Vayikra and Creating Empathy
I approach the Book of Leviticus that we begin this week with a measure of trepidation. It primarily speaks of sacrifices. It details the sprinkling of blood on the altar. It is obsessed with blood. It worries about the categories of pure and impure. There are chapters about leprosy and others about the scapegoat offering. Its sentiments are not my own. It appears foreign and out of sync with contemporary sensibilities.
“This shall be a burnt offering, a gift, of pleasing odor to the Lord.” (Leviticus 1)
Really? God smells? Does God truly require such sacrifices?
No. But perhaps we do. The not so secret purpose of these sacrifices was to create empathy. Here is how it was done. You had to pick the choicest from your flock. Whether it was a bull, sheep or goat you had to examine the animal to make sure it did not have any blemishes. You would then give the animal to the priest who would slaughter it on the altar and burn it up in the sacrificial fires. Yes I most certainly agree. Disgusting!
Let’s look away from the details and instead to the philosophy. The notion of sacrifice is to give something up. Moreover that gift had to be prized. It must be without blemish. In other words a person must look closely at their flock and determine which of their animals is as close to perfect as possible. Somehow this ritual act of offering a prized animal on the altar created empathy.
God noticed. God is pleased.
Despite all of that disgusting blood and guts covering the altar, a connection is made between God and the person offering the sacrifice. The act of touching the animal, of carrying it to the Temple, of giving up something so valuable and so nearly perfect, creates that bond. Sympathy is elicited. Empathy is fashioned. The path begins with giving up something that you would prefer to keep for yourself, something that you value and cherish. You offer it to God.
While I do not wish to bring back sacrifices I find myself, despite my initial protestations, envious of this deep connection with God. Imagine how simple it might be. I offer a gift. God becomes pleased. A bond of caring is formed.
I recently read that there is a direct correlation between our increasing use of smartphones and the fact that the people feel less and less connected to each other. Despite the fact that we live in a hyper-connected society we feel increasingly disconnected.
Sheryl Turkle writes (“Stop Googling. Let’s Talk”):
The smartphone appears to get in the way of real caring and true concern. So how might we refashion empathy?
I am not one to advocate winding back the clock. I have no desire to return to the past (or for that matter give up my smartphone). I most certainly don’t want people to start bringing me their animals to sacrifice on the altar! Then again perhaps our ancestors were on to something. All of Leviticus’ details point to something profound. With all its bloody, primitive rituals our ancestors intuited something that remains even more elusive today.
If we want to care about others then it has to involve sacrifice. It demands giving up something that the individual prizes. You can only truly grow to care for another when you give up a piece of the self. Empathy demands the sacrifice of the “I”. This should not be viewed as loss but a gain.
Again, God then becomes pleased.
The path remains the same. The means must change.
“This shall be a burnt offering, a gift, of pleasing odor to the Lord.” (Leviticus 1)
Really? God smells? Does God truly require such sacrifices?
No. But perhaps we do. The not so secret purpose of these sacrifices was to create empathy. Here is how it was done. You had to pick the choicest from your flock. Whether it was a bull, sheep or goat you had to examine the animal to make sure it did not have any blemishes. You would then give the animal to the priest who would slaughter it on the altar and burn it up in the sacrificial fires. Yes I most certainly agree. Disgusting!
Let’s look away from the details and instead to the philosophy. The notion of sacrifice is to give something up. Moreover that gift had to be prized. It must be without blemish. In other words a person must look closely at their flock and determine which of their animals is as close to perfect as possible. Somehow this ritual act of offering a prized animal on the altar created empathy.
God noticed. God is pleased.
Despite all of that disgusting blood and guts covering the altar, a connection is made between God and the person offering the sacrifice. The act of touching the animal, of carrying it to the Temple, of giving up something so valuable and so nearly perfect, creates that bond. Sympathy is elicited. Empathy is fashioned. The path begins with giving up something that you would prefer to keep for yourself, something that you value and cherish. You offer it to God.
While I do not wish to bring back sacrifices I find myself, despite my initial protestations, envious of this deep connection with God. Imagine how simple it might be. I offer a gift. God becomes pleased. A bond of caring is formed.
I recently read that there is a direct correlation between our increasing use of smartphones and the fact that the people feel less and less connected to each other. Despite the fact that we live in a hyper-connected society we feel increasingly disconnected.
Sheryl Turkle writes (“Stop Googling. Let’s Talk”):
Studies of conversation both in the laboratory and in natural settings show that when two people are talking, the mere presence of a phone on a table between them or in the periphery of their vision changes both what they talk about and the degree of connection they feel. People keep the conversation on topics where they won’t mind being interrupted. They don’t feel as invested in each other. Even a silent phone disconnects us.A University of Michigan (Go Blue!) study also reports a sharp decline in empathy among college students. Apparently in today’s world people care less about others. We are most certainly able to reach each other with greater ease, and we speak with one another with greater frequency, although I suspect in abbreviated sound bites, but we have also come to care less about others.
The smartphone appears to get in the way of real caring and true concern. So how might we refashion empathy?
I am not one to advocate winding back the clock. I have no desire to return to the past (or for that matter give up my smartphone). I most certainly don’t want people to start bringing me their animals to sacrifice on the altar! Then again perhaps our ancestors were on to something. All of Leviticus’ details point to something profound. With all its bloody, primitive rituals our ancestors intuited something that remains even more elusive today.
If we want to care about others then it has to involve sacrifice. It demands giving up something that the individual prizes. You can only truly grow to care for another when you give up a piece of the self. Empathy demands the sacrifice of the “I”. This should not be viewed as loss but a gain.
Again, God then becomes pleased.
The path remains the same. The means must change.
Pekudei and Our Imperfect World
The ancient rabbis taught that God intentionally left creation incomplete. On most days I find this teaching inspiring and even comforting.
God granted us free will. God left creation unfinished, leaving room in the world for us to act. God in effect bowed out of each and every detail in this world so that our actions might be our own and so that we might enhance creation. The Kabbalists added to this notion when they argued that God withdrew from the world. Otherwise, they reasoned, God’s presence would overwhelm creation. Then there would be no room for anything else but God.
God made this imperfect world so that there would be the necessity for us to get involved, a call for us to improve ourselves and better the world. God wants us to do more.
But after yesterday’s brutal terrorist attack in Tel Aviv, an attack in which an American (may Taylor Force’s memory be a blessing) was murdered, and another ten severely injured, I find myself wishing, and praying, that God would fix this mess and repair creation. Especially after reading about the failure of Palestinian leaders to condemn these attacks and of Palestinians even offering praise for the murderer, I find myself wanting to retreat into the poetry of prayer.
At this moment I feel willing to forgo a measure of free will if God were to reorder things, right such terrible wrongs, heal the many injustices we see about us and mend this broken world. How nice that would be. How soothing.
But prayer cannot fix the brokenness between us. Perhaps it can mend an individual soul but never a nation. It offers a respite. Prayer provides a goad to action. It must inspire us to act.
This week we read about the completion of the Tabernacle: “When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle…” (Exodus 40)
The tabernacle was the vehicle by which God led the people on their journeys. It became synonymous with our house of prayer. In fact the Hebrew word for tabernacle, mishkan, is related to the Hebrew “to dwell” which is connected to one of our tradition’s names for God, Shechinah. This is the name that we use when we want to suggest God’s presence is felt. And all of this is tied to the building of the mishkan, tabernacle. All of this is tied to the work that we do.
God only dwells when we do the hard work. God is only felt when we do the mending with our own hands.
The Torah also suggests an additional meaning by its choice of words for Moses finishing the work. The Hebrew, “vay’khal,” means to complete or even to perfect. By this word choice it draws our attention to the creation account when God finished that first, although imperfect, building project: “…the heaven and the earth were finished.” There is of course meaning to be found in this comparison.
When we build and create, as Moses and the people did with the mishkan, we imitate God and God’s creation. Part of our creative efforts must be to complete and perfect creation, to bring a measure of holiness into our lives and a measure of goodness to the world.
Making or dreaming up something new is the greatest of human achievements. It is what makes us uniquely human. It is how we achieve repair. We reach for perfection. Albert Einstein said, “If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.”
I pray that God will fix our world. I cannot rely on prayer alone.
I must work to fix the world.
God granted us free will. God left creation unfinished, leaving room in the world for us to act. God in effect bowed out of each and every detail in this world so that our actions might be our own and so that we might enhance creation. The Kabbalists added to this notion when they argued that God withdrew from the world. Otherwise, they reasoned, God’s presence would overwhelm creation. Then there would be no room for anything else but God.
God made this imperfect world so that there would be the necessity for us to get involved, a call for us to improve ourselves and better the world. God wants us to do more.
But after yesterday’s brutal terrorist attack in Tel Aviv, an attack in which an American (may Taylor Force’s memory be a blessing) was murdered, and another ten severely injured, I find myself wishing, and praying, that God would fix this mess and repair creation. Especially after reading about the failure of Palestinian leaders to condemn these attacks and of Palestinians even offering praise for the murderer, I find myself wanting to retreat into the poetry of prayer.
At this moment I feel willing to forgo a measure of free will if God were to reorder things, right such terrible wrongs, heal the many injustices we see about us and mend this broken world. How nice that would be. How soothing.
But prayer cannot fix the brokenness between us. Perhaps it can mend an individual soul but never a nation. It offers a respite. Prayer provides a goad to action. It must inspire us to act.
This week we read about the completion of the Tabernacle: “When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle…” (Exodus 40)
The tabernacle was the vehicle by which God led the people on their journeys. It became synonymous with our house of prayer. In fact the Hebrew word for tabernacle, mishkan, is related to the Hebrew “to dwell” which is connected to one of our tradition’s names for God, Shechinah. This is the name that we use when we want to suggest God’s presence is felt. And all of this is tied to the building of the mishkan, tabernacle. All of this is tied to the work that we do.
God only dwells when we do the hard work. God is only felt when we do the mending with our own hands.
The Torah also suggests an additional meaning by its choice of words for Moses finishing the work. The Hebrew, “vay’khal,” means to complete or even to perfect. By this word choice it draws our attention to the creation account when God finished that first, although imperfect, building project: “…the heaven and the earth were finished.” There is of course meaning to be found in this comparison.
When we build and create, as Moses and the people did with the mishkan, we imitate God and God’s creation. Part of our creative efforts must be to complete and perfect creation, to bring a measure of holiness into our lives and a measure of goodness to the world.
Making or dreaming up something new is the greatest of human achievements. It is what makes us uniquely human. It is how we achieve repair. We reach for perfection. Albert Einstein said, “If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.”
I pray that God will fix our world. I cannot rely on prayer alone.
I must work to fix the world.
Vayakhel and Inspired Leadership
Sometimes the people are right. And sometimes the people are wrong.
We can gather for good. We can gather for bad.
The mob can riot. The crowd can protest.
“The people gathered against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32)
And the throng cheered. The people jeered with wild abandon. And their leader became more and more animated. He shouted and screamed.
“Aaron said to them, ‘Take off the gold rings…and bring them to me.’”
And they can come together for good.
“Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community… Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moved him shall bring them.” (Exodus 35)
In Hebrew the difference between the construction of the tabernacle, detailed in this week’s portion, and the building of the golden calf turns on a vowel. The root is the same. The line between good and bad is sometimes as thin as a breath.
There is another difference between these stories.
It is the difference of leadership.
It is whether the leader follows the people’s fears or inspires them for good.
Israel’s president Reuven Rivlin comments: “We need leadership that is not motivated by and does not fuel fear; that is not led, but which leads.”
Aaron follows. Moses leads.
About Moses the Torah concludes: “Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Lord singled out, face to face…” (Deuteronomy 34)
For all the trials and tribulations, the good and the bad that a community or nation must endure, achieving greatness, arriving at the edge of the Promised Land and realizing dreams depends on one thing and one thing alone.
The people require inspired leadership.
We can gather for good. We can gather for bad.
The mob can riot. The crowd can protest.
“The people gathered against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32)
And the throng cheered. The people jeered with wild abandon. And their leader became more and more animated. He shouted and screamed.
“Aaron said to them, ‘Take off the gold rings…and bring them to me.’”
And they can come together for good.
“Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community… Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moved him shall bring them.” (Exodus 35)
In Hebrew the difference between the construction of the tabernacle, detailed in this week’s portion, and the building of the golden calf turns on a vowel. The root is the same. The line between good and bad is sometimes as thin as a breath.
There is another difference between these stories.
It is the difference of leadership.
It is whether the leader follows the people’s fears or inspires them for good.
Israel’s president Reuven Rivlin comments: “We need leadership that is not motivated by and does not fuel fear; that is not led, but which leads.”
Aaron follows. Moses leads.
About Moses the Torah concludes: “Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Lord singled out, face to face…” (Deuteronomy 34)
For all the trials and tribulations, the good and the bad that a community or nation must endure, achieving greatness, arriving at the edge of the Promised Land and realizing dreams depends on one thing and one thing alone.
The people require inspired leadership.
Not So Super
Super Tuesday 2016 might very well become the day when liberals and conservatives stood united in common cause. It took their shared opposition to Trump of course to bring this to fruition. Read here but a few examples.
Roger Cohen in today's Times.
Perhaps this day can still become super.
Roger Cohen in today's Times.
This disoriented America just might want Trump — and that possibility should be taken very seriously, before it is too late, by every believer in American government of the people, by the people, for the people. The power of the Oval Office and the temperament of a bully make for an explosive combination, especially when he has shown contempt for the press, a taste for violence, a consistent inhumanity, a devouring ego and an above-the-law swagger.And Bret Stephens in this morning's Journal.
That’s the future Mr. Trump offers whether his supporters realize it or not. Bill Buckley and the other great shapers of modern conservatism—Barry Goldwater and Ronald Reagan, Robert Bartley and Irving Kristol—articulated a conservatism that married economic dynamism to a prudent respect for tradition, patriotism and openness to the wider world. Trumpism is the opposite of this creed: moral gauchery plus economic nationalism plus Know Nothingism. It is the return of the American Mercury, minus for now (but only for now) the all-but inevitable anti-Semitism.
Let us heed the warnings of both right and left.
I understand the anger. I recognize the frustration. Trump is the anti-politician.
But politics is how we get things done. It is the messy business of democracies. It is how communities survive and countries thrive. It means that we will not always get what we want. If we are to live with others we cannot always have everything we want. We must compromise.
Trump represents the apotheosis of the self-curated individual in which the world is shaped around personal wishes. The wants of the individual, and all those who "like" his or her views, replace a faith in the common good. We assemble worlds around individual desires and shared likes.
Trump represents the apotheosis of the self-curated individual in which the world is shaped around personal wishes. The wants of the individual, and all those who "like" his or her views, replace a faith in the common good. We assemble worlds around individual desires and shared likes.
Compromise is not a dishonor. It is not the abandonment of my faith but instead a reaffirmation of my commitment to country, community and even family.
This isn’t just an American phenomenon. Politics is in retreat and authoritarianism is on the rise worldwide. The answer to Trump is politics. It’s acknowledging other people exist. It’s taking pleasure in that difference and hammering out workable arrangements. As Harold Laski put it, “We shall make the basis of our state consent to disagreement. Therein shall we ensure its deepest harmony.”Today I will allow those who sit opposite from me to have the last word. And I will continue to welcome those who do not share my beliefs to my table. I continue to believe that reasoned disagreements make us stronger and better.
Perhaps this day can still become super.
Ki Tissa and the Power of Patience
What is the greatest sin ever recorded? According to the tradition it is the building of the Golden Calf, a story recorded in this week’s portion. The root of this sin is impatience. “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him.’” (Exodus 32)
If we read even more of the story we discover that it is not only the people, but also Moses, and even God who stand guilty of impatience. If we are honest with ourselves we might also realize that many of our own problems, as well as the vociferousness of our current political debates, are caused by this very same flaw.
The Hebrew word for patience is savlanut. The root of this word is saval, meaning to bear a heavy load or even to suffer. There is much to learn from the Hebrew’s root. Patience does involve great work and at times, even suffering. Waiting is not easy. To quell our desire for satisfaction, and the realization of our goals (both personal and political), sometimes requires pain and sacrifice. It means putting aside my own wishes for another, for the sake of others. It means putting aside our own goals for the sake of the community. This is why the Mussar masters suggested that patience is the most difficult of middot (character traits) to master. Inculcating our lives with more patience is the work we must do. We must train our souls with patience.
Our lives need it. Our community needs it. Our country certainly needs more of it.
Rabbi Menachem Mendel Lefin wrote in Heshbon HaNefesh (An Accounting of the Soul): “When something bad happens to you and you did not have the power to avoid it, do not aggravate the situation even more through wasted grief.” Often we compound our difficulties through impatience. We cry and scream about things we have no control to change. The Mussar tradition also imagined that training our souls is sometimes violent and painful. Like Mount Sinai where God revealed the Torah with thunder and lightning, we learn, we gain knowledge when our character is tested.
Again Menachem Mendel writes: “Woe to the pampered man [or woman] who has never been trained to be patient. Either today or in the future, he is destined to sip from the cup of affliction.” We are raising a generation of children (and perhaps politicians) who have never confronted strife and despair. It is inevitable. We will face difficulties. We will be faced with situations beyond our control. We will be forced into discussions and debates with those who hold contrary beliefs, who uphold different commitments from our own. And so we must train ourselves to be patient.
This is not the same as accepting fate. A dose of impatience leveled against the world’s problems is noble and good. This is why I find renewed faith in the revolutionary zeal of our youth who continue the dream of righting wrongs and healing the world. Judaism believes that we can shape our destinies.
We cannot always control every outcome.
We must be patient with those things we cannot control. Forgive the mundane example but it serves no one to scream at a waiter or yell at other drivers. It will not move traffic faster or cause him to bring your dinner any quicker. Accept what cannot be changed. Rise up against what must be corrected. Beware of confusing the two.
Beware of the impatient word.
The Torah reminds us. Had the people exercised even the smallest dose of patience they would not have committed the greatest of sins.
If we are to rediscover renewed faith in our political process, a system built on compromise, a system that demands that we exhibit patience with those holding divergent views from our own, we must relearn the value of patience.
If we read even more of the story we discover that it is not only the people, but also Moses, and even God who stand guilty of impatience. If we are honest with ourselves we might also realize that many of our own problems, as well as the vociferousness of our current political debates, are caused by this very same flaw.
The Hebrew word for patience is savlanut. The root of this word is saval, meaning to bear a heavy load or even to suffer. There is much to learn from the Hebrew’s root. Patience does involve great work and at times, even suffering. Waiting is not easy. To quell our desire for satisfaction, and the realization of our goals (both personal and political), sometimes requires pain and sacrifice. It means putting aside my own wishes for another, for the sake of others. It means putting aside our own goals for the sake of the community. This is why the Mussar masters suggested that patience is the most difficult of middot (character traits) to master. Inculcating our lives with more patience is the work we must do. We must train our souls with patience.
Our lives need it. Our community needs it. Our country certainly needs more of it.
Rabbi Menachem Mendel Lefin wrote in Heshbon HaNefesh (An Accounting of the Soul): “When something bad happens to you and you did not have the power to avoid it, do not aggravate the situation even more through wasted grief.” Often we compound our difficulties through impatience. We cry and scream about things we have no control to change. The Mussar tradition also imagined that training our souls is sometimes violent and painful. Like Mount Sinai where God revealed the Torah with thunder and lightning, we learn, we gain knowledge when our character is tested.
Again Menachem Mendel writes: “Woe to the pampered man [or woman] who has never been trained to be patient. Either today or in the future, he is destined to sip from the cup of affliction.” We are raising a generation of children (and perhaps politicians) who have never confronted strife and despair. It is inevitable. We will face difficulties. We will be faced with situations beyond our control. We will be forced into discussions and debates with those who hold contrary beliefs, who uphold different commitments from our own. And so we must train ourselves to be patient.
This is not the same as accepting fate. A dose of impatience leveled against the world’s problems is noble and good. This is why I find renewed faith in the revolutionary zeal of our youth who continue the dream of righting wrongs and healing the world. Judaism believes that we can shape our destinies.
We cannot always control every outcome.
We must be patient with those things we cannot control. Forgive the mundane example but it serves no one to scream at a waiter or yell at other drivers. It will not move traffic faster or cause him to bring your dinner any quicker. Accept what cannot be changed. Rise up against what must be corrected. Beware of confusing the two.
Beware of the impatient word.
The Torah reminds us. Had the people exercised even the smallest dose of patience they would not have committed the greatest of sins.
If we are to rediscover renewed faith in our political process, a system built on compromise, a system that demands that we exhibit patience with those holding divergent views from our own, we must relearn the value of patience.
Perhaps we might then steer wide of sin.
Tetzaveh and Making Light Again and Again
Thousands of years ago we decided the Torah is so important that we would read it in one year’s time and that we would repeat this year after year. Every single year we read about Adam and Eve and Moses’ death. Every fall we look anew at God’s promise to Abraham. Every spring the sacrifices and the laws of keeping kosher. Every summer the mitzvah of the tallis and the story of the spies scouting the land.
And every winter we examine the words we uncover again this week, those about the eternal light: “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)
Regardless of the year the very same stories and the very same laws punctuate our seasons. The portions are how we count the year. They are how we mark time. Their words are married to the seasons as warmth is to summer and snow is to winter. Just as spring will soon welcome us with its flowers, we will continue to march through the Torah. And when, this October, we finish the last chapter of Deuteronomy we will begin again with the first of Genesis.
There is no break in our rhythm. There is no rest in our learning.
It is the same chapters and the same verses year in and year out.
Why? Why not read something different? Why not tell a different story? Perhaps a Hasidic tale might inspire. Why not read other laws? Perhaps a Talmudic discussion might enthrall.
And yet we persist. We refuse to let go. We affirm that everything revolves around Torah. Everything stands on this scroll.
Such reverence for the ancient word is not unique to Judaism. All religious traditions share the belief that the older the word, the closer you reach the original source of inspiration. Whether it is Sinai, Jesus death or Mohammed’s life, when you read these words our traditions affirm the closer you approach truth. And yet the mere recitation of these words does not offer truth. It is our engagement with the word that allows truth to unfold.
We reaffirm that learning is not about the mastery of new material (should I learn how to code?), but the taking to heart of an inheritance. In our new hearts the ancient traditions are refined. When we read these words from the Book of Exodus—again—we are renewed. The Torah reading is not intended to be a regurgitation of the old. We are not meant to mouth ancient words but instead to make them our own.
We believe that wisdom can only be derived from an ancient pool. Learning can only be achieved by a regular return to a revered text (or perhaps a favorite book). Wisdom is about growing. It cannot be Googled. Answers to questions are not the same as the pursuit of wisdom. If this were the case, if this were our faith, then everyone would shout, “Hey rabbi you read that story last year. You talked about the ner tamid last February. Tell us something new!”
That is exactly the point. We did read this same story last year. But we are different. The word must be married to experience. The same old word must this year be learned by a different older person. Furthermore we might sit with someone else. It is in the music of discussion, and debate, that we truly discover meaning and arrive closer to truth.
We can only learn, we can only grow, we can only become wise if we return, together, to the same words. That is our belief. Torah is supposed to change us. Torah is intended to give our lives meaning.
Recently I read about a university professor who offered his students the following hypothetical. He guaranteed that he would award them all “A’s” in his writing class as long as they promised not to tell anyone. The catch is of course that in addition to no assignments, they would also not receive any feedback. 85% of the students said they would accept the offer. They needed the grade, they argued.
John Warner concludes: “Students are not coddled or entitled, they are defeated. We have divorced school from learning, and this is the result.”
The mystical work of the Zohar writes that the ner tamid, the eternal light, is not really about physical light but spiritual. It is the light of Torah.
The Hebrew of the verse offers a glimmer of this understanding. It suggests that this light must be lifted. The light cannot burn without human agency. It must be maintained by our work.
Every year we must discover new meaning within the same words. We learn. We are renewed.
And perhaps one year we might even grow wise—together.
And every winter we examine the words we uncover again this week, those about the eternal light: “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)
Regardless of the year the very same stories and the very same laws punctuate our seasons. The portions are how we count the year. They are how we mark time. Their words are married to the seasons as warmth is to summer and snow is to winter. Just as spring will soon welcome us with its flowers, we will continue to march through the Torah. And when, this October, we finish the last chapter of Deuteronomy we will begin again with the first of Genesis.
There is no break in our rhythm. There is no rest in our learning.
It is the same chapters and the same verses year in and year out.
Why? Why not read something different? Why not tell a different story? Perhaps a Hasidic tale might inspire. Why not read other laws? Perhaps a Talmudic discussion might enthrall.
And yet we persist. We refuse to let go. We affirm that everything revolves around Torah. Everything stands on this scroll.
Such reverence for the ancient word is not unique to Judaism. All religious traditions share the belief that the older the word, the closer you reach the original source of inspiration. Whether it is Sinai, Jesus death or Mohammed’s life, when you read these words our traditions affirm the closer you approach truth. And yet the mere recitation of these words does not offer truth. It is our engagement with the word that allows truth to unfold.
We reaffirm that learning is not about the mastery of new material (should I learn how to code?), but the taking to heart of an inheritance. In our new hearts the ancient traditions are refined. When we read these words from the Book of Exodus—again—we are renewed. The Torah reading is not intended to be a regurgitation of the old. We are not meant to mouth ancient words but instead to make them our own.
We believe that wisdom can only be derived from an ancient pool. Learning can only be achieved by a regular return to a revered text (or perhaps a favorite book). Wisdom is about growing. It cannot be Googled. Answers to questions are not the same as the pursuit of wisdom. If this were the case, if this were our faith, then everyone would shout, “Hey rabbi you read that story last year. You talked about the ner tamid last February. Tell us something new!”
That is exactly the point. We did read this same story last year. But we are different. The word must be married to experience. The same old word must this year be learned by a different older person. Furthermore we might sit with someone else. It is in the music of discussion, and debate, that we truly discover meaning and arrive closer to truth.
We can only learn, we can only grow, we can only become wise if we return, together, to the same words. That is our belief. Torah is supposed to change us. Torah is intended to give our lives meaning.
Recently I read about a university professor who offered his students the following hypothetical. He guaranteed that he would award them all “A’s” in his writing class as long as they promised not to tell anyone. The catch is of course that in addition to no assignments, they would also not receive any feedback. 85% of the students said they would accept the offer. They needed the grade, they argued.
John Warner concludes: “Students are not coddled or entitled, they are defeated. We have divorced school from learning, and this is the result.”
The mystical work of the Zohar writes that the ner tamid, the eternal light, is not really about physical light but spiritual. It is the light of Torah.
The Hebrew of the verse offers a glimmer of this understanding. It suggests that this light must be lifted. The light cannot burn without human agency. It must be maintained by our work.
Every year we must discover new meaning within the same words. We learn. We are renewed.
And perhaps one year we might even grow wise—together.
Terumah, Gift Giving and Valentines Day
Judaism places greater emphasis on deeds rather than inner motivations. No one can know what is in other person’s heart. No one can bring proper intention to every single deed. Therefore Judaism emphasizes action over belief, mitzvot over creed. Abraham Joshua Heschel remarked: “There is power in the deed that purifies desires. It is the act, life itself, that educates the will. The good motive comes into being while doing the good.” (God in Search of Man)
Motivation and intention are shaped by our deeds. Feeling follows action.
Yet this week’s portion suggests otherwise. “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts [termuah]; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.” (Exodus 25:2) Only gifts from those whose hearts are filled with proper intention are accepted by God. Is the construction of the Tabernacle the exception to the rule? Must our acceptance of gifts be dependent on the giver’s “inspired heart”?
Is a gift about the object or the intention?
So much of today’s gift-giving is obligatory. We give gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, b’nai mitzvah, weddings, even mother’s day and father’s day. And if we are to follow the advice of greeting card companies, we also give for secretary’s day, boss’s day, sweetheart’s day, grandparent’s day, every Jewish holiday, and of course the forthcoming Valentine’s Day. Our society attempts to obligate us to buy more. Advertising instructs us to purchase gifts for every imaginable occasion.
The Torah offers a needed corrective. The gifts that God most wants are those that come from inspired hearts. For the construction of the Tabernacle, God’s dwelling place on earth, only those gifts that are motivated by a purity of desire are accepted. Often, the most cherished gifts are those that are unexpected.
The intention of the giver appears more pure when the gift arrives in honor of no occasion nor in thanks for a job well done. There is a purity of motive when the gift is occasioned by nothing except love.
It is for this very reason that magazines offering advice on romance always counsel: “Surprise him or her with a gift.” If it were possible to say, the relationship between God and the children of Israel is in this “young love” stage. The commitment of the Israelites is questionable. And so God instructs Moses to accept gifts only from those whose hearts are in the right place. The people can thereby tangibly demonstrate their love for God.
Of course people often get carried away with gift-giving. “The people are bringing more than is needed…” So Moses instructed them: “Let no man or woman make further efforts toward gifts for the sanctuary!” (Exodus 36:5-6) Ah, young love!
To nurture a loving relationship between God and the Jewish people, God makes allowances. God permits an overflowing of gift-giving, even though it might lead to a poverty of circumstance.
Furthermore, God allows the people to construct a home for God. Why else would God command them to build the Tabernacle? God does not really need a specific place to dwell. God lives nowhere and everywhere. The midrash observes: “Has it not been said: ‘The heaven is My throne…Where could you build a house for Me…?’ (Isaiah 66:1) What then is the purpose of the commandment: ‘And let them make Me a sanctuary’? To enable them to receive reward for fulfilling it.” (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael)
Perhaps their gift giving might shape their love.
We rediscover. It is all in the name of love. It is all in the name of God’s love for us.
And some friendly advice: don’t forget to buy a gift for your love. It does not matter if it is large or small as long as it is accompanied by “I love you.”
Motivation and intention are shaped by our deeds. Feeling follows action.
Yet this week’s portion suggests otherwise. “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts [termuah]; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.” (Exodus 25:2) Only gifts from those whose hearts are filled with proper intention are accepted by God. Is the construction of the Tabernacle the exception to the rule? Must our acceptance of gifts be dependent on the giver’s “inspired heart”?
Is a gift about the object or the intention?
So much of today’s gift-giving is obligatory. We give gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, b’nai mitzvah, weddings, even mother’s day and father’s day. And if we are to follow the advice of greeting card companies, we also give for secretary’s day, boss’s day, sweetheart’s day, grandparent’s day, every Jewish holiday, and of course the forthcoming Valentine’s Day. Our society attempts to obligate us to buy more. Advertising instructs us to purchase gifts for every imaginable occasion.
The Torah offers a needed corrective. The gifts that God most wants are those that come from inspired hearts. For the construction of the Tabernacle, God’s dwelling place on earth, only those gifts that are motivated by a purity of desire are accepted. Often, the most cherished gifts are those that are unexpected.
The intention of the giver appears more pure when the gift arrives in honor of no occasion nor in thanks for a job well done. There is a purity of motive when the gift is occasioned by nothing except love.
It is for this very reason that magazines offering advice on romance always counsel: “Surprise him or her with a gift.” If it were possible to say, the relationship between God and the children of Israel is in this “young love” stage. The commitment of the Israelites is questionable. And so God instructs Moses to accept gifts only from those whose hearts are in the right place. The people can thereby tangibly demonstrate their love for God.
Of course people often get carried away with gift-giving. “The people are bringing more than is needed…” So Moses instructed them: “Let no man or woman make further efforts toward gifts for the sanctuary!” (Exodus 36:5-6) Ah, young love!
To nurture a loving relationship between God and the Jewish people, God makes allowances. God permits an overflowing of gift-giving, even though it might lead to a poverty of circumstance.
Furthermore, God allows the people to construct a home for God. Why else would God command them to build the Tabernacle? God does not really need a specific place to dwell. God lives nowhere and everywhere. The midrash observes: “Has it not been said: ‘The heaven is My throne…Where could you build a house for Me…?’ (Isaiah 66:1) What then is the purpose of the commandment: ‘And let them make Me a sanctuary’? To enable them to receive reward for fulfilling it.” (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael)
Perhaps their gift giving might shape their love.
We rediscover. It is all in the name of love. It is all in the name of God’s love for us.
And some friendly advice: don’t forget to buy a gift for your love. It does not matter if it is large or small as long as it is accompanied by “I love you.”
Rabbi David Hartman z"l
On this, the third yahrtzeit for Rabbi David Hartman, I recall his words and teachings with fondness. I long for his words to resound throughout our synagogues, this nation and the State of Israel.
Each generation has to receive the Torah in its time.
One must renew the interpretative boldness that has always existed within the Jewish tradition.
We have never been fundamentalists. We have never been literalists.
Fundamentalism is grounded in ignorance, in the false need for feeling I've got the final word. I don't have to think anymore. I can now go to sleep because the truth is in my pocket.
If you go to sleep because the truth is in your pocket that is the best way to lose it.
I continue to relish Rabbi Hartman's teachings and his call for a courageous faith replete with far more questions than answers.
In fact, I rest better because of our questioning. I rest easier because of our reasoned and loving discussions and debates.
In fact, I rest better because of our questioning. I rest easier because of our reasoned and loving discussions and debates.
I thank my colleague Rabbi Peretz Wolf-Prusan for reminding me of this video.
Mishpatim and Its Contradictions
There are two contradictory impulses within our beloved Torah.
On the one hand, we are better than them.
“Whoever sacrifices to a god other than the Lord alone shall be utterly destroyed.” (Exodus 22:19)
And on the other, we can do better for them.
“You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 22:20)
The two verses stand side by side.
Within our tradition (as well as other religious traditions), we see interpretations of chosenness colored by chauvinism and exclusivity. God’s love and concern is only befitting those who worship like us, those who behave like us, those who are like us. With the drawing of such lines, we become like privileged royalty, elevated above all others.
We also see chosenness as elevating our duty to others, as requiring of us an even greater responsibility to others. Yes this can at times be a burden, but it also provides a path to meaning. Chosenness then becomes a call to protect the ill treated, as personified by the stranger, and to better the world.
On which verse will our Torah rest? Do we wish to elevate the lives of others or do we see ourselves as elevated above them?
I am no longer sure that we can hold on to both, that we can affirm these opposing sentiments.
I recognize that most do not wish to hear such blunt honesty, but as we approach the third yahrtzeit of my teacher, Rabbi David Hartman, I wish to honor his memory by giving voice to such truthfulness. My rabbi was courageous and fierce, passionate and at times angry. There was at times an uncomfortable honesty about his teachings. He would scream at us about the dangers within our own tradition. I came to love that Rabbi Hartman was both Judaism’s fiercest critic and its most devoted believer. Even though most might prefer a feel good faith that caresses us with approval and asks little of anything of us, I prefer an honest and courageous one.
Perhaps there is reward discovered in such honesty.
Let me be forthright. There are those who see in our Torah evidence of their privilege. This is not what I choose to read. The Torah is meant to elevate our behavior. It is intended to call us to action. It is meant to ennoble our lives with a call to do better for others.
If we are to be a kingdom of priests it must not be about what we get but instead what we must do. If we are to be a holy nation then it must not come at the expense of others but rather from what we can do for others.
There may very well be these two impulses within the Torah, but we must choose one.
I know the choice I must make.
I will sing: “You shall not wrong a stranger…”
I choose the verse that uplifts all. I know of no other way of upholding the Torah’s import for the world at large. I must work to better the world.
Perhaps in the process I might even elevate my life and infuse it with added meaning.
For additional inspiration, take a few moments to watch this brief interview with Bernie Marcus, the founder of Home Depot.
On the one hand, we are better than them.
“Whoever sacrifices to a god other than the Lord alone shall be utterly destroyed.” (Exodus 22:19)
And on the other, we can do better for them.
“You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 22:20)
The two verses stand side by side.
Within our tradition (as well as other religious traditions), we see interpretations of chosenness colored by chauvinism and exclusivity. God’s love and concern is only befitting those who worship like us, those who behave like us, those who are like us. With the drawing of such lines, we become like privileged royalty, elevated above all others.
We also see chosenness as elevating our duty to others, as requiring of us an even greater responsibility to others. Yes this can at times be a burden, but it also provides a path to meaning. Chosenness then becomes a call to protect the ill treated, as personified by the stranger, and to better the world.
On which verse will our Torah rest? Do we wish to elevate the lives of others or do we see ourselves as elevated above them?
I am no longer sure that we can hold on to both, that we can affirm these opposing sentiments.
I recognize that most do not wish to hear such blunt honesty, but as we approach the third yahrtzeit of my teacher, Rabbi David Hartman, I wish to honor his memory by giving voice to such truthfulness. My rabbi was courageous and fierce, passionate and at times angry. There was at times an uncomfortable honesty about his teachings. He would scream at us about the dangers within our own tradition. I came to love that Rabbi Hartman was both Judaism’s fiercest critic and its most devoted believer. Even though most might prefer a feel good faith that caresses us with approval and asks little of anything of us, I prefer an honest and courageous one.
Perhaps there is reward discovered in such honesty.
Let me be forthright. There are those who see in our Torah evidence of their privilege. This is not what I choose to read. The Torah is meant to elevate our behavior. It is intended to call us to action. It is meant to ennoble our lives with a call to do better for others.
If we are to be a kingdom of priests it must not be about what we get but instead what we must do. If we are to be a holy nation then it must not come at the expense of others but rather from what we can do for others.
There may very well be these two impulses within the Torah, but we must choose one.
I know the choice I must make.
I will sing: “You shall not wrong a stranger…”
I choose the verse that uplifts all. I know of no other way of upholding the Torah’s import for the world at large. I must work to better the world.
Perhaps in the process I might even elevate my life and infuse it with added meaning.
For additional inspiration, take a few moments to watch this brief interview with Bernie Marcus, the founder of Home Depot.
Yitro and Rejoicing with God
To know God is to fear God. So the Torah suggests. In this week’s reading we learn that the experience of Sinai is terrifying.
“There was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the horn; and all the people who were in the camp trembled.” (Exodus 19:16)
This is how the Torah describes the revelation at Mount Sinai. In fact the people were so overwhelmed by the experience that they begged Moses to spare them further divine encounters. They pleaded, “Let not God speak to us, lest we die.” (Exodus 20:16)
We ask: if the goal of our tradition is to draw us close to God how do we find encouragement in these words? How can a story filled with fear and dread provide us with inspiration? And so the rabbis reimagined the experience. In their eyes holiness becomes more manageable and God more approachable. To know God is to draw affirmation in the mundane, in the ordinary and everyday. Rabbi Akiva in fact understands Song of Songs, a biblical love song, not as words that describe romantic love between two people but instead as the love between Israel and God.
We are wed to God. We echo such sentiments with the words of Lecha Dodi. We sing: “Come my beloved to meet the bride.” We greet the Sabbath bride. We welcome the divine. For the Kabbalists, who authored this prayer, the experience of God was synonymous with lovemaking. We draw close to God as one draws near a lover. Their literature is filled with eroticism. It is intoxicated with loving God.
We continue to struggle with how to give voice to our encounter with God.
The unparalleled Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, writes:
Fear is a far simpler thing to summon than love. Terror seeps into our hearts. Rejoicing requires courage.
Our senses become confused. We become overwhelmed.
The Torah concurs. It offers these words about Sinai: “All the people saw the thunder and the lightning…” (Exodus 20:15)
You cannot see thunder! The people’s senses are likewise confused and overwhelmed.
We are unable to find the words to describe such an awesome experience. The holy, the overwhelming, the joyous defy description. Perhaps then we must resort to poetry and songs.
How can we find words for our joys? And yet rejoicing must become our foundation. Only simcha can carry us forward. Only rejoicing can banish the trembling.
When we sing, when we dance, and when we celebrate we experience God.
When we rejoice we approach Sinai.
Still we have no words.
“I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness and blurry joy.”
“There was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the horn; and all the people who were in the camp trembled.” (Exodus 19:16)
This is how the Torah describes the revelation at Mount Sinai. In fact the people were so overwhelmed by the experience that they begged Moses to spare them further divine encounters. They pleaded, “Let not God speak to us, lest we die.” (Exodus 20:16)
We ask: if the goal of our tradition is to draw us close to God how do we find encouragement in these words? How can a story filled with fear and dread provide us with inspiration? And so the rabbis reimagined the experience. In their eyes holiness becomes more manageable and God more approachable. To know God is to draw affirmation in the mundane, in the ordinary and everyday. Rabbi Akiva in fact understands Song of Songs, a biblical love song, not as words that describe romantic love between two people but instead as the love between Israel and God.
We are wed to God. We echo such sentiments with the words of Lecha Dodi. We sing: “Come my beloved to meet the bride.” We greet the Sabbath bride. We welcome the divine. For the Kabbalists, who authored this prayer, the experience of God was synonymous with lovemaking. We draw close to God as one draws near a lover. Their literature is filled with eroticism. It is intoxicated with loving God.
We continue to struggle with how to give voice to our encounter with God.
The unparalleled Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, writes:
The precision of pain and the blurriness of joy. I’m thinkingAmichai’s insight is well founded. (And I recall it in part because we remember the Challenger astronauts who thirty years ago gave their lives in pursuit of touching heaven’s joys.) Why is pain and heartache more precise than joy and celebration? Fear of God appears easier to describe than love of God. One misplaced word can give rise to dread.
how precise people are when they describe their pain in a doctor’s office.
Even those who haven’t learned to read and write are precise:
“This one’s a throbbing pain, that one’s a wrenching pain,
This one gnaws, that one burns, this is a sharp pain
and that—a dull one. Right here. Precisely here,
yes, yes.” Joy blurs everything. I’ve heard people say
after nights of love and feasting, “It was great,
I was in seventh heaven.” Even the spaceman who floated
in outer space, tethered to a spaceship, could say only, “Great,
wonderful, I have no words.”
The blurriness of joy and the precision of pain—
I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness
and blurry joy. I learned to speak among the pains.
Fear is a far simpler thing to summon than love. Terror seeps into our hearts. Rejoicing requires courage.
Our senses become confused. We become overwhelmed.
The Torah concurs. It offers these words about Sinai: “All the people saw the thunder and the lightning…” (Exodus 20:15)
You cannot see thunder! The people’s senses are likewise confused and overwhelmed.
We are unable to find the words to describe such an awesome experience. The holy, the overwhelming, the joyous defy description. Perhaps then we must resort to poetry and songs.
How can we find words for our joys? And yet rejoicing must become our foundation. Only simcha can carry us forward. Only rejoicing can banish the trembling.
When we sing, when we dance, and when we celebrate we experience God.
When we rejoice we approach Sinai.
Still we have no words.
“I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness and blurry joy.”
Beshalach and Walking Away from War
Among my favorite poems is “Eli Eli” by Hannah Senesh:
Her writing and poetry remain. Her words are often added to our Shabbat prayers....
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
My God, my GodSenesh was of course the young Zionist who parachuted behind German lines and made her way into her native Hungary in order to rescue fellow Jews. She was captured and we now know tortured mercilessly. On November 7, 1944 she was executed by a German firing squad.
I pray these things never end
The sand and the sea
The rush of the waters,
The crash of the heavens,
The prayer of man.
Her writing and poetry remain. Her words are often added to our Shabbat prayers....
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
Bo, Darkness and Heroes
“Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Hold out you your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.’” (Exodus 10:21) The tradition expands our understanding of this plague of darkness. It was so thick and enveloping that the Egyptians could not even see their hands in front of their faces.
This helps to explain why darkness is the ninth plague.
In that darkness the Egyptians were utterly alone. They only had their thoughts. They could see nothing but what could be found in their imaginations. Such ruminations must have given rise to even greater and greater fear. Blood, frogs, lice, wild beasts, cattle plague, boils, hail, locusts ran through people’s minds. In their imagination frogs became transformed into crocodiles that devoured children. And locusts became vultures gnawing on the carcasses of dead cattle. Such is the power of the mind.
Such are the dangers of imagination. One would think that this darkness could serve as a moment of introspection, that the designs of the mind might lead the Egyptians to let the Israelites go free. And yet fear becomes an end in itself. It corrupts our dreams. It obscures our vision. We find ourselves alone in the darkness imagining the worst of days.
We are living within such a plague. Unlike the plague that befell the Egyptians our darkness is instead blackened by the 24 hour news cycle, the endless stream of information, and misinformation provided by the Internet, and our ceaseless notifications popping up on our iPhones’ screens. We think that we are more connected. We believe that we are more informed. Instead we become likewise plagued by darkness. It is a darkness filled with alerts and notifications.
Fear obscures our view, it envelopes and shrouds. The incessant barrage of information darkens our vision. We see disease where in truth there is health. We see hail where there are bright, sunny skies. Our imagination gets the better of us.
We find it increasingly difficult to distinguish between an ordinary frog and dangerous, vicious beasts. Can we see through this darkness and discover friends among those who are unlike ourselves? Can we see beyond our fears, and beyond this modern plague, and distinguish between those who are truly bent on doing us harm from those who are given toward companionship? We appear unable to see the hands, right before our eyes, reaching out to others in friendship. We imagine that more and more hands stab at us in this darkness.
The rabbis ask: Who is a hero? They answer: It is the person who masters his or her evil inclination. Can we summon such heroism? Can we master this inclination?
How is it that those we often call heroes are those who steadfastly hold on to their dreams and ideals even when imprisoned and surrounded by darkness? Natan Sharansky, who was imprisoned in the Soviet Gulag for almost ten years, carried with him a small book of psalms. He held fast to the verse from Psalm 23: I will fear no evil. Even though surrounded by torturers and likewise alone with his imagination he chose instead to fixate on his dreams. He remained singularly focused on his wish to make aliya to Israel. How did he summon the courage to look beyond the tortures and see only a dream, a vision?
We, who in contrast live in relative comfort, become instead intoxicated by our imaginations of terror and evil, we become tortured by the threats leveled against us. The dangers are real. And yet they grow even larger in our minds. They grow more menacing in our imaginations. We who are unaccustomed to living with such fears allow terror to rule our lives rather than dreams.
We find ourselves in darkness. We find ourselves alone. We can see little else but our nightmares. We imagine the worst about others.
The rabbis advocated for a heroism of the ordinary and everyday. They were concerned about the inner. They wrote about the dangers of our intentions. They counseled: master the imagination.
And I continue to believe what I have often taught. In this age of terrorism it really does amount to such a heroism of the everyday. It is about subduing our fears and affirming the ordinary.
David Bowie sings: “We can be heroes, just for one day. We can be us, just for one day.”
The Torah offers: “People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was; but all the Israelites enjoyed light…” (Exodus 10:23)
I remain partial to Peter Gabriel’s version of David Bowie’s classic:
This helps to explain why darkness is the ninth plague.
In that darkness the Egyptians were utterly alone. They only had their thoughts. They could see nothing but what could be found in their imaginations. Such ruminations must have given rise to even greater and greater fear. Blood, frogs, lice, wild beasts, cattle plague, boils, hail, locusts ran through people’s minds. In their imagination frogs became transformed into crocodiles that devoured children. And locusts became vultures gnawing on the carcasses of dead cattle. Such is the power of the mind.
Such are the dangers of imagination. One would think that this darkness could serve as a moment of introspection, that the designs of the mind might lead the Egyptians to let the Israelites go free. And yet fear becomes an end in itself. It corrupts our dreams. It obscures our vision. We find ourselves alone in the darkness imagining the worst of days.
We are living within such a plague. Unlike the plague that befell the Egyptians our darkness is instead blackened by the 24 hour news cycle, the endless stream of information, and misinformation provided by the Internet, and our ceaseless notifications popping up on our iPhones’ screens. We think that we are more connected. We believe that we are more informed. Instead we become likewise plagued by darkness. It is a darkness filled with alerts and notifications.
Fear obscures our view, it envelopes and shrouds. The incessant barrage of information darkens our vision. We see disease where in truth there is health. We see hail where there are bright, sunny skies. Our imagination gets the better of us.
We find it increasingly difficult to distinguish between an ordinary frog and dangerous, vicious beasts. Can we see through this darkness and discover friends among those who are unlike ourselves? Can we see beyond our fears, and beyond this modern plague, and distinguish between those who are truly bent on doing us harm from those who are given toward companionship? We appear unable to see the hands, right before our eyes, reaching out to others in friendship. We imagine that more and more hands stab at us in this darkness.
The rabbis ask: Who is a hero? They answer: It is the person who masters his or her evil inclination. Can we summon such heroism? Can we master this inclination?
How is it that those we often call heroes are those who steadfastly hold on to their dreams and ideals even when imprisoned and surrounded by darkness? Natan Sharansky, who was imprisoned in the Soviet Gulag for almost ten years, carried with him a small book of psalms. He held fast to the verse from Psalm 23: I will fear no evil. Even though surrounded by torturers and likewise alone with his imagination he chose instead to fixate on his dreams. He remained singularly focused on his wish to make aliya to Israel. How did he summon the courage to look beyond the tortures and see only a dream, a vision?
We, who in contrast live in relative comfort, become instead intoxicated by our imaginations of terror and evil, we become tortured by the threats leveled against us. The dangers are real. And yet they grow even larger in our minds. They grow more menacing in our imaginations. We who are unaccustomed to living with such fears allow terror to rule our lives rather than dreams.
We find ourselves in darkness. We find ourselves alone. We can see little else but our nightmares. We imagine the worst about others.
The rabbis advocated for a heroism of the ordinary and everyday. They were concerned about the inner. They wrote about the dangers of our intentions. They counseled: master the imagination.
And I continue to believe what I have often taught. In this age of terrorism it really does amount to such a heroism of the everyday. It is about subduing our fears and affirming the ordinary.
David Bowie sings: “We can be heroes, just for one day. We can be us, just for one day.”
The Torah offers: “People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was; but all the Israelites enjoyed light…” (Exodus 10:23)
I remain partial to Peter Gabriel’s version of David Bowie’s classic:
Vaera and God's Many Names
This week’s Torah portion, Vaera, opens with the words: “God spoke to Moses and said to him, ‘I am Adonai. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name Y-H-V-H…” (Exodus 6)
To Moses God offers this personal name of YHVH. We, however, no longer know how to pronounce this name and so we say, Adonai, my Lord. This name is related to the name revealed at the burning bush. When Moses asks, “When I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is His name?’ what shall I say to them?’” God responds, Eyeh Asher Eyeh, meaning “I will be what I will be.” (Exodus 3) YHVH is thus a form of the verb, “to be.” What a mysterious, and wonderful, name. The name of God means: God is.
As a consequence the Jewish tradition has many names for God. A casual search of the prayerbook yields well over 50 different names. Here are a few: the Teacher, the Holy One Blessed be He, the Place, Builder of Jerusalem, the Healer, God of Thanks, Lord of Wonders, our Father our King (Avinu Malkeinu), Rock of Israel and Lord of Peace.
We call God by many different names. We find God through these many names. The Psalmist declares:
One of my favorite poets, Denise Levertov, concurs:
Words are both flimsy and secure. Our tradition therefore offers us many different names, many different paths to reach our God. None of them are perfect. None of them are the final answer. Indeed the rabbis declare that there are 70 different facets of the Torah. There is never one Jewish answer! There is no one answer when it comes to interpreting Torah and even when it comes to naming God.
We find God through many names and many different places. May this coming Shabbat be indeed a Sabbath of peace, quiet and relaxation. May it be a day when we hear at least one of God’s names emerge from our lips.
To Moses God offers this personal name of YHVH. We, however, no longer know how to pronounce this name and so we say, Adonai, my Lord. This name is related to the name revealed at the burning bush. When Moses asks, “When I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is His name?’ what shall I say to them?’” God responds, Eyeh Asher Eyeh, meaning “I will be what I will be.” (Exodus 3) YHVH is thus a form of the verb, “to be.” What a mysterious, and wonderful, name. The name of God means: God is.
As a consequence the Jewish tradition has many names for God. A casual search of the prayerbook yields well over 50 different names. Here are a few: the Teacher, the Holy One Blessed be He, the Place, Builder of Jerusalem, the Healer, God of Thanks, Lord of Wonders, our Father our King (Avinu Malkeinu), Rock of Israel and Lord of Peace.
We call God by many different names. We find God through these many names. The Psalmist declares:
The heavens declare God’s gloryLanguage is merely scratching the surface. Our words are only glimmers of the divine. Reaching out to God is not a perfect science. Even our prayers are mere attempts. Our most carefully constructed sentences and most heartfelt songs can only, at best, extend upward.
the sky proclaims His handiwork.
Day to day makes utterance,
night to night speaks out
There is no utterance,
there are no words… (Psalm 19)
One of my favorite poets, Denise Levertov, concurs:
Lord, I curl in Thy greyWe stretch and weave words as if they are hammock strung between two branches. Hammocks can be comfortable and relaxing when they envelope us, as we sit in the summer shade, yet unsteady when our weight is shifted ever so slightly.
gossamer hammock
that swings by one
elastic thread to thin
twigs that could, that should
break but don’t.
I do nothing, I give You
nothing. Yet You hold me
minute by minute
from falling.
Lord, You provide.
Words are both flimsy and secure. Our tradition therefore offers us many different names, many different paths to reach our God. None of them are perfect. None of them are the final answer. Indeed the rabbis declare that there are 70 different facets of the Torah. There is never one Jewish answer! There is no one answer when it comes to interpreting Torah and even when it comes to naming God.
We find God through many names and many different places. May this coming Shabbat be indeed a Sabbath of peace, quiet and relaxation. May it be a day when we hear at least one of God’s names emerge from our lips.
Shemot, Kiddush and Kaddish
This week we begin the most significant of books, Exodus. While Genesis is filled with stories about our patriarchs and matriarchs, Leviticus with the laws of holiness, Numbers with the tribulations of wandering in the desert and Deuteronomy with a litany of everyday commandments, Exodus contains the most formative of our stories. It is here that we become a people when God takes us out from Egypt. It is this episode that we recount every year at our Passover Seders and every Shabbat when we join together in the kiddush.
And yet the book’s Hebrew name suggests nothing of this significance. In Hebrew it is called: Shemot—Names. On one level this is because a book’s (or portion’s) Hebrew names is given by its first most significant word. “These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household: Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah…” it begins. Not the dramatic beginning one might expect from the most important of our stories. Then again a great drama can unfold from the most ordinary of opening lines. “Call me Ishmael.” Herman Melville famously wrote.
Then again what value is hidden within this opening verse? Perhaps it is not the story that the Torah portion begins to relate for us but instead the lesson. We begin our story by remembering our forefathers. This stands in stark contrast to our enemies. “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” the portion also relates. Our suffering begins to unfold. It is triggered by forgetfulness. We know many names. He forgets one name.
Thus Exodus begins with remembrance and turns on forgetfulness. And herein lies the lesson. If we remember we cannot never forget who we are or what we are about. Exodus begins with the simplest of remembrances: recounting the names of our ancestors. It is as if to say: name your parents, grandparents and great grandparents. “Blessed are You Adonai our God, God our ancestors: God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob, God of Sarah, God of Rebekah, God of Rachel and God of Leah…” we begin the Amidah each and every time we gather to pray.
The Book of Exodus turns on the following. We remember. They forget.
The message becomes clearer. Remembering is the secret to our redemption. God commands: “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt.” the Torah repeats over and over and again.
That lesson begins with a list of names.
And it is reaffirmed every time we recite kaddish.
And yet the book’s Hebrew name suggests nothing of this significance. In Hebrew it is called: Shemot—Names. On one level this is because a book’s (or portion’s) Hebrew names is given by its first most significant word. “These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household: Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah…” it begins. Not the dramatic beginning one might expect from the most important of our stories. Then again a great drama can unfold from the most ordinary of opening lines. “Call me Ishmael.” Herman Melville famously wrote.
Then again what value is hidden within this opening verse? Perhaps it is not the story that the Torah portion begins to relate for us but instead the lesson. We begin our story by remembering our forefathers. This stands in stark contrast to our enemies. “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” the portion also relates. Our suffering begins to unfold. It is triggered by forgetfulness. We know many names. He forgets one name.
Thus Exodus begins with remembrance and turns on forgetfulness. And herein lies the lesson. If we remember we cannot never forget who we are or what we are about. Exodus begins with the simplest of remembrances: recounting the names of our ancestors. It is as if to say: name your parents, grandparents and great grandparents. “Blessed are You Adonai our God, God our ancestors: God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob, God of Sarah, God of Rebekah, God of Rachel and God of Leah…” we begin the Amidah each and every time we gather to pray.
The Book of Exodus turns on the following. We remember. They forget.
The message becomes clearer. Remembering is the secret to our redemption. God commands: “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt.” the Torah repeats over and over and again.
That lesson begins with a list of names.
And it is reaffirmed every time we recite kaddish.
Vayehi, Barnacles and Blessings
Judaism categorically believes that people can change, that they can examine their ways and correct their failings. We do not believe in fate. We contend that our destiny remains in our hands. Otherwise the High Holidays, and the centrality of their message of repentance and turning, would be meaningless. We believe in the possibility of self-renewal. And yet people behave as if we think otherwise.
John W. Gardner once observed in quoting another author: “’The barnacle is confronted with an existential decision about where it's going to live. Once it decides it spends the rest of its life with its head cemented to a rock.’ End of quote. For a good many of us, it comes to that.”
This week we read about the blessings Jacob offers to each of his children. “And Jacob called his sons and said, ‘Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come.’ The more we read in the portion the more their destinies appear pre-ordained. Their fates seem bound to prior deeds. His blessings mirror popular sentiment that our character is unchanging.
To his eldest Jacob proclaims: “Reuben, you are my first-born, the might and first fruit of my vigor, exceeding in rank and excelling in honor. Unstable as water, you shall excel no longer…” To his youngest Jacob says: “Benjamin is a ravenous wolf; in the morning he consumes the foe, and in the evening he divides the spoil.“ (Genesis 49)
This is not the Torah we teach. This is not the tradition we uphold. We are not barnacles!
And what was Reuben’s sin? He slept with his father’s concubine. One sin, one mistake and Reuben’s destiny is shattered. His good fortune is reversed. His father’s blessing becomes a curse. Where is the forgiveness? Where is the opportunity for change? Jacob echoes popular belief. He gives voice to the fact that too often we bury our heads in the sand, we blame the machinations of others, we offer excuses about circumstances and complain about the troubles of fate. We act as if our destiny is written in stone. Reuben is destined for no good, Jacob declares.
But we are not our forefather’s sons. And we need not be barnacles. Our destiny is not to be found in the stars. No matter how terrible, and seemingly unforgiveable, the sin we can give shape to a new story. Our lives can be shaped by our own hands. They are not written by parents or grandparents. They are not ordained by prior generations.
Where is this Torah to be discovered? Where is the belief that we can rewrite our future? It is found in Jacob’s sons as well. It is discovered when they turn and stand up for their youngest brother Benjamin. They do not allow him to be thrown in jail as they did years earlier with Joseph. It is uncovered when Judah says in effect: “Take me instead.” This is the model of repentance we teach. We can change. We can make a turn. We can redeem even the most desperate of circumstances. We can reshape our lives and renew our souls.
John Gardner again:
John W. Gardner once observed in quoting another author: “’The barnacle is confronted with an existential decision about where it's going to live. Once it decides it spends the rest of its life with its head cemented to a rock.’ End of quote. For a good many of us, it comes to that.”
This week we read about the blessings Jacob offers to each of his children. “And Jacob called his sons and said, ‘Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come.’ The more we read in the portion the more their destinies appear pre-ordained. Their fates seem bound to prior deeds. His blessings mirror popular sentiment that our character is unchanging.
To his eldest Jacob proclaims: “Reuben, you are my first-born, the might and first fruit of my vigor, exceeding in rank and excelling in honor. Unstable as water, you shall excel no longer…” To his youngest Jacob says: “Benjamin is a ravenous wolf; in the morning he consumes the foe, and in the evening he divides the spoil.“ (Genesis 49)
This is not the Torah we teach. This is not the tradition we uphold. We are not barnacles!
And what was Reuben’s sin? He slept with his father’s concubine. One sin, one mistake and Reuben’s destiny is shattered. His good fortune is reversed. His father’s blessing becomes a curse. Where is the forgiveness? Where is the opportunity for change? Jacob echoes popular belief. He gives voice to the fact that too often we bury our heads in the sand, we blame the machinations of others, we offer excuses about circumstances and complain about the troubles of fate. We act as if our destiny is written in stone. Reuben is destined for no good, Jacob declares.
But we are not our forefather’s sons. And we need not be barnacles. Our destiny is not to be found in the stars. No matter how terrible, and seemingly unforgiveable, the sin we can give shape to a new story. Our lives can be shaped by our own hands. They are not written by parents or grandparents. They are not ordained by prior generations.
Where is this Torah to be discovered? Where is the belief that we can rewrite our future? It is found in Jacob’s sons as well. It is discovered when they turn and stand up for their youngest brother Benjamin. They do not allow him to be thrown in jail as they did years earlier with Joseph. It is uncovered when Judah says in effect: “Take me instead.” This is the model of repentance we teach. We can change. We can make a turn. We can redeem even the most desperate of circumstances. We can reshape our lives and renew our souls.
John Gardner again:
Meaning is not something you stumble across, like the answer to a riddle or the prize in a treasure hunt. Meaning is something you build into your life. You build it out of your own past, out of your affections and loyalties, out of the experience of humankind as it is passed on to you, out of your own talent and understanding, out of the things you believe in, out of the things and people you love, out of the values for which you are willing to sacrifice something. The ingredients are there. You are the only one who can put them together into that unique pattern that will be your life. Let it be a life that has dignity and meaning for you. If it does, then the particular balance of success or failure is of less account.We need not live as if we are barnacles. Blessings are to be found in our very own hands.
Vayigash and Suffering's Promise
While Martin Luther King sat in a Birmingham jail he penned a letter to his fellow clergy explaining why he thought it necessary to engage in civil disobedience. He criticized their vocal opposition to his efforts saying that religion must serve the cause of justice rather than maintaining the status quo. In King’s lengthy “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” he wrote:
We discover echoes of these feelings in this week’s Torah portion. There Joseph reveals himself to his brothers. Recall that the brothers threw Joseph in a pit, sold him into slavery where he was again jailed by his taskmasters. And yet Joseph says to his brothers: “Now do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45:5)
Although Joseph had every right to be angry, and every reason to be unforgiving, he chose instead to see God’s hand in the jail cell that he occupied. He chose to see hope. He thereby redeems his pain and suffering. This is the quintessential Jewish move. We shout blessings at pain. We give thanks despite suffering. Jewish history attests to Martin Luther King’s words: “right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.”
For centuries we exclaimed that even if the body is imprisoned, even if our people are oppressed, we cannot be defeated if we fill our hearts with songs and our souls with gratitude.
Perhaps only someone who experiences such suffering and pain can change the world. I therefore discover renewed faith in the Malala Yousafzais and the Natan Sharanskys. And only a people who endures oppression can serve as prophets to a troubled and fractured world.
Martin Luther King again writes: “I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom.”
We continue to sing and pray.
“The goal of America is freedom.”
But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. They have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of Albany, Georgia, with us. They have gone down the highways of the South on tortuous rides for freedom. Yes, they have gone to jail with us. Some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. But they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. Their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment. I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future.These soaring words gain even more spiritual power because they emerge from jail, because they come out of suffering. The essence of King’s message is captured in the words: “right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.” A man wrongly imprisoned can better affirm such sentiments. His suffering adds an exclamation point to the words. A depth of meaning emerges from his experience.
We discover echoes of these feelings in this week’s Torah portion. There Joseph reveals himself to his brothers. Recall that the brothers threw Joseph in a pit, sold him into slavery where he was again jailed by his taskmasters. And yet Joseph says to his brothers: “Now do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45:5)
Although Joseph had every right to be angry, and every reason to be unforgiving, he chose instead to see God’s hand in the jail cell that he occupied. He chose to see hope. He thereby redeems his pain and suffering. This is the quintessential Jewish move. We shout blessings at pain. We give thanks despite suffering. Jewish history attests to Martin Luther King’s words: “right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.”
For centuries we exclaimed that even if the body is imprisoned, even if our people are oppressed, we cannot be defeated if we fill our hearts with songs and our souls with gratitude.
Perhaps only someone who experiences such suffering and pain can change the world. I therefore discover renewed faith in the Malala Yousafzais and the Natan Sharanskys. And only a people who endures oppression can serve as prophets to a troubled and fractured world.
Martin Luther King again writes: “I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom.”
We continue to sing and pray.
“The goal of America is freedom.”
Hanukkah and Hope
This evening begins the fifth night of Hanukkah.
Many are celebrating with the giving of presents and the eating of latkes (or perhaps sufganiyot). Some are also enjoying the playing of dreidel. The tradition requires only the lighting of the Hanukkah menorah preceded by the appropriate blessings. The lights are placed in the window to proclaim the miracle of Hanukkah for all to see.
For centuries this holiday was downplayed. It was simple in its observance. Yet it was profound in its message. Hanukkah reminds us that hope is always possible. The lighting of the Hanukkah candles is about adding light during the darkest times of the year, and throughout the darkest moments of our history.
In the Talmud two great rabbis argue about how best to light the Hanukkah lights...
Many are celebrating with the giving of presents and the eating of latkes (or perhaps sufganiyot). Some are also enjoying the playing of dreidel. The tradition requires only the lighting of the Hanukkah menorah preceded by the appropriate blessings. The lights are placed in the window to proclaim the miracle of Hanukkah for all to see.
For centuries this holiday was downplayed. It was simple in its observance. Yet it was profound in its message. Hanukkah reminds us that hope is always possible. The lighting of the Hanukkah candles is about adding light during the darkest times of the year, and throughout the darkest moments of our history.
In the Talmud two great rabbis argue about how best to light the Hanukkah lights...
Vayeshev and Making History
Jewish history hinges on the Joseph story that begins this week. Because of the jealousy and hatred between Joseph and his brothers they sell him into slavery in Egypt where he rises to prominence. Eventually his family follows him there. The Jewish people then build comfortable lives in Egypt until a new Pharaoh comes to power. As the Torah recounts, “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” The people are enslaved. Their cries reach to heaven and so God calls Moses to lead the people to freedom. The rest of the story is all too familiar.
It turns on Joseph. It depends on the moment Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery. It also revolves around an unnamed man. Let me explain.
Jacob sent Joseph out to the fields to look for his brothers. He apparently had difficulty finding them. “When Joseph reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, ‘What are you looking for?’ He answered, ‘I am looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?’ The man said, ‘They have gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dothan.’ So Joseph followed his brothers and found them at Dothan.” (Genesis 37:15-17)
If not for this stranger Joseph might never have found his brothers. They might not have sold him into slavery. Then the Jewish people might never have arrived in Egypt and become enslaved there. And we might never have drawn so much inspiration from our Passover Seders and the retelling of our going out from Egypt.
Moses Maimonides suggests that the stranger is an angel. How else could one explain that all of Jewish history, and for that matter world history, turns on his directions? For this medieval thinker it could only be a divine messenger who sets Joseph on the proper course. For Maimonides the stranger could therefore only be an angel.
And yet I would like to think that this man could be anyone.
Perhaps it is the unknown, unnamed strangers upon which history turns. Their names are never known. History books do not even record their deeds. And yet history could never be written without their guiding hand.
Far too many people aspire to fame. They wish to be the ones who write history, whose names are recorded in the history books. They worry about their legacy. They spend precious hours wondering if they will be remembered for good. Yet often it is the unnamed stranger who points the direction. And it is upon their shoulders that history actually turns.
There is more that depends on the unnamed. I might never have noticed these verses, or the mention of this man, if not for the young parents who asked to study this week’s Torah portion in preparation for their son’s bar mitzvah. If not for their eyes and especially their questions, this stranger might have remained hidden from view.
Perhaps it is the hidden, and unnamed, upon which our learning turns and upon which history revolves.
You never know where the directions you offer might lead. You never know where the questions you ask might take others.
It turns on Joseph. It depends on the moment Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery. It also revolves around an unnamed man. Let me explain.
Jacob sent Joseph out to the fields to look for his brothers. He apparently had difficulty finding them. “When Joseph reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, ‘What are you looking for?’ He answered, ‘I am looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?’ The man said, ‘They have gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dothan.’ So Joseph followed his brothers and found them at Dothan.” (Genesis 37:15-17)
If not for this stranger Joseph might never have found his brothers. They might not have sold him into slavery. Then the Jewish people might never have arrived in Egypt and become enslaved there. And we might never have drawn so much inspiration from our Passover Seders and the retelling of our going out from Egypt.
Moses Maimonides suggests that the stranger is an angel. How else could one explain that all of Jewish history, and for that matter world history, turns on his directions? For this medieval thinker it could only be a divine messenger who sets Joseph on the proper course. For Maimonides the stranger could therefore only be an angel.
And yet I would like to think that this man could be anyone.
Perhaps it is the unknown, unnamed strangers upon which history turns. Their names are never known. History books do not even record their deeds. And yet history could never be written without their guiding hand.
Far too many people aspire to fame. They wish to be the ones who write history, whose names are recorded in the history books. They worry about their legacy. They spend precious hours wondering if they will be remembered for good. Yet often it is the unnamed stranger who points the direction. And it is upon their shoulders that history actually turns.
There is more that depends on the unnamed. I might never have noticed these verses, or the mention of this man, if not for the young parents who asked to study this week’s Torah portion in preparation for their son’s bar mitzvah. If not for their eyes and especially their questions, this stranger might have remained hidden from view.
Perhaps it is the hidden, and unnamed, upon which our learning turns and upon which history revolves.
You never know where the directions you offer might lead. You never know where the questions you ask might take others.
Vayishlach and Forever Esau
The Jewish people trace their lineage to Abraham through Isaac and in particular Jacob. He is the father of the twelve tribes. In this week’s portion he gains the name Israel by wrestling with a divine being. His brother, Esau, is forever our enemy. According to Jewish tradition our many enemies can be traced to Isaac’s first-born son.
Esau is seen as the ancestor of the Edomites who aligned themselves with the Babylonians and destroyed the First Temple. The tradition as well sees the Romans as descendants of Esau who destroyed the Second Temple and views Jacob’s only brother as the ancestor of our later enemies, even modern European antisemites. The midrash comments: “We went looking for a brother, but instead found Esau, armed and hostile in a very non-brotherly manner.” All our enemies begin with Esau.
There are days, most especially during these past weeks, when my dreams are haunted by this tradition. Must Esau forever be my enemy? Will this enmity continue to be my future? Is this the history that we are condemned to live? I am a descendant of Jacob. My enemies forever bear the imprint of Esau. Our brother exclaims, “Let but the mourning period of my father come, and I will kill my brother Jacob.” (Genesis 27:41)
The world, however, appears to reverse this narrative, casting Jews and Israelis as the oppressor Esau. Mahatma Gandhi, a hero to many young college students, once wrote that only the Arabs were the rightful inhabitants of Palestine. He viewed the Zionist settlers as colonialists. He advocated that Jewish settlers practice non-violence in order to win over the hearts of the Arabs. Ghandi also thought that the Jews of Germany should follow a similar practice in response to what was in 1938 the emerging Nazi onslaught.
His views were of course dangerously naive. Zionism is about the willingness, and historical necessity, but not I pray inevitably, of defending Jewish lives in the face of enemies bent our destruction. Ghandi refused to divide the world into friend and foe. Our lot, we have learned, is far different. I am Jacob. My brother remains Esau. Then again perhaps the world should not be divided into such polarities. Perhaps we require different categories, and no longer either Jacob or Esau. If I view everyone else as Esau, and my enemy, do I then participate in damning my people to this eternal cycle of violence, hatred and war?
The Jewish philosopher and founder of Hebrew University, Martin Buber, responded to Ghandi by saying that that no land belongs to any people. “The conquered land is, in my opinion, only lent even to the conqueror who has settled on it—and God waits to see what he will make of it.”
Buber, unlike the majority of Zionists, argued for a bi-national state, a state with a shared place for Jews and Palestinians. It is a vision of Zionism long since discredited by the overwhelming majority of Israelis. How could such a state then have a decidedly Jewish character? Still there must always be a place for Arabs within a Jewish and democratic state.
This Sunday, we will mark the day (November 29, 1947) on which the United Nations argued that there should indeed be a place for Palestinian national aspirations, not within the Jewish state, but instead alongside it. Decades of war, terrorism and bloodshed suggest this is impossible. These past weeks cause our hearts to understandably become hardened. As we read about more youth, about Ezra Schwartz and Hadar Buchris for example, the prophetic vision of the wolf and the lamb becomes even more distant and that of Jacob and Esau becomes increasingly more real. We become despondent. The philosopher Martin Buber refused to lose hope.
And so we continue to ask, “Even after the knife attacks, the deaths of young students and the public calls for our destruction, can we still find hope?”
“And Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33:4)
The Torah offers a measure of hope.
Esau is seen as the ancestor of the Edomites who aligned themselves with the Babylonians and destroyed the First Temple. The tradition as well sees the Romans as descendants of Esau who destroyed the Second Temple and views Jacob’s only brother as the ancestor of our later enemies, even modern European antisemites. The midrash comments: “We went looking for a brother, but instead found Esau, armed and hostile in a very non-brotherly manner.” All our enemies begin with Esau.
There are days, most especially during these past weeks, when my dreams are haunted by this tradition. Must Esau forever be my enemy? Will this enmity continue to be my future? Is this the history that we are condemned to live? I am a descendant of Jacob. My enemies forever bear the imprint of Esau. Our brother exclaims, “Let but the mourning period of my father come, and I will kill my brother Jacob.” (Genesis 27:41)
The world, however, appears to reverse this narrative, casting Jews and Israelis as the oppressor Esau. Mahatma Gandhi, a hero to many young college students, once wrote that only the Arabs were the rightful inhabitants of Palestine. He viewed the Zionist settlers as colonialists. He advocated that Jewish settlers practice non-violence in order to win over the hearts of the Arabs. Ghandi also thought that the Jews of Germany should follow a similar practice in response to what was in 1938 the emerging Nazi onslaught.
His views were of course dangerously naive. Zionism is about the willingness, and historical necessity, but not I pray inevitably, of defending Jewish lives in the face of enemies bent our destruction. Ghandi refused to divide the world into friend and foe. Our lot, we have learned, is far different. I am Jacob. My brother remains Esau. Then again perhaps the world should not be divided into such polarities. Perhaps we require different categories, and no longer either Jacob or Esau. If I view everyone else as Esau, and my enemy, do I then participate in damning my people to this eternal cycle of violence, hatred and war?
The Jewish philosopher and founder of Hebrew University, Martin Buber, responded to Ghandi by saying that that no land belongs to any people. “The conquered land is, in my opinion, only lent even to the conqueror who has settled on it—and God waits to see what he will make of it.”
Buber, unlike the majority of Zionists, argued for a bi-national state, a state with a shared place for Jews and Palestinians. It is a vision of Zionism long since discredited by the overwhelming majority of Israelis. How could such a state then have a decidedly Jewish character? Still there must always be a place for Arabs within a Jewish and democratic state.
This Sunday, we will mark the day (November 29, 1947) on which the United Nations argued that there should indeed be a place for Palestinian national aspirations, not within the Jewish state, but instead alongside it. Decades of war, terrorism and bloodshed suggest this is impossible. These past weeks cause our hearts to understandably become hardened. As we read about more youth, about Ezra Schwartz and Hadar Buchris for example, the prophetic vision of the wolf and the lamb becomes even more distant and that of Jacob and Esau becomes increasingly more real. We become despondent. The philosopher Martin Buber refused to lose hope.
And so we continue to ask, “Even after the knife attacks, the deaths of young students and the public calls for our destruction, can we still find hope?”
“And Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33:4)
The Torah offers a measure of hope.
Vayetzei, Paris and Fears
Fear is insidious. It wears at our hearts. It gnaws at our loves. This is the goal of terrorists. Those who murder in their metastasized faith’s name seek to destroy our values and our enjoyments by these random acts of horrific violence. They attack the ordinary and everyday.
We mourn the brutal murders of over 129 souls in Paris, and 43 in Beirut, as well as the daily slaughter of innocents throughout the Middle East and Africa. We must not forget that what was perpetrated in Paris occurs on a daily basis in Syria. Over 100 people are killed every day in that country’s civil war, often in a similarly gruesome fashion. In Israel Palestinian terrorists continue to attack with knives. Today in Tel Aviv two Jews were murdered while praying and another three elsewhere in Israel.
We live in frightening times. Terror can be debilitating...
We mourn the brutal murders of over 129 souls in Paris, and 43 in Beirut, as well as the daily slaughter of innocents throughout the Middle East and Africa. We must not forget that what was perpetrated in Paris occurs on a daily basis in Syria. Over 100 people are killed every day in that country’s civil war, often in a similarly gruesome fashion. In Israel Palestinian terrorists continue to attack with knives. Today in Tel Aviv two Jews were murdered while praying and another three elsewhere in Israel.
We live in frightening times. Terror can be debilitating...
This post continues on The Times of Israel.
In addition I continue to remain steadfast in believing the words and prayers I offered at a recent 911 Memorial Ceremony.