How to Help
Hurricane Ida has now passed through the New York area and left destruction and hardship in its wake. It is difficult to believe that more people were killed in our own area from what was no longer a hurricane than when the storm made landfall in Louisiana as a category 4 hurricane. I pray for those who were injured. I pray most especially for the families of those who lost their lives.
If you would like to lend support to those in need, I recommend giving to these organizations:
These organizations are already in Louisiana helping people rebuild, providing temporary shelter and feeding those who need food and even water. People are hungry! Let us help our fellow Americans.
As I became aware of those organizations who are providing help to people in need within our own area, I will share that information as well.
Give to those in need. Pray for their healing.
Wash Your Hands
As we near the High Holidays and approach this period of introspection and repentance, I offer this prayer:
How many times do we instead discuss and debate intentions? Our tradition’s counsel is that they are secondary to actions. Only deeds can be judged. If a person does good, then he or she is deemed righteous. Intentions are known by God alone. What a person holds in his or her heart is the purview of the divine. It is not the province of human beings.
The High Holidays are devoted to repairing and correcting our actions. We spend these days focusing on what we might do different, not what we might intend. We resolve to cast away our wrongs and repair our lives. These days are about our hands more than our hearts.
The Torah declares: “Hidden acts concern the Lord our God; but revealed acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 29)
Let us cast away the sin of deception, so that we will mislead no one in word or deed, nor pretend to be what we are not.Judaism counsels us that actions and deeds define our lives. Good intentions do not redeem bad deeds. Whereas bad intentions are dissolved by good deeds. Thus, we can only correct our wrong actions. We can only repair misdeeds.
Let us cast away the sin of vain ambition which prompts us to strive for goals which bring neither true fulfillment nor genuine contentment.
Let us cast away the sin of stubbornness, so that we will neither persist in foolish habits nor fail to acknowledge our will to change.
Let us cast away the sin of envy, so that we will neither be consumed by desire for what we lack nor grow unmindful of the blessings which are already ours.
Let us cast away the sin of selfishness, which keeps us from enriching our lives through wider concerns, and greater sharing, and from reaching out in love to other human beings.
Let us cast away the sin of indifference, so that we may be sensitive to the sufferings of others and responsive to the needs of our people everywhere.
Let us cast away the sin of pride and arrogance, so that we can worship God and serve God’s purposes in humility and truth. (Mahzor Hadash: The New Mahzor for Rosh Hashanah)
How many times do we instead discuss and debate intentions? Our tradition’s counsel is that they are secondary to actions. Only deeds can be judged. If a person does good, then he or she is deemed righteous. Intentions are known by God alone. What a person holds in his or her heart is the purview of the divine. It is not the province of human beings.
The High Holidays are devoted to repairing and correcting our actions. We spend these days focusing on what we might do different, not what we might intend. We resolve to cast away our wrongs and repair our lives. These days are about our hands more than our hearts.
The Torah declares: “Hidden acts concern the Lord our God; but revealed acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 29)
My Father Was Lost
Once settled in the Promised Land, the Israelites are instructed to give thanks for their harvest. In what is perhaps the first recorded Thanksgiving celebration, the Torah commands them to make an offering. “You shall leave the first fruits before the Lord your God and bow low before the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 26). Prior to bringing these offerings, the Israelites recite an encapsulation of their history proclaiming that it was God who brought them out of slavery to the land of Israel.
This recitation begins with the words: “My father was a fugitive Aramean—Arami oved avi.” The English lacks the Hebrew’s alliteration. It also disguises the power contained in these three words. The first word uttered is: Aramean. My father was not an Israelite. He was a foreigner.
The implication is clear. The land is borrowed. It belongs to God. It is not owned or possessed. This is why the land’s harvest is shared first with God and then the stranger. “And you shall enjoy, together with the Levite and the stranger in your midst, all the bounty that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you and your household.”
Moreover, “oved” can be translated as “lost” rather than “fugitive” or “wandering.” Lost connotes something far more powerful. Our ancestors were not simply freed from slavery. They did not escape, but rather were lost. Abraham was not a wanderer. Instead, he was directionless—until God called to him. It was the call that set his path. It was the going out from Egypt that carved our direction.
Why begin the offering of first fruits with the recitation of these words? Why profess that our ancestor was a stranger? Why state that the founder of our faith was lost? To teach empathy for the outsider. To inculcate thanks.
Giving thanks is not about saying, “Look at the bounty with which God has blessed me.” It is instead, “Look at the bountiful blessings that I can share.” If the first fruits are borrowed from God, then there are no limits to the blessings we can share.
Recall that our ancestors wandered aimlessly. Recall that our ancestors were once strangers. And if and when we forget, we must say, “Arami oved avi.”
Say it often. Say it over and over again. Say it until it seeps into your soul.
And then say it some more.
The implication is clear. The land is borrowed. It belongs to God. It is not owned or possessed. This is why the land’s harvest is shared first with God and then the stranger. “And you shall enjoy, together with the Levite and the stranger in your midst, all the bounty that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you and your household.”
Moreover, “oved” can be translated as “lost” rather than “fugitive” or “wandering.” Lost connotes something far more powerful. Our ancestors were not simply freed from slavery. They did not escape, but rather were lost. Abraham was not a wanderer. Instead, he was directionless—until God called to him. It was the call that set his path. It was the going out from Egypt that carved our direction.
Why begin the offering of first fruits with the recitation of these words? Why profess that our ancestor was a stranger? Why state that the founder of our faith was lost? To teach empathy for the outsider. To inculcate thanks.
Giving thanks is not about saying, “Look at the bounty with which God has blessed me.” It is instead, “Look at the bountiful blessings that I can share.” If the first fruits are borrowed from God, then there are no limits to the blessings we can share.
Recall that our ancestors wandered aimlessly. Recall that our ancestors were once strangers. And if and when we forget, we must say, “Arami oved avi.”
Say it often. Say it over and over again. Say it until it seeps into your soul.
And then say it some more.
Lost Together
The Hebrew month of Elul began on Sunday, August 8th. According to Jewish tradition this day begins a forty-day period of introspection and repentance that concludes with the beautiful Yom Kippur Neilah service.
We belong to a remarkable tradition. We believe that human beings are capable of change. We believe that we have the capacity to mend our ways. No one is perfect. All have erred. Let us take these precious days to mend our failures. This is the grand purpose of the upcoming High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah begins the evening of September 6th. (Yes, this is early and very soon.)
A Hasidic story that I learned from Rabbi Rami Shapiro. Reb Chaim Halberstam of Zanz once helped his disciples prepare for Elul and its goals of teshuvah (repentance) and tikkun (repair) by sharing the following tale.
Once a woman became lost in a dense forest. (Obviously this was before the advent of Google Maps.). She wandered this way and that in the hope of stumbling on a way out, but she only got more lost as the hours went by. Then she chanced upon another person walking in the woods. Hoping that he might know the way out, she said, “Can you tell me which path leads out of this forest?”
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” the man said. “I am quite lost myself.”
“You have wandered in one part of the woods,” the woman said, “while I have been lost in another. Together we may not know the way out, but we know quite a few paths that lead nowhere. Let us share what we know of the paths that fail, and then together we may find the one that succeeds.”
“What is true for these lost wanderers,” Reb Chaim said, “is true of us as well. We may not know the way out, but let us share with each other the way that have only led us back in.”
Together we are always stronger. Together we can find ourselves out of any difficulty and surmount any stumbling blocks. This year, most especially we need walk together. The path out of the forest still remains unclear, but at the very least we can wander alongside one another and be buoyed by friendship and community.
We belong to a remarkable tradition. We believe that human beings are capable of change. We believe that we have the capacity to mend our ways. No one is perfect. All have erred. Let us take these precious days to mend our failures. This is the grand purpose of the upcoming High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah begins the evening of September 6th. (Yes, this is early and very soon.)
A Hasidic story that I learned from Rabbi Rami Shapiro. Reb Chaim Halberstam of Zanz once helped his disciples prepare for Elul and its goals of teshuvah (repentance) and tikkun (repair) by sharing the following tale.
Once a woman became lost in a dense forest. (Obviously this was before the advent of Google Maps.). She wandered this way and that in the hope of stumbling on a way out, but she only got more lost as the hours went by. Then she chanced upon another person walking in the woods. Hoping that he might know the way out, she said, “Can you tell me which path leads out of this forest?”
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” the man said. “I am quite lost myself.”
“You have wandered in one part of the woods,” the woman said, “while I have been lost in another. Together we may not know the way out, but we know quite a few paths that lead nowhere. Let us share what we know of the paths that fail, and then together we may find the one that succeeds.”
“What is true for these lost wanderers,” Reb Chaim said, “is true of us as well. We may not know the way out, but let us share with each other the way that have only led us back in.”
Together we are always stronger. Together we can find ourselves out of any difficulty and surmount any stumbling blocks. This year, most especially we need walk together. The path out of the forest still remains unclear, but at the very least we can wander alongside one another and be buoyed by friendship and community.
Gates of Justice
In ancient times, the court room was the city’s gates. In fact, archeologists have uncovered stone benches attached to gates of biblical cities where judged sat, heard cases, and issued rulings.
It is unfortunate that most contemporary translations render the Hebrew “shaarecha” as your settlements rather than the more literal “your gates.” The Torah proclaims: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements (shaarecha) that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice.” (Deuteronomy 16)
The Bible’s intent is clear. Your gates are where justice is established. Why else would the Torah also instruct us “To write these words on the doorpost of your house and on your gates?” It is because justice begins, and ends, at the threshold of a house or a city. This is why justices sat and ruled at the city’s entrances.
When people debated matters of law, or had difficulties they could not resolve, they are supposed to go to judges who are more expert in the law and more experienced in rendering decisions. People, quite literally, took their disputes to the edge of town where they were resolved. In this way the community is kept whole, and differences, are kept at its outskirts. Only justice is allowed to enter through our gates.
It is a wonderful, and enlightening, image. Keep your arguments out there. Maintain your cohesiveness within. Repair to the gates when matters become heated, when it is too difficult for you to solve your problems without the assistance of a professional.
The prophet Amos declares: “Hate evil and love good. And establish justice in the gate.” (Amos 5)
If you establish justice in the gate, then your cities and towns, countries and communities, can indeed remain whole.
It is unfortunate that most contemporary translations render the Hebrew “shaarecha” as your settlements rather than the more literal “your gates.” The Torah proclaims: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements (shaarecha) that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice.” (Deuteronomy 16)
The Bible’s intent is clear. Your gates are where justice is established. Why else would the Torah also instruct us “To write these words on the doorpost of your house and on your gates?” It is because justice begins, and ends, at the threshold of a house or a city. This is why justices sat and ruled at the city’s entrances.
When people debated matters of law, or had difficulties they could not resolve, they are supposed to go to judges who are more expert in the law and more experienced in rendering decisions. People, quite literally, took their disputes to the edge of town where they were resolved. In this way the community is kept whole, and differences, are kept at its outskirts. Only justice is allowed to enter through our gates.
It is a wonderful, and enlightening, image. Keep your arguments out there. Maintain your cohesiveness within. Repair to the gates when matters become heated, when it is too difficult for you to solve your problems without the assistance of a professional.
The prophet Amos declares: “Hate evil and love good. And establish justice in the gate.” (Amos 5)
If you establish justice in the gate, then your cities and towns, countries and communities, can indeed remain whole.
Get Vaccinated! It's the Jewish Thing to Do
Can we talk about vaccines? Not the science part, but instead the Jewish piece.
Judaism believes that our primary responsibility is towards others. We are taught to think about the community’s needs first and foremost. A few illustrations. Attending services is about the fact that others need us to be there. We do not say, for example, the mourner’s kaddish except in the presence of a minyan of ten people. Being there is so that others can stand and mourn.
While services are most certainly meaningful and uplifting to the individual, the tradition sees their import in the “we” rather than the “I.” Our prayers are in the plural because we are only one when praying with others. Even dancing at a wedding is not so much about how the spirit (spirits?) move us but instead about making sure the couple dance and celebrate on their wedding day. It is a religious obligation to make sure that the wedding couple rejoice. I dance in large part to lift others on to the dance floor. No one can be hoisted on high for the horah unless they are surrounded by the community.
Getting vaccinated is then about making sure that we are protected and healthy. The difficulty is that we are unaccustomed to making medical decisions with anyone else in mind but ourselves. Many have been faced with difficult medical choices. Do I have the surgery as one doctor suggests or take the medicine as another recommends? Do I have the procedure or wait and see what the next blood test indicates? All such decisions are fraught with risks. No medical decision, or any choice for that matter, is risk free. Even the most ordinary of tests or procedures carry with them some risk.
But when we evaluate the pros and cons we think only of our own individual health. For the first time in many of our lives, we are now faced with a decision that is not just about my health, but also the health of others. Even though the risks of the vaccines appear minimal, they are not zero. We must admit that we could very well discover that vaccines produce unintended health consequences in the years to come. I am skeptical about this, but we must admit this.
And yet we wait to get vaccinated not only to our own detriment, but the peril of others. And this is where Judaism’s voice should be heard loudly and clearly. Get vaccinated for the sake of others. Get vaccinated so that our neighbors will remain healthy and safe. We are supposed to be about the needs of others and the community over the wants of the individual. That is Judaism’s greatest lesson and teaching.
Today’s decision is not about my health but our well-being. It is about the health of the community, and the country, and the world.
When the Jewish people enter the land of Israel, they are instructed to pronounce blessings on Mount Gerizim and curses on Mount Ebal. (Deuteronomy 11) It is not that the blessings reside on one mountain top and the curses on another. It is instead that these mountains serve as physical reminders of the good that will come from following God’s commandments and on the other hand, the consequences of disobeying the commands. The community will suffer. The people will be unable to live in the promised land if they do not follow God’s instructions.
Which mountain top will we gravitate towards? We can only choose one. And we can only choose to travel together. No one gets to go on this quest alone. The individual choice is not part of the Torah’s vocabulary. It is about the community’s will. Choice is not about what I am free to do, or not do, but instead about what we must do so that we can all thrive.
Get vaccinated. Not because it will protect you, but instead because it will protect others. There can be nothing more Jewish than rolling up your sleeves with the health and well-being of others in mind.
Judaism believes that our primary responsibility is towards others. We are taught to think about the community’s needs first and foremost. A few illustrations. Attending services is about the fact that others need us to be there. We do not say, for example, the mourner’s kaddish except in the presence of a minyan of ten people. Being there is so that others can stand and mourn.
While services are most certainly meaningful and uplifting to the individual, the tradition sees their import in the “we” rather than the “I.” Our prayers are in the plural because we are only one when praying with others. Even dancing at a wedding is not so much about how the spirit (spirits?) move us but instead about making sure the couple dance and celebrate on their wedding day. It is a religious obligation to make sure that the wedding couple rejoice. I dance in large part to lift others on to the dance floor. No one can be hoisted on high for the horah unless they are surrounded by the community.
Getting vaccinated is then about making sure that we are protected and healthy. The difficulty is that we are unaccustomed to making medical decisions with anyone else in mind but ourselves. Many have been faced with difficult medical choices. Do I have the surgery as one doctor suggests or take the medicine as another recommends? Do I have the procedure or wait and see what the next blood test indicates? All such decisions are fraught with risks. No medical decision, or any choice for that matter, is risk free. Even the most ordinary of tests or procedures carry with them some risk.
But when we evaluate the pros and cons we think only of our own individual health. For the first time in many of our lives, we are now faced with a decision that is not just about my health, but also the health of others. Even though the risks of the vaccines appear minimal, they are not zero. We must admit that we could very well discover that vaccines produce unintended health consequences in the years to come. I am skeptical about this, but we must admit this.
And yet we wait to get vaccinated not only to our own detriment, but the peril of others. And this is where Judaism’s voice should be heard loudly and clearly. Get vaccinated for the sake of others. Get vaccinated so that our neighbors will remain healthy and safe. We are supposed to be about the needs of others and the community over the wants of the individual. That is Judaism’s greatest lesson and teaching.
Today’s decision is not about my health but our well-being. It is about the health of the community, and the country, and the world.
When the Jewish people enter the land of Israel, they are instructed to pronounce blessings on Mount Gerizim and curses on Mount Ebal. (Deuteronomy 11) It is not that the blessings reside on one mountain top and the curses on another. It is instead that these mountains serve as physical reminders of the good that will come from following God’s commandments and on the other hand, the consequences of disobeying the commands. The community will suffer. The people will be unable to live in the promised land if they do not follow God’s instructions.
Which mountain top will we gravitate towards? We can only choose one. And we can only choose to travel together. No one gets to go on this quest alone. The individual choice is not part of the Torah’s vocabulary. It is about the community’s will. Choice is not about what I am free to do, or not do, but instead about what we must do so that we can all thrive.
Get vaccinated. Not because it will protect you, but instead because it will protect others. There can be nothing more Jewish than rolling up your sleeves with the health and well-being of others in mind.
Earth's Bonds
The Torah, and the Book of Deuteronomy in particular, argues that if we care for God’s commandments, if we follow the mitzvot, then the land will in turn care for us. In fact, the second paragraph of the Shema, reminds us: “If, then, you obey the commandments that I enjoin upon you this day, loving the Lord your God, and serving God with all your heart and soul, I will grant the rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late.” (Deuteronomy 11)
In other words, follow God’s mitzvot and then it will only rain when it is supposed to rain. Nature will follow its proper course if we listen to God. (As if it were that simple!)
Too often people think that observance means lighting candles, wearing a tallis, or reciting the Shema. It also entails ethical mitzvot: loving your neighbor, giving tzedakah or honoring parents. We forget the agricultural commandments that are also part of our sacred literature. We are commanded to leave the gleanings of the field for the poor and the stranger. We are told let our fields lie fallow on the seventh year. We are enjoined not to eat fruit from trees until after the third year.
Perhaps we would do we well to rediscover the meaning and intention of these commandments. We are connected to the land. The earth gives us life.
The early Reform rabbis removed these verses, and the second paragraph of the Shema, from the prayer service arguing that it represented too literalist of a theology. It offered a stark theory. If you do good, namely listening to God, then good happens. If you do bad by ignoring God and even worse bowing down to idols, then bad happens. Everyone knows the world does not follow such a neat and simplistic order and so the rabbis said, “Better not to say these words as a prayer.”
And yet, we live in a time when we are becoming more and more aware of how fragile our earth really is. Need we look any further than the forest fires raging out West, or the catastrophic flooding in Germany and China, or the extreme heat forecast for Middle America? It seems to me that it no longer rains but only storms. Rain showers bring torrents and not droplets. It no longer rains at the rain’s appointed seasons. It no longer rains when the Torah tells us it is supposed to rain.
How we live our lives really does have bearing on whether or not the earth will continue to sustain life. This is the Torah’s insight.
I am slowly making my way through Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. If one wishes to gain inspiration from the natural world, I commend it. If one wishes to gain renewed strength, to care for our delicate, and precious, world, I urge you to pick it up. She writes: “Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.”
And I am slowly, and once again, making my way through the Torah. I am slowly trying to take more of its wisdom to heart.
My relationship with the earth is indeed a sacred covenant.
In other words, follow God’s mitzvot and then it will only rain when it is supposed to rain. Nature will follow its proper course if we listen to God. (As if it were that simple!)
Too often people think that observance means lighting candles, wearing a tallis, or reciting the Shema. It also entails ethical mitzvot: loving your neighbor, giving tzedakah or honoring parents. We forget the agricultural commandments that are also part of our sacred literature. We are commanded to leave the gleanings of the field for the poor and the stranger. We are told let our fields lie fallow on the seventh year. We are enjoined not to eat fruit from trees until after the third year.
Perhaps we would do we well to rediscover the meaning and intention of these commandments. We are connected to the land. The earth gives us life.
The early Reform rabbis removed these verses, and the second paragraph of the Shema, from the prayer service arguing that it represented too literalist of a theology. It offered a stark theory. If you do good, namely listening to God, then good happens. If you do bad by ignoring God and even worse bowing down to idols, then bad happens. Everyone knows the world does not follow such a neat and simplistic order and so the rabbis said, “Better not to say these words as a prayer.”
And yet, we live in a time when we are becoming more and more aware of how fragile our earth really is. Need we look any further than the forest fires raging out West, or the catastrophic flooding in Germany and China, or the extreme heat forecast for Middle America? It seems to me that it no longer rains but only storms. Rain showers bring torrents and not droplets. It no longer rains at the rain’s appointed seasons. It no longer rains when the Torah tells us it is supposed to rain.
How we live our lives really does have bearing on whether or not the earth will continue to sustain life. This is the Torah’s insight.
I am slowly making my way through Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. If one wishes to gain inspiration from the natural world, I commend it. If one wishes to gain renewed strength, to care for our delicate, and precious, world, I urge you to pick it up. She writes: “Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.”
And I am slowly, and once again, making my way through the Torah. I am slowly trying to take more of its wisdom to heart.
My relationship with the earth is indeed a sacred covenant.
Please God! Help Us Bring Peace
For all his successes and triumphs, our hero Moses is denied setting foot in the Promised Land. Because he grew angry at the Israelites and hit a rock, God states that he will not be allowed to enter the land of Israel.
This week Moses begs God to change this decree: “And I pleaded (vaetchanan) with the Lord… Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan.” (Deuteronomy 4)
The commentators are bothered by Moses’ behavior. They think it is unbecoming that Moses pleads. How can the great Moses sink to such a level and beg, they wonder. His words seem undignified for a leader. They wonder as well how Moses can question God’s judgment.
The medieval writer, Moses ibn Ezra, suggests that even in this instance, Moses, who the tradition calls “Moshe Rabbeinu—Moses, our teacher,” is offering a lesson. And what is it that he teaches the people? It is a lesson about the supreme value of living in the land of Israel. It is as if to say, “To be able to live in the land of Israel is worth it. It is such a privilege that one can beg and plead.”
The modern commentator, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, reads this passage differently. He suggests that Moses is not asking for forgiveness, or pleading his case, but instead arguing that he did not even commit a wrong. The decree is unjustified and should rightfully be annulled. What chutzpah!
In the end Moses’ request is partially fulfilled. God responds to his plea and allows him to see the land from afar. Moses is allowed to glimpse the beauty of Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel.
I continue to wonder. For what is it appropriate to plead? For what can I beg God?
This summer suggests an answer. How about peace? Let my plea be heard! Let shalom be granted—even if but partially. Let us stop arguing about whether or not we should eat Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and start doing the hard work of trying to make peace between Israelis and Palestinians. Does such a plea appear undignified? Does such a dream seem impossible? Please God, I beg You, let it not be so.
I lean on the Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai.
This week Moses begs God to change this decree: “And I pleaded (vaetchanan) with the Lord… Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan.” (Deuteronomy 4)
The commentators are bothered by Moses’ behavior. They think it is unbecoming that Moses pleads. How can the great Moses sink to such a level and beg, they wonder. His words seem undignified for a leader. They wonder as well how Moses can question God’s judgment.
The medieval writer, Moses ibn Ezra, suggests that even in this instance, Moses, who the tradition calls “Moshe Rabbeinu—Moses, our teacher,” is offering a lesson. And what is it that he teaches the people? It is a lesson about the supreme value of living in the land of Israel. It is as if to say, “To be able to live in the land of Israel is worth it. It is such a privilege that one can beg and plead.”
The modern commentator, Yeshayahu Leibowitz, reads this passage differently. He suggests that Moses is not asking for forgiveness, or pleading his case, but instead arguing that he did not even commit a wrong. The decree is unjustified and should rightfully be annulled. What chutzpah!
In the end Moses’ request is partially fulfilled. God responds to his plea and allows him to see the land from afar. Moses is allowed to glimpse the beauty of Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel.
I continue to wonder. For what is it appropriate to plead? For what can I beg God?
This summer suggests an answer. How about peace? Let my plea be heard! Let shalom be granted—even if but partially. Let us stop arguing about whether or not we should eat Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and start doing the hard work of trying to make peace between Israelis and Palestinians. Does such a plea appear undignified? Does such a dream seem impossible? Please God, I beg You, let it not be so.
I lean on the Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai.
Not the peace of a cease-fire
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill,
that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace
without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,
without words, without
the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be
light, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds –
who speaks of healing?
(And the howl of orphans is passed from generation
to the next, as in a relay race:
the baton never falls.)
Let it come
-like wildflowers,
suddenly, because the field
must have it: wildpeace.
Please God. I plead. Vaetchnanan!
Teach in All Languages
This week we begin reading the Torah’s final book, Deuteronomy. Moses is now 120
years old and is told he must relinquish his leadership to Joshua. Soon he will die and be buried on Mount Nebo, on the other side of the Jordan. Beforehand he takes the time (pretty much the entire book of Deuteronomy) to remind the Israelites about the many rules they must follow. He begins by reviewing their adventures (and misadventures) during their forty years of wandering the wilderness.
This is Deuteronomy’s plot. “I am about to leave you. Don’t forget to…” The Torah states: “On the other side of the Jordan, in the land of Moab, Moses undertook to expound this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 1)
The rabbis ask: How did he begin to teach the Torah? Being rabbis they answer their own question and state, “Moses began to explain the Torah in the seventy languages of the ancient world.”
Didn’t the Israelites all speak the same language? Didn’t they speak Hebrew? Of course they did. So why would Moses need to explain the Torah in every language the rabbis believed to exist in the entire world? It is because the Torah has universal import.
Too often we focus our Jewish learning on the mastery of the Hebrew language. Too often we mistake the Torah’s language for its essence. While Hebrew is of course important it does not always unlock its secrets; it cannot always unravel its mysteries. This is why even Moses taught the Torah in many languages.
The lesson is clear. The most important thing about Torah is its teachings. These must be translated into every language. Moreover, these teachings must be interpreted according to everyone’s ability.
Torah was never meant to belong to a privileged few. It is meant for all. It is meant for the world.
It begins with whatever language we speak.
years old and is told he must relinquish his leadership to Joshua. Soon he will die and be buried on Mount Nebo, on the other side of the Jordan. Beforehand he takes the time (pretty much the entire book of Deuteronomy) to remind the Israelites about the many rules they must follow. He begins by reviewing their adventures (and misadventures) during their forty years of wandering the wilderness.
This is Deuteronomy’s plot. “I am about to leave you. Don’t forget to…” The Torah states: “On the other side of the Jordan, in the land of Moab, Moses undertook to expound this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 1)
The rabbis ask: How did he begin to teach the Torah? Being rabbis they answer their own question and state, “Moses began to explain the Torah in the seventy languages of the ancient world.”
Didn’t the Israelites all speak the same language? Didn’t they speak Hebrew? Of course they did. So why would Moses need to explain the Torah in every language the rabbis believed to exist in the entire world? It is because the Torah has universal import.
Too often we focus our Jewish learning on the mastery of the Hebrew language. Too often we mistake the Torah’s language for its essence. While Hebrew is of course important it does not always unlock its secrets; it cannot always unravel its mysteries. This is why even Moses taught the Torah in many languages.
The lesson is clear. The most important thing about Torah is its teachings. These must be translated into every language. Moreover, these teachings must be interpreted according to everyone’s ability.
Torah was never meant to belong to a privileged few. It is meant for all. It is meant for the world.
It begins with whatever language we speak.
Rejoice and Be Glad
I am looking forward to the moment when the band leader says, “It’s Hora time. Everyone to the dance floor!” And we jump from our seats and join in dancing and singing the words of Hava Nagila. “Let us rejoice. Let us rejoice. Let us rejoice and be glad. Let us sing. Let us sing. Let us sing and be glad. Awaken brethren. Awaken brethren with a joyful heart.”
And then my heart will most certainly rejoice.
Few realize that the words to this familiar song are not that old. In fact, the tune is based on a Hasidic niggun, prevalent among Jews living in nineteenth century Ukraine. And many nigguns are based on what was then popular songs. The Hasidic rebbes removed the words from these songs and transformed them into wordless, religious melodies.
Hava Nagila is no different. It is apparently very similar to a Ukrainian folk song.
The Hasidic movement gave these wordless melodies meaning and import. They were known to sing them over and over, their voices growing softer and then louder. They would sing and dance to welcome Shabbat, to rejoice at a holiday’s arrival, to celebrate a young couple getting married. They were passed from one generation to the next. They are typically attributed to specific rebbes. It was the belief of Hasidic Jews that singing helps connect us to God. Music is the universal language. It was also their belief that no words can suffice in approaching God and so we are left with their wordless melodies.
And so, the Hava Nagila tune was carried by such Hasidic Jews when they came to Jerusalem from the Ukraine. It was there that Abraham Idelsohn soon discovered it.
He is considered the dean of Jewish musicologists. Some believe that he authored the accompanying words in 1918 to celebrate the victory of the British in World War I. The song soon spread throughout Palestine and then made its way to the United States.
By the 1950’s it had become what we recognize today: the staple at Jewish parties and simchas.
There is nothing quite like it. Despite the song’s relative youth—at least as measured against Jewish history, it has come to define our celebrations.
And I am looking forward to hearing its words once gain.
The Torah reports: “These were the marches of the Israelites who started out from the land of Egypt…. They set out from…. They set out from…. They set out from…”
(Numbers 33)
I would like to think that once again our journeys, and our marches, and our lives, will again be defined, and uplifted by the simchas at which we sing and dance.
“Awaken brethren with a cheerful heart! Let us sing and be glad. Let us rejoice and be glad.”
And then my heart will most certainly rejoice.
Few realize that the words to this familiar song are not that old. In fact, the tune is based on a Hasidic niggun, prevalent among Jews living in nineteenth century Ukraine. And many nigguns are based on what was then popular songs. The Hasidic rebbes removed the words from these songs and transformed them into wordless, religious melodies.
Hava Nagila is no different. It is apparently very similar to a Ukrainian folk song.
The Hasidic movement gave these wordless melodies meaning and import. They were known to sing them over and over, their voices growing softer and then louder. They would sing and dance to welcome Shabbat, to rejoice at a holiday’s arrival, to celebrate a young couple getting married. They were passed from one generation to the next. They are typically attributed to specific rebbes. It was the belief of Hasidic Jews that singing helps connect us to God. Music is the universal language. It was also their belief that no words can suffice in approaching God and so we are left with their wordless melodies.
And so, the Hava Nagila tune was carried by such Hasidic Jews when they came to Jerusalem from the Ukraine. It was there that Abraham Idelsohn soon discovered it.
He is considered the dean of Jewish musicologists. Some believe that he authored the accompanying words in 1918 to celebrate the victory of the British in World War I. The song soon spread throughout Palestine and then made its way to the United States.
By the 1950’s it had become what we recognize today: the staple at Jewish parties and simchas.
There is nothing quite like it. Despite the song’s relative youth—at least as measured against Jewish history, it has come to define our celebrations.
And I am looking forward to hearing its words once gain.
The Torah reports: “These were the marches of the Israelites who started out from the land of Egypt…. They set out from…. They set out from…. They set out from…”
(Numbers 33)
I would like to think that once again our journeys, and our marches, and our lives, will again be defined, and uplifted by the simchas at which we sing and dance.
“Awaken brethren with a cheerful heart! Let us sing and be glad. Let us rejoice and be glad.”
A More Perfect Union
On this July 4th weekend we pause to celebrate the United States of America whose Declaration of Independence was adopted 245 years ago and whose words have inspired people for countless generations.
Its opening words stir our souls. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
And so, on this July 4th we pause to celebrate the gifts and blessings of this country, the freedoms we enjoy, unparalleled in our thousands of years of wanderings and the blessings we have garnered, unrivaled in the many nations we have called home. Here, we can freely profess our faith, here we can proudly declare our beliefs, here we can rest on the guarantees of a constitution that grants no religion primacy over another.
In this great land we can indeed enjoy life, liberty and happiness.
There is much for which to celebrate. There is much for which to give thanks.
On this July 4th we also pause to remember that this same promise has fallen short for
too many. There is still much work to be done. Our founding vision deserves to be expanded. Our founding dream must grow wider.
In the words “all men” we must hear and declare “all men and women.” And we must find renewed strength to say, “all races.” Every color, every faith, every immigrant story must become part of the American promise and dream. Our nation’s history is cluttered with examples in which the liberties enjoyed by many were also denied to many.
Pause to celebrate.
Pause to remember.
Give thanks for these United States of America.
Gather strength that this nation might indeed become a “more perfect union.”
Its opening words stir our souls. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
And so, on this July 4th we pause to celebrate the gifts and blessings of this country, the freedoms we enjoy, unparalleled in our thousands of years of wanderings and the blessings we have garnered, unrivaled in the many nations we have called home. Here, we can freely profess our faith, here we can proudly declare our beliefs, here we can rest on the guarantees of a constitution that grants no religion primacy over another.
In this great land we can indeed enjoy life, liberty and happiness.
There is much for which to celebrate. There is much for which to give thanks.
On this July 4th we also pause to remember that this same promise has fallen short for
too many. There is still much work to be done. Our founding vision deserves to be expanded. Our founding dream must grow wider.
In the words “all men” we must hear and declare “all men and women.” And we must find renewed strength to say, “all races.” Every color, every faith, every immigrant story must become part of the American promise and dream. Our nation’s history is cluttered with examples in which the liberties enjoyed by many were also denied to many.
Pause to celebrate.
Pause to remember.
Give thanks for these United States of America.
Gather strength that this nation might indeed become a “more perfect union.”
Their Poems, Our Prayers
Poetry speaks in ways that prose cannot always achieve. I offer a few poems.
Denise Levertov, a British born American poet, writes in "Making Peace":
Denise Levertov, a British born American poet, writes in "Making Peace":
A voice from the dark called out,
‘The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war.’
But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can’t be imagined before it is made,
can’t be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.
A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.
A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses . . .
A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light—facets
of the forming crystal.
Mahmoud Darwish, a Palestinian poet, offers these words in his poem "In Jerusalem":
King Balak instructs Balaam to curse the Jewish people. Instead, the prophet provides us with a prayer.
“Mah tovu ohalecha, Yaakov—How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!” With these words we begin our morning prayers.
So records our Torah.
And so, we are reminded. Torah is about more than just listening to our own voice. Perhaps it is even acquired when listening to the words of our so-called enemies.
In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,And then in this week’s portion we discover this poem:
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy...ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t be safe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Muhammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me...and I forgot, like you, to die.
How fair are your tents, O Jacob,So said Balaam, the foreign prophet sent by Israel’s sworn enemy, the Moabites.
Your dwellings, O Israel!
Like palm-groves that stretch out,
Like gardens beside a river,
Like aloes planted by the Lord,
Like cedars beside the water…
They crouch, they lie down like a lion,
Like the king of beasts; who dare rouse them?
Blessed are they who bless you,
Accursed they who curse you! (Numbers 24)
King Balak instructs Balaam to curse the Jewish people. Instead, the prophet provides us with a prayer.
“Mah tovu ohalecha, Yaakov—How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!” With these words we begin our morning prayers.
So records our Torah.
And so, we are reminded. Torah is about more than just listening to our own voice. Perhaps it is even acquired when listening to the words of our so-called enemies.
LGBTQ Rights, Juneteenth and Antisemitism
What follows is the sermon from this past Shabbat when we also marked Pride Month and Juneteenth.
But there is still unfinished business we need to get busy doing. Some people are still too hesitant to open their arms to others. People are still afraid to come out to friends, to parents, to teachers. And that is on all of us. Images are everywhere about what ideal love looks like. There is the ever-present image that an ideal couple is a man and a woman. Our tradition continues to uphold this. Our language supports this. We forget that when we idealize love, and couples in this way, we too often push aside those who are struggling with how they can measure up to what is most certainly a myth. We must make room for many, different images. We must insist that if an LGBTQ couple wishes to be married under a huppah, and sanctify their relationship, we will do so. Their love deserves to be celebrated. They deserve the hora just as much as any couple. God knows I am itching to make up for lost time and this past year bereft of dancing. We can do more. We must do more. We have traveled far, but there is still a great deal of unfinished business to which to attend.
On this Shabbat we also mark Juneteenth, now, and finally a national holiday. It was on June 19, 1865, that the last enslaved African Americans were granted freedom. Two and half years after the Emancipation Proclamation, and one month after the last of the Civil War’s battles was fought. And again, we have traveled far since that day. No one would suggest (at least not publicly) that it is permissible for human beings to be enslaved, that some people are more human than others, but as we discovered last summer this nation has more distance to travel. People still believe, or at the very least act, as if God did not create all human beings in the divine image, that God did not endow each and every one of us with God-given rights.
Black lives are not valued as much as white lives in this nation of ours. We have not reckoned with our history of slavery. We have not come to terms with the fact that there were Jews who have stood on the wrong side of history, who bought and sold men and women as slaves, who brutalized other human beings, who turned away when their Black neighbors were denied mortgages or business loans or college scholarships. Only an honest accounting of these sins, only a true reckoning of these wrongs will help lift this nation towards fulfilling its promise for all its citizens. That is what Juneteenth is supposed to be about. Let it be a day when we come to terms with these wrongs so that we may, if we cannot right them immediately, at least atone for them. Have we made progress? Yes. Is there much unfinished business still do? Yes, and yes.
And in these last months we were also reminded of another realm where we have unfinished business to get working on. Namely, tackling antisemitism. And I raise this issue on this Shabbat when we are celebrating Juneteenth and honoring Pride Month, because it reared its ugly head in the intersection of these causes. To be sure antisemitism remains a threat from the right—I have not forgotten Charlottesville or Pittsburgh; I continue to worry what violence might spill over from QAnon’s fantasies—but of late the threat has emerged from the left and this hate has emerged from the very same corners that fight for LGBTQ inclusion and advocate for Black lives.
Do not apologize for this sin of antisemitism in order to come to terms with the sin of systemic racism. Do not excuse anti-Israel diatribes in order to be more welcoming to those who identify as LGBTQ. Just because those in power continue to delegitimize LGBTQ rights, just because power has too often been used to suppress Black lives, does not mean that Israel’s exercise of power in defense of its citizens is wrong. Be clear about what we stand for. Be certain of what is right and what is wrong. Israel, like this country of ours, is a wonderful, and miraculous, nation that is imperfect but given to glorious and ennobling moments. Most Israelis want to make peace with their Palestinian neighbors and have supported many peace plans, and withdrawals from territories that too many Palestinians, most notably Hamas, have rejected. Try this in particular. Travel to Tel Aviv for the gay pride parade! Read more about Gadi Yevarkan, a Member of Knesset, who was rescued from Ethiopia in 1991.
Do not run away from the causes of ensuring that Black lives matter as much as white lives in our country or that people should be free to love and marry who they wish and who they are attracted to because some who also advocate for these rights spew antisemitic hate. Call out hatred wherever it comes from. Lift up others. Help to make our nation even greater. Help to make Israel even better. Help to make our community even stronger.
There is a lot of unfinished business to which we must attend. Yes, we have made progress, but there is still so much more we must do. Let’s get busy. Let’s never forget our most glorious Jewish teaching. Every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image!
First We Grieve, Then We Move Forward
In yesterday’s weekly newsletter, Frank Bruni from The New York Times writes:
If we do not figure out how to grieve for them and how to mourn our collective losses, then we will be unable to march forward.
This week we read that Miriam and Aaron die. We also read that Moses is destined to die in the wilderness, at the edge of fulfilling his life’s mission of leading the Israelites into the Promised Land. The reason why he will not cross over into the land is because he becomes angry at the people when they complain (yet again) about the food and in particular the lack of water. He strikes the rock two times rather than commanding it as God instructed him.
God commands, “You and your brother Aaron take the rod and assemble the community, and before their very eyes order the rock to yield its water.” (Numbers 20) Instead Moses hits the rock and says, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?" Because Moses does not follow God’s command, because he hits the rock in anger, because he speaks with malice towards the Israelites, he is punished. God tells him that he will not reach the Promised Land. Instead, Joshua and Caleb will take the people into the land.
Immediately preceding this event, the Torah reports the death of Miriam, Moses’ sister and the woman largely responsible for saving Moses when Pharoah decreed that all first-born Israelites are to be killed. “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there.”
There is no mention that mourning rituals are observed for Miriam, or that Moses grieved. The Torah appears to suggest that there was little time, that the exigencies of the moment demanded otherwise. The leader could not stop. “We have to move forward!” Moses did not pause to mourn. He did not stop to grieve. And the people’s complaining became louder and more persistent.
It is understandable that Moses lost his temper. When people are grieving their emotions are raw. Even the smallest of things can throw them curveballs. They shout at the smallest of inconveniences. They cry at the tiniest of misadventures. I understand Moses’ pain.
Then again, when people do not take the time to grieve, when they suppress those feelings of loss, and longing, in what is too often deemed, a noble effort to move forward, they hamstring their futures.
If we do not mourn, if we as a nation do not allow ourselves to grieve, we will not get to that promised land. If we do not take stock of the frightening realization that we are not immune to nature’s dangers, if we do not undertake a full accounting of the failures that contributed to more deaths than otherwise would have been the case, then we will likewise curtail a brighter future.
Open restaurants and bars are not the promised land. It is instead a fairer and more equitable society in which each of us is indeed responsible for our neighbor, and quite literally our neighbor’s health and well-being.
We can only get there, we can only cross over to this promised land, if we pause to remember.
A heartbreaking and unacceptable number of people didn’t survive the coronavirus. They’re gone — their own lives cut short, their loved ones still grieving their absence. But for others, the pandemic was more of an inconvenience, and for a few, it wasn’t all that inconvenient. When they talk about how excited they are about eating in restaurants again or how eager to see a movie in a theater, their voices and manners aren’t weighed down by the recognition of what the United States and other countries have been and are going through. Of the body count. Of the ruined businesses. Of the depleted bank accounts. They mostly just sense that we’re turning a corner, and they’re looking forward, not backward.I can resonate with his description of turning a corner. I share the glee and rapture of returning to the conveniences, and luxuries of years past, of children being packed up for camp, of spontaneously going out to a favorite restaurant, of hugging friends and wishing everyone a “Shabbat Shalom.” I am taken aback about the obviousness of Bruni’s cautionary note. We have this unfortunate, American tendency to avoid even talking about the hundreds of thousands who died.
If we do not figure out how to grieve for them and how to mourn our collective losses, then we will be unable to march forward.
This week we read that Miriam and Aaron die. We also read that Moses is destined to die in the wilderness, at the edge of fulfilling his life’s mission of leading the Israelites into the Promised Land. The reason why he will not cross over into the land is because he becomes angry at the people when they complain (yet again) about the food and in particular the lack of water. He strikes the rock two times rather than commanding it as God instructed him.
God commands, “You and your brother Aaron take the rod and assemble the community, and before their very eyes order the rock to yield its water.” (Numbers 20) Instead Moses hits the rock and says, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?" Because Moses does not follow God’s command, because he hits the rock in anger, because he speaks with malice towards the Israelites, he is punished. God tells him that he will not reach the Promised Land. Instead, Joshua and Caleb will take the people into the land.
Immediately preceding this event, the Torah reports the death of Miriam, Moses’ sister and the woman largely responsible for saving Moses when Pharoah decreed that all first-born Israelites are to be killed. “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there.”
There is no mention that mourning rituals are observed for Miriam, or that Moses grieved. The Torah appears to suggest that there was little time, that the exigencies of the moment demanded otherwise. The leader could not stop. “We have to move forward!” Moses did not pause to mourn. He did not stop to grieve. And the people’s complaining became louder and more persistent.
It is understandable that Moses lost his temper. When people are grieving their emotions are raw. Even the smallest of things can throw them curveballs. They shout at the smallest of inconveniences. They cry at the tiniest of misadventures. I understand Moses’ pain.
Then again, when people do not take the time to grieve, when they suppress those feelings of loss, and longing, in what is too often deemed, a noble effort to move forward, they hamstring their futures.
If we do not mourn, if we as a nation do not allow ourselves to grieve, we will not get to that promised land. If we do not take stock of the frightening realization that we are not immune to nature’s dangers, if we do not undertake a full accounting of the failures that contributed to more deaths than otherwise would have been the case, then we will likewise curtail a brighter future.
Open restaurants and bars are not the promised land. It is instead a fairer and more equitable society in which each of us is indeed responsible for our neighbor, and quite literally our neighbor’s health and well-being.
We can only get there, we can only cross over to this promised land, if we pause to remember.
Leadership Is About Others
This week we read about Korah and his rebellion against Moses. It is a troubling story.
On the surface Korah’s complaints appear legitimate. He, and his followers, approach Moses and Aaron and say, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16)
This statement seems true. Judaism does not believe one person is holier than another. In fact, our greatest moments of holiness are achieved not when we stand alone but instead when we stand together. We require the voices of others to elevate our prayers. Moses does not hear Korah’s words as critiques but instead as threats.
He becomes distressed. Aaron becomes crestfallen. God becomes enraged. Korah and his followers are severely punished. The rebellion is mercilessly quashed. And so, the wrong, must be with Korah and his followers.
The tradition argues—at length—about Korah’s sins. What did he do to merit such punishment?
The rabbis draw inferences. They reason: “Every dispute that is for the sake of heaven, will in the end endure; but one that is not for the sake of heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his followers.” (Pirke Avot 5)
When we argue with respect, when we debate so as to understand the truth standing in opposition to our own views, this is an argument for the sake of heaven, this is a controversy like that of the first century rabbis, Hillel and Shammai. When we argue, however, to destroy the opposition, when we debate so as to undermine others, these are controversies s like those of Korah and his followers.
In the rabbinic imagination, it was all about how Korah argued, and complained. In the rabbis’ estimation, it is very much about how we debate. Controversies can make the community better or they can destroy us.
Another tradition suggests Korah’s faults to be otherwise. Moses gives a hint at Korah’s sin when he says, “Do you then want the priesthood?” The tradition opines. Korah only wanted the prestige and honor of being a priest. He did not want the attendant duties and responsibilities.
Many people want honor. Few want the work that accompanies it.
Being a priest, or a politician, or a leader, or an actor, or a musician, or even a rabbi, is not so much about the prestige, but instead about the responsibilities.
History is filled with examples of rebellions, and countries led astray, by leaders who lust after the accolades, and pomp and circumstance of their positions, more than they pine after the duties to make the lives of others better.
This is what Moses teaches. This is what Korah forgets.
Leadership is supposed to be about others. It is supposed to be about lifting others up.
On the surface Korah’s complaints appear legitimate. He, and his followers, approach Moses and Aaron and say, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16)
This statement seems true. Judaism does not believe one person is holier than another. In fact, our greatest moments of holiness are achieved not when we stand alone but instead when we stand together. We require the voices of others to elevate our prayers. Moses does not hear Korah’s words as critiques but instead as threats.
He becomes distressed. Aaron becomes crestfallen. God becomes enraged. Korah and his followers are severely punished. The rebellion is mercilessly quashed. And so, the wrong, must be with Korah and his followers.
The tradition argues—at length—about Korah’s sins. What did he do to merit such punishment?
The rabbis draw inferences. They reason: “Every dispute that is for the sake of heaven, will in the end endure; but one that is not for the sake of heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his followers.” (Pirke Avot 5)
When we argue with respect, when we debate so as to understand the truth standing in opposition to our own views, this is an argument for the sake of heaven, this is a controversy like that of the first century rabbis, Hillel and Shammai. When we argue, however, to destroy the opposition, when we debate so as to undermine others, these are controversies s like those of Korah and his followers.
In the rabbinic imagination, it was all about how Korah argued, and complained. In the rabbis’ estimation, it is very much about how we debate. Controversies can make the community better or they can destroy us.
Another tradition suggests Korah’s faults to be otherwise. Moses gives a hint at Korah’s sin when he says, “Do you then want the priesthood?” The tradition opines. Korah only wanted the prestige and honor of being a priest. He did not want the attendant duties and responsibilities.
Many people want honor. Few want the work that accompanies it.
Being a priest, or a politician, or a leader, or an actor, or a musician, or even a rabbi, is not so much about the prestige, but instead about the responsibilities.
History is filled with examples of rebellions, and countries led astray, by leaders who lust after the accolades, and pomp and circumstance of their positions, more than they pine after the duties to make the lives of others better.
This is what Moses teaches. This is what Korah forgets.
Leadership is supposed to be about others. It is supposed to be about lifting others up.
The Promised Land Is in Your Soul
When God calls to Abraham and instructs him to set out on a journey to the Promised Land, God commands: “Lech lecha—Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12)
This week when God instructs Moses to send scouts to survey the Promised Land, God similarly commands: “Shelach lecha—Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people.” (Numbers 13)
In both instances the Hebrew is unusual and perhaps untranslatable. God literally states, “Go for yourself” and “Send for yourself.” Commentators note the peculiar wording and imagine novel explanations to justify this Hebrew phrasing.
One rabbinic midrash suggests that the command to Abraham was more about him finding himself than discovering a new land. Its author writes: “Go forth to find your authentic self, to learn who you are meant to be.” Is a promised land about its geographical contours or instead about unearthing some, hidden inner promise?
Is a journey, whether undertaken at God’s command or out of inner desire, about exploring new vistas or about discovering oneself?
This week we are confronted with a new question. What could Moses possibly find out about himself when commanding others to set out on a journey? He has been leading the people for years. He has been through countless tests. The people are given to lots of complaining, and rebelling (more about that in the weeks to come). This moment appears to produce an unlikely crisis of faith for our leader.
The midrash once again makes plain what the Hebrew only implies. It imagines God saying to Moses that this reconnaissance mission is more about Moses’ needs, and perhaps the people’s, rather than God’s. Our ancient rabbis fill in the gaps, found in between the Torah’s verses and write, “God seems to be saying, ‘I have you told you already that the land is good and that I will give it to you. If you need human confirmation of that, go ahead and send scouts.’”
And I wonder. Is finding oneself, and setting out on any journey, about confirming what God already intends for us or about charting some, new undiscovered territory hidden within our own soul?
This week when God instructs Moses to send scouts to survey the Promised Land, God similarly commands: “Shelach lecha—Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people.” (Numbers 13)
In both instances the Hebrew is unusual and perhaps untranslatable. God literally states, “Go for yourself” and “Send for yourself.” Commentators note the peculiar wording and imagine novel explanations to justify this Hebrew phrasing.
One rabbinic midrash suggests that the command to Abraham was more about him finding himself than discovering a new land. Its author writes: “Go forth to find your authentic self, to learn who you are meant to be.” Is a promised land about its geographical contours or instead about unearthing some, hidden inner promise?
Is a journey, whether undertaken at God’s command or out of inner desire, about exploring new vistas or about discovering oneself?
This week we are confronted with a new question. What could Moses possibly find out about himself when commanding others to set out on a journey? He has been leading the people for years. He has been through countless tests. The people are given to lots of complaining, and rebelling (more about that in the weeks to come). This moment appears to produce an unlikely crisis of faith for our leader.
The midrash once again makes plain what the Hebrew only implies. It imagines God saying to Moses that this reconnaissance mission is more about Moses’ needs, and perhaps the people’s, rather than God’s. Our ancient rabbis fill in the gaps, found in between the Torah’s verses and write, “God seems to be saying, ‘I have you told you already that the land is good and that I will give it to you. If you need human confirmation of that, go ahead and send scouts.’”
And I wonder. Is finding oneself, and setting out on any journey, about confirming what God already intends for us or about charting some, new undiscovered territory hidden within our own soul?
The Antisemitism Pandemic
For the first time in over a year, many of us now feel like we can see around the bend of the Covid-19 pandemic. Now, most especially that many of our children can get vaccinated, and that we can safely get together with friends, and family members, our sense of relief has grown. Light is emerging from around the corner. The plague that upended our lives appears to be ebbing. Just as we wearily begin to emerge from the shadow of this plague, another grows in ferocity.
Antisemitism has once again emerged with a renewed strength that caught many off guard. Whereas several years ago we saw its ugliness, and violence, emanating from the right, now it confronts us from the left. Let me be clear. Anti-Zionism easily morphs into violent antisemitism. Hatred of Israel quickly becomes antisemitic. The evidence lies before us—be it at a sushi restaurant in Los Angeles or a synagogue in New York. It is now especially incumbent upon those who call themselves liberal, progressive or Democrat to call out the antisemitism growing from within their ranks.
People always prefer to say, “Look at how bad they are,” rather than “Look at how we have gone wrong,” or, “Look at what we have allowed to fester.” People always prefer to point accusatory fingers at those who stand on the other side of the aisle while making excuses for those who share their political commitments. This is not how we must reckon with such a plague. Call out those who traffic in antisemitic tropes. Make clear that these most recent attacks on Jews, and Israel, are irreconcilable with liberal, progressive and Democratic values. This is what is called for at this moment and in this hour.
Of course, there are legitimate criticisms of Israel’s policies and Israel’s government...
Antisemitism has once again emerged with a renewed strength that caught many off guard. Whereas several years ago we saw its ugliness, and violence, emanating from the right, now it confronts us from the left. Let me be clear. Anti-Zionism easily morphs into violent antisemitism. Hatred of Israel quickly becomes antisemitic. The evidence lies before us—be it at a sushi restaurant in Los Angeles or a synagogue in New York. It is now especially incumbent upon those who call themselves liberal, progressive or Democrat to call out the antisemitism growing from within their ranks.
People always prefer to say, “Look at how bad they are,” rather than “Look at how we have gone wrong,” or, “Look at what we have allowed to fester.” People always prefer to point accusatory fingers at those who stand on the other side of the aisle while making excuses for those who share their political commitments. This is not how we must reckon with such a plague. Call out those who traffic in antisemitic tropes. Make clear that these most recent attacks on Jews, and Israel, are irreconcilable with liberal, progressive and Democratic values. This is what is called for at this moment and in this hour.
Of course, there are legitimate criticisms of Israel’s policies and Israel’s government...
Praying for Peace, Hoping for Unity
The familiar priestly blessing, contained in this week’s portion, states: “May the Lord bless you and keep you! May the light of the Lord’s face shine upon and be gracious to you! May Lord always be present in your life and grant you peace!” (Numbers 6)
In its original formulation it was a blessing offered by the ancient priests for the Jewish people. The Torah continues “Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: ‘The Lord bless you…’” The grammar appears incorrect. The “you” of the blessing is in the singular not the plural. Why would a blessing directed to “them” be formulated in the singular?
Rabbi Simhah Leib, a Hasidic rebbe, comments: “The priestly blessing is recited in the singular, because the most important blessing that the Jewish people can have is unity.”
I am leaning on his wisdom during these trying and difficult days when Jews shout and scream at one another. We hear, “You’re too critical of the State of Israel in its hour of need and urgency!” Or, “You’re too forgiving of Israel’s wrongs and missteps!”
People often mistake unity for agreement. A group can be unified but not always agree. Disagreements, passionate debates, are part of any healthy relationship or community. There must, however, be a unity of purpose and mission.
I wonder if we have lost this unified vision. And I wonder, if this is why we are no longer able to tolerate disagreements or abide criticisms. Losing sight of a shared mission creates disunity. Do we continue to share the belief that the purpose of leading a Jewish life is not only to teach children how to perform Jewish rituals or to make sure that each and every child has a bar or bat mitzvah, but to relieve the suffering we see in our broken world?
The purpose of the Jewish people’s survival is to make the world better. Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential.” He then continues, “We learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.”
The study of Torah, the path of Torah, is a means not an end.
That remains the vision I hold before my eyes. Elie Wiesel affirms, “The mission of the Jewish people has never been to make the world more Jewish, but to make it more human.” It is not just about us.
Can we ever fulfill such a grand vision if we remain divided about the nature and purpose of our existence?
Unity remains our most fervent prayer.
“May the Lord grant you peace.”
In its original formulation it was a blessing offered by the ancient priests for the Jewish people. The Torah continues “Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: ‘The Lord bless you…’” The grammar appears incorrect. The “you” of the blessing is in the singular not the plural. Why would a blessing directed to “them” be formulated in the singular?
Rabbi Simhah Leib, a Hasidic rebbe, comments: “The priestly blessing is recited in the singular, because the most important blessing that the Jewish people can have is unity.”
I am leaning on his wisdom during these trying and difficult days when Jews shout and scream at one another. We hear, “You’re too critical of the State of Israel in its hour of need and urgency!” Or, “You’re too forgiving of Israel’s wrongs and missteps!”
People often mistake unity for agreement. A group can be unified but not always agree. Disagreements, passionate debates, are part of any healthy relationship or community. There must, however, be a unity of purpose and mission.
I wonder if we have lost this unified vision. And I wonder, if this is why we are no longer able to tolerate disagreements or abide criticisms. Losing sight of a shared mission creates disunity. Do we continue to share the belief that the purpose of leading a Jewish life is not only to teach children how to perform Jewish rituals or to make sure that each and every child has a bar or bat mitzvah, but to relieve the suffering we see in our broken world?
The purpose of the Jewish people’s survival is to make the world better. Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential.” He then continues, “We learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.”
The study of Torah, the path of Torah, is a means not an end.
That remains the vision I hold before my eyes. Elie Wiesel affirms, “The mission of the Jewish people has never been to make the world more Jewish, but to make it more human.” It is not just about us.
Can we ever fulfill such a grand vision if we remain divided about the nature and purpose of our existence?
Unity remains our most fervent prayer.
“May the Lord grant you peace.”
The Heart Speaks Truth
The medieval poet Yehudah HaLevi writes: “L’bi b’mizrach v’anochi b’sof maarav—my heart is in the East and I am in the depths of the West.” His words were an expression of the unending Jewish attachment to Jerusalem and the land of Israel.
His poem captures my sentiments at this very moment. He speaks to my heart’s travails. My attachment is to the State of Israel. My worries are tied to my brothers and sisters in the land of Israel. I am nervous about Israel’s future. I mourn for those killed and pray for those injured—both Israelis and Palestinians.
My nephew, who is living and studying in northern Tel Aviv, spent the better part of the last two evenings in a bomb shelter. Countless friends, and acquaintances, have done the same. Others are deploying to this conflict’s front lines.
It is personal. I am a Jew. This is our Jewish home...
His poem captures my sentiments at this very moment. He speaks to my heart’s travails. My attachment is to the State of Israel. My worries are tied to my brothers and sisters in the land of Israel. I am nervous about Israel’s future. I mourn for those killed and pray for those injured—both Israelis and Palestinians.
My nephew, who is living and studying in northern Tel Aviv, spent the better part of the last two evenings in a bomb shelter. Countless friends, and acquaintances, have done the same. Others are deploying to this conflict’s front lines.
It is personal. I am a Jew. This is our Jewish home...
Reclaiming the Earth
A Missouri farmer offered these words of praise and reverence for the land he and his family farmed for their entire lives. “It’s the ground that can never be replaced. They don’t make any more ground, and this ground in the spillway is the best in the world.”
I wonder where his family now farms. Ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers dynamited a hole in the Mississippi river levee, flooding the spillway, in order to save a small town. In the process they sacrificed precious Missouri farmland.
Years ago, when my family and I used to boat on the mighty Mississippi we would marvel at the homes on the river’s banks. Why would people build on a flood plain? Every year the Mississippi river floods. Every year the river nourishes the surrounding farmlands. Some years the floods are greater than others. Precious farming land comes at great cost. Apparently, this is nature’s equation. And so, every year families must flee their homes. There is a pull of the land that defies reason.
There is the pull of an ancestral home that surpasses explanation. It is the sanctity of the land that pulls families toward it.
This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25) What is the purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land must be allowed to lie fallow?
Its purpose is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns the land. There is in truth no property ownership. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that everything, that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation, but instead a right that every living thing must enjoy. The land as well is a living and breathing creation.
The sabbatical year of the land should rekindle in us a reverence for the land. To be sure the Torah’s focus is the land of Israel and its inherent holiness. Nonetheless we learn that the earth sacred. And we must therefore regain a reverence for the land and nature. There is a majesty of the earth that is lost to many of our contemporaries. We appear only to revere nature’s awesome power. Hurricanes and floods remind us however not only of nature’s fury but also of its grandeur. The sabbatical year and the river’s flooding remind us about nature’s cycle that we try in vain to defy.
We must say as well, along with farmers, “The ground beneath our very feet is the best in the world.”
The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon once wrote:
Each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. It should not occur to us when the land is washed away by nature’s fury. We should recognize it and proclaim it each and every day.
I wonder where his family now farms. Ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers dynamited a hole in the Mississippi river levee, flooding the spillway, in order to save a small town. In the process they sacrificed precious Missouri farmland.
Years ago, when my family and I used to boat on the mighty Mississippi we would marvel at the homes on the river’s banks. Why would people build on a flood plain? Every year the Mississippi river floods. Every year the river nourishes the surrounding farmlands. Some years the floods are greater than others. Precious farming land comes at great cost. Apparently, this is nature’s equation. And so, every year families must flee their homes. There is a pull of the land that defies reason.
There is the pull of an ancestral home that surpasses explanation. It is the sanctity of the land that pulls families toward it.
This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25) What is the purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land must be allowed to lie fallow?
Its purpose is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns the land. There is in truth no property ownership. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that everything, that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation, but instead a right that every living thing must enjoy. The land as well is a living and breathing creation.
The sabbatical year of the land should rekindle in us a reverence for the land. To be sure the Torah’s focus is the land of Israel and its inherent holiness. Nonetheless we learn that the earth sacred. And we must therefore regain a reverence for the land and nature. There is a majesty of the earth that is lost to many of our contemporaries. We appear only to revere nature’s awesome power. Hurricanes and floods remind us however not only of nature’s fury but also of its grandeur. The sabbatical year and the river’s flooding remind us about nature’s cycle that we try in vain to defy.
We must say as well, along with farmers, “The ground beneath our very feet is the best in the world.”
The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon once wrote:
At times you imagine that you, too, are taking root in the soil that you are digging; like all that is growing around you are nurtured by the light of the sun’s rays with food from heaven. You feel that you, too, live a life in common with the tiniest blade of grass, with each flower, each tree; that you live deeply in the heart of nature, rising up from all and growing straight up into the expanse of the world.Gordon’s primary concern was the spiritual power to be found in working the land. But his lesson is still apt for our generation.
Each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. It should not occur to us when the land is washed away by nature’s fury. We should recognize it and proclaim it each and every day.