A Giving Judge
Most people think that tzedakah should be translated as charity. It should not. Tzedakah comes from the Hebrew word for justice, tzedek. Charity comes from the Latin meaning precious. In Christian theology the term charity became synonymous with the Greek word agape, unconditional love. Thus a gift of charity is more about the giver’s heart than the recipient’s needs. This is not the Jewish notion of tzedakah.
Tzedakah is about the attempt to rebalance the scales of justice. How is this accomplished? By our giving. Tzedakah is also a commandment. Whether or not a person is inspired to give is secondary to the idea of mitzvah and needs of the recipient. I therefore prefer to translate tzedakah as righteous giving.
We are commanded to give because there are people in need. There are people who need food and clothes. There are people who need heat and shelter. How such people arrived at their desperate situation is immaterial to their present need. It is not for us to feel the spirit of giving, or for that matter whether or not the person’s need is worthy of our tzedakah gift. We are commanded to give.
There are therefore extensive laws about giving tzedakah to the poor. Even the person dependent on tzedakah is commanded to give. We are to give ten percent of our income to tzedakah. That is certainly a worthy goal to which we might aspire.
One would think that we are supposed to show deference to the poor. Their needs should supersede all else. They are hungry. They are cold. The Torah retorts: “You shall neither side with the mighty to do wrong…nor shall you show deference to the poor in his dispute.” (Exodus 23) Justice is the paramount concern.
The Talmud offers an illustration. A judge might be tempted to say, “The poor claimant standing in my court has no case, but he needs the money more than the rich defendant does. I should therefore rule in the poor person’s favor.” Judges are forbidden to rule in his favor. Instead they are instructed to rule on the merits of the case and if the law requires it, to rule against the poor and in favor of the rich. The rabbis feared that if judges allowed emotional reasons to sway their decisions people would lose faith in the entire judicial system. The integrity of the system is a judge’s most important responsibility.
But what about the poor person? He might go hungry. The rabbis offer this advice. If the law forces a judge to rule against him then the judge should give the poor person money out of his own pocket. The courts are about the laws that bind the community together. They are not about the needs of the solitary individual.
Still, judges must still not look away from the needs of the poor. If they become aware of this need then they must give. Judges are commanded to give tzedakah. They must be scrupulous with regard to the law but also menschen.
Compassion and justice must always be balanced. Judges must rule according to the strictures of the law. They must also give tzedakah because people in need must be cared for.
The scales are made even.
Everyone is commanded to give.
Justice is achieved.
Tzedakah is about the attempt to rebalance the scales of justice. How is this accomplished? By our giving. Tzedakah is also a commandment. Whether or not a person is inspired to give is secondary to the idea of mitzvah and needs of the recipient. I therefore prefer to translate tzedakah as righteous giving.
We are commanded to give because there are people in need. There are people who need food and clothes. There are people who need heat and shelter. How such people arrived at their desperate situation is immaterial to their present need. It is not for us to feel the spirit of giving, or for that matter whether or not the person’s need is worthy of our tzedakah gift. We are commanded to give.
There are therefore extensive laws about giving tzedakah to the poor. Even the person dependent on tzedakah is commanded to give. We are to give ten percent of our income to tzedakah. That is certainly a worthy goal to which we might aspire.
One would think that we are supposed to show deference to the poor. Their needs should supersede all else. They are hungry. They are cold. The Torah retorts: “You shall neither side with the mighty to do wrong…nor shall you show deference to the poor in his dispute.” (Exodus 23) Justice is the paramount concern.
The Talmud offers an illustration. A judge might be tempted to say, “The poor claimant standing in my court has no case, but he needs the money more than the rich defendant does. I should therefore rule in the poor person’s favor.” Judges are forbidden to rule in his favor. Instead they are instructed to rule on the merits of the case and if the law requires it, to rule against the poor and in favor of the rich. The rabbis feared that if judges allowed emotional reasons to sway their decisions people would lose faith in the entire judicial system. The integrity of the system is a judge’s most important responsibility.
But what about the poor person? He might go hungry. The rabbis offer this advice. If the law forces a judge to rule against him then the judge should give the poor person money out of his own pocket. The courts are about the laws that bind the community together. They are not about the needs of the solitary individual.
Still, judges must still not look away from the needs of the poor. If they become aware of this need then they must give. Judges are commanded to give tzedakah. They must be scrupulous with regard to the law but also menschen.
Compassion and justice must always be balanced. Judges must rule according to the strictures of the law. They must also give tzedakah because people in need must be cared for.
The scales are made even.
Everyone is commanded to give.
Justice is achieved.
The Diversity of American Food Shows What Makes Us Great
At its best Long Island is a stew of different people where former borders are irrelevant. It is the place built on a shared love of the American dream but flavored by former locales and imported traditions. At its worst these New York suburbs are a hodgepodge of ethnic cantons that rarely mix and where people view such intermingling as forbidden. Each town and village has a unique ethnic makeup that is then closely guarded and protected. One town is Italian. Another Jewish. Over there it is Latino. And that neighborhood, Asian.
I wonder. What is authentically American? What makes America great? What makes America America?
Most will watch this weekend’s Super Bowl. We are told it is the quintessential American event. Is the pizza that millions will eat during the game what defines us? At one time pizza was likewise deemed foreign. It of course originated in Italy (Naples to be exact) and could not be found in the United States until the early 1900’s. And yet now, over 100 years later, it is considered an American staple.
Who is authentic? Who is an American?
Recently I traveled thousands of miles within a few miles of my home....
I wonder. What is authentically American? What makes America great? What makes America America?
Most will watch this weekend’s Super Bowl. We are told it is the quintessential American event. Is the pizza that millions will eat during the game what defines us? At one time pizza was likewise deemed foreign. It of course originated in Italy (Naples to be exact) and could not be found in the United States until the early 1900’s. And yet now, over 100 years later, it is considered an American staple.
Who is authentic? Who is an American?
Recently I traveled thousands of miles within a few miles of my home....
The Super Bowl's Victory and Verses
I am sure many people have seen the meme floating around the Internet about the Philadelphia Eagles and New England Patriots. Outside of Philadelphia’s First United Methodist Church, the sign reads: “Bible Quiz. How many verses in the Bible are about ‘Eagles’ and ‘Patriots’? Eagles 33. Patriots 0.”
Nothing would make me happier than to see the Super Bowl’s score mirror these numbers. It is not that I am a devoted Eagles fan. It is instead that I always passionately root against the Patriots. I realize that many Giants fans dislike the Eagles even more than the Patriots. My disdain for the Patriots, however, is most profound. It does not even matter that Brady went to Michigan. How many more championships do they need to win before Brady and Belichick can retire? They have already proven their football acumen and machismo many times over.
And they will undoubtedly be inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. Even definitive proof that they have bent or broken rules will not block their admittance. So let me look away on that future day when they are inducted. This Sunday, during the Super Bowl, I will be cheering loudly for the underdogs. Even though football and the Super Bowl are not that important, they come as a welcome distraction from the world’s troubles and where I can comfortably hold on to insignificant grudges and outsized passions. Come Super Bowl Sunday, I will be hoping and praying that the Bible offers hints of victory for the Philadelphia Eagles.
That would of course be an absurd notion. Or would it? Some most certainly believe that the Bible predicts the future. Everything that happens is pointed to by our sacred text, people contend. This is the fascination with the so-called Bible Codes or with the evangelical love for the modern State of Israel.
The problem with this view is that the Bible does not speak with one voice. My teacher, Israel Knohl, calls the Bible a divine symphony. It is a potpourri of voices. Sometimes they appear in sync and other times not. Sometimes one voice rises above the others. Other times it is a discordant mess. And this is the central dilemma. To which voice do we pay attention? Which verse makes music in our ears betrays our theology.
An example. The Bible states that the land of Israel is given to the Jewish people alone. It also commands us to love the stranger. Whose voice do we bend our ears towards? The prophets admonish us to feed the hungry. They also prophesy that God’s wrath will be meted out upon Israel’s enemies. Is the stranger’s hunger a punishment or a command for me to open my hand?
The Bible is at times a cacophony of voices. I am certain of the music.
And yet I can rarely hear the violin over the cello or the clarinet over the tuba. I am convinced it is an extraordinary melody. I am sure the Bible is a beautiful symphony that I struggle still to understand. Through its voices I can make sense of my life, I can better understand the contours of my path, but I cannot know the future. All I can cherish is the symphony of voices struggling like me to grow closer to God.
Still come Sunday I am going to hold on to this week’s verse: “The Lord called to Moses from the mountain, saying, ‘You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me.’” (Exodus 19)
And come next year I will enter September with renewed hope. In the early fall there is always a glimmer of promise for New York Jets fans. It does not matter that Jets are nowhere mentioned in the Bible. Every season is a new beginning. Every year offers new hope.
Let’s cheer for the underdogs. Go Eagles!
Nothing would make me happier than to see the Super Bowl’s score mirror these numbers. It is not that I am a devoted Eagles fan. It is instead that I always passionately root against the Patriots. I realize that many Giants fans dislike the Eagles even more than the Patriots. My disdain for the Patriots, however, is most profound. It does not even matter that Brady went to Michigan. How many more championships do they need to win before Brady and Belichick can retire? They have already proven their football acumen and machismo many times over.
And they will undoubtedly be inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. Even definitive proof that they have bent or broken rules will not block their admittance. So let me look away on that future day when they are inducted. This Sunday, during the Super Bowl, I will be cheering loudly for the underdogs. Even though football and the Super Bowl are not that important, they come as a welcome distraction from the world’s troubles and where I can comfortably hold on to insignificant grudges and outsized passions. Come Super Bowl Sunday, I will be hoping and praying that the Bible offers hints of victory for the Philadelphia Eagles.
That would of course be an absurd notion. Or would it? Some most certainly believe that the Bible predicts the future. Everything that happens is pointed to by our sacred text, people contend. This is the fascination with the so-called Bible Codes or with the evangelical love for the modern State of Israel.
The problem with this view is that the Bible does not speak with one voice. My teacher, Israel Knohl, calls the Bible a divine symphony. It is a potpourri of voices. Sometimes they appear in sync and other times not. Sometimes one voice rises above the others. Other times it is a discordant mess. And this is the central dilemma. To which voice do we pay attention? Which verse makes music in our ears betrays our theology.
An example. The Bible states that the land of Israel is given to the Jewish people alone. It also commands us to love the stranger. Whose voice do we bend our ears towards? The prophets admonish us to feed the hungry. They also prophesy that God’s wrath will be meted out upon Israel’s enemies. Is the stranger’s hunger a punishment or a command for me to open my hand?
The Bible is at times a cacophony of voices. I am certain of the music.
And yet I can rarely hear the violin over the cello or the clarinet over the tuba. I am convinced it is an extraordinary melody. I am sure the Bible is a beautiful symphony that I struggle still to understand. Through its voices I can make sense of my life, I can better understand the contours of my path, but I cannot know the future. All I can cherish is the symphony of voices struggling like me to grow closer to God.
Still come Sunday I am going to hold on to this week’s verse: “The Lord called to Moses from the mountain, saying, ‘You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me.’” (Exodus 19)
And come next year I will enter September with renewed hope. In the early fall there is always a glimmer of promise for New York Jets fans. It does not matter that Jets are nowhere mentioned in the Bible. Every season is a new beginning. Every year offers new hope.
Let’s cheer for the underdogs. Go Eagles!
Memories of the Wild
Many years ago my family and I camped out in the Negev desert. We drove into Makhtesh Katan, a geological formation dwarfed by Makhtesh Gadol and Makhtesh Ramon. These unique formations are typically translated as a Little Crater, Big Crater and Ramon Crater. The term crater, however, is inaccurate because these were not formed by the explosive force of a meteorite but instead by the slow, painstaking power of water.
Rivulets of water, some as small as a creek and others as large as a river, eroded the rock. Over millennia these maktheshim were formed. When one enters and draws close to the canyon’s walls one is struck by the beautiful and colorful layers of rock. These formations can only be found in the Negev and Sinai deserts.
We slept on the desert floor, each in our own sleeping bags. We attempted to create makeshift pillows from the desert rocks. I heard verses in the night. “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head, and lay down in that place.” (Genesis 28)
The clear, night sky was awash with stars. “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down it.”
I awoke early and waited for the sun to peak out above the horizon and for its rays to gently find its way within the rock walls. I remained in my sleeping bag until the desert air began to warm. The desert is surprisingly cold in the evening. Until the sun begins to bake the earth one would think that it is cool, fall morning.
I smiled to myself when I looked at my family, huddled near each other, and arrayed as if they were colorful logs thrown on the desert floor. I lit the fire and began preparing our Turkish coffee. (Ok, to be honest, our guide actually did. But it sounds so much better to say I did it.) The sun was only beginning to peak over the canyon’s walls. Best to get dressed in the sleeping bag, I advised our children. The air is still chilly.
We ate our breakfast and packed up the jeep and set off toward our next destination. The guide spoke about Ein Avdat, an oasis, off in the distance.
After the Israelites hurriedly left Egypt they camped in 42 different places. This week we read, “They set out from Succoth, and encamped at Etham, at the edge of the wilderness.” (Exodus 13)
Scholars suggest that Succoth was probably the site of the ancient city of Tjeku, the capital of the eighth province of Lower Egypt in the eastern part of the Nile delta. This region served as farm land for the Israelites and was the Egyptian gateway to and from Asia. It is apparently one day’s journey from the royal palace in Raamses.
And where is Etham? No one knows.
Isn’t it curious that the first place where the Israelites camped outside of Egypt, the very first place where they camped as free people, we no longer know its exact location?
It was at the edge of the wilderness.
Sleeping within the makhtesh it appeared as if we were making camp at the edge of the universe. The stars served as our companions.
Could I ever find that camping spot in Makhtesh Katan, that figures so prominently in my memories, again? No. I am certain I could not.
But I can always find that story.
Sometimes the memory of a place is even better than the place.
Our story begins at the edge of the wilderness.
Rivulets of water, some as small as a creek and others as large as a river, eroded the rock. Over millennia these maktheshim were formed. When one enters and draws close to the canyon’s walls one is struck by the beautiful and colorful layers of rock. These formations can only be found in the Negev and Sinai deserts.
We slept on the desert floor, each in our own sleeping bags. We attempted to create makeshift pillows from the desert rocks. I heard verses in the night. “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head, and lay down in that place.” (Genesis 28)
The clear, night sky was awash with stars. “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down it.”
I awoke early and waited for the sun to peak out above the horizon and for its rays to gently find its way within the rock walls. I remained in my sleeping bag until the desert air began to warm. The desert is surprisingly cold in the evening. Until the sun begins to bake the earth one would think that it is cool, fall morning.
I smiled to myself when I looked at my family, huddled near each other, and arrayed as if they were colorful logs thrown on the desert floor. I lit the fire and began preparing our Turkish coffee. (Ok, to be honest, our guide actually did. But it sounds so much better to say I did it.) The sun was only beginning to peak over the canyon’s walls. Best to get dressed in the sleeping bag, I advised our children. The air is still chilly.
We ate our breakfast and packed up the jeep and set off toward our next destination. The guide spoke about Ein Avdat, an oasis, off in the distance.
After the Israelites hurriedly left Egypt they camped in 42 different places. This week we read, “They set out from Succoth, and encamped at Etham, at the edge of the wilderness.” (Exodus 13)
Scholars suggest that Succoth was probably the site of the ancient city of Tjeku, the capital of the eighth province of Lower Egypt in the eastern part of the Nile delta. This region served as farm land for the Israelites and was the Egyptian gateway to and from Asia. It is apparently one day’s journey from the royal palace in Raamses.
And where is Etham? No one knows.
Isn’t it curious that the first place where the Israelites camped outside of Egypt, the very first place where they camped as free people, we no longer know its exact location?
It was at the edge of the wilderness.
Sleeping within the makhtesh it appeared as if we were making camp at the edge of the universe. The stars served as our companions.
Could I ever find that camping spot in Makhtesh Katan, that figures so prominently in my memories, again? No. I am certain I could not.
But I can always find that story.
Sometimes the memory of a place is even better than the place.
Our story begins at the edge of the wilderness.
Writing on Sand and Stone
Make up your mind Pharaoh. First you don’t want to let the people go. Then you decide to let them go. And then you change your mind again, and won’t let them go. Finally, you let them go. This back and forth is punctuated by the verse, “For I have hardened Pharaoh’s heart.” (Exodus 10) The Hebrew would be better translated as “I made his heart heavy” or perhaps “I weighed his heart down.”
What is the meaning of this unusual phrase? What does it mean to harden our hearts?
The Hasidic master, Rebbe Eliezer Hagar of Vizhnitz offers the following commentary. This phrase, he writes, hints at a verse from the Book of Proverbs: “A stone is heavy and the sand weighty; but a fool’s wrath is heavier than both.” The rebbe continues. It is hard to write on a rock, but after something is engraved on it, the writing will last forever. In the case of sand, on the other hand, one finds it easy to write whatever he wishes, but the writing can be erased in an instant.
The difference between the two is clear. Writing on a stone is like someone who finds it difficult to understand something, but once he understands it does not forget it. Writing on sand, on the other hand, can be compared to person who finds it easy to understand something, but soon forgets it. Pharaoh had both disadvantages. He found it hard to understand, and he forgets easily. Immediately after he said, “Let the people go,” he changed his mind and did not allow Israel to leave.
Typical of the Hasidic masters this negative notion of hardening the heart is transformed into one that has positive potential not only for Pharaoh, but for each and every one of us. Had Pharaoh heeded Moses’ words he would have learned a hard and difficult lesson. Pharaoh would have learned something that could be written on stone and would have left an imprint for a lifetime.
He would have taken to heart the lesson that you must never harden your heart to others. You must never harden your heart to their suffering.
At times our hearts are open. Other times they are closed.
Sometimes our hearts are weighed down by sorrow. And other times by pain. Sometimes our hearts are hardened by stubbornness. Other times by ideology.
To what do we harden our hearts? What weighs our hearts down? What stands in the way of learning lessons that will last a lifetime?
What do we write on sand?
What do we engrave on stone?
What is the meaning of this unusual phrase? What does it mean to harden our hearts?
The Hasidic master, Rebbe Eliezer Hagar of Vizhnitz offers the following commentary. This phrase, he writes, hints at a verse from the Book of Proverbs: “A stone is heavy and the sand weighty; but a fool’s wrath is heavier than both.” The rebbe continues. It is hard to write on a rock, but after something is engraved on it, the writing will last forever. In the case of sand, on the other hand, one finds it easy to write whatever he wishes, but the writing can be erased in an instant.
The difference between the two is clear. Writing on a stone is like someone who finds it difficult to understand something, but once he understands it does not forget it. Writing on sand, on the other hand, can be compared to person who finds it easy to understand something, but soon forgets it. Pharaoh had both disadvantages. He found it hard to understand, and he forgets easily. Immediately after he said, “Let the people go,” he changed his mind and did not allow Israel to leave.
Typical of the Hasidic masters this negative notion of hardening the heart is transformed into one that has positive potential not only for Pharaoh, but for each and every one of us. Had Pharaoh heeded Moses’ words he would have learned a hard and difficult lesson. Pharaoh would have learned something that could be written on stone and would have left an imprint for a lifetime.
He would have taken to heart the lesson that you must never harden your heart to others. You must never harden your heart to their suffering.
At times our hearts are open. Other times they are closed.
Sometimes our hearts are weighed down by sorrow. And other times by pain. Sometimes our hearts are hardened by stubbornness. Other times by ideology.
To what do we harden our hearts? What weighs our hearts down? What stands in the way of learning lessons that will last a lifetime?
What do we write on sand?
What do we engrave on stone?
What Takes God So Long?
What takes God so long? After 400 years of slavery God responds to the Israelites’ suffering and says to Moses, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6) 400 years!
Why now? Why wait for the Israelites to suffer for so many years? Did the slavery become that much worse? Was God indifferent to their pain? Impossible! Still the question remains. Why did God wait so long?
Interestingly God’s response to the Israelites’ suffering mirrors Pharaoh’s daughter’s response to the infant Moses. In last week’s portion she hears the cries of Moses. “When she opened the basket, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying. She took pity on it and said, ‘This must be a Hebrew child.’” (Exodus 2) My newfound hero, the unnamed Pharaoh’s daughter, is the first to show compassion to the Israelites.
Perhaps this is what God was waiting for. God waits for us.
There are other traditions that suggest as well that God waits for human beings to act before responding. The most famous of these is the story of Nachshon who according to legend jumps into the Sea of Reeds thereby prompting God’s involvement and concern. When the waters reach his neck and he is about to drown God splits the sea.
Others suggest that the messiah sits at the gates of Rome bandaging the sores and wounds of lepers. The messiah waits by performing compassionate acts. There he waits for God to send him to redeem the world. These traditions suggest that God is not the first to act but instead waits for our compassion. God’s concern is not in response to suffering but instead in response to our compassion.
In our Torah portion God appears to respond to Pharaoh’s daughter. Not only does she not have a name but she is also not Jewish. Moreover she is the daughter of the story’s arch enemy. The Rabbis ask why she would go to the Nile to bathe herself. She could have sent her slaves. The Talmud suggests that she opposed her father’s policies from the start and went to the river to purify herself of her father’s sins.
It was there that her heart was stirred to rescue Moses thus leading to the redemption of an entire people. According to legend she also accompanied the Israelites when they left Egypt. In that moment Pharaoh’s daughter left the trappings of the palace and forever pledged herself to the fate of the Jewish people.
Is it possible that her heart awakened God’s concern?
I still recall the few days of volunteering following Hurricane Sandy. We ventured to the South Shore to help a family tear out their water soaked dry wall and wood flooring. There we met other volunteers. One volunteer left a deep impression. He was a young man from Wisconsin who gave up his weeklong vacation. He drove here following Hurricane Sandy to help out. He slept most nights in his car. Here was a Christian man from the Midwest helping out Jewish New Yorkers.
Compassion comes from unexpected places. It often does not even bear a name.
Nonetheless my hope and prayer remains the same. May our compassionate acts stir God’s concern. May they awaken God’s compassionate heart.
And even if God fails to respond, the wounds will be bandaged and the homes repaired. And healing will reach into at least one heart.
Why now? Why wait for the Israelites to suffer for so many years? Did the slavery become that much worse? Was God indifferent to their pain? Impossible! Still the question remains. Why did God wait so long?
Interestingly God’s response to the Israelites’ suffering mirrors Pharaoh’s daughter’s response to the infant Moses. In last week’s portion she hears the cries of Moses. “When she opened the basket, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying. She took pity on it and said, ‘This must be a Hebrew child.’” (Exodus 2) My newfound hero, the unnamed Pharaoh’s daughter, is the first to show compassion to the Israelites.
Perhaps this is what God was waiting for. God waits for us.
There are other traditions that suggest as well that God waits for human beings to act before responding. The most famous of these is the story of Nachshon who according to legend jumps into the Sea of Reeds thereby prompting God’s involvement and concern. When the waters reach his neck and he is about to drown God splits the sea.
Others suggest that the messiah sits at the gates of Rome bandaging the sores and wounds of lepers. The messiah waits by performing compassionate acts. There he waits for God to send him to redeem the world. These traditions suggest that God is not the first to act but instead waits for our compassion. God’s concern is not in response to suffering but instead in response to our compassion.
In our Torah portion God appears to respond to Pharaoh’s daughter. Not only does she not have a name but she is also not Jewish. Moreover she is the daughter of the story’s arch enemy. The Rabbis ask why she would go to the Nile to bathe herself. She could have sent her slaves. The Talmud suggests that she opposed her father’s policies from the start and went to the river to purify herself of her father’s sins.
It was there that her heart was stirred to rescue Moses thus leading to the redemption of an entire people. According to legend she also accompanied the Israelites when they left Egypt. In that moment Pharaoh’s daughter left the trappings of the palace and forever pledged herself to the fate of the Jewish people.
Is it possible that her heart awakened God’s concern?
I still recall the few days of volunteering following Hurricane Sandy. We ventured to the South Shore to help a family tear out their water soaked dry wall and wood flooring. There we met other volunteers. One volunteer left a deep impression. He was a young man from Wisconsin who gave up his weeklong vacation. He drove here following Hurricane Sandy to help out. He slept most nights in his car. Here was a Christian man from the Midwest helping out Jewish New Yorkers.
Compassion comes from unexpected places. It often does not even bear a name.
Nonetheless my hope and prayer remains the same. May our compassionate acts stir God’s concern. May they awaken God’s compassionate heart.
And even if God fails to respond, the wounds will be bandaged and the homes repaired. And healing will reach into at least one heart.
A Holocaust Hero's Newly Found Poem
Hannah Senesh is best known for her uncommon bravery. After moving to Israel in 1939, she volunteered to parachute into Nazi occupied territory in order to help rescue her fellow Hungarian Jews. She was quickly captured, mercilessly tortured and eventually killed.
Her poem, “A Walk to Caesarea” is familiar in Jewish circles. It is more commonly called, “My God, My God.” She writes:
Perhaps that is the power of a poem....
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
Her poem, “A Walk to Caesarea” is familiar in Jewish circles. It is more commonly called, “My God, My God.” She writes:
My God, my God,We often sing its melody as we stand on the beach and revel in the ocean’s waters. I recently heard its words as I looked out on the Mediterranean from Tel Aviv’s gentrified port. The poem’s meaning crystalized in my thoughts. Senesh clearly intended the poem to point toward the Zionist attachment to the land of Israel. It was this sand and this sea she was speaking about. And yet more and more people see its meaning to be about the beauty of nature in general.
May these things never come to an end:
The sand and the sea, the rush of the waters,
The crash of the heavens, the prayer of people.
This post continues on The Wisdom Daily.
What to be Named
Parents deliberate for months, and even years, the names they select for their children. For whom should they name their child? What if the baby is a girl? A boy? What should be the child’s Hebrew name? Do the origins of the name matter? What are the associations with the name?
Will the name influence their child’s future character?
The most significant book of the Torah begins in a similar fashion. “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; Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin; Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher…” (Exodus 1)
And yet the story of the most significant person in the Torah begins without naming a single person. Take note of how the Torah frames our hero Moses’ beginnings.
Imagine that! The daughter of the very man who sets in motion the need to hide Moses in a basket so that he will not be killed by Pharaoh’s henchman not only saves Moses but names him. (By the way Pharaoh is a title not a name. It is most akin to when we hear “The White House said…”)
The Book that begins with names and is in fact called in Hebrew “Shemot—Names” introduces its greatest hero with the words “A certain somebody from an important tribe married another certain somebody from the same community and then gave birth to a beautiful boy…” This is remarkable!
And so the question remains: why would the Torah that will later be called “The Five Books of Moses” introduce its hero in this way? Why would it want to make clear that his beginnings are not based on lineage?
It is because his story must instead be based on merit, on actions, and on his accomplishments. Moses’ name in fact suggests the first of many such actions. It comes from the Egyptian meaning “to draw out.” We have a hint of his most important accomplishment. He will become the man who draws the Israelites out of Egypt.
Our most important names are not those that are given to us by our parents. They are instead the names we earn.
Are we called compassionate? Are we named honored? Are we called generous? Are we named kind?
What is the name we strive to be called?
Will the name influence their child’s future character?
The most significant book of the Torah begins in a similar fashion. “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; Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin; Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher…” (Exodus 1)
And yet the story of the most significant person in the Torah begins without naming a single person. Take note of how the Torah frames our hero Moses’ beginnings.
A certain man of the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw how beautiful he was, she hid him for three months. When she could hide him no longer, she got a wicker basket for him and caulked it with bitumen and pitch. She put the child into it and placed it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile. And his sister stationed herself at a distance, to learn what would befall him. The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe in the Nile, while her maidens walked along the Nile. She spied the basket among the reeds and sent her slave girl to fetch it. When she opened it, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying. She took pity on it and said, “This must be a Hebrew child.” Then his sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Shall I go and get you a Hebrew nurse to suckle the child for you?” And Pharaoh’s daughter answered, “Yes.” So the girl went and called the child’s mother. And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will pay your wages.” So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, who made him her son.No one is named in this entire story until its conclusion, and until Moses is grown. The Torah records no names for our actors until this brave young woman gives it to our hero, and the Torah’s central character. Moses is named not by his mother or even his father. Instead he is named by Pharaoh’s daughter.
She named him Moses, explaining, “I drew him out of the water.” (Exodus 2)
Imagine that! The daughter of the very man who sets in motion the need to hide Moses in a basket so that he will not be killed by Pharaoh’s henchman not only saves Moses but names him. (By the way Pharaoh is a title not a name. It is most akin to when we hear “The White House said…”)
The Book that begins with names and is in fact called in Hebrew “Shemot—Names” introduces its greatest hero with the words “A certain somebody from an important tribe married another certain somebody from the same community and then gave birth to a beautiful boy…” This is remarkable!
And so the question remains: why would the Torah that will later be called “The Five Books of Moses” introduce its hero in this way? Why would it want to make clear that his beginnings are not based on lineage?
It is because his story must instead be based on merit, on actions, and on his accomplishments. Moses’ name in fact suggests the first of many such actions. It comes from the Egyptian meaning “to draw out.” We have a hint of his most important accomplishment. He will become the man who draws the Israelites out of Egypt.
Our most important names are not those that are given to us by our parents. They are instead the names we earn.
Are we called compassionate? Are we named honored? Are we called generous? Are we named kind?
What is the name we strive to be called?
Weddings and Destiny
Every wedding at which I officiate there is always a hint of beshert. Even in this age of JSwipe I hear fate’s echoes. “I did not think anything would come of it, but he would not stop texting me, so I figured I would meet him for drinks and that would be it. And then on that first date we could not stop talking.” He adds, “She is so intelligent and beautiful. We soon realized that we share the same values.”
How can one not believe in divine providence when looking at a young couple standing beneath the huppah? The Baal Shem Tov teaches, “From every human being there rises a light that reaches straight to heaven. And when two souls that are destined to be together find each other, their streams of light flow together, and a single brighter light goes forth from their united being.” Their smiles illuminate. That single light shines.
This love must be more than mere happenstance. It is evidence of God’s hand.
And yet I often teach that we do not believe in destiny. The High Holidays would be meaningless if we did not believe that people could rewrite their future. Over and over again we profess our belief in the promise of repentance. Everyone can make amends and change. No one’s fate is sealed. The huppah suggests otherwise.
The Torah concurs. Before Jacob dies he gathers his children around him to offer blessings. “And Jacob called his sons and said, ‘Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come…’” (Genesis 49) Simeon and Levi, who kill the inhabitants of Shechem, are forever tainted. Jacob states, “Cursed be their anger so fierce, and their wrath so relentless. I will divide them in Jacob, scatter them in Israel.” Their past actions seal their destiny. Their future is written.
Fate is again illuminated. And our theology shadowed.
I recall the huppah.
Yehudah Amichai comments:
Perhaps things can never be as precise as theology and philosophy suggest. We carry that moment when the stars appear to align, forever.
How can one not believe in divine providence when looking at a young couple standing beneath the huppah? The Baal Shem Tov teaches, “From every human being there rises a light that reaches straight to heaven. And when two souls that are destined to be together find each other, their streams of light flow together, and a single brighter light goes forth from their united being.” Their smiles illuminate. That single light shines.
This love must be more than mere happenstance. It is evidence of God’s hand.
And yet I often teach that we do not believe in destiny. The High Holidays would be meaningless if we did not believe that people could rewrite their future. Over and over again we profess our belief in the promise of repentance. Everyone can make amends and change. No one’s fate is sealed. The huppah suggests otherwise.
The Torah concurs. Before Jacob dies he gathers his children around him to offer blessings. “And Jacob called his sons and said, ‘Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come…’” (Genesis 49) Simeon and Levi, who kill the inhabitants of Shechem, are forever tainted. Jacob states, “Cursed be their anger so fierce, and their wrath so relentless. I will divide them in Jacob, scatter them in Israel.” Their past actions seal their destiny. Their future is written.
Fate is again illuminated. And our theology shadowed.
I recall the huppah.
Yehudah Amichai comments:
Joy blurs everything. I've heard people sayI look to the couple, standing beneath the huppah. God’s hand materializes.
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.
Perhaps things can never be as precise as theology and philosophy suggest. We carry that moment when the stars appear to align, forever.
Why Religion Stays Relevant
Google Maps and Waze have transformed the way we drive. No longer do we have to listen to 1010 on the ones. No longer do we have to check News12 before leaving the house. Now our iPhones make instantaneous calculations and then reroute us around traffic.
Of course, you have to trust the phone. You have to have faith in its algorithms. You have to let go of all that accumulated wisdom gained from years of driving around the New York area.
Our children find this letting go easy and natural. They are digital natives. We find this far more difficult. We still remember the days of folded maps and AAA Triptiks. A student recently remarked about his parents and my contemporaries. He constantly admonishes his father with the words, “Dad, if you are going to use Waze you have to listen to it.” And so we listen begrudgingly, although there are times that we still think we know better.
Our parents’ generation finds this letting go even more troublesome. They refuse to give a measure of authority to a tiny cellphone. Reason does not work. I gently prod....
Of course, you have to trust the phone. You have to have faith in its algorithms. You have to let go of all that accumulated wisdom gained from years of driving around the New York area.
Our children find this letting go easy and natural. They are digital natives. We find this far more difficult. We still remember the days of folded maps and AAA Triptiks. A student recently remarked about his parents and my contemporaries. He constantly admonishes his father with the words, “Dad, if you are going to use Waze you have to listen to it.” And so we listen begrudgingly, although there are times that we still think we know better.
Our parents’ generation finds this letting go even more troublesome. They refuse to give a measure of authority to a tiny cellphone. Reason does not work. I gently prod....
War, Peace and Prayer
Years have passed since Joseph’s brothers conspired against him and sold him into slavery in Egypt. And now, following an uneven path to power, Joseph has become Egypt’s vice president. Because of his ability to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams, he has effectively prepared the country for the famine. Meanwhile back in the land of Israel Joseph’s family is ill-prepared. They are forced to make several journeys to Egypt in order to procure food.
Joseph seizes upon this opportunity. Because his brothers do not recognize him, but he of course recognizes them, he develops an elaborate plan to see if they have changed. He entraps the youngest of the brothers, Benjamin, hiding a goblet in his bag of food, and threatens to throw him into jail. Judah, an elder brother, pleads in behalf of Benjamin. He suggests that Joseph arrest him instead.
At this moment, Joseph is overcome with emotion and reveals himself to his brothers. They are dumbstruck. He forgives them. They have indeed changed. They stand in the exact same situation and yet this time choose differently. They are once again given the opportunity to get rid of their father Jacob’s favorite child and yet this time choose instead to defend him. They exhibit complete repentance.
This week’s portion opens with the words: “Then Judah drew near (vayigash) to him and said, ‘Please, my lord, let your servant appeal to my lord.’” (Genesis 44) This drawing near offers an insight into how we are to go about fixing relationships and repairing the world. The rabbis comment (Midrash Rabbah):
Said Rabbi Yehudah: The verb “he drew near” (vayigash) implies an approach to battle, as in the verse “So Yoav and the people that were with him drew near to do battle” (II Samuel 10).
Rabbi Nechemiah said: The verb “he drew near" implies a coming near for reconciliation, as in the verse “Then the children of Judah drew near to Joshua” (Joshua 14).
The sages said: It implies coming near for prayer, as in the verse “When it was time to present the meal offering, the prophet Elijah drew near and said, ‘O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel!’” (I Kings 18).
Rabbi Eleazar combined all these views. Judah approached Joseph with all three in mind, saying: If it be for war, I approach to make war; if it be for reconciliation, I approach to make amends; if it be for prayer, I approach to pray.
The fascinating insight about this ancient commentary is the notion of how thin the line between war, reconciliation and prayer. In drawing near to another it could be for a fight. Or it could be to make peace. Or it could be to offer a prayer.
In an age when apologies are too often offered by text message, when bellicosity rockets across social media, and when prayers are circulated through email, we would do well to remember that the critical, and most important, point is the act of drawing near.
Little can be accomplished when distance separates people. The relationship cannot be transformed if people refuse to look each other in the eyes. They must stand face to face. They must draw near.
And in that moment of drawing near, a relationship can be repaired and the world transformed. When we approach another we may fear war, but it can turn to peace. We may expect reconciliation but it can inadvertently turn into an argument, disagreement and even belligerence. A moment when we are ready for a fight, when we are prepared for reconciliation can likewise be transformed into prayer.
We must be prepared for prayer, reconciliation and argument, all, at the same time.
We must always draw near. Vayigash! Draw near.
Joseph seizes upon this opportunity. Because his brothers do not recognize him, but he of course recognizes them, he develops an elaborate plan to see if they have changed. He entraps the youngest of the brothers, Benjamin, hiding a goblet in his bag of food, and threatens to throw him into jail. Judah, an elder brother, pleads in behalf of Benjamin. He suggests that Joseph arrest him instead.
At this moment, Joseph is overcome with emotion and reveals himself to his brothers. They are dumbstruck. He forgives them. They have indeed changed. They stand in the exact same situation and yet this time choose differently. They are once again given the opportunity to get rid of their father Jacob’s favorite child and yet this time choose instead to defend him. They exhibit complete repentance.
This week’s portion opens with the words: “Then Judah drew near (vayigash) to him and said, ‘Please, my lord, let your servant appeal to my lord.’” (Genesis 44) This drawing near offers an insight into how we are to go about fixing relationships and repairing the world. The rabbis comment (Midrash Rabbah):
Said Rabbi Yehudah: The verb “he drew near” (vayigash) implies an approach to battle, as in the verse “So Yoav and the people that were with him drew near to do battle” (II Samuel 10).
Rabbi Nechemiah said: The verb “he drew near" implies a coming near for reconciliation, as in the verse “Then the children of Judah drew near to Joshua” (Joshua 14).
The sages said: It implies coming near for prayer, as in the verse “When it was time to present the meal offering, the prophet Elijah drew near and said, ‘O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel!’” (I Kings 18).
Rabbi Eleazar combined all these views. Judah approached Joseph with all three in mind, saying: If it be for war, I approach to make war; if it be for reconciliation, I approach to make amends; if it be for prayer, I approach to pray.
The fascinating insight about this ancient commentary is the notion of how thin the line between war, reconciliation and prayer. In drawing near to another it could be for a fight. Or it could be to make peace. Or it could be to offer a prayer.
In an age when apologies are too often offered by text message, when bellicosity rockets across social media, and when prayers are circulated through email, we would do well to remember that the critical, and most important, point is the act of drawing near.
Little can be accomplished when distance separates people. The relationship cannot be transformed if people refuse to look each other in the eyes. They must stand face to face. They must draw near.
And in that moment of drawing near, a relationship can be repaired and the world transformed. When we approach another we may fear war, but it can turn to peace. We may expect reconciliation but it can inadvertently turn into an argument, disagreement and even belligerence. A moment when we are ready for a fight, when we are prepared for reconciliation can likewise be transformed into prayer.
We must be prepared for prayer, reconciliation and argument, all, at the same time.
We must always draw near. Vayigash! Draw near.
Hanukkah and Alternative Facts
There is the Hanukkah we prefer to tell and then there is the Hanukkah of history.
We prefer to tell the story of the miracle of oil. Here is that telling. When the Maccabees recaptured the Temple from the Syrian-Greeks they found only enough oil to last for one day of the planned eight-day rededication ceremony. Nonetheless they lit the oil. Miraculously the oil lasted for all eight days.
We prefer as well to speak about the victory of a small group of rebels against the mighty army of their day. One brave man, Mattathias, led the charge against the Syrian-Greek army. Outnumbered, and outgunned, Mattathias and his five sons led the rebel army. They fought valiantly, using cunning tactics, and eventually achieved victory. After seven long years they recaptured the holy city of Jerusalem.
Their cause was just and their enemies evil. A great miracle happened there.
In fact the real Hanukkah is one of pain and discord. It was a civil war. The Maccabees fought against other Jews who were enamored of Greek culture. They killed their fellow Jews. Once they gained power they soon became corrupt rulers and persecuted those who disagreed with their fervor. They even forcibly circumcised those Jews who chose not to observe this ritual.
The preferred story covers over this painful history. We prefer to forget such dissension and division. And yet the facts offer an important lesson for this year. They stand as a warning against zealotry and fanaticism. History stands as a testimony against those who believe that God is on their side and their side alone.
Again and again, we must figure out how to engage in civil discourse without destroying the communities and countries we call home. Recently I was privileged to hear Charlie Baker, the Republican Governor of Massachusetts. He spoke about what it was like growing up with a mother who was a life-long Democrat and a father, a Republican. He joked that they cancelled each other out in every election.
And yet it was because of this seeming division that he developed his passion for political service. It was around the family dinner table, where ideas were debated and positions were refined. The family argued with zeal. They debated with each other as if the country’s very survival depended on it. And yet they never stopped being a family. When he ran for governor he asked his mom if she would now vote for a Republican. “You know, son, it is a secret ballot,” was her response.
This balance is exactly what we require. We need to rediscover that table where debate is encouraged, and where everyone is still family. This is the rabbis’ dream. They found a way to live as a community while embracing competing ideas. They rejected the Maccabees path.
The Maccabees ruled for 100 years. And then 230 years after the Maccabees wrested control from the Syrian-Greeks, the Romans advanced on Masada to discover that the zealots committed mass suicide rather than be taken prisoner. A short distance away Jerusalem and its Temple lay in ruins.
Ultimately zealotry consumes itself. Sadly it also consumes those around it.
We did not again achieve sovereignty in the land of Israel until our own age. We did not fashion these United States until rather recently in human history. Democracy is a fragile enterprise.
We have waited too long to allow zealotry to consume us once again.
We prefer to tell the story of the miracle of oil. Here is that telling. When the Maccabees recaptured the Temple from the Syrian-Greeks they found only enough oil to last for one day of the planned eight-day rededication ceremony. Nonetheless they lit the oil. Miraculously the oil lasted for all eight days.
We prefer as well to speak about the victory of a small group of rebels against the mighty army of their day. One brave man, Mattathias, led the charge against the Syrian-Greek army. Outnumbered, and outgunned, Mattathias and his five sons led the rebel army. They fought valiantly, using cunning tactics, and eventually achieved victory. After seven long years they recaptured the holy city of Jerusalem.
Their cause was just and their enemies evil. A great miracle happened there.
In fact the real Hanukkah is one of pain and discord. It was a civil war. The Maccabees fought against other Jews who were enamored of Greek culture. They killed their fellow Jews. Once they gained power they soon became corrupt rulers and persecuted those who disagreed with their fervor. They even forcibly circumcised those Jews who chose not to observe this ritual.
The preferred story covers over this painful history. We prefer to forget such dissension and division. And yet the facts offer an important lesson for this year. They stand as a warning against zealotry and fanaticism. History stands as a testimony against those who believe that God is on their side and their side alone.
Again and again, we must figure out how to engage in civil discourse without destroying the communities and countries we call home. Recently I was privileged to hear Charlie Baker, the Republican Governor of Massachusetts. He spoke about what it was like growing up with a mother who was a life-long Democrat and a father, a Republican. He joked that they cancelled each other out in every election.
And yet it was because of this seeming division that he developed his passion for political service. It was around the family dinner table, where ideas were debated and positions were refined. The family argued with zeal. They debated with each other as if the country’s very survival depended on it. And yet they never stopped being a family. When he ran for governor he asked his mom if she would now vote for a Republican. “You know, son, it is a secret ballot,” was her response.
This balance is exactly what we require. We need to rediscover that table where debate is encouraged, and where everyone is still family. This is the rabbis’ dream. They found a way to live as a community while embracing competing ideas. They rejected the Maccabees path.
The Maccabees ruled for 100 years. And then 230 years after the Maccabees wrested control from the Syrian-Greeks, the Romans advanced on Masada to discover that the zealots committed mass suicide rather than be taken prisoner. A short distance away Jerusalem and its Temple lay in ruins.
Ultimately zealotry consumes itself. Sadly it also consumes those around it.
We did not again achieve sovereignty in the land of Israel until our own age. We did not fashion these United States until rather recently in human history. Democracy is a fragile enterprise.
We have waited too long to allow zealotry to consume us once again.
Joseph, Family and Jerusalem
Jerusalem is the capital of the State of Israel regardless of what the world thinks or does.
I worry, however, that President Trump’s announcement, which appears motivated more by his desire to fulfill a campaign promise rather than a grand vision for Middle East peace, will not lead to peace. I worry that Prime Minister Netanyahu’s exclusive focus on Israel’s external threats, namely Iran and Islamist terrorism, and not on the continuing erosion of Israel’s democracy, will undermine Israel’s survival. Zionism is about securing a Jewish future that is built on both Jewish and democratic values. It is about writing our own history. It is about taking swift and bold action to defend Jewish lives, like attacking an Iranian base in Syria, as Israel recently did, and what I wish Israeli leaders also did, not expanding settlements in areas, such as Arab East Jerusalem, that the majority of Israelis imagine will one day be home to a Palestinian state.
I continue to hold on to the Psalmist’s words, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem; may those who love you be at peace. May there be peace within your ramparts, peace in your citadels. For the sake of my kin and friends, I pray for your peace; for the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I seek your good.” (Psalm 122)
And now for some brief words of Torah.
This week we begin the tragic story of Joseph and his brothers. Their father Jacob is not the best of fathers, at least according to all of my b’nai mitzvah students who are appalled by his behavior and the fact that he so blatantly favors one son over all the others. Joseph is also not the best of brothers. He flaunts his father’s gifts before them. He tells his brothers of his many dreams in which he imagines he will one day rule over them.
They understandably become incensed. Some want to kill him. (Also not the best demonstration of brotherly love, or of basic human behavior.) They decide instead to sell him into slavery. They cover his multi-colored tunic with animal blood and tell their father that a wild beast killed him.
There are so many things that went wrong. There are so many corrections, and detours, that could have avoided this tragic outcome. Small acts of favoritism, feelings of ill will, mushroom out of control. The family is divided. And the young Joseph finds himself alone in a foreign land.
Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz, a leading rabbi in eighteenth century Prague writes: “Had Joseph and his brothers sat down together, they would have spoken to one another and could have told one another what bothered them. Then they would have ironed out their differences. The trouble in every argument is that there is no common language and no one listening.”
Kind of makes one think about how every argument, and how every disagreement, too easily becomes a crisis. People no longer speak to each other. They console themselves with their resentments. They wallow in their righteousness.
Kind of makes one think of Jerusalem.
Torah is never a diversion from the contemporary. It always speaks to now.
I worry, however, that President Trump’s announcement, which appears motivated more by his desire to fulfill a campaign promise rather than a grand vision for Middle East peace, will not lead to peace. I worry that Prime Minister Netanyahu’s exclusive focus on Israel’s external threats, namely Iran and Islamist terrorism, and not on the continuing erosion of Israel’s democracy, will undermine Israel’s survival. Zionism is about securing a Jewish future that is built on both Jewish and democratic values. It is about writing our own history. It is about taking swift and bold action to defend Jewish lives, like attacking an Iranian base in Syria, as Israel recently did, and what I wish Israeli leaders also did, not expanding settlements in areas, such as Arab East Jerusalem, that the majority of Israelis imagine will one day be home to a Palestinian state.
I continue to hold on to the Psalmist’s words, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem; may those who love you be at peace. May there be peace within your ramparts, peace in your citadels. For the sake of my kin and friends, I pray for your peace; for the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I seek your good.” (Psalm 122)
And now for some brief words of Torah.
This week we begin the tragic story of Joseph and his brothers. Their father Jacob is not the best of fathers, at least according to all of my b’nai mitzvah students who are appalled by his behavior and the fact that he so blatantly favors one son over all the others. Joseph is also not the best of brothers. He flaunts his father’s gifts before them. He tells his brothers of his many dreams in which he imagines he will one day rule over them.
They understandably become incensed. Some want to kill him. (Also not the best demonstration of brotherly love, or of basic human behavior.) They decide instead to sell him into slavery. They cover his multi-colored tunic with animal blood and tell their father that a wild beast killed him.
There are so many things that went wrong. There are so many corrections, and detours, that could have avoided this tragic outcome. Small acts of favoritism, feelings of ill will, mushroom out of control. The family is divided. And the young Joseph finds himself alone in a foreign land.
Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz, a leading rabbi in eighteenth century Prague writes: “Had Joseph and his brothers sat down together, they would have spoken to one another and could have told one another what bothered them. Then they would have ironed out their differences. The trouble in every argument is that there is no common language and no one listening.”
Kind of makes one think about how every argument, and how every disagreement, too easily becomes a crisis. People no longer speak to each other. They console themselves with their resentments. They wallow in their righteousness.
Kind of makes one think of Jerusalem.
Torah is never a diversion from the contemporary. It always speaks to now.
Prayers Work If You Believe
Recently I was listening to Pastor Rudy’s Love Revolution on SiriusXM’s gospel station. (I recognize this is not how one might expect a rabbi to begin an article, but to be honest that’s the station I more often listen to.) Hezekiah Walker sang, “Every praise is to our God, every word of worship with one accord…” In between listening to some of my favorite gospel singers, Pastor Rudy opined, “Prayer does work. God does listen.”
The music left me. The songs faded. My thoughts wandered. “Really? How can he be so sure? How does he know prayer works? How can he be so confident God is listening?” There are so many things demanding God’s attention and care. There is an entire world in need of healing and filled with brokenness. God is going to listen to my small prayers, which must appear so self-absorbed in comparison to the world’s grand problems?
A crisis emerged. How can I lead prayer if I doubt prayer, if even for a moment?
I recalled an experience from some years ago....
The music left me. The songs faded. My thoughts wandered. “Really? How can he be so sure? How does he know prayer works? How can he be so confident God is listening?” There are so many things demanding God’s attention and care. There is an entire world in need of healing and filled with brokenness. God is going to listen to my small prayers, which must appear so self-absorbed in comparison to the world’s grand problems?
A crisis emerged. How can I lead prayer if I doubt prayer, if even for a moment?
I recalled an experience from some years ago....
Cycling and Jerusalem Dreams
The Giro d’Italia is the 21-day professional cycling Italian grand tour held every year in May. This year the first three days are being held in Israel. Day one is an individual time trial in Jerusalem. Day two travels from Haifa to Tel Aviv. And day three from Beersheva to Eilat. I wish to speak about this event is not only so I get to talk about cycling but because the controversies I feared might happen are beginning to come to fruition. One was expected. And the other, unexpected.
The first comes from expected corners. Palestinian activists accuse race organizers of being complicit in Israel’s occupation. They are critical of the decision to start the race in Jerusalem, a city that they feel is still contested and that they wish to have serve as the capital of a hoped for Palestinian state.
The second controversy comes from an unexpected place, Israeli officials....
The first comes from expected corners. Palestinian activists accuse race organizers of being complicit in Israel’s occupation. They are critical of the decision to start the race in Jerusalem, a city that they feel is still contested and that they wish to have serve as the capital of a hoped for Palestinian state.
The second controversy comes from an unexpected place, Israeli officials....
A Sufi Torah
I have spent the past week reading about the Sufi mystics.
I have always held a special place in my heart for fellow seekers. I have always searched throughout the world’s religious traditions for those, and their teachings, who wish to grow closer to God. That pursuit continues to occupy my thoughts and studies. I reject those who claim that such teachings are only found in their own tradition, and who shut their ears to truths emanating from voices outside their own, or who persecute and murder those whose claims are different than their own.
My heart is broken that, once again, people have been murdered while bent in prayer. This time it was some three hundred worshippers murdered, and over 100 hundred injured, in a Sufi mosque in the Sinai. ISIS claimed responsibility. My heart breaks that these worshippers were murdered in the name of faith, albeit a distorted faith.
The Sinai too holds a special place in my heart. There, I wandered throughout its wilderness, accompanied only by a few friends and Bedouin guides. There I could imagine how our faith was born. It is a stark wilderness. Our guides favored paths traversing the dry riverbeds, wadis, which offered the occasional shade and the lone tree under which we could rest. My frequent thirst and hunger made me more sympathetic to my ancestors’ gripes detailed in our Torah.
In my week’s reading I discovered that the celebrated Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides’ grandson, Obadiah, found his way to Sufi Islam. Obadiah’s father Abraham was the leader of Egypt’s Jews and greatly admired these mystics, believing that one could trace a direct line between Israel’s ancient prophets and his contemporary Sufis. But it was Obadiah who immersed himself most deeply, writing a treatise that sought to incorporate Sufi spiritual practices into Jewish observance. Kabbalah and Hasidism were no doubt influenced by these sacred borrowings.
A forgotten piece of history that too often gets lost in favor of a more linear view of the Jewish story. “Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai. He transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly…” (Avot 1) History instead moves in a meandering path.
I rediscovered the Sufi poet, Hafiz. A number of his books line my shelves. Living in fourteenth century Iran, Hafiz became the most well-known, and well read, of Sufi masters. He remains the most popular poet in modern day Iran. He writes:
I continue the wrestling match.
My continued act of defiance in the face of ongoing terror attacks is to renew my commitment to learn from others and to strengthen my faith not only by immersing myself in the words of my own tradition but in the teachings of others as well.
There is no such thing as a purity of faith.
There is only all of us. And if not, there is none of us.
I have always held a special place in my heart for fellow seekers. I have always searched throughout the world’s religious traditions for those, and their teachings, who wish to grow closer to God. That pursuit continues to occupy my thoughts and studies. I reject those who claim that such teachings are only found in their own tradition, and who shut their ears to truths emanating from voices outside their own, or who persecute and murder those whose claims are different than their own.
My heart is broken that, once again, people have been murdered while bent in prayer. This time it was some three hundred worshippers murdered, and over 100 hundred injured, in a Sufi mosque in the Sinai. ISIS claimed responsibility. My heart breaks that these worshippers were murdered in the name of faith, albeit a distorted faith.
The Sinai too holds a special place in my heart. There, I wandered throughout its wilderness, accompanied only by a few friends and Bedouin guides. There I could imagine how our faith was born. It is a stark wilderness. Our guides favored paths traversing the dry riverbeds, wadis, which offered the occasional shade and the lone tree under which we could rest. My frequent thirst and hunger made me more sympathetic to my ancestors’ gripes detailed in our Torah.
In my week’s reading I discovered that the celebrated Jewish thinker Moses Maimonides’ grandson, Obadiah, found his way to Sufi Islam. Obadiah’s father Abraham was the leader of Egypt’s Jews and greatly admired these mystics, believing that one could trace a direct line between Israel’s ancient prophets and his contemporary Sufis. But it was Obadiah who immersed himself most deeply, writing a treatise that sought to incorporate Sufi spiritual practices into Jewish observance. Kabbalah and Hasidism were no doubt influenced by these sacred borrowings.
A forgotten piece of history that too often gets lost in favor of a more linear view of the Jewish story. “Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai. He transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly…” (Avot 1) History instead moves in a meandering path.
I rediscovered the Sufi poet, Hafiz. A number of his books line my shelves. Living in fourteenth century Iran, Hafiz became the most well-known, and well read, of Sufi masters. He remains the most popular poet in modern day Iran. He writes:
I return to the Torah. I am reminded that we become Israel when we struggle with God. That is the essence of our name. “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with God, and with people, and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32) Thus the name Israel means to wrestle with God.You should have been invited to meetThe Friend.No one can resist a Divine Invitation.That narrows down all our choicesTo just two:We can come to GodDressed for Dancing,OrBe carried on a stretcherTo God’s Ward.
I continue the wrestling match.
My continued act of defiance in the face of ongoing terror attacks is to renew my commitment to learn from others and to strengthen my faith not only by immersing myself in the words of my own tradition but in the teachings of others as well.
The Torah was born in a stark, and beautiful, and most certainly parched, wilderness. It is my poem. It is not, however, the only poem.Again the words of my teacher, Hafiz:A poet is someoneWho can pour Light into a spoon,Then raise itTo nourishYour beautiful parched, holy mouth.
There is no such thing as a purity of faith.
There is only all of us. And if not, there is none of us.
The Detrimental Impact that Technology Has
A recurring enemy in the Star Trek series, of which I am a fan, is the Borg. They are cybernetic organisms that are linked together. They travel through space, and time, assimilating other species into their collective. They intone the words, “You will be assimilated; resistance is futile.” There is no individual autonomy, only the collective mind.
I think of them as I see how interconnected our lives have become.
Often my young students resist sharing their opinions with me. I push and prod. I explain to them that the meaning of being Jewish is to wrestle with the stories, and laws, found in the weekly readings. They do not get to pick their favorite chapter or verse. Instead it is assigned to them based on what weekend they will become a bar or bat mitzvah. Their task is to figure out what message it has for them. What is the meaning it might offer for their lives?
I realize that this is a weighty task. I recognize that their schooling trains them to memorize facts and figures....
I think of them as I see how interconnected our lives have become.
Often my young students resist sharing their opinions with me. I push and prod. I explain to them that the meaning of being Jewish is to wrestle with the stories, and laws, found in the weekly readings. They do not get to pick their favorite chapter or verse. Instead it is assigned to them based on what weekend they will become a bar or bat mitzvah. Their task is to figure out what message it has for them. What is the meaning it might offer for their lives?
I realize that this is a weighty task. I recognize that their schooling trains them to memorize facts and figures....
We Only Have Each Other
Isaac and Rebekah are the parents of twin boys: Jacob and Esau. The Jewish people trace their lineage through Jacob. His name is later changed to Israel and so we become, quite literally, the children of Israel.
The rabbis see glimmers of their lifestyle in Jacob’s character. “Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” (Genesis 25) Esau becomes synonymous with their enemies. He becomes the Roman conqueror. “Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors.” Two boys: one our hero, the other our enemy. Destiny is sealed from the moment Rebekah conceived. “The children struggled in her womb.”
The rabbis expound. When Rebekah walked by a house of study, Jacob would stir within her. And when she walked by a place where people practiced idolatry, Esau would grow excited. A fanciful story to be sure, and yet this interpretation has colored our worldview. We look back at Jacob as a harbinger of all that is good in Jewish life, of all that we hold dear. He represents the Jewish ideal. We see Esau as a representation of all that is evil. He becomes the paradigmatic outsider.
Perhaps instead the import of this story is that they are brothers. And yet they struggle so mightily even before the day they were born. Let’s be honest. We are still struggling with each other. It is not as if Jews get along with other Jews. Only this morning ultra-Orthodox Jews and Israeli security accosted Reform Jews at the Western Wall. My friends and colleagues sought to bring a Torah scroll into the Kotel plaza in order to celebrate the ordination of the 100th Israeli Reform rabbi.
Standing there, at this holiest of Jewish sites, I have been called a Nazi. I have heard young girls called whores.
As I read about this morning’s event, I found myself growing defiant and saying, “We are the true Jews. We are Jacob; they are Esau.” And then I realized they are saying the exact same words in their synagogues. Their rabbis are writing words parallel to my own. They are calling Reform Jews Esau.
We are left screaming at each other. We say, “You are Esau. I am Jacob.” We label the Jewish organizations whose ideology we do not share as treason. We shout, “I am kosher. You are treif.” I have heard, “JStreet is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” We call one another a danger to the Jewish people. I have read, “The ZOA gives succor to antisemites.”
I find comfort in the Torah. The truth of our story is that the children struggled. And Rebekah cries, “If so why do I exist?” She then inquires of the Lord.
Who is Jacob?
Who is Esau?
We too must inquire.
When will we realize we are Jacob and we are also Esau?
When will we realize we are brothers?
Later, after years of struggle, Jacob and Esau come to the realization that their brotherhood supersedes their bitterness. They recognize that their kinship must overwhelm even their sense of right and wrong.
“Esau embraced Jacob and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)
When will their realization become our own?
We only have each other.
Together we must embrace our common heritage. Together we must hold our Torah.
The rabbis see glimmers of their lifestyle in Jacob’s character. “Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” (Genesis 25) Esau becomes synonymous with their enemies. He becomes the Roman conqueror. “Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors.” Two boys: one our hero, the other our enemy. Destiny is sealed from the moment Rebekah conceived. “The children struggled in her womb.”
The rabbis expound. When Rebekah walked by a house of study, Jacob would stir within her. And when she walked by a place where people practiced idolatry, Esau would grow excited. A fanciful story to be sure, and yet this interpretation has colored our worldview. We look back at Jacob as a harbinger of all that is good in Jewish life, of all that we hold dear. He represents the Jewish ideal. We see Esau as a representation of all that is evil. He becomes the paradigmatic outsider.
Perhaps instead the import of this story is that they are brothers. And yet they struggle so mightily even before the day they were born. Let’s be honest. We are still struggling with each other. It is not as if Jews get along with other Jews. Only this morning ultra-Orthodox Jews and Israeli security accosted Reform Jews at the Western Wall. My friends and colleagues sought to bring a Torah scroll into the Kotel plaza in order to celebrate the ordination of the 100th Israeli Reform rabbi.
Standing there, at this holiest of Jewish sites, I have been called a Nazi. I have heard young girls called whores.
As I read about this morning’s event, I found myself growing defiant and saying, “We are the true Jews. We are Jacob; they are Esau.” And then I realized they are saying the exact same words in their synagogues. Their rabbis are writing words parallel to my own. They are calling Reform Jews Esau.
We are left screaming at each other. We say, “You are Esau. I am Jacob.” We label the Jewish organizations whose ideology we do not share as treason. We shout, “I am kosher. You are treif.” I have heard, “JStreet is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” We call one another a danger to the Jewish people. I have read, “The ZOA gives succor to antisemites.”
I find comfort in the Torah. The truth of our story is that the children struggled. And Rebekah cries, “If so why do I exist?” She then inquires of the Lord.
Who is Jacob?
Who is Esau?
We too must inquire.
When will we realize we are Jacob and we are also Esau?
When will we realize we are brothers?
Later, after years of struggle, Jacob and Esau come to the realization that their brotherhood supersedes their bitterness. They recognize that their kinship must overwhelm even their sense of right and wrong.
“Esau embraced Jacob and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)
When will their realization become our own?
We only have each other.
Together we must embrace our common heritage. Together we must hold our Torah.
Gallons of Compassion
In ancient times there was no such thing as JSwipe. Instead eligible bachelors would go to the local well where young women gathered to collect water.
Following Sarah’s death, Abraham charges his trusted servant Eliezer with the task of finding a wife for his apparently docile son Isaac. He loads ten camels for the lengthy journey. Eliezer arrives in Aram and approaches the well. He decides upon a test. Whoever offers water not only to him but his camels will be the woman Isaac should marry.
Rebekah approaches. (Cue the music! Who else is going to see Squeeze at the Paramount?) Eliezer says, “Please, let me sip a little water from your jar?” Rebekah immediately hands him the jar and says, “Drink, my lord.” And when he finished drinking, she said, “I will also draw for your camels until they finish drinking.”
This was no small undertaking. Let me put Rebekah’s offer in perspective. Camels need to drink approximately 25 gallons after such a long journey. There were ten camels. That means she had to fetch 250 gallons of water. Let’s say that a typical bucket holds two and half gallons. So that means she makes a hundred trips back and forth to the well. (Yes, I passed that part of my SAT.)
So now my question is what is wrong with Eliezer. Did he just sit there and watch her do all this heavy lifting? Apparently, yes. He sat and watched for the one hour and forty minutes it took for the camels to drink. By the way it takes a camel ten minutes to drink 25 gallons. (And I thought I would never again use SAT math.)
Commentators often speak about Rebekah’s compassion. “How do we know this?” they ask. Because she shows compassion for the animals. Because she thought not only of Eliezer’s thirst but also the animals’.
Now, after learning more about camels and doing some simple calculations, perhaps he was impressed with her extraordinary strength and stamina. She is not afraid of hard work. She is a doer. Given his servant Isaac’s timidness, he maybe thought, this is exactly the kind of woman Isaac needs to marry. Perhaps.
Then again the true measure of compassion appears to be when you do the extra and the unexpected.
It is all about the “and.”
That is the secret of the test Eliezer designs. It is also the secret to adding a measure of compassion to our own lives.
Following Sarah’s death, Abraham charges his trusted servant Eliezer with the task of finding a wife for his apparently docile son Isaac. He loads ten camels for the lengthy journey. Eliezer arrives in Aram and approaches the well. He decides upon a test. Whoever offers water not only to him but his camels will be the woman Isaac should marry.
Rebekah approaches. (Cue the music! Who else is going to see Squeeze at the Paramount?) Eliezer says, “Please, let me sip a little water from your jar?” Rebekah immediately hands him the jar and says, “Drink, my lord.” And when he finished drinking, she said, “I will also draw for your camels until they finish drinking.”
This was no small undertaking. Let me put Rebekah’s offer in perspective. Camels need to drink approximately 25 gallons after such a long journey. There were ten camels. That means she had to fetch 250 gallons of water. Let’s say that a typical bucket holds two and half gallons. So that means she makes a hundred trips back and forth to the well. (Yes, I passed that part of my SAT.)
So now my question is what is wrong with Eliezer. Did he just sit there and watch her do all this heavy lifting? Apparently, yes. He sat and watched for the one hour and forty minutes it took for the camels to drink. By the way it takes a camel ten minutes to drink 25 gallons. (And I thought I would never again use SAT math.)
Commentators often speak about Rebekah’s compassion. “How do we know this?” they ask. Because she shows compassion for the animals. Because she thought not only of Eliezer’s thirst but also the animals’.
Now, after learning more about camels and doing some simple calculations, perhaps he was impressed with her extraordinary strength and stamina. She is not afraid of hard work. She is a doer. Given his servant Isaac’s timidness, he maybe thought, this is exactly the kind of woman Isaac needs to marry. Perhaps.
Then again the true measure of compassion appears to be when you do the extra and the unexpected.
It is all about the “and.”
That is the secret of the test Eliezer designs. It is also the secret to adding a measure of compassion to our own lives.
Cell Phones are Ruining Serendipity
A few weeks ago a mystery object rocketed past earth. Astronomers scrambled to understand it. They had never before seen anything like it. They quickly labeled the small space rock “A/2017 U1.” They determined it was not a comet or asteroid, but instead from a different solar system than our own. It was from another world. You can detect the glee in the scientists’ exclamations. “I was not expecting to see anything like this during my career, even though we knew it was possible and that these objects exist,” said one NASA researcher. The theoretical became possible.
For a brief moment, the stars aligned. And luck provided a potentially ground breaking discovery.
Years ago, in fact when I was 15 years old, my brother and I were situated on either side of an older man on our family’s first trip to Israel. We kept him up for the better part of the flight, talking and being the mischievous brothers that we were–but are, I promise, no longer. A bond was formed. Our parents became especially close to Jerry and his wife Marion. A lifelong friendship was formed. One that spanned nearly 35 years until Jerry’s death several years ago and Marion’s a few weeks ago.
We used to think it was Jerry’s misfortune to be seated in between us....
For a brief moment, the stars aligned. And luck provided a potentially ground breaking discovery.
Years ago, in fact when I was 15 years old, my brother and I were situated on either side of an older man on our family’s first trip to Israel. We kept him up for the better part of the flight, talking and being the mischievous brothers that we were–but are, I promise, no longer. A bond was formed. Our parents became especially close to Jerry and his wife Marion. A lifelong friendship was formed. One that spanned nearly 35 years until Jerry’s death several years ago and Marion’s a few weeks ago.
We used to think it was Jerry’s misfortune to be seated in between us....