotify playlist: “500 Greatest Songs of All Time.” The journey began with Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.” We pulled into our driveway to “The House of the Rising Sun.” In between we listened and debated the choices. I could have done without Johnny Cash but I appreciated the iconic choice. The B-52’s “Love Shack” restored memories of late evenings dancing and partying. I recalled: Prince really is that good. And it really did begin with Elvis.
The mileage remained the same. The trip was lengthened by three construction delays. 12 hours door to door.
In the end the count was 137 songs to home. The playlist did not of course change the length of the ride. It did however transform the experience.
“And from the day on which you bring the omer (sheaf) of elevation offering—the day after the Sabbath—you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week—fifty days…” (Leviticus 23:15-16)
We find ourselves in the midst of the Omer when we count off the days, and weeks, in between Passover and Shavuot. Today is in fact the 33rd day of the Omer: Lag B’Omer. The journey begins with our liberation from Egypt. It concludes with the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. Each and every day is counted. It is a long trip.
In fact Shavuot is unique among the Jewish holidays. The Torah does not assign a calendar date for this day. It is instead celebrated the day after the counting of the Omer is concluded. It is observed on the fiftieth day. The journey from liberation to revelation is long.
During these tenuous weeks as we wait for the revelation of Torah, and our ancestors anxiously waited for a bountiful harvest, the tradition ascribed semi-mourning practices: no weddings, no music and no haircuts.
Today according to tradition is the yahrtzeit of Shimon bar Yohai, the legendary author of Jewish mysticism’s central text, the Zohar. People celebrate. They light bonfires. It is a day when the restrictions of the Omer are lifted. We sing and dance.
The task of investing meaning in our freedom remains in our hands. The challenge of giving meaning to the journey is found in the songs we sing each and every day, each and every week.
We count. “Today is thirty-three days, which is four weeks and five days of the Omer.”
I find myself wanting get in the car again. I find myself wanting to return to the journey with no destination in mind. I turn to #138. There is music again in the heart, in the counting.
A new song awaits tomorrow.
This post can also be found on Reform Judaism Blog.
The mileage remained the same. The trip was lengthened by three construction delays. 12 hours door to door.
In the end the count was 137 songs to home. The playlist did not of course change the length of the ride. It did however transform the experience.
“And from the day on which you bring the omer (sheaf) of elevation offering—the day after the Sabbath—you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week—fifty days…” (Leviticus 23:15-16)
We find ourselves in the midst of the Omer when we count off the days, and weeks, in between Passover and Shavuot. Today is in fact the 33rd day of the Omer: Lag B’Omer. The journey begins with our liberation from Egypt. It concludes with the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. Each and every day is counted. It is a long trip.
In fact Shavuot is unique among the Jewish holidays. The Torah does not assign a calendar date for this day. It is instead celebrated the day after the counting of the Omer is concluded. It is observed on the fiftieth day. The journey from liberation to revelation is long.
During these tenuous weeks as we wait for the revelation of Torah, and our ancestors anxiously waited for a bountiful harvest, the tradition ascribed semi-mourning practices: no weddings, no music and no haircuts.
Today according to tradition is the yahrtzeit of Shimon bar Yohai, the legendary author of Jewish mysticism’s central text, the Zohar. People celebrate. They light bonfires. It is a day when the restrictions of the Omer are lifted. We sing and dance.
The task of investing meaning in our freedom remains in our hands. The challenge of giving meaning to the journey is found in the songs we sing each and every day, each and every week.
We count. “Today is thirty-three days, which is four weeks and five days of the Omer.”
I find myself wanting get in the car again. I find myself wanting to return to the journey with no destination in mind. I turn to #138. There is music again in the heart, in the counting.
A new song awaits tomorrow.
This post can also be found on Reform Judaism Blog.
"Primary Wonder"
I wandered to the beach for lunch, accompanied by Denise Levertov and her poems.
I discovered:
Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtier, wearing
their colored clothes; caps and bells.
And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng's clamor
recedes: the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it. (Sands of the Well)
I looked up...
I discovered:
Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtier, wearing
their colored clothes; caps and bells.
And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng's clamor
recedes: the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it. (Sands of the Well)
I looked up...
Creator!
Hallowed One!
Days pass when I forget the mystery...
Look at Those Jews!
Below are my remarks from our annual fundraiser.
I want to begin by thanking everyone for being here. You did not have to come tonight and support your synagogue. Yet you chose to do so. Thank you. In fact in this day and age belonging to a synagogue, participating in Jewish life can no longer be assumed. I recognize that your choice remains unique. I am grateful for your devotion. I am thankful for your involvement....
To reflect on the meaning of this hour, and the import of our merger, I wish to share a story. Years ago, when Susie and I were still in rabbinical school, we were the unit heads for a newly created six week summer program for 10th graders at Jacobs Camp in Utica Mississippi. Part of the program was taking these Southern Jewish kids on two trips. On one we took them on their first trip to the big city of Atlanta and to this new 24 hour news place called CNN and also for many of them to their first major league baseball game. The Braves lost in extra innings.
I want to begin by thanking everyone for being here. You did not have to come tonight and support your synagogue. Yet you chose to do so. Thank you. In fact in this day and age belonging to a synagogue, participating in Jewish life can no longer be assumed. I recognize that your choice remains unique. I am grateful for your devotion. I am thankful for your involvement....
To reflect on the meaning of this hour, and the import of our merger, I wish to share a story. Years ago, when Susie and I were still in rabbinical school, we were the unit heads for a newly created six week summer program for 10th graders at Jacobs Camp in Utica Mississippi. Part of the program was taking these Southern Jewish kids on two trips. On one we took them on their first trip to the big city of Atlanta and to this new 24 hour news place called CNN and also for many of them to their first major league baseball game. The Braves lost in extra innings.
On another trip we took them throughout the Deep South. We cleaned up old Jewish cemeteries. We tidied abandoned synagogues. I remember in one town the lone Jew greeted us with the keys to the cemetery gates. He was literally the only Jew remaining in that town. We then filled up another synagogue with rows and rows of young people singing. We read Torah there. We taught Torah. Even on the High Holidays when this synagogue brought in a student rabbi only half of its pews were filled. We brought Torah to a small Southern town.
In another synagogue in Port Gibson, Mississippi there were no more Jews. There once were hundreds. The synagogue building was a beautiful building. The keys were in the care of the gas station owner adjacent to the synagogue. I told him who I was. “I am soon to be rabbi Moskowitz and we are here with sixty high school kids to clean up the synagogue and pray there.” “Here are the keys,” he said. No ID. No skepticism. No doubt. After cleaning up and dusting the floor we sang the Shema in a sanctuary emptied of its furniture. It still pulls at my heart to remember that moment sitting on the floor of a closed synagogue singing the prayers that have sustained our people for generations.
Later when we returned to camp we heard rumblings from the campers that some of our students stole candy from the gas station when we had allowed them to buy snacks. We soon discovered the identities of the three. I put them in the back seat of my Subaru and drove them the 45 minutes back to Port Gibson. No music. No talking on the ride. Only quiet reflection. Judaism demands honesty. It requires ethical scrupulousness. “Back so soon?” the owner asked. These students have something they want to say. They timidly approached the man. They offered their confession. They paid for their stolen candy. Then the response I still recall. “You drove all the way back from Utica to give me a few dollars for candy. You Jews are so honest. Wow. I am so impressed by you Jews.” “Here,” he said, “let me give you something as a thank you present. Here take these cigarette lighters.” I said, “Thank you” and then said, “But you have to understand they cannot accept a gift.” He forced the lighters into my hand. “You have to take something. Thank you, thank you, he said over and over again.”
I have been thinking about that event this past year. Too often the wealth of synagogues is measured by the number of Torah scrolls they have in their Arks or the majesty of their buildings. But if the Torah is only held close and never shared with the world at large, if we do not bring it into our hearts and influence our hands then we have failed. Even our holy scrolls are but tools to bring healing to the world. Even our buildings are intended to help us bring more beauty and meaning to our neighborhoods. The Talmud states that the world is sustained only by the breath of schoolchildren. (Shabbat 119a) The world not just the Jewish people it states. A confession about stolen candy changed everything—at least for a day—in a small town in Mississippi. That is the breath that breathes life into our souls.
Our two congregations are now one. We are now stronger because we are bound together. We have created friendships. We have ensured our continued success, but mere survival is not good enough for me. All of our hard work is only a starting point. It only matters if it brings meaning to our lives and improvement to our world.
It only matters if because of this place and these people and this congregation the world stands up and says, “Look at the Jewish people.” Let's start here and now. We begin by improving our small corner of the world. We have to start somewhere. Our synagogue, and our survival, must have meaning for the world. As long as we bring healing to others then this undertaking will have import. All of this only matters if people rise up and exclaim, “The world is better because we stood here in this place, because we stood here together.”
In another synagogue in Port Gibson, Mississippi there were no more Jews. There once were hundreds. The synagogue building was a beautiful building. The keys were in the care of the gas station owner adjacent to the synagogue. I told him who I was. “I am soon to be rabbi Moskowitz and we are here with sixty high school kids to clean up the synagogue and pray there.” “Here are the keys,” he said. No ID. No skepticism. No doubt. After cleaning up and dusting the floor we sang the Shema in a sanctuary emptied of its furniture. It still pulls at my heart to remember that moment sitting on the floor of a closed synagogue singing the prayers that have sustained our people for generations.
Later when we returned to camp we heard rumblings from the campers that some of our students stole candy from the gas station when we had allowed them to buy snacks. We soon discovered the identities of the three. I put them in the back seat of my Subaru and drove them the 45 minutes back to Port Gibson. No music. No talking on the ride. Only quiet reflection. Judaism demands honesty. It requires ethical scrupulousness. “Back so soon?” the owner asked. These students have something they want to say. They timidly approached the man. They offered their confession. They paid for their stolen candy. Then the response I still recall. “You drove all the way back from Utica to give me a few dollars for candy. You Jews are so honest. Wow. I am so impressed by you Jews.” “Here,” he said, “let me give you something as a thank you present. Here take these cigarette lighters.” I said, “Thank you” and then said, “But you have to understand they cannot accept a gift.” He forced the lighters into my hand. “You have to take something. Thank you, thank you, he said over and over again.”
I have been thinking about that event this past year. Too often the wealth of synagogues is measured by the number of Torah scrolls they have in their Arks or the majesty of their buildings. But if the Torah is only held close and never shared with the world at large, if we do not bring it into our hearts and influence our hands then we have failed. Even our holy scrolls are but tools to bring healing to the world. Even our buildings are intended to help us bring more beauty and meaning to our neighborhoods. The Talmud states that the world is sustained only by the breath of schoolchildren. (Shabbat 119a) The world not just the Jewish people it states. A confession about stolen candy changed everything—at least for a day—in a small town in Mississippi. That is the breath that breathes life into our souls.
Our two congregations are now one. We are now stronger because we are bound together. We have created friendships. We have ensured our continued success, but mere survival is not good enough for me. All of our hard work is only a starting point. It only matters if it brings meaning to our lives and improvement to our world.
It only matters if because of this place and these people and this congregation the world stands up and says, “Look at the Jewish people.” Let's start here and now. We begin by improving our small corner of the world. We have to start somewhere. Our synagogue, and our survival, must have meaning for the world. As long as we bring healing to others then this undertaking will have import. All of this only matters if people rise up and exclaim, “The world is better because we stood here in this place, because we stood here together.”
Achrei Mot-Kedoshim Riots and Earthquakes
This week we read the Holiness Code which details many ethical obligations among them the commandment to love the stranger. “You shall love the stranger as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:34) I think of this verse as I read about the riots in Baltimore and the devastating earthquake in Nepal. Our hearts are joined in sorrow, our voices are combined in prayer.
If you would like to support the rescue and rebuilding efforts in Nepal I recommend the American Jewish World Service, a Jewish organization that reaches out to the world and helps to bring it healing. AJWS responds to the world's trials with a Jewish heart.
We know the feelings of the stranger. We know the heart of the outsider. Let us reach out to those in pain.
Yom Haatzmaut and Wandering Home
On this day of Yom Haatzmaut we celebrate Israel’s accomplishments.
In the first years of Israel’s existence the small country of Israel welcomed more immigrants than the number of citizens absorbing them. In its first years the state welcomed 685,000 immigrants. It was to say the least a remarkable achievement. Ari Shavit, in his remarkable book My Promised Land: The Triumph and Tragedy of Israel, points out that this would be equivalent to 21st century America absorbing 350 million immigrants. Not only was this the fulfillment of the age-old Jewish dream of gathering the Jewish exiles from the four corners of the world, but it was as well the embodiment of the Declaration of Independence’s words:
And yet questions remain. How do we continue to sustain our ideals? It is far easier to be idealistic, to speak about lofty dreams, when one is a homeless wanderer. In the diaspora we only had dreams and ideals. And yet with centuries of idealism came thousands of years of victimization. Zionists were, and remain, brutal realists. Home was transitory. It was impermanent. Zionism corrected this—forever.
Ari Shavit again:
We wander no more. Still our thoughts continue to search for a home. Our ideals wander.
We built a state because of our dreams. We survived for the sake of our dreams. Now we are home. And dreams must continue to sustain our souls.
We sing about a better tomorrow.
In the first years of Israel’s existence the small country of Israel welcomed more immigrants than the number of citizens absorbing them. In its first years the state welcomed 685,000 immigrants. It was to say the least a remarkable achievement. Ari Shavit, in his remarkable book My Promised Land: The Triumph and Tragedy of Israel, points out that this would be equivalent to 21st century America absorbing 350 million immigrants. Not only was this the fulfillment of the age-old Jewish dream of gathering the Jewish exiles from the four corners of the world, but it was as well the embodiment of the Declaration of Independence’s words:
The catastrophe which recently befell the Jewish people – the massacre of millions of Jews in Europe – was another clear demonstration of the urgency of solving the problem of the Jews' homelessness by re-establishing in Eretz Yisrael [the land of Israel] the Jewish State, which would open the gates of the homeland wide to every Jew and confer upon the Jewish people the status of a fully privileged member of the community of nations.Israel is first and foremost about building a home for the Jewish people. Zionism is about ending statelessness. It is about correcting Jewish homelessness. Ari Shavit writes about one immigrant’s arrival in 1951. It is the story of Zeev Sternhell:
[A]s we disembarked, a few children knelt and kissed the ground. I didn’t kneel or kiss the ground, but I felt I had arrived. This was the last station— no more wandering, no more transformations, no more false identities. No more fraud and forgery. No more not being myself. For subterfuge and deceit were not needed here. Something artificial and scary fell away from me. Something that had to do with the perpetual need I felt to justify myself. But in the State of Israel I no longer had to justify or explain. It was a great relief. I didn’t speak Hebrew yet, I didn’t know what the future held. I was alone, without possessions or protection. But I was filled with the amazing feeling that the long, excruciating journey had come to an end.Zionism means no more wandering, no more longing to return. It means we have returned. The State of Israel represents the shift from an imaginary home that is the stuff of dreams to a real home of the land and earth. For centuries the far-flung dream of “Next year in Jerusalem” sustained us. Now it is real.
And yet questions remain. How do we continue to sustain our ideals? It is far easier to be idealistic, to speak about lofty dreams, when one is a homeless wanderer. In the diaspora we only had dreams and ideals. And yet with centuries of idealism came thousands of years of victimization. Zionists were, and remain, brutal realists. Home was transitory. It was impermanent. Zionism corrected this—forever.
Ari Shavit again:
Without a Jewish state, secular Jews like himself would stand naked in the world. They would have no home, no collective self, and no future. Therefore, Sternhell embraced his new identity completely. Only in Israel did he not have to justify himself or hide himself. Only as an Israeli could he turn from being an object of history to being a subject of history. Only as an Israeli could he be the master of his own fate.We are now masters of our own history. We are not dependent on world powers but instead on Jewish power. Still we continue to ask: how do we wield sovereign power with ethics and justice? How do we transform our thinking now that we are home? How do we shift our age-old beliefs now that we have Jewish sovereignty? How do we exile thousands of years of diaspora thinking no more seeing ourselves as objects but instead as subjects?
We wander no more. Still our thoughts continue to search for a home. Our ideals wander.
We built a state because of our dreams. We survived for the sake of our dreams. Now we are home. And dreams must continue to sustain our souls.
We sing about a better tomorrow.
“May the One who brings peace to the high heavens make peace for us…”