How We Treat Others Comes First
The Torah proclaims: “These are the statutes that you shall set before them.” (Exodus 21). This is then followed by a detailed list of commandments required to build a just and thriving society. For instance, the consequences for murder, manslaughter, kidnapping are stealing are addressed.
Here are a few more examples of the detailed laws enumerated in this week’s reading:
Too often people think that religion, and Hasidism most especially, is all about how we approach God. It is not. Instead, it is first and foremost about how we approach each other. Judaism reminds us, and I quite frequently do so as well, that if we don’t do that right, if we don’t treat other human beings with dignity and respect, then we really have no business coming before God.
This is why the laws about how to build civil (civilized?) society appear even before the Torah’s instructions for the building of the tabernacle. Judaism is not so much about what we do in the synagogue but instead how we speak, and treat, the person standing right by our side.
The synagogue is supposed to further that holy purpose. The building of a just society, whose foundation are the laws given in the Torah, is our foremost concern. All the prayers we might offer are really about strengthening that goal.
How we treat other people will always be what God is most concerned about.
And that is exactly what we should be most concerned about as well.
Here are a few more examples of the detailed laws enumerated in this week’s reading:
When a fire is started and spreads to thorns, so that stacked, standing, or growing grain is consumed, the person who started the fire must make restitution.The Hasidic rabbi, Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, comments: the portion’s opening verse that concludes with the words “before them” means the Torah teaches that civil law, namely the commandments between human beings and his or her fellow, come before anything else, before the mitzvot between human beings and God.
You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress a stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.
When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back to your enemy.
Too often people think that religion, and Hasidism most especially, is all about how we approach God. It is not. Instead, it is first and foremost about how we approach each other. Judaism reminds us, and I quite frequently do so as well, that if we don’t do that right, if we don’t treat other human beings with dignity and respect, then we really have no business coming before God.
This is why the laws about how to build civil (civilized?) society appear even before the Torah’s instructions for the building of the tabernacle. Judaism is not so much about what we do in the synagogue but instead how we speak, and treat, the person standing right by our side.
The synagogue is supposed to further that holy purpose. The building of a just society, whose foundation are the laws given in the Torah, is our foremost concern. All the prayers we might offer are really about strengthening that goal.
How we treat other people will always be what God is most concerned about.
And that is exactly what we should be most concerned about as well.
How we treat others precedes all else.
Blessed be the USA
Although the names given to the Torah portions convey little if anything about their content, it is fascinating to discover that this week’s reading, containing the revelation at Mount Sinai and the Ten Commandments, is named for Moses’ Midianite father-in-law, Yitro. Very few portions are even named for a person. They are Noah, Hayyei Sarah, Korah, Balak and Pinhas. Like Yitro, Noah and Balak are not Israelites. Noah, however, precedes the Torah’s division of the world into Israelite and non-Israelite.
Moreover, Balak and Yitro descend from Israel’s enemies. And yet both offer words of blessing. Balak provides us with the well-known morning prayer, Mah Tovu: “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel.” (Numbers 24) This week we read, “Yitro rejoiced over all the kindness that the Lord had shown Israel when God delivered them from the Egyptians. Yitro then said, ‘Blessed be the Lord.’” (Exodus 18)
Even though the ancient rabbis did not ascribe meaning to the names of the portions—they are mere locater words so that the portion can be found in the Torah scroll—this week we are made to wonder. Does their choice to begin the reading with the words, “And Yitro priest of Midian, Moses’ father-in-law, heard all that God had done...” imply greater meaning?
The medieval commentator Ibn Ezra suggests that Yitro’s recognition of God’s power comes to teach us that not every gentile is our enemy. Coming on the heels of Amalek’s attack on the Israelites this passage serves as a reminder that everyone is not like Amalek. The world is not divided into us and them, Israelites and Amalekites. Ibn Ezra writes, “Although there are Amaleks, there are also Yitros.”
Everyone is not our enemy. In fact, our seeming enemies can sometimes offer truths that we cannot even see in ourselves. Those who appear to be our enemies may in fact be our friends, and even our family. Is this the underlying message of Balak and Yitro? Is this what our ancient rabbis wish to convey by beginning the revelation at Mount Sinai with Yitro’s words?
I take notice. I heed their hidden exhortation. I reflect on our own age. When political affiliations appear to serve as people’s primary identification, we would do well to remember this timeless lesson. We are not Democrats and Republicans, but Americans. We are indeed one family. We are at our best when we can likewise affirm this.
Blessed be the United States of America.
“Blessed be the Lord.”
Moreover, Balak and Yitro descend from Israel’s enemies. And yet both offer words of blessing. Balak provides us with the well-known morning prayer, Mah Tovu: “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel.” (Numbers 24) This week we read, “Yitro rejoiced over all the kindness that the Lord had shown Israel when God delivered them from the Egyptians. Yitro then said, ‘Blessed be the Lord.’” (Exodus 18)
Even though the ancient rabbis did not ascribe meaning to the names of the portions—they are mere locater words so that the portion can be found in the Torah scroll—this week we are made to wonder. Does their choice to begin the reading with the words, “And Yitro priest of Midian, Moses’ father-in-law, heard all that God had done...” imply greater meaning?
The medieval commentator Ibn Ezra suggests that Yitro’s recognition of God’s power comes to teach us that not every gentile is our enemy. Coming on the heels of Amalek’s attack on the Israelites this passage serves as a reminder that everyone is not like Amalek. The world is not divided into us and them, Israelites and Amalekites. Ibn Ezra writes, “Although there are Amaleks, there are also Yitros.”
Everyone is not our enemy. In fact, our seeming enemies can sometimes offer truths that we cannot even see in ourselves. Those who appear to be our enemies may in fact be our friends, and even our family. Is this the underlying message of Balak and Yitro? Is this what our ancient rabbis wish to convey by beginning the revelation at Mount Sinai with Yitro’s words?
I take notice. I heed their hidden exhortation. I reflect on our own age. When political affiliations appear to serve as people’s primary identification, we would do well to remember this timeless lesson. We are not Democrats and Republicans, but Americans. We are indeed one family. We are at our best when we can likewise affirm this.
Blessed be the United States of America.
“Blessed be the Lord.”
The Dawn Is Up to Us
Our central prayer, the Shema is recited two times a day, once in the evening and again in the morning. The question arises how a person determines when it is evening and when morning. When is the first moment someone can recite the Shema, for example? Is it when we see the first glimmer of light, peering out of night’s darkness? The rabbis of the Talmud argue at length about this question.
One responds, when one can determine between the sky’s blue and white. Another retorts, when one can distinguish between two similar animals, such as a wolf and a dog. The sages respond, when one can recognize an acquaintance from a distance of four cubits (six feet!). Jewish law follows the sages’ majority opinion. (Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 9b).
Dawn is not about the glow of red and orange emerging at sunrise. Instead, it is about seeing, and in particular our seeing each other. The distinction between day and night is determined by our ability to see others. Darkness is not so much the absence of light but instead the inability to see friends and acquaintances.
This darkness was the evil that enveloped Egypt during the ninth plague. “Moses held out his arm toward the sky and thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days. People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where they sat; but the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.” (Exodus 10)
The ninth plague of darkness was not so much a punishment from God but instead a recognition of the evils the Egyptians brought upon themselves. They did not really see each other. With the exception of Pharaoh’s daughter who rescued Moses, the Egyptians did not see others, in particular the strangers among them, the Israelites.
They did not see the pain of others. The plague was a spiritual darkness.
At yesterday’s inauguration, Amanda Gorman, the young and extraordinarily talented poet, proclaimed:
The breaking of dawn is not about the sun. It is instead about us.
One responds, when one can determine between the sky’s blue and white. Another retorts, when one can distinguish between two similar animals, such as a wolf and a dog. The sages respond, when one can recognize an acquaintance from a distance of four cubits (six feet!). Jewish law follows the sages’ majority opinion. (Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 9b).
Dawn is not about the glow of red and orange emerging at sunrise. Instead, it is about seeing, and in particular our seeing each other. The distinction between day and night is determined by our ability to see others. Darkness is not so much the absence of light but instead the inability to see friends and acquaintances.
This darkness was the evil that enveloped Egypt during the ninth plague. “Moses held out his arm toward the sky and thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days. People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where they sat; but the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.” (Exodus 10)
The ninth plague of darkness was not so much a punishment from God but instead a recognition of the evils the Egyptians brought upon themselves. They did not really see each other. With the exception of Pharaoh’s daughter who rescued Moses, the Egyptians did not see others, in particular the strangers among them, the Israelites.
They did not see the pain of others. The plague was a spiritual darkness.
At yesterday’s inauguration, Amanda Gorman, the young and extraordinarily talented poet, proclaimed:
And yet the dawn is oursAnd I am renewed and likewise declare, lifting any plague is within our grasp. It is simply a matter of seeing one another and recognizing the pain in their eyes.
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
The breaking of dawn is not about the sun. It is instead about us.
We're on the Same Boat!
I have been thinking about the divisiveness we now face, and the unity that so clearly eludes us.
Looking back on our history, we tend to diminish disagreements, and naysayers, and amplify agreement, and even exaggerate cohesiveness. When we peer at the events of yesterday, we tend to forget the pain that separated us from our neighbors.
Think about how we retell our experience of going out from slavery in Egypt to freedom and wandering in the wilderness. And yet we read over and over again, that the people doubt Moses and even God. The Torah reports: “Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: ‘I am the Lord. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage….’ But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” (Exodus 6)
Once free, we spend the remainder of the Torah arguing and fighting with each other. Moses dies in the Torah’s last chapter, his dream of touching the land of Israel is left unfulfilled. We are then left peering into the Promised Land, hoping and praying for a more unified, and less divisive future.
That is how the Torah concludes. That is the Torah’s story. We retell it, however, in different fashion. We speak about the value of am echad, one people, struggling together, and as one, to reach their promise.
On Passover, we do not speak about the bitterness that divided us. Instead, we offer up words about Pharaoh’s oppression and God’s redemption. We mythologize our unity. We elevate our cohesiveness in the face of (outside) forces arrayed against us. (Perhaps it was inner forces that divided us all along.)
Even the rabbis who sanctify the value of machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven, who imagine how lofty disagreements can bring us closer to God, paper over the distaste competing rabbis must have had for each one another. The Talmud says: “For three years Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel disagreed!” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b) I wonder. Did rabbis Hillel and Shammai even talk to each other? Did they ever share a Shabbat meal? Or when finding themselves standing next to each other when the academy met, did they utter words of bewilderment about each other and exclaim, “I can’t believe he actually thinks that. What an idiot.”
Still our tradition offers this advice, “Every argument that is for the sake of heaven, it is destined to endure. But if it is not for the sake of heaven, it is not destined to endure. What is an example of an argument for the sake of heaven? The argument of Hillel and Shammai. (Pirke Avot 5)
History is much easier to read than to live. It is so much easier to write than to experience.
Divisiveness is a feature of each and every age. It appears with all its fire most especially when we pursue justice, when we attempt to right wrongs. One side then says in effect, “Our brethren have committed a wrong that must be rectified and must be held to account.”
Looking back on our history, we tend to diminish disagreements, and naysayers, and amplify agreement, and even exaggerate cohesiveness. When we peer at the events of yesterday, we tend to forget the pain that separated us from our neighbors.
Think about how we retell our experience of going out from slavery in Egypt to freedom and wandering in the wilderness. And yet we read over and over again, that the people doubt Moses and even God. The Torah reports: “Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: ‘I am the Lord. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage….’ But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” (Exodus 6)
Once free, we spend the remainder of the Torah arguing and fighting with each other. Moses dies in the Torah’s last chapter, his dream of touching the land of Israel is left unfulfilled. We are then left peering into the Promised Land, hoping and praying for a more unified, and less divisive future.
That is how the Torah concludes. That is the Torah’s story. We retell it, however, in different fashion. We speak about the value of am echad, one people, struggling together, and as one, to reach their promise.
On Passover, we do not speak about the bitterness that divided us. Instead, we offer up words about Pharaoh’s oppression and God’s redemption. We mythologize our unity. We elevate our cohesiveness in the face of (outside) forces arrayed against us. (Perhaps it was inner forces that divided us all along.)
Even the rabbis who sanctify the value of machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven, who imagine how lofty disagreements can bring us closer to God, paper over the distaste competing rabbis must have had for each one another. The Talmud says: “For three years Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel disagreed!” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b) I wonder. Did rabbis Hillel and Shammai even talk to each other? Did they ever share a Shabbat meal? Or when finding themselves standing next to each other when the academy met, did they utter words of bewilderment about each other and exclaim, “I can’t believe he actually thinks that. What an idiot.”
Still our tradition offers this advice, “Every argument that is for the sake of heaven, it is destined to endure. But if it is not for the sake of heaven, it is not destined to endure. What is an example of an argument for the sake of heaven? The argument of Hillel and Shammai. (Pirke Avot 5)
History is much easier to read than to live. It is so much easier to write than to experience.
Divisiveness is a feature of each and every age. It appears with all its fire most especially when we pursue justice, when we attempt to right wrongs. One side then says in effect, “Our brethren have committed a wrong that must be rectified and must be held to account.”
I have come to understand. Even though unity is desirable, and would certainly be most comforting, there may be times when it must be cast aside, when it should be pushed away. The price we pay when pursuing justice is the loss of unity.
To right wrongs we cannot be one.
The truth is that we never were one. Perhaps unity can only be achieved when we come to recognize this truth and take it to heart. Perhaps what holds us together are the thin bonds of a shared purpose.
Reverend Martin Luther King responds: “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”
And that is all the unity we can hope for: the recognition that, like it or not, recognize it or not, we are in this together. We will never agree, but we are indeed on the same boat riding through this storm together.
To right wrongs we cannot be one.
The truth is that we never were one. Perhaps unity can only be achieved when we come to recognize this truth and take it to heart. Perhaps what holds us together are the thin bonds of a shared purpose.
Reverend Martin Luther King responds: “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”
And that is all the unity we can hope for: the recognition that, like it or not, recognize it or not, we are in this together. We will never agree, but we are indeed on the same boat riding through this storm together.
It's Really About Character
Like so many proud Americans I was shocked and dismayed by Wednesday’s events. To see the Confederate flag marched through the Capital, rioters wearing Proud Boy slogans and QAnon paraphernalia, groups who traffic in conspiracy theories and antisemitism, to see people smashing the Capital’s windows, the mob desecrating the American flag and climbing Congress’ walls as if it were a jungle gym, to stare in disbelief as rioters vandalized our government’s sacred halls while senators and representatives scurried to safety, to read that people were killed and officers were injured and that one then died all on the day in which Congress was supposed to formally recognize the Electoral College votes and affirm Joseph Biden and Kamala Harris as our next president and vice-president, and finally, to hear President Trump’s earlier words exhorting the crowd to do such violence, was more than I could take. It was more than I could bear. Never was I more ashamed, and frightened to be an American.
The hallmark of our system is that we have elections, some of which are of course hotly contested, but when they are over one person is deemed as having gained more votes, whether they be elector or popular votes, and he or she is granted the privilege of serving as our president, vice-president, representative, senator, governor, town supervisor or whatever the office may be. The person who earns less votes then graciously concedes and the disappointed among us start working towards the next election and righting the wrongs they believe their political opponent will now unveil.Senator John McCain offered these words when Senator Barak Obama became President Elect Obama: “I would not be an American worthy of the name, should I regret a fate that has allowed me the extraordinary privilege of serving this country for a half a century. Today, I was a candidate for the highest office in the country I love so much. And tonight, I remain her servant. That is blessing enough for anyone and I thank the people of Arizona for it. Tonight — tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Sen. Obama, I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president.”
That is the system and that is how it is supposed to work. Until now. Until this year.
And so, when things go terribly wrong, I return to the values that I hold dear, I turn to the pages of our Jewish tradition. Here are the truths that Judaism has long preached about and which Wednesday laid bare how lacking we indeed are regarding these core values and how much we need to relearn these tenets.
First of all, there is a right way to argue and a wrong way. We call it machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven. We disagree but with respect for those holding opposing views. We do not vilify the other. We do not denigrate those who disagree with us or hold to different beliefs. We don’t call those with whom we disagree words like stupid or criminal. We believe disagreement sharpens our own arguments and betters our community and country. It is not about winning and losing. It is not about besting the other. It is about trying to figure out how we are going to go forward and that means how both the person I am arguing with and I are going to go forward together. That more than anything is what we have lost during these past years.
Leadership furthermore is about service. It is about devotion to the community. It is about dedication to everyone even, and perhaps most especially, those with whom the leader disagrees, and even vehemently disagrees. John McCain understood this. He embodied the idea that leadership begins with character and a devotion to serve others. It hinges on a clear sense of what is right and wrong. For too long we have papered over, and excused, the character flaws of President Trump. We have now seen what their fruits bear. I have always believed, and I would like to think, taught, that so much, if not all, begins and ends with character. It mattered when Bill Clinton was found lacking in his character and our nation then paid for it, and it matters even more now, with Donald Trump.
It appears to me that President Trump views the world, and most particularly his office, not as a matter of sacred service but instead, and you will forgive the metaphor, a candy jar. He sees the world not, as Judaism sees it, a divine blessing, in which we are intended to better, improve and most especially, relieve the suffering and imperfections we see around us, but instead a matter of what can be taken. “Let me grab what I want and what I can.” It is this broken world view that came crashing to a stop when the election results were finally tallied. If the world is only a candy jar from which I take what I deserve then receiving less votes than Joe Biden in the election becomes in such a worldview, not what can I learn from this moment, and how can I do better in the future, but instead look at the injustices done to me. Look at what they took away from me. And it is from here and this worldview that conspiracy theories are spun to explain away mistakes and opportunities for growth and learning and turned instead into injustices done to me by mysterious nefarious forces.
Listen to John McCain again when he spoke about the election loss. He said, “And though we fell short, the failure is mine, not yours.” So much of our precious democracy, and our system, rests on the concession of the losing party, and perhaps as well the graciousness of the victor. But I realize now that the seemingly mundane custom of the concession speech may be the more important and could very well be the foundation stone upon which this precarious system rests. We need the person who received less votes to say, “It was fair.” That’s what John McCain said as well, “My friends, we have come to the end of a long journey,” he said. “The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly.” That is what a true patriot says. That is how a person of character speaks. It is long past time making excuses for President Trump’s character flaws. We are paying dearly for them. They have invited antisemites, and conspiracy theorists, to crash down the doors of our nation’s sacred halls. Enough! And so now we must pledge, “Never forget the lessons of Wednesday, January 6th!”
Do we need as well another illustration of Judaism’s message about lashon harah, gossip? The worst kind is called motzi shem ra, the deliberate spreading of falsehoods. Words matter, our tradition reminds us. Words can cause injury. And they did just that on Wednesday. After weeks, and months, of spreading falsehoods that the election was somehow rigged, we saw how words can be transformed into bloodshed. Shame on all the leaders who joined in these efforts, or who remained silent for the past few months. Joe Biden will be our next president. That was determined, loud and clear, by Saturday, November 7th. All the talk about stolen elections and voting irregularities undermines this fragile project called, the United States of America. It may advance a momentary victory, it may further a political career, but in the end, it only further undermines our shared sense of commonality. Such talk invalidates this great, but imperfect, democracy. There really is only an us, and our shared commitment to the legitimacy of each and every vote. We desperately require leaders who will affirm this and say, “I may not have won but I believe in our system.”
Judaism counsels that small, seemingly innocent, lies can grow into outright falsehoods and that those falsehoods can quickly lead to violence and bloodshed. Look no farther than Wednesday for evidence of this truth. Senator Romney, whose politics I continue to disagree with but whose character I greatly admire, said: “We gather today due to a selfish man’s injured pride and the outrage of his supporters whom he has deliberately misinformed for the past two months and stirred to action this very morning. What happened here today was an insurrection, incited by the President of the United States. Those who choose to continue to support his dangerous gambit by objecting to the results of a legitimate, democratic election will forever be seen as being complicit in an unprecedented attack against our democracy.” It really is not about winners and losers. It is not about the spoils of victory or the stinging of defeat. It is about us, and that means all of us. When people truly devote themselves to service, to country, to community, or even to congregation, it is only about us and never about just me or just you.
And so, I close with what should now be abundantly clear, the words of one of my heroes, Senator John McCain, who taught us more about who we are in his moment of loss in the 2008 presidential election, than all his victories in senate elections. And that makes sense for a man whose character was tested, and perhaps even bettered, when imprisoned for years during the Vietnam War. McCain said: “Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that.”
And after this terribly dark and frightening week, it is this very association each of us must endeavor to reclaim. May God grant us the strength to do so.
Conspiracy Theories No More!
The Protocols of the Elders of Zion is an infamous antisemitic tract written in the early 20th century advancing the conspiracy theory that Jews seek to control the world through a secret cabal. Scholars have long suggested it was written in Russia around the time of deadly antisemitic pogroms in the early 1900’s.
In the 1920’s Henry Ford published 500,000 copies of this tract and distributed them throughout the United States to English reading audiences. Despite the fact that The Protocols of the Elders of Zion was long ago debunked, it continues to find audiences and sympathetic ears.
Today QAnon and its followers allege an equally outrageous conspiracy theory. A group of Satan worshiping pedophiles is running a sex-trafficking ring whose goal is the downfall of President Donald Trump. According to QAnon, among the ring’s followers are some Democratic leaders and liberal Hollywood actors who secretly meet in the basements of Washington DC pizza restaurants.
There are of course other debunked and discredited theories out there seeking to explain how nefarious forces stole what many people wanted to happen, namely the election of Donald Trump to a second term. The core belief of such theories is that there exists some mysterious all powerful other out to get the “good guys.” It is now painfully obvious that far too little is being done to protect us against these dangerous ideas.
As Jews we should know the deadliness of such conspiracy theories. Their dangers were on vivid display yesterday when a violent mob stormed the capital and delayed the work of Congress as they were meeting to sanctify the will of the majority of American voters. Shame on the leaders who encouraged them. Shame on the leaders who granted them the space to amplify their distorted views. Their actions sullied the reputation of every American. Let all our elected leaders stand with the institutions they serve, speaking truth against such insidious dissension and the kindling of violence.
Conspiracy theories cannot be refuted by facts...
In the 1920’s Henry Ford published 500,000 copies of this tract and distributed them throughout the United States to English reading audiences. Despite the fact that The Protocols of the Elders of Zion was long ago debunked, it continues to find audiences and sympathetic ears.
Today QAnon and its followers allege an equally outrageous conspiracy theory. A group of Satan worshiping pedophiles is running a sex-trafficking ring whose goal is the downfall of President Donald Trump. According to QAnon, among the ring’s followers are some Democratic leaders and liberal Hollywood actors who secretly meet in the basements of Washington DC pizza restaurants.
There are of course other debunked and discredited theories out there seeking to explain how nefarious forces stole what many people wanted to happen, namely the election of Donald Trump to a second term. The core belief of such theories is that there exists some mysterious all powerful other out to get the “good guys.” It is now painfully obvious that far too little is being done to protect us against these dangerous ideas.
As Jews we should know the deadliness of such conspiracy theories. Their dangers were on vivid display yesterday when a violent mob stormed the capital and delayed the work of Congress as they were meeting to sanctify the will of the majority of American voters. Shame on the leaders who encouraged them. Shame on the leaders who granted them the space to amplify their distorted views. Their actions sullied the reputation of every American. Let all our elected leaders stand with the institutions they serve, speaking truth against such insidious dissension and the kindling of violence.
Conspiracy theories cannot be refuted by facts...
Stand Up and Light the Hanukkah Candles
According to rabbinic legend Hanukkah celebrates the miracle of oil. After the Maccabees defeated the Syrian-Greek army and recaptured Jerusalem, they discovered the Temple desecrated. They decreed an eight-day rededication ceremony but found only enough holy oil to last for one day. Lo and behold, a miracle occurred, and the oil lasted for eight days.
Usually when we retell this story, we imagine the miracle growing brighter with each successive day. On each of the days of this dedication ceremony, the Maccabees must have expected the light to go out or at least the light to grow dimmer. Instead, the light kept burning. And so, the eighth day appears more miraculous than the first.
Yet, the more important, and perhaps even more miraculous, moment occurred on the first day when the light was first kindled. I imagine a debate ensued about whether or not to light that wick floating in the cup of olive oil. Some must have argued against its lighting. Others might have retorted, “Let’s light it anyway and see how long it lasts. Even if it lasts for one day, that will be good enough.” I doubt there were few, if any, who thought the oil would last all eight days or that there was enough oil to last much longer than a few days.
Despite this, someone had to stand up and light the oil. Even though no one knew what to expect, or what the future days might hold, someone kindled the light. Someone had the courage to light the Hanukkah lights on that first night even though evidence and reality argued against it.
It is going to be a hard winter. The news is increasingly dispiriting. We cannot travel as much as we might like or certainly as much as we did in past years. We cannot see all the family and friends with whom we usually gather in December. But we can still light these Hanukkah candles. We can summon the courage of that individual Jew who stood up and lit the oil even though others thought it would never last more than one day. Some most certainly argued why even bother.
Why bother? Because we need the lights.
We require such courage. We are in need of such faith.
This year most especially courage and faith seem in short supply. Is it as simple as standing up and lighting the candles? Yes.
Today we need to be like that individual who lit the first Hanukkah lights. That act represents not a denial of reality but courage and faith in the face of reality. The dangers are likewise real. Uncertainty and risk torment our souls. And yet we can summon the courage of yesteryear. We can rely on the faith of our ancestors.
We can affirm light and life despite darkness and fear.
We can relish in the love of family and friends.
Stand up and light the candles.
Usually when we retell this story, we imagine the miracle growing brighter with each successive day. On each of the days of this dedication ceremony, the Maccabees must have expected the light to go out or at least the light to grow dimmer. Instead, the light kept burning. And so, the eighth day appears more miraculous than the first.
Yet, the more important, and perhaps even more miraculous, moment occurred on the first day when the light was first kindled. I imagine a debate ensued about whether or not to light that wick floating in the cup of olive oil. Some must have argued against its lighting. Others might have retorted, “Let’s light it anyway and see how long it lasts. Even if it lasts for one day, that will be good enough.” I doubt there were few, if any, who thought the oil would last all eight days or that there was enough oil to last much longer than a few days.
Despite this, someone had to stand up and light the oil. Even though no one knew what to expect, or what the future days might hold, someone kindled the light. Someone had the courage to light the Hanukkah lights on that first night even though evidence and reality argued against it.
It is going to be a hard winter. The news is increasingly dispiriting. We cannot travel as much as we might like or certainly as much as we did in past years. We cannot see all the family and friends with whom we usually gather in December. But we can still light these Hanukkah candles. We can summon the courage of that individual Jew who stood up and lit the oil even though others thought it would never last more than one day. Some most certainly argued why even bother.
Why bother? Because we need the lights.
We require such courage. We are in need of such faith.
This year most especially courage and faith seem in short supply. Is it as simple as standing up and lighting the candles? Yes.
Today we need to be like that individual who lit the first Hanukkah lights. That act represents not a denial of reality but courage and faith in the face of reality. The dangers are likewise real. Uncertainty and risk torment our souls. And yet we can summon the courage of yesteryear. We can rely on the faith of our ancestors.
We can affirm light and life despite darkness and fear.
We can relish in the love of family and friends.
Stand up and light the candles.
The Blessings of 2020
Recently I started giving myself haircuts. (Bring on the jokes!) I soon realized that no one could tell the difference. And so, I declared I will never go to the barber again. 2020 is bringing more than its share of firsts. My 85-year-old father bought a Peloton. (And my mom bought the cycling shoes as well.) And, he will never again return to the gym for spin classes. I cook more and go out to restaurants far less. I am even thinking of growing my own vegetables in an indoor garden, but so far it is only some mint.
One day we will actually turn the corner and emerge on the other side of this pandemic. I pray that every one of us will emerge with our health intact and that we will not be so scarred that we will be unable to offer each other the hugs our spirits require. I wonder what changes will become permanent. Will family meals regain their exalted place in our homes? Will family movie nights, or game nights, become fixtures of our lives?
Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving will be unlike any other. And while I won’t miss the cursed traffic, I will miss the extended family members that usually gather with us and even the arguments about politics, theology and who best avoided New York’s traffic delays. I will miss the familiarity of it all, of how we never fail to eat more than we should and tell the same stories year after year.
This year, we have a choice to make.
And here it is. We can dwell on who is missing from our small gatherings. Crowds are both a distant memory and a far-off hope. (I really do miss seeing each and every one of you in person!). Or, we can focus on the new-found blessings we have discovered. Everything is smaller and more intimate. Can we rediscover the wonder, and enjoyment, that now sits before us? Will we offer blessings for the intimacy this year offers?
Among my favorite prayers is the almost never used blessing for a king or queen. Our rabbis authored these words to recite when seeing a ruler: “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe who grants a measure of divine glory to flesh and blood.” What is particularly remarkable about this blessing is that most, if not nearly all, of the kings and queens who ruled over the Jewish people did not deserve any blessings. They persecuted us. They expelled us. They tortured us. The list is quite long.
The rabbis reasoned, however, that it is better to be say blessings and shout praises to God. A soul that is filled with thanks and songs can never truly be subjugated. A spirit that offers blessings can never be defeated.
We have the power to make our own blessings.
Sometimes it is really hard to do—like now, like this year—but it is still within our grasp. History reminds us that we have been through worse. History teaches us that a victorious soul remains within our reach.
Make for yourself new blessings. Relish in them. Give thanks for them—however small and unusual they may seem in comparison to other years and other seasons. I learned how to cut my own hair.
Shout words of gratitude for this year’s blessings!
One day we will actually turn the corner and emerge on the other side of this pandemic. I pray that every one of us will emerge with our health intact and that we will not be so scarred that we will be unable to offer each other the hugs our spirits require. I wonder what changes will become permanent. Will family meals regain their exalted place in our homes? Will family movie nights, or game nights, become fixtures of our lives?
Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving will be unlike any other. And while I won’t miss the cursed traffic, I will miss the extended family members that usually gather with us and even the arguments about politics, theology and who best avoided New York’s traffic delays. I will miss the familiarity of it all, of how we never fail to eat more than we should and tell the same stories year after year.
This year, we have a choice to make.
And here it is. We can dwell on who is missing from our small gatherings. Crowds are both a distant memory and a far-off hope. (I really do miss seeing each and every one of you in person!). Or, we can focus on the new-found blessings we have discovered. Everything is smaller and more intimate. Can we rediscover the wonder, and enjoyment, that now sits before us? Will we offer blessings for the intimacy this year offers?
Among my favorite prayers is the almost never used blessing for a king or queen. Our rabbis authored these words to recite when seeing a ruler: “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe who grants a measure of divine glory to flesh and blood.” What is particularly remarkable about this blessing is that most, if not nearly all, of the kings and queens who ruled over the Jewish people did not deserve any blessings. They persecuted us. They expelled us. They tortured us. The list is quite long.
The rabbis reasoned, however, that it is better to be say blessings and shout praises to God. A soul that is filled with thanks and songs can never truly be subjugated. A spirit that offers blessings can never be defeated.
We have the power to make our own blessings.
Sometimes it is really hard to do—like now, like this year—but it is still within our grasp. History reminds us that we have been through worse. History teaches us that a victorious soul remains within our reach.
Make for yourself new blessings. Relish in them. Give thanks for them—however small and unusual they may seem in comparison to other years and other seasons. I learned how to cut my own hair.
Shout words of gratitude for this year’s blessings!
Thoughts on the Elections
Four years ago, I wrote: “Donald Trump will be our president. He is our nation’s choice. That does not mean we must remain silent—when we disagree. That also does not mean that we can say he is not my president if I did not vote for him. To respect our nation’s institutions means that we must accept the decision of our fellow Americans, even, or perhaps most especially when it is different than our own. I will not scream that the election results are unjust.”
Likewise, Americans should join me in saying, congratulations to President Elect Biden and Vice President Elect Harris. And in addition, we should offer thanks to President Trump and Vice President Pence. That is how we move forward. That is how we leave this increasingly dangerous hyper-partisanship behind us.
I acknowledge that some are happy and feeling vindicated by these election results and others are saddened and feeling robbed. My goal remains how best to move past the contentiousness and become more unified. (Read Friday evening’s sermon about my worries that we might tear ourselves apart if we continue to attack each other and forget how the system works, “Beware of Bringing the House Down.”)
I have come to understand that our democracy is far more fragile than I ever realized. I never knew how much it hinges on convention and character. There are no laws demanding that a sitting president concedes and pledges to work on a smooth transition.
What a missed leadership opportunity to echo Senator John McCain’s sentiment from twelve years ago when he spoke about the significance Barack Obama’s election had for African-Americans and when he silenced those who booed the president elect’s name. Imagine how faith and hope could be restored not just for 75 million voters but for Democrats and Republicans alike if President Trump would say, “This is an historic election, and I recognize the special significance it has for women and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight.” A woman has become Vice-President Elect! Then the tears of joy, and sense of pride, could be all of ours to share.
There are as well no rules insisting that an election’s victor offers thanks and praise to his predecessor. As much as Democrats might find the latter distasteful and Republicans the former egregious, our combined trust in America’s democratic institutions turns on these very customs and traits. No laws can serve as substitutes for character. Without this our faith is eroded.
Let me also say loudly and clearly that there is no such thing as an illegal vote in a democracy. There may be invalid votes but not illegal ones. The difference is crucial. The term illegal implies that the person does not have the right to vote. Invalid, however, suggests that there was something technically deficient in a voter’s ballot. Moreover, the outcome will not change no matter how many times we count the tallies. This is not a mere 500 vote difference as it was in 2000. The difference in Georgia, for example, is approximately 10,000 votes.
I did not argue against the election’s results four years ago despite the fact that I may have been angered by the discrepancy between the popular vote and the electoral college results. Four years ago, I argued that Democrats should refer to Donald Trump as our president. Now Republicans should and must do the same—for the sake of a unified country. Soon Joseph Biden will likewise be our president. To nurse a loss or gloat about a victory does not serve our nation. Have faith in those who worked, and in some cases volunteered, at polling stations, spending countless hours ushering us into voting booths and then tabulating these results. Every vote is precious, and every person counts the same. Embrace our system, however flawed and imperfect it is.
So, I remain grateful to President Trump for helping to make peace in the Middle East and for firing up the electorate, most especially our youth. Look at how many millions more voted in this election—and during a pandemic no less. Because of Donald Trump’s 2016 success few will argue that elections don’t matter or that people can rest easy, not get involved and not cast their vote. In addition, Trump won more votes in 2020 than Clinton in 2016. Nearly 10% more eligible voters voted in this election than in 2016. That is cause for celebration in a democracy. That is something in which every American can, and should, take pride.
I wish the system of voting and counting was the same throughout the country, but it is not. How each state’s residents vote and how their officials count is a patchwork of cumbersome laws, but this remains our system. Four years ago, I urged Democrats not to talk about the popular vote or even Russian interference. This year I exhort Republicans not to talk about illegal votes or a stolen election. Work to better the system not to disenfranchise voters. Focus on the 2024 elections. Start organizing now. That’s what the system is about. This is what makes America a thriving democracy.
I pray for a peaceful transition. I pray that President Elect Biden and Vice President Elect Harris will realize their promise of serving our entire nation.
I continue to pray for the day when Democrats and Republicans will unite in common purpose and service to our nation despite never resolving their ideological differences. Remain loyal to these philosophies. Compromise on policies.
I choose unity over divisiveness. I choose our nation over political affiliation.
Likewise, Americans should join me in saying, congratulations to President Elect Biden and Vice President Elect Harris. And in addition, we should offer thanks to President Trump and Vice President Pence. That is how we move forward. That is how we leave this increasingly dangerous hyper-partisanship behind us.
I acknowledge that some are happy and feeling vindicated by these election results and others are saddened and feeling robbed. My goal remains how best to move past the contentiousness and become more unified. (Read Friday evening’s sermon about my worries that we might tear ourselves apart if we continue to attack each other and forget how the system works, “Beware of Bringing the House Down.”)
I have come to understand that our democracy is far more fragile than I ever realized. I never knew how much it hinges on convention and character. There are no laws demanding that a sitting president concedes and pledges to work on a smooth transition.
What a missed leadership opportunity to echo Senator John McCain’s sentiment from twelve years ago when he spoke about the significance Barack Obama’s election had for African-Americans and when he silenced those who booed the president elect’s name. Imagine how faith and hope could be restored not just for 75 million voters but for Democrats and Republicans alike if President Trump would say, “This is an historic election, and I recognize the special significance it has for women and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight.” A woman has become Vice-President Elect! Then the tears of joy, and sense of pride, could be all of ours to share.
There are as well no rules insisting that an election’s victor offers thanks and praise to his predecessor. As much as Democrats might find the latter distasteful and Republicans the former egregious, our combined trust in America’s democratic institutions turns on these very customs and traits. No laws can serve as substitutes for character. Without this our faith is eroded.
Let me also say loudly and clearly that there is no such thing as an illegal vote in a democracy. There may be invalid votes but not illegal ones. The difference is crucial. The term illegal implies that the person does not have the right to vote. Invalid, however, suggests that there was something technically deficient in a voter’s ballot. Moreover, the outcome will not change no matter how many times we count the tallies. This is not a mere 500 vote difference as it was in 2000. The difference in Georgia, for example, is approximately 10,000 votes.
I did not argue against the election’s results four years ago despite the fact that I may have been angered by the discrepancy between the popular vote and the electoral college results. Four years ago, I argued that Democrats should refer to Donald Trump as our president. Now Republicans should and must do the same—for the sake of a unified country. Soon Joseph Biden will likewise be our president. To nurse a loss or gloat about a victory does not serve our nation. Have faith in those who worked, and in some cases volunteered, at polling stations, spending countless hours ushering us into voting booths and then tabulating these results. Every vote is precious, and every person counts the same. Embrace our system, however flawed and imperfect it is.
So, I remain grateful to President Trump for helping to make peace in the Middle East and for firing up the electorate, most especially our youth. Look at how many millions more voted in this election—and during a pandemic no less. Because of Donald Trump’s 2016 success few will argue that elections don’t matter or that people can rest easy, not get involved and not cast their vote. In addition, Trump won more votes in 2020 than Clinton in 2016. Nearly 10% more eligible voters voted in this election than in 2016. That is cause for celebration in a democracy. That is something in which every American can, and should, take pride.
I wish the system of voting and counting was the same throughout the country, but it is not. How each state’s residents vote and how their officials count is a patchwork of cumbersome laws, but this remains our system. Four years ago, I urged Democrats not to talk about the popular vote or even Russian interference. This year I exhort Republicans not to talk about illegal votes or a stolen election. Work to better the system not to disenfranchise voters. Focus on the 2024 elections. Start organizing now. That’s what the system is about. This is what makes America a thriving democracy.
I pray for a peaceful transition. I pray that President Elect Biden and Vice President Elect Harris will realize their promise of serving our entire nation.
I continue to pray for the day when Democrats and Republicans will unite in common purpose and service to our nation despite never resolving their ideological differences. Remain loyal to these philosophies. Compromise on policies.
I choose unity over divisiveness. I choose our nation over political affiliation.
Beware of Bringing the House Down
What follows is my sermon from Shabbat evening services, delivered the evening before Vice President Biden crossed the 270 electoral votes threshold.
On this evening, as we look out on the precipice of discovering who will serve as the president for the next four years, I wish to offer a reflection about our current divisions and urge us, once again, to work towards greater unity. I turn, as I always do, to the rabbis for guidance. Sometimes 2000-year-old stories are the best stories for today’s struggles. I wish to explore one of their most famous stories about community. It is the story of the oven of Aknai, contained in the Babylonian Talmud and told over and over again, most especially if you study at the Hartman Institute. Here is the story.
It all starts with a seemingly innocuous question of whether or not an oven is kosher. The Talmud begins. A question was asked: is the oven clean or unclean? Rabbi Eliezer of Hyrcanus, considered the greatest mind of his day, declared it clean. The other Sages ruled it unclean. Rabbi Eliezer would not accept the majority’s decree. He brought forward every imaginable argument. Still they would not accept his logic. “Even though the oven is constructed of individual tiles, the cement which binds it together makes it a single utensil and therefore liable to uncleanness,” the Sages ruled. They refused to accept Eliezer’s view.
Rabbi Eliezer became enraged and said: “If the law agrees with me let this carob tree prove it.” A miracle occurred and at that very instant a carob tree was uprooted from its place and moved 150 feet. Some say it moved 600 feet. (The Talmud often preserves debates within debates.) The Sages scoffed at Eliezer’s magic and declared: “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.” Eliezer became even more adamant and summoned all of his miraculous powers, saying: “If the law agrees with me, let this stream of water prove it.” Thereupon the stream of water flowed backwards. “No proof can be brought from a stream of water,” the Sages rejoined. He screamed: “If the law agrees with me, let the walls of the academy prove it.” The Sages looked up in alarm as the walls began to fall in. Rabbi Joshua ben Hanina, however, rebuked the walls saying: “When scholars are engaged in a legal dispute you have no right to interfere and take sides!” Thereupon the walls stopped falling.
This only further incensed Eliezer and he turned toward heaven and cried: “If the law agrees with me, let it be proven from heaven.” A voice from heaven (a bat kol) responded: “Why do the Sages dispute with Rabbi Eliezer seeing that the law should agree with him?” Rabbi Joshua then jumped out of his seat and with passion and even some fury, quoted the Torah and screamed: “Lo ba-shamayim hi! Lo ba-shamayim hi! Lo ba-shamayim hi! It is not in the heavens! It is not in the heavens! It is not in the heavens!” (Deuteronomy 30:12) What did Rabbi Joshua mean by this? Rabbi Jeremiah answered: “Since the Torah has already been given at Mount Sinai, we pay no attention to a voice from heaven.”
The law follows the majority even when God sides with the minority. God gave us minds with which to reason and faculties with which to discern the truth. Miracles only distract us from this holy task. We do not hear God’s voice through our ears or see God’s miracles with our eyes but instead discern God’s truth through eyes open to studying the law and ears attuned to our friend’s wisdom.
Given the stubbornness of Eliezer’s position, the rabbis felt they had no choice and voted to ostracize him. The great Rabbi Akiva was given the sorry task of informing his beloved teacher of the council’s vote. Rabbi Akiva donned a black garment and sat at a distance from his teacher and said, “My rabbi, I think your colleagues have abandoned you.” Upon hearing this Eliezer tore his garments, sat on the ground and wept bitterly. And it is said that his sorrow was so great that his gaze wilted everything his eyes fell upon and even caused the seas to storm. (Babylonian Talmud Bava Metzia 59b)
I share this story, on this occasion, because it illustrates something we desperately need to remind ourselves of over and over again. There are right ways to argue and there are wrong ways. Of course, I don’t expect that this story is trying to tell us that some people can summon miracles to support their positions. I read the Talmud’s story and its portrayal of Eliezer more about a rejection of how he argued. He was an extraordinarily talented and learned rabbi. But his opinion about this oven remained his own solitary opinion. He was unable to convince others of what he believed. The majority voted about the issue of the day. All the ranting and raving and screaming, “How can you not see it the way I do? How can you think what you think?” will not change the mechanism of how a community, or in our case, a country, must function. The majority votes and the majority of voters, albeit in our case in each of our fifty states, determines who will serve as our president.
The moral of our tale is not that we can best even God with our reasoning and erudition or in this week’s Torah portion, argue with God like Abraham does. It is instead that Eliezer’s screaming, Eliezer’s willingness to bring the walls of the study house down forced the community to cast him aside. It is not to say that the community, and country, cannot, and should not, sustain arguments and disagreements. We need these. We desperately need them so that we can best figure out how to overcome the challenges of our day. But we must never argue like we want to tear the community apart. Eliezer was willing to destroy everything, including all of his colleagues, in order to prove he was right. That is not loving a community. That is not arguing so that you can better understand how your friend thinks. That is seeing being right as the end rather than the betterment of the community or the country.
In our sacred, but fragile, democracy everyone’s opinion is valued and counted. Soon, half of us will be happy, and half of us will be saddened. Unless all of us can see this not as “I won and you lost,” but as “We won because every voice was counted and every vote was tabulated,” we will suffer the same fate as Rabbi Eliezer. The system only works if we believe in it. Democracy can only be upheld by our faith not just in my vote but in your vote and everyone’s vote. Otherwise we will end up shunned like Eliezer and mourning like Akiva. And then, I fear, the world will see similar disasters: everything will likewise wilt, and the seas will once again become tempests. Yes, it does very much begin with how we argue. It does start with a seemingly mundane disagreement over something as small as an oven.
The way forward is through unity. I offer this prayer once again. May the person who recites the oath of president of these United States in January, come to recognize that the way forward is indeed through unity, and the way out of despair is to argue as if your life, and the wellbeing of the nation, depends on both the justness of your convictions and the love of your (disagreeing) friend.
And may Rabbi Eliezer’s fate not become our own. May we remain forever on guard never to allow a Rabbi Eliezer to tear our house down.
On this evening, as we look out on the precipice of discovering who will serve as the president for the next four years, I wish to offer a reflection about our current divisions and urge us, once again, to work towards greater unity. I turn, as I always do, to the rabbis for guidance. Sometimes 2000-year-old stories are the best stories for today’s struggles. I wish to explore one of their most famous stories about community. It is the story of the oven of Aknai, contained in the Babylonian Talmud and told over and over again, most especially if you study at the Hartman Institute. Here is the story.
It all starts with a seemingly innocuous question of whether or not an oven is kosher. The Talmud begins. A question was asked: is the oven clean or unclean? Rabbi Eliezer of Hyrcanus, considered the greatest mind of his day, declared it clean. The other Sages ruled it unclean. Rabbi Eliezer would not accept the majority’s decree. He brought forward every imaginable argument. Still they would not accept his logic. “Even though the oven is constructed of individual tiles, the cement which binds it together makes it a single utensil and therefore liable to uncleanness,” the Sages ruled. They refused to accept Eliezer’s view.
Rabbi Eliezer became enraged and said: “If the law agrees with me let this carob tree prove it.” A miracle occurred and at that very instant a carob tree was uprooted from its place and moved 150 feet. Some say it moved 600 feet. (The Talmud often preserves debates within debates.) The Sages scoffed at Eliezer’s magic and declared: “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.” Eliezer became even more adamant and summoned all of his miraculous powers, saying: “If the law agrees with me, let this stream of water prove it.” Thereupon the stream of water flowed backwards. “No proof can be brought from a stream of water,” the Sages rejoined. He screamed: “If the law agrees with me, let the walls of the academy prove it.” The Sages looked up in alarm as the walls began to fall in. Rabbi Joshua ben Hanina, however, rebuked the walls saying: “When scholars are engaged in a legal dispute you have no right to interfere and take sides!” Thereupon the walls stopped falling.
This only further incensed Eliezer and he turned toward heaven and cried: “If the law agrees with me, let it be proven from heaven.” A voice from heaven (a bat kol) responded: “Why do the Sages dispute with Rabbi Eliezer seeing that the law should agree with him?” Rabbi Joshua then jumped out of his seat and with passion and even some fury, quoted the Torah and screamed: “Lo ba-shamayim hi! Lo ba-shamayim hi! Lo ba-shamayim hi! It is not in the heavens! It is not in the heavens! It is not in the heavens!” (Deuteronomy 30:12) What did Rabbi Joshua mean by this? Rabbi Jeremiah answered: “Since the Torah has already been given at Mount Sinai, we pay no attention to a voice from heaven.”
The law follows the majority even when God sides with the minority. God gave us minds with which to reason and faculties with which to discern the truth. Miracles only distract us from this holy task. We do not hear God’s voice through our ears or see God’s miracles with our eyes but instead discern God’s truth through eyes open to studying the law and ears attuned to our friend’s wisdom.
Given the stubbornness of Eliezer’s position, the rabbis felt they had no choice and voted to ostracize him. The great Rabbi Akiva was given the sorry task of informing his beloved teacher of the council’s vote. Rabbi Akiva donned a black garment and sat at a distance from his teacher and said, “My rabbi, I think your colleagues have abandoned you.” Upon hearing this Eliezer tore his garments, sat on the ground and wept bitterly. And it is said that his sorrow was so great that his gaze wilted everything his eyes fell upon and even caused the seas to storm. (Babylonian Talmud Bava Metzia 59b)
I share this story, on this occasion, because it illustrates something we desperately need to remind ourselves of over and over again. There are right ways to argue and there are wrong ways. Of course, I don’t expect that this story is trying to tell us that some people can summon miracles to support their positions. I read the Talmud’s story and its portrayal of Eliezer more about a rejection of how he argued. He was an extraordinarily talented and learned rabbi. But his opinion about this oven remained his own solitary opinion. He was unable to convince others of what he believed. The majority voted about the issue of the day. All the ranting and raving and screaming, “How can you not see it the way I do? How can you think what you think?” will not change the mechanism of how a community, or in our case, a country, must function. The majority votes and the majority of voters, albeit in our case in each of our fifty states, determines who will serve as our president.
The moral of our tale is not that we can best even God with our reasoning and erudition or in this week’s Torah portion, argue with God like Abraham does. It is instead that Eliezer’s screaming, Eliezer’s willingness to bring the walls of the study house down forced the community to cast him aside. It is not to say that the community, and country, cannot, and should not, sustain arguments and disagreements. We need these. We desperately need them so that we can best figure out how to overcome the challenges of our day. But we must never argue like we want to tear the community apart. Eliezer was willing to destroy everything, including all of his colleagues, in order to prove he was right. That is not loving a community. That is not arguing so that you can better understand how your friend thinks. That is seeing being right as the end rather than the betterment of the community or the country.
In our sacred, but fragile, democracy everyone’s opinion is valued and counted. Soon, half of us will be happy, and half of us will be saddened. Unless all of us can see this not as “I won and you lost,” but as “We won because every voice was counted and every vote was tabulated,” we will suffer the same fate as Rabbi Eliezer. The system only works if we believe in it. Democracy can only be upheld by our faith not just in my vote but in your vote and everyone’s vote. Otherwise we will end up shunned like Eliezer and mourning like Akiva. And then, I fear, the world will see similar disasters: everything will likewise wilt, and the seas will once again become tempests. Yes, it does very much begin with how we argue. It does start with a seemingly mundane disagreement over something as small as an oven.
The way forward is through unity. I offer this prayer once again. May the person who recites the oath of president of these United States in January, come to recognize that the way forward is indeed through unity, and the way out of despair is to argue as if your life, and the wellbeing of the nation, depends on both the justness of your convictions and the love of your (disagreeing) friend.
And may Rabbi Eliezer’s fate not become our own. May we remain forever on guard never to allow a Rabbi Eliezer to tear our house down.
Every Vote Counts
Never before have I spent so much time coloring in circles and making sure that my pen never once went outside the lines of the bubbles and that each was perfectly painted in black. Never before have I felt that an election matters more or that my vote was so consequential. Such were the feelings that accompanied me as I entered the voting booth.
Our democracy is surprisingly fragile and yet remarkably durable. It has survived many tumultuous episodes, the Civil War and Vietnam War come to mind.
It is also far more fragile than anyone cares to admit. It depends on the belief that each of our votes matter and that each and every vote counts. And while states have the right to determine the rules by which they tabulate the results, every ballot must be counted. It is this tenet that binds us together, whether we call ourselves Democrats, Republicans or Independents.
Let no one declare that votes should not be counted. Let no one proclaim victory before every vote is recorded.
Each of us entered the voting booth, or sealed the envelope weeks ago, believing that the future of our country rides on the results of this election. Regardless if one voted for President Trump or Vice President Biden all appear to agree that their vote was a matter of saving the republic from the dangers of the other side. It is a remarkable, and somewhat frightening, thing that despite our political affiliations everyone seems to agree that victory for the other side will doom the country.
Come the day (may it be very soon!) that Biden or Trump wins the presidential election, half of the country will rejoice, and the other half will mourn. And that fact remains one of my greatest worries. We are divided and polarized. I recognize this is not an insightful or revelatory observation, but I wonder how are we going to rally together to fight this current pandemic, or any of the many other looming challenges, if half the country will be devastated by the election’s results and believes the country is doomed because their guy did not win?
I believe. The most important, and consequential, way to fight a life-threatening, and world shattering, crisis and is through unity.
We can of course argue about how we arrived at this point. Watch “The Social Dilemma” if you want to place blame with social media. Listen to the shouting and screaming on cable news if you want to discover more evidence of how we talk past each other rather than to each other. There is indignation, and vitriol, sitting before you on your computer or TV screen. Walk around any corner and you will find it. And while I too have offered indignation aplenty, on this occasion I wonder more about how such attitudes are tearing at the fragile threads binding us together.
So, let the unity begin here with us. Let us resolve to argue with friends, and even family, not to convince them how wrong they are but to understand what they think and why they believe different than we do. I wish to imagine a world where we argue not to convince or level judgement but to understand.
Sure, vote as if the other side is misguided and the life of our country depends on your guy wining. Talk to friends, however, as if your life depended on their love. Sure, protest as if the other side is dangerous and destructive. But sit down with friends, most especially those with whom you disagree as if your community, and country, cannot withstand the end of your friendship.
Our tradition elevates argument to the level of the holy. Abraham even argued with God for the sake of the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah. (Genesis 18) The rabbis called such disagreements as machloket l’shem shamayim. This is translated as argument for the sake of heaven and understood to mean that we must always argue with heaven in mind. We argue to understand the other. We argue to better ourselves and sharpen our opinions, as well as the commitments of our ideological foes. Disagreement does not make someone an enemy.
It instead means this is someone from whom I can learn.
I recognize how difficult this attitude can be, especially as we anxiously await the election results. And I do not proclaim myself to be a saint, empty of partisan commitments, devoid of exasperation with my ideological foes, and renouncing of indignation with my political opponents. I do however proclaim this commitment. The way forward is through unity.
The way forward is to reclaim our heritage, to argue with each other while loving each other.
I pray. May the person who recites the oath as president of these United States come January, come to recognize that the way forward is through unity, and the way out of despair is to argue as if your life, and the wellbeing of the nation, is dependent both on the justness of your convictions and the love of your disagreeing friend.
Our democracy is surprisingly fragile and yet remarkably durable. It has survived many tumultuous episodes, the Civil War and Vietnam War come to mind.
It is also far more fragile than anyone cares to admit. It depends on the belief that each of our votes matter and that each and every vote counts. And while states have the right to determine the rules by which they tabulate the results, every ballot must be counted. It is this tenet that binds us together, whether we call ourselves Democrats, Republicans or Independents.
Let no one declare that votes should not be counted. Let no one proclaim victory before every vote is recorded.
Each of us entered the voting booth, or sealed the envelope weeks ago, believing that the future of our country rides on the results of this election. Regardless if one voted for President Trump or Vice President Biden all appear to agree that their vote was a matter of saving the republic from the dangers of the other side. It is a remarkable, and somewhat frightening, thing that despite our political affiliations everyone seems to agree that victory for the other side will doom the country.
Come the day (may it be very soon!) that Biden or Trump wins the presidential election, half of the country will rejoice, and the other half will mourn. And that fact remains one of my greatest worries. We are divided and polarized. I recognize this is not an insightful or revelatory observation, but I wonder how are we going to rally together to fight this current pandemic, or any of the many other looming challenges, if half the country will be devastated by the election’s results and believes the country is doomed because their guy did not win?
I believe. The most important, and consequential, way to fight a life-threatening, and world shattering, crisis and is through unity.
We can of course argue about how we arrived at this point. Watch “The Social Dilemma” if you want to place blame with social media. Listen to the shouting and screaming on cable news if you want to discover more evidence of how we talk past each other rather than to each other. There is indignation, and vitriol, sitting before you on your computer or TV screen. Walk around any corner and you will find it. And while I too have offered indignation aplenty, on this occasion I wonder more about how such attitudes are tearing at the fragile threads binding us together.
So, let the unity begin here with us. Let us resolve to argue with friends, and even family, not to convince them how wrong they are but to understand what they think and why they believe different than we do. I wish to imagine a world where we argue not to convince or level judgement but to understand.
Sure, vote as if the other side is misguided and the life of our country depends on your guy wining. Talk to friends, however, as if your life depended on their love. Sure, protest as if the other side is dangerous and destructive. But sit down with friends, most especially those with whom you disagree as if your community, and country, cannot withstand the end of your friendship.
Our tradition elevates argument to the level of the holy. Abraham even argued with God for the sake of the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah. (Genesis 18) The rabbis called such disagreements as machloket l’shem shamayim. This is translated as argument for the sake of heaven and understood to mean that we must always argue with heaven in mind. We argue to understand the other. We argue to better ourselves and sharpen our opinions, as well as the commitments of our ideological foes. Disagreement does not make someone an enemy.
It instead means this is someone from whom I can learn.
I recognize how difficult this attitude can be, especially as we anxiously await the election results. And I do not proclaim myself to be a saint, empty of partisan commitments, devoid of exasperation with my ideological foes, and renouncing of indignation with my political opponents. I do however proclaim this commitment. The way forward is through unity.
The way forward is to reclaim our heritage, to argue with each other while loving each other.
I pray. May the person who recites the oath as president of these United States come January, come to recognize that the way forward is through unity, and the way out of despair is to argue as if your life, and the wellbeing of the nation, is dependent both on the justness of your convictions and the love of your disagreeing friend.
Look in the Mirror: We Can Do Better!
My sermon "The Need for Soul Searching" from Yom Kippur evening also appears in The Times of Israel.
The glass mirror before which we spend a good deal of our time as we prepare to venture out into the world or these days, present ourselves on Zoom, was invented in the early 1300’s. Prior to this people polished precious metals that only gave them an inkling of how they appeared to others. Imagine looking at your reflection in the waters of a lake. This gives you a rough approximation of how you might appear in ancient mirrors. Glass mirrors by contrast offer an accurate measure of how others see us. We stand before the mirror and ask ourselves if our grey hairs are showing or the outfit we are wearing is flattering to our figures or prior to that Zoom call, do we have any food stuck in between our teeth.
I have been thinking about mirrors and the technological leap they represent. Seeing ourselves more accurately, being able to hold a mirror so close to our faces that we can glimpse even our pores, helped to give rise first to an explosion of portrait painting and now to a heightened sense of individual rights. For our ancient rabbis, from whom we draw inspiration and wisdom, the mirror was not like our mirror. It was only an approximation of our appearance. And so, they saw our reflection more in how we behaved toward others rather than how we looked. For them the mirror was not about appearance but instead about how we acted. Our hands, when doing good, became a reflection of the divine image with which each of us is created.
And so, during this season of repentance, I wish to look into their mirror and ask ourselves some difficult questions. Yom Kippur is devoted to heshbon hanefesh, self-examination and soul searching. This fundamental Jewish value is central to strengthening our souls. As difficult as it is, this soul searching, and self-examination offers needed medicine for this difficult and trying year. We stand before God and admit our errors. We make amends for our wrongs. We say, “Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu…. We are guilty.” We beat our chests and proclaim, “We have gone astray.” Although I have done plenty of wrongs and you have also committed errors, we never say it like that. It is always, we. “Al cheyt shechatanu… for the sin we have sinned.” And so, on this day soul searching is not an individual undertaking as much as it is a communal confession. How can we do better? What must we change?
The glass mirror before which we spend a good deal of our time as we prepare to venture out into the world or these days, present ourselves on Zoom, was invented in the early 1300’s. Prior to this people polished precious metals that only gave them an inkling of how they appeared to others. Imagine looking at your reflection in the waters of a lake. This gives you a rough approximation of how you might appear in ancient mirrors. Glass mirrors by contrast offer an accurate measure of how others see us. We stand before the mirror and ask ourselves if our grey hairs are showing or the outfit we are wearing is flattering to our figures or prior to that Zoom call, do we have any food stuck in between our teeth.
I have been thinking about mirrors and the technological leap they represent. Seeing ourselves more accurately, being able to hold a mirror so close to our faces that we can glimpse even our pores, helped to give rise first to an explosion of portrait painting and now to a heightened sense of individual rights. For our ancient rabbis, from whom we draw inspiration and wisdom, the mirror was not like our mirror. It was only an approximation of our appearance. And so, they saw our reflection more in how we behaved toward others rather than how we looked. For them the mirror was not about appearance but instead about how we acted. Our hands, when doing good, became a reflection of the divine image with which each of us is created.
And so, during this season of repentance, I wish to look into their mirror and ask ourselves some difficult questions. Yom Kippur is devoted to heshbon hanefesh, self-examination and soul searching. This fundamental Jewish value is central to strengthening our souls. As difficult as it is, this soul searching, and self-examination offers needed medicine for this difficult and trying year. We stand before God and admit our errors. We make amends for our wrongs. We say, “Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu…. We are guilty.” We beat our chests and proclaim, “We have gone astray.” Although I have done plenty of wrongs and you have also committed errors, we never say it like that. It is always, we. “Al cheyt shechatanu… for the sin we have sinned.” And so, on this day soul searching is not an individual undertaking as much as it is a communal confession. How can we do better? What must we change?
The Need for Perserving Life
What follows is my sermon from Yom Kippur morning.
Part 3 in our return to Jewish values series. Preserving life—pikuach nefesh.Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of the Mussar movement which emphasizes personal ethics and the importance of refining one’s character, was a leading thinker in nineteenth century Lithuania. Beginning in 1846, the world faced a cholera pandemic that spanned nearly fifteen years. He was still a young scholar at the time, when the epidemic first reached Vilna. He decided to focus all of his energies on saving lives. He argued, and as Judaism teaches, pikuach nefesh—the preserving of life—takes precedence over all other commandments, most especially ritual observances. He enlisted his students to help care for the sick. He rented a building that served as a makeshift hospital for 1500 people. He became enraged when his fellow rabbis argued that Shabbat and holiday observances should take precedence over health measures.
He publicly declared that everyone should listen to doctors first and foremost. When physicians advised people that they should not fast on Yom Kippur because that might weaken them and make them more susceptible to disease, Rabbi Salanter did the most dramatic thing of all. He issued a ruling that said every Jew should eat on Yom Kippur. He did not stop there. Afraid that people would not heed his advice, he traveled from synagogue to synagogue on Yom Kippur morning, with wine and cake in hand, recited the kiddush and then ate in front of everyone. Some reports suggest that Salanter did not leave each synagogue until he was sure everyone had also eaten.
And so, this year’s decision to hold services online and not in person was easy. Of course, it was emotionally difficult. We miss each other. We miss being together. But from the perspective of Jewish law and the guidance it affords, the decision was easy. Health takes precedence. I am even tempted to take out a pastrami sandwich and eat it on this Yom Kippur to add an exclamation point to this teaching. Health is first and foremost.
Moses Maimonides, the great medieval thinker—he wrote books of philosophy and law— illustrated this point in a different manner. He was also by the way a physician. If, on Yom Kippur, someone says, “I am too sick to fast,” and doctors examine the person and determine, “It’s all in his head. She is healthy enough to fast,” and the person still proclaims, “I am too sick to fast. I must eat,” ignore the doctors and listen to the person. He rules, it is better to err on the side of caution. It is better to be extra careful when determining matters of health. The observance of the holiday takes second place to health. Pikuach nefesh wins.
I could offer plenty more examples from our tradition, of instances where Judaism says in effect, “Break Shabbat for the sake of saving life.” Judaism is crystal clear about this despite how some Jews presently behave.
The tradition goes even further. We are commanded not simply to choose our health over the demands of Jewish ritual, but to care for others. The Torah states: “Lo taamod al dam reacha.” This is usually translated as “Do not stand by the blood of your neighbor.” Judaism understands this verse, as well as others, to mean that we have an obligation to save someone’s life. Do not stand idly by. We are not allowed to walk by when we see someone in danger. Do not look away when someone’s health is in jeopardy. We have to try to help. We have to at least call EMS. We are not allowed to say, “It’s not my problem. Or, it’s not my business.” The health and safety of others is very much our business and our mitzvah. To be even more dramatic, if you see someone struggling to swim and in danger of drowning, you cannot say, “I don’t know how to swim. Or, I don’t know her. Or, he should not have been swimming in the first place. Or, they are not Jewish.” Instead we are commanded to ask, “What can I do to help?” It is as simple as that. You have to help save a life. You have to help preserve life.
One of the things that is most striking about our response to our current pandemic is the newfound realization that our health is dependent on the health of others. If the person standing next to me in the supermarket cannot afford to get proper health care, then my health is impacted. If people standing next to me at the gym decide that the rules of social distancing are too cumbersome and limiting for them, then my health might be put at risk. If people sitting to my right and my left at the restaurant now seating 25% of its occupancy feel that the rules about wearing masks are some infringement on their individual liberties, then my health is potentially endangered. Never have we had such a glaring example that even though I may have access to the best doctors, and I may follow all of the state’s guidelines, my health and well-being is tied to everyone else’s health. Rich and poor, law abiding and law evading, are bound to one another in one single family of people.
Lo taamod al dam reacha—you shall not stand by the blood of your neighbor. We are commanded to care for others. The health of every human beings must become each and everyone’s concern. Our individual soul’s heath is dependent on the health of other souls. The pandemic should offer us a great unifying cry rather than divide us into class and sects, New Yorkers and Texans. We are in this together, whether we recognize it or not. And we are in this for some time. And so, we must exercise resolve. Don’t let your guard down. Why? Because other people’s lives are in your hands. Wearing masks when you are in situations in which you are going to bump into others—whether they be family, friends, or strangers, staying home if you have a fever, not congregating in large groups is about the health and safety of everyone. My health, your health is the community’s responsibility. This is our God-given duty.
Part of the reason why we are so divided is that we are not all doctors like Maimonides or trusting of experts like Salanter. Scientists and physicians should be taking the lead. Listen to the scientific consensus. The bubbe meises to which some of our brethren cling (look no farther than Brooklyn) will not help to lift us up out of this plague. Lo taamod al dam reacha! Care for one another as if your own life depended on it. Why? Because it is what Judaism demands of you. And because your life actually does depend on it. The Talmud teaches: “If you save a life, you have saved an entire world. If you destroy a life, you have destroyed an entire world.” Every person, every human being, is an entire world. And we are each responsible for these many, many worlds.
The Torah’s holiness code from which that verse about standing by the blood of your neighbor is taken, opens with the following words: “You shall be holy.” And then it goes on to offer a lengthy list of ethical commands. There are the obvious: “Do not steal.” And the not so obvious: “Leave the gleanings of your field for the poor and the stranger.” It is fascinating that the holiness code is by and large defined by ethical precepts and not ritual commandments. Holiness is first and foremost derived from how we treat each other. For years, I thought the concluding verse: “You shall not falsify measures of length, weight, or capacity. You shall have an honest balance and honest weights” offered a simple message. If you go to fill up your car with gas you have to trust that a gallon is a gallon. That sticker on the gas pump emblazoned with the official seal of New York State’s Weight and Measures department means more than we think. It signifies an objective truth.
Why is this the last word of the holiness code? Why does the most well-known chapter of the Torah detailing this litany of ethical precepts, one found in the exact center of our holy scriptures end with something so seemingly mundane? For years the explanation alluded me. And then, recently, it occurred to me like a revelation. It’s almost as if the holiness code likewise has that sticker appended to its conclusion. If we cannot agree on what a gallon is then everything begins to unravel. In our own age, the meaning of this verse has become glaringly apparent. Society is built on trust. There have to be objective measures upon which we all agree. I can’t tell you how to accurately determine if a gallon of gasoline is exactly a gallon, but I trust that someone who knows how to is doing exactly that.
And this points us toward a way out of our current crisis and how we might find ourselves sooner rather than later on the other side of this pandemic or at the very least more unified in our collective response to the virus. Listen to experts. Sure, doctors don’t always agree with each other. And the world’s experts have been stumped by the Coronavirus. Sure, even the most brilliant and experienced scientists are discovering something new about this virus every day and revising their understanding on a regular basis. But you have to trust the scientists, or we are never going to get through this. Like everyone else I have read far more about viruses than I ever wanted to, but my new-found knowledge does not make me equal to the expert who has spent a lifetime devoted to studying these microscopic organisms. Read Facebook posts less and follow the CDC guidelines more. Some might claim that the CDC has become politicized and that it has changed its mind about wearing masks or the transmissibility of the virus, but we disavow science to our own peril. Of course, scientists revise their understanding as they learn more. Yes, they even change their minds. But the Torah proclaims: “You shall have an honest balance and honest weights.” And that means follow objective wisdom. Listen to the scientific consensus.
The glue holding that sticker to the pump is losing its grip. I am watching—and this sometimes frightens me more than the virus itself—as this sticker gets peeled off bit by bit. The only way to get out of this is by trusting experts. Scientists are going to make mistakes just like every other human being. But listen to the counsel of our tradition. Follow doctors’ advice. Run after Rabbi Israel Salanter’s example.
But that’s not the whole story. Over the course of the past six months, people have said, more often than I can count, “As long as you have your health.” And at the beginning of the pandemic I heard in this cliché an affirmation of the Jewish dictum of pikuach nefesh. You must do everything, and anything, to preserve life. Health takes precedence over Shabbat. Health is more important even than Yom Kippur. But as the pandemic grew longer, and as the weeks became months, I began to hear a question mark at the end of this phrase. “As long as you have your health?” people began to ask and then later some even started to add, “As long as you have your health. Isn’t that right, rabbi?” And those questions left me wondering. Maybe that’s not all there is to it. Of course, if one is faced with debilitating pain, little else matters, but there is more to life than easily and effortlessly drawing a breath in and out of our lungs.
And this is why I admire Rabbi Salanter so much. He understood that there are two sides of the nefesh. Last night we explored what an honest accounting means, what true soul-searching entails, that this is how we refine our character and build a more ethical life. This morning we explored the physical health of the soul. The two are intertwined. Working out at the gym, guarding your health, must go hand in hand with caring for the spirit, for sustaining the inner life. And all of this must be done in the context of loving friends, and a caring community. Kehillah is the framework for exploring the soul and caring for the soul. As long as you have your health is only half the story.
You need to take care of the spirit as well and that does not just mean the difficult soul-searching I spoke about. We need to restore and strengthen our spirits. We need to bolster our faith. On Shabbat, the tradition teaches us, we are given an additional soul, a neshamah yetirah. Yes, the Hebrew language provides us with an additional word for soul. Neshamah comes from the Hebrew meaning breath. On Shabbat some extra spirit is breathed into each of us just as it was when God breathed the breath of life into the first human beings. Our breath serves as a constant reminder of the physical and the spiritual. Our spiritual health is of equal importance to our physical health. This too is not an individual pursuit, but a communal responsibility. This is why Shabbat is celebrated with our community—even when it is virtual. We depend on others to uplift us with our shared prayers and songs. This is why the Shabbat table is the quintessential Jewish space. It is not the synagogue that is central but the table around which you now gather that sustains us and feeds the soul.
We breath in that spirit of Shabbat. We gain strength from our community. We search within and explore how we can do better. We search without and discover how we must protect others and safeguard their health as well as our own. We are reminded again and again, most especially during these difficult and most trying of years, that we are sustained by the very same values that have nurtured our people for centuries. Pikuach nefesh—preserving life. Heshbon hanefesh—soul searching. And kehillah—community. Hold on to these values. Double down on committing to them. Gain strength from them. They will help us to surmount any and all challenges.
And so, I conclude with a prayer. May the coming year indeed be a year of health, a year of spiritual renewal, a year of honest self-examination, and most of all, a year when we can return to wrapping our loving arms around one another. And, may that day be very soon.
The Need for Community
What follows is my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon.
Years ago, when my children were very young, and I was not so old, Susie and I both had to officiate at separate occasions. And so, Ari tagged along with me and Shira with Susie. It was a baby naming. After officiating at what would now be a twenty-year-old’s ceremony, I told my then five-year-old he could go outside and play with the other young children. Later I was told by the grandparents the following story. The other children apparently asked Ari who he was and why he was there. He was the only kid who was not family at the event. Ari explained, “My dad is the rabbi.” The children looked at him quizzically. “What’s a rabbi?” one asked. “What does a rabbi do?” another one of the kids said. And Ari responded, “He goes to parties.” I have held on to that story for some time. As funny as it sounds, and apparently as easy as my job appears to five-year old’s, Ari was serious. And he points us toward an important, Jewish message.
Since Purim, and the middle of March, I have felt like I have been officiating at your sacred occasions with an arm tied behind my back. I could not offer a hug of consolation at funerals. I could not embrace you when we shared joyous occasions. (I am of course the guy who even hugs his electrician after he finishes his work.) And I miss the essence of my calling and the defining element of our congregation and our people. I do not mean to suggest that we should not be social distancing or that we should not be wearing masks. Health comes first. But at this moment, I am missing a great deal. Like you I just want to wish 2020 away. And even though we could not, or should not, have made any other choice for these High Holidays, standing in this sanctuary without you, is like trying to lift a thousand-pound weight alone. Our prayers are really only our prayers if you join in, if we sing together. So, I hope you have been singing loudly because that is what we need more than ever. I miss seeing your smiling faces. I miss marching the Torah around the congregation during the hakafah and catching up with every one of you. At this moment most especially, I miss seeing you gathered with family members and friends. And I am left to imagine you sitting in front of your computer screens or TV’s and smiling back at me. This year is a year like no other.
And so, my sermons will be different than other years. On these days, I often speak about contemporary issues like antisemitism, but this year I really only have one question for this moment and for this hour. How are we going to get through this? And by this I don’t mean the upcoming election. I mean instead how are we going to get through a year in which everything is turned upside down, in which we have had to master online learning, how to estimate six feet, how to safely get together with friends, when and where to wear masks, and how to evaluate risk on daily, and evenly hourly, basis. I will wander into contemporary events, and offer present examples to illustrate my points, but there really is only one big question that is vexing our souls.
We are scared. We are frightened. We are worried. We wonder when, if ever, we will be able to wrap ourselves around our friends, and even strangers, and swirl around in a sweaty, celebratory hora. So, here is my answer to that question. Here is the response required of us. We should return to our Jewish roots. Let us take comfort and gain strength from the Jewish wisdom of ages past. I admit. It’s not a particularly original idea and it may not seem like a creative notion, but I am a rabbi after all, and I have found our tradition’s wisdom to be the best medicine for any crisis.
This morning I wish to make the case for Jewish values. Why do Jewish? Because this is what we need right now. And so, this sermon is in truth one big long, sermon but in three parts.
I am going to offer three Jewish values that we need more than ever and that I am certain if we hold on to even more tightly, we will not only get through these months—and may it not be years—of struggle, but will find ourselves with renewed strength on the other side. And here are those three values: kehillah—community, heshbon hanefesh—soul searching, and pikuach nefesh—preserving life. We need to return to some basic Jewish values. This morning I will explore one, kehillah—community. You will have to come back on Yom Kippur for the other two.
#1. Kehillah. Community. As far as Judaism is concerned, we only realize our full potential in the company of others. The solitary ascetic is an ideal of other traditions but not of ours. It’s not just because the ascetic does not enjoy a pastrami sandwich. It’s mostly because the ascetic sets him or herself apart from others. You can’t really do Jewish by yourself. You are supposed to study with others. And you are supposed to pray with others. There is nothing more emblematic of our people than the hora. It’s what makes a Jewish wedding a Jewish wedding, or at least what used to make a Jewish wedding.
I often teach couples that as much as they might be worrying about what they should have for the appetizer course or what the band should play for the first song or if table ten got their lambchops on time, it’s not their job to make sure their guests have a great time, but the guests’ job to makes sure the couple dance at their wedding celebration. It is a mitzvah of the highest order to make sure a wedding couple dance, called in the tradition gemilut hasadim, a deed of lovingkindness. When we do this, we imitate God. God ensured Adam and Eve’s happiness when making sure they danced at their wedding ceremony. This is what our tradition imagines God does. God pushes a loving couple together and helps to swirl them around in a circle of happiness.
And I offer all this not to make the many couples I spoke with about rescheduling their 2020 wedding ceremonies feel remorseful, but to remind all of us that it is others who lift our lives, that is the company of family and friends, the community that make our events holy. We have had to reimagine how to include others in new and different ways these past few months. Not having a grandparent in our sanctuary at a bar/bat mitzvah and not having the throng of friends at a wedding is not what any of us expected or even what Judaism urges, but health takes precedence. And so, we gathered on Zoom. This is not to make us feel even more forlorn, but to remind us of what is most important to our faith and what is most enduring about our Judaism and what will also get us through this. Things most certainly look different this year, but they will always be animated by the values that nurture us. Kehillah—community—sustains us.
In Hebrew the word for community or congregation is kehillah. It is derived from the word kol—voice. Scholars suggest this is because the community was called together. The voice gathered us. I think it is instead because our voice is only a voice when it is heard by others. You may be more comfortable singing in the shower, but you’re not heard from there. Only when you are heard does your voice have resonance and power. Only when someone responds to your pain, or joins with you in song, is your soul transported by healing or lifted even higher with joy. The best prayer is when you are with others. Sure, you can pray by yourself (although I would not recommend singing the Shema in the shower) but if you really want to pray you need a minyan. The mourner’s kaddish is only supposed to be said in the company of others. Judaism says, “Don’t mourn by yourself.” And again, although I would have preferred to wrap my arms around friends in their hour of grief, the pages and pages and pages of friends assembled on the Zoom gallery for shiva was a powerful image to behold.
There was the kehillah. There stood the congregation—standing together as one although separated and apart. That is the “we” we need to reclaim. That is the “we” we need to wrap our arms tightly around.
I still miss you. And I find myself imagining who I am going to hug when this is all over. Which of my many friends will I run to wrap my arms around? I imagine that the handshake might never return—all those articles about the many germs on the ends of our fingers will leave some lasting scars—and the kiss on the cheek may become a thing of the past as well, but the hug can return. So, who will you hug first? It does not have to be me, but it can be if you want. I just hope each of us has a similar, lengthy list of friends who we will run to wrap our arms tightly around.
When the world seems spinning out of control the best medicine is to return to our roots, to go back to the wisdom of old. One of those roots is the power of community, the Jewish value of kehllah. Let the memories of our standing together, of our singing together in one voice, of our dancing together in a whirling circle sustain us.
Michael Twitty, a proud Jew and the author of The Cooking Gene, a book that is part culinary history and part memoir, and that suggests cooking and food can help to heal our country’s racial tensions, offers insights about our community. He says, “For me the negative situations that I have incurred cannot and will never outweigh my positive experiences. When we are at our best, we look out for each other. You don’t want any Jew to be alone. To not have a place at the seder table, a place to break the fast. In Judaism, being together is more than just community building, it is human sustaining. You are part of a family.” One might expect that Twitty would feel otherwise. He converted to Judaism some fifteen years ago. And for those who don’t know as well, Twitty is Black and gay. His words take on even deeper meaning. Let his idealism and vision restore our hope. He proclaims, “Judaism is more than just community building, it is human sustaining.” Michael Twitty is right. Kehillah sustains our spirits.
Recently I read a fascinating story. Some chutzpadik Israeli scientists at the Arava Institute decided that they should plant the 2,000-year-old date seeds discovered in the ruins of Masada. I would have thrown out those shriveled, ancient seeds. Instead they planted them. And a few weeks ago, they harvested the dates from those trees. Granted it took a little modern ingenuity to help this process along. Yet this image is one that I am holding on to, and that is sustaining me through these months of struggle. I looked in amazement at these photographs. There were people enjoying the sweet dates harvested from 2,000-year-old seeds. This is the same healing balm afforded to us. We have the seeds. They need not be excavated or unearthed. Here they are.
And I promise the sweetness will likewise return. True friendships will survive without parties and hugs. Caring, warm and loving, communities will outlast setbacks.
Remember these days when we could not hug. And promise me this. Let it not scar you but instead remind of how precious friendship is, how divine human touch can be, and how stirring the power of community will always be.
Kehillah—community will carry us beyond these difficult and painful days.
Years ago, when my children were very young, and I was not so old, Susie and I both had to officiate at separate occasions. And so, Ari tagged along with me and Shira with Susie. It was a baby naming. After officiating at what would now be a twenty-year-old’s ceremony, I told my then five-year-old he could go outside and play with the other young children. Later I was told by the grandparents the following story. The other children apparently asked Ari who he was and why he was there. He was the only kid who was not family at the event. Ari explained, “My dad is the rabbi.” The children looked at him quizzically. “What’s a rabbi?” one asked. “What does a rabbi do?” another one of the kids said. And Ari responded, “He goes to parties.” I have held on to that story for some time. As funny as it sounds, and apparently as easy as my job appears to five-year old’s, Ari was serious. And he points us toward an important, Jewish message.
Since Purim, and the middle of March, I have felt like I have been officiating at your sacred occasions with an arm tied behind my back. I could not offer a hug of consolation at funerals. I could not embrace you when we shared joyous occasions. (I am of course the guy who even hugs his electrician after he finishes his work.) And I miss the essence of my calling and the defining element of our congregation and our people. I do not mean to suggest that we should not be social distancing or that we should not be wearing masks. Health comes first. But at this moment, I am missing a great deal. Like you I just want to wish 2020 away. And even though we could not, or should not, have made any other choice for these High Holidays, standing in this sanctuary without you, is like trying to lift a thousand-pound weight alone. Our prayers are really only our prayers if you join in, if we sing together. So, I hope you have been singing loudly because that is what we need more than ever. I miss seeing your smiling faces. I miss marching the Torah around the congregation during the hakafah and catching up with every one of you. At this moment most especially, I miss seeing you gathered with family members and friends. And I am left to imagine you sitting in front of your computer screens or TV’s and smiling back at me. This year is a year like no other.
And so, my sermons will be different than other years. On these days, I often speak about contemporary issues like antisemitism, but this year I really only have one question for this moment and for this hour. How are we going to get through this? And by this I don’t mean the upcoming election. I mean instead how are we going to get through a year in which everything is turned upside down, in which we have had to master online learning, how to estimate six feet, how to safely get together with friends, when and where to wear masks, and how to evaluate risk on daily, and evenly hourly, basis. I will wander into contemporary events, and offer present examples to illustrate my points, but there really is only one big question that is vexing our souls.
We are scared. We are frightened. We are worried. We wonder when, if ever, we will be able to wrap ourselves around our friends, and even strangers, and swirl around in a sweaty, celebratory hora. So, here is my answer to that question. Here is the response required of us. We should return to our Jewish roots. Let us take comfort and gain strength from the Jewish wisdom of ages past. I admit. It’s not a particularly original idea and it may not seem like a creative notion, but I am a rabbi after all, and I have found our tradition’s wisdom to be the best medicine for any crisis.
This morning I wish to make the case for Jewish values. Why do Jewish? Because this is what we need right now. And so, this sermon is in truth one big long, sermon but in three parts.
I am going to offer three Jewish values that we need more than ever and that I am certain if we hold on to even more tightly, we will not only get through these months—and may it not be years—of struggle, but will find ourselves with renewed strength on the other side. And here are those three values: kehillah—community, heshbon hanefesh—soul searching, and pikuach nefesh—preserving life. We need to return to some basic Jewish values. This morning I will explore one, kehillah—community. You will have to come back on Yom Kippur for the other two.
#1. Kehillah. Community. As far as Judaism is concerned, we only realize our full potential in the company of others. The solitary ascetic is an ideal of other traditions but not of ours. It’s not just because the ascetic does not enjoy a pastrami sandwich. It’s mostly because the ascetic sets him or herself apart from others. You can’t really do Jewish by yourself. You are supposed to study with others. And you are supposed to pray with others. There is nothing more emblematic of our people than the hora. It’s what makes a Jewish wedding a Jewish wedding, or at least what used to make a Jewish wedding.
I often teach couples that as much as they might be worrying about what they should have for the appetizer course or what the band should play for the first song or if table ten got their lambchops on time, it’s not their job to make sure their guests have a great time, but the guests’ job to makes sure the couple dance at their wedding celebration. It is a mitzvah of the highest order to make sure a wedding couple dance, called in the tradition gemilut hasadim, a deed of lovingkindness. When we do this, we imitate God. God ensured Adam and Eve’s happiness when making sure they danced at their wedding ceremony. This is what our tradition imagines God does. God pushes a loving couple together and helps to swirl them around in a circle of happiness.
And I offer all this not to make the many couples I spoke with about rescheduling their 2020 wedding ceremonies feel remorseful, but to remind all of us that it is others who lift our lives, that is the company of family and friends, the community that make our events holy. We have had to reimagine how to include others in new and different ways these past few months. Not having a grandparent in our sanctuary at a bar/bat mitzvah and not having the throng of friends at a wedding is not what any of us expected or even what Judaism urges, but health takes precedence. And so, we gathered on Zoom. This is not to make us feel even more forlorn, but to remind us of what is most important to our faith and what is most enduring about our Judaism and what will also get us through this. Things most certainly look different this year, but they will always be animated by the values that nurture us. Kehillah—community—sustains us.
In Hebrew the word for community or congregation is kehillah. It is derived from the word kol—voice. Scholars suggest this is because the community was called together. The voice gathered us. I think it is instead because our voice is only a voice when it is heard by others. You may be more comfortable singing in the shower, but you’re not heard from there. Only when you are heard does your voice have resonance and power. Only when someone responds to your pain, or joins with you in song, is your soul transported by healing or lifted even higher with joy. The best prayer is when you are with others. Sure, you can pray by yourself (although I would not recommend singing the Shema in the shower) but if you really want to pray you need a minyan. The mourner’s kaddish is only supposed to be said in the company of others. Judaism says, “Don’t mourn by yourself.” And again, although I would have preferred to wrap my arms around friends in their hour of grief, the pages and pages and pages of friends assembled on the Zoom gallery for shiva was a powerful image to behold.
There was the kehillah. There stood the congregation—standing together as one although separated and apart. That is the “we” we need to reclaim. That is the “we” we need to wrap our arms tightly around.
I still miss you. And I find myself imagining who I am going to hug when this is all over. Which of my many friends will I run to wrap my arms around? I imagine that the handshake might never return—all those articles about the many germs on the ends of our fingers will leave some lasting scars—and the kiss on the cheek may become a thing of the past as well, but the hug can return. So, who will you hug first? It does not have to be me, but it can be if you want. I just hope each of us has a similar, lengthy list of friends who we will run to wrap our arms tightly around.
When the world seems spinning out of control the best medicine is to return to our roots, to go back to the wisdom of old. One of those roots is the power of community, the Jewish value of kehllah. Let the memories of our standing together, of our singing together in one voice, of our dancing together in a whirling circle sustain us.
Michael Twitty, a proud Jew and the author of The Cooking Gene, a book that is part culinary history and part memoir, and that suggests cooking and food can help to heal our country’s racial tensions, offers insights about our community. He says, “For me the negative situations that I have incurred cannot and will never outweigh my positive experiences. When we are at our best, we look out for each other. You don’t want any Jew to be alone. To not have a place at the seder table, a place to break the fast. In Judaism, being together is more than just community building, it is human sustaining. You are part of a family.” One might expect that Twitty would feel otherwise. He converted to Judaism some fifteen years ago. And for those who don’t know as well, Twitty is Black and gay. His words take on even deeper meaning. Let his idealism and vision restore our hope. He proclaims, “Judaism is more than just community building, it is human sustaining.” Michael Twitty is right. Kehillah sustains our spirits.
Recently I read a fascinating story. Some chutzpadik Israeli scientists at the Arava Institute decided that they should plant the 2,000-year-old date seeds discovered in the ruins of Masada. I would have thrown out those shriveled, ancient seeds. Instead they planted them. And a few weeks ago, they harvested the dates from those trees. Granted it took a little modern ingenuity to help this process along. Yet this image is one that I am holding on to, and that is sustaining me through these months of struggle. I looked in amazement at these photographs. There were people enjoying the sweet dates harvested from 2,000-year-old seeds. This is the same healing balm afforded to us. We have the seeds. They need not be excavated or unearthed. Here they are.
And I promise the sweetness will likewise return. True friendships will survive without parties and hugs. Caring, warm and loving, communities will outlast setbacks.
Remember these days when we could not hug. And promise me this. Let it not scar you but instead remind of how precious friendship is, how divine human touch can be, and how stirring the power of community will always be.
Kehillah—community will carry us beyond these difficult and painful days.
Kol Nidre's Mystery and Power
Kol Nidre is a mysterious prayer. Scholars suggest its origin may very well hearken back to the belief in magic found in ancient Babylonia some 1500 years ago. Its language is striking. “Let all vows, resolves and commitments…be discarded and forgiven, abolished and undone.” It has even provided the basis for antisemites to say, “See you cannot trust the word of Jews. Look at what they say on their holiest day.” Controversy surrounds its words.
Yet its haunting melody and its majestic accompanying rituals are what transports us. The drama of the open Ark, the Torah scrolls adorned in white, and our congregation’s leaders holding these scrolls close to their hearts, lift our spirits. The cantor’s chanting of its words—irrespective of their meaning—stirs our souls. We hold fast to the melody. (And we acknowledge that no one sings it better than our cantor!) We cling to the mystery of Kol Nidre.
I turn to the words of the mystics whose teachings I often find mysterious but whose insights carry me through the power of this, our most sacred evening of Yom Kippur.
Isaac Luria, the sixteenth century mystic, offers a parable. It is a foundational teaching of Jewish mysticism and kabbalah. He teaches:
At the beginning of creation God spoke; and primordial light infused all existence, contained in radiant vessels.
And intention arose in the mind of God: to create a being capable of choice, able to distinguish good from bad, holy from profane.
God breathed in and withdrew—tzimtzum—and for the smallest moment was absent, to make space for human beings to develop their godly essence, as expressed in the divine intention: “Let us make the human being according to our image.”
Utter darkness reigned; the forces of chaos tore at the cosmos; the vessels were broken. All creation threatened to fall asunder.
At that instant, when darkness was complete and creation was in peril, the human being came into existence.
And God breathed out again, filling the universe once more with splendor.
But what of the rays of light that escaped from the broken vessels—were they lost forever?
Now the fusion of the divine intention and human potential became clear. For human beings are able and thus commanded to retrieve the wandering rays of light—those entangled in darkness, lost in unlikely corners of the universe.
Each act of kindness, each effort to be human in inhuman circumstances, returns a spark of light to its Source.
The rays of light are everywhere. And when all have been retrieved and uplifted, the messianic time of peace will be upon us. (As quoted in Mishkan HaNefesh: Machzor for the Days of Awe)
I take heart in the message. We must uplift creation.
And I find myself again and again drawn to the modern mystic Leonard Cohen z”l. Listen to his Anthem: “There is a crack in everything (there is a crack in everything). That's how the light gets in.” Is this perhaps a modern rendition of our ancient words?
I pray. When the words and music of Kol Nidre reach your ears, may you find your strength renewed. We are going to need it more than ever during this upcoming year.
We must lift up these rays of light.
That’s how the light gets in!
Rosh Hashanah from Home
This Rosh Hashanah will be like no other. The Cantor and I will be standing in our sanctuary. And you will be watching our services on your TV's, computers or even iPhones. You will be participating from your homes.
If you have not yet registered to access the livestream link, please do so on my congregation's website. Rosh Hashanah begins tomorrow evening with services at 8 pm and then morning services on Saturday and Sunday at 10 am. Children's services are on Saturday at 1 pm. We will gather for in person Tashlich services at Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Park beach on Saturday at 4 pm. Please wear a mask and bring breadcrumbs so that you can symbolically cast your sins into the Long Island sound.
Judaism teaches that our homes are a mikdash maat, a small sanctuary. The meals that we share, the blessings that we recite, the love that we discover there, help to sanctify our homes. Our tradition has never believed that you can only observe Jewish rituals in a synagogue, or that Jewish bests can only happen in our beautiful sanctuary. In fact, it is the day of Rosh Hashanah that is holy, not the place where we observe it. Judaism sanctifies time not space, we teach over and over again. This year we are really going to have to take this principle to heart.
Given that we will not be together and that you will be celebrating Rosh Hashanah from the comfort of your homes, I wanted to offer some suggestions for how you might make your home feel more like a sanctuary. Think about which room in your house would be best to help you feel like this is a prayer experience. Discuss this with your children. Entertain a debate about this question. And then watch from there. If you are able to stream the services to a TV, do so. If this is a technological leap for you then don't do it for the first time on Rosh Hashanah.
Still this is not a Netflix movie, so I would not recommend a bowl of popcorn by your side to watch services. Then again do what you are comfortable doing and what will help you make this into a meaningful and uplifting experience. If you usually wear a kippah and tallis in synagogue then put them on. If you like to dress up for services, then do so. I know no one will see how stunning you look, but it might help to get you into the right frame of mind. But certainly, don't make outfits a fight with your kids. Let them enjoy the service and take in the music of our prayers however they are comfortable.
If you like to follow along in the prayerbook then have your prayerbook open or download the Kindle or free Flip versions. Some of the prayers will be shown on the screen. Sing along, and sing really loudly, when you see those words. Listening to our cantor will help to lift your spirits. But singing along with her will add to your experience.
God hears all prayers wherever they might be offered—and however they might sound. When it comes to prayers it's first and foremost about the words and the intentions.
When we light the Rosh Hashanah candles on the bima, you can light your candles. When we drink the kiddush wine, you can drink some wine. Of course, you can start earlier with the wine if you like. And by all means have a plate of apples and honey, and maybe even a round hallah, waiting to enjoy for what will be your own private oneg.
If you are watching these services by yourself, and you're missing the opportunity of seeing your fellow congregants, then call them or FaceTime them before or after services. And if you know congregants who are watching services by themselves then call them before or after services. Or even call them during services. If kibbitzing with friends during services is part of what makes Rosh Hashanah enjoyable then do it.
The only rule for this year is that we need to grab as many opportunities as possible to lift our spirits.
May these services help to strengthen our spirits. May this Rosh Hashanah help to carry us toward a year of health.
If you have not yet registered to access the livestream link, please do so on my congregation's website. Rosh Hashanah begins tomorrow evening with services at 8 pm and then morning services on Saturday and Sunday at 10 am. Children's services are on Saturday at 1 pm. We will gather for in person Tashlich services at Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Park beach on Saturday at 4 pm. Please wear a mask and bring breadcrumbs so that you can symbolically cast your sins into the Long Island sound.
Judaism teaches that our homes are a mikdash maat, a small sanctuary. The meals that we share, the blessings that we recite, the love that we discover there, help to sanctify our homes. Our tradition has never believed that you can only observe Jewish rituals in a synagogue, or that Jewish bests can only happen in our beautiful sanctuary. In fact, it is the day of Rosh Hashanah that is holy, not the place where we observe it. Judaism sanctifies time not space, we teach over and over again. This year we are really going to have to take this principle to heart.
Given that we will not be together and that you will be celebrating Rosh Hashanah from the comfort of your homes, I wanted to offer some suggestions for how you might make your home feel more like a sanctuary. Think about which room in your house would be best to help you feel like this is a prayer experience. Discuss this with your children. Entertain a debate about this question. And then watch from there. If you are able to stream the services to a TV, do so. If this is a technological leap for you then don't do it for the first time on Rosh Hashanah.
Still this is not a Netflix movie, so I would not recommend a bowl of popcorn by your side to watch services. Then again do what you are comfortable doing and what will help you make this into a meaningful and uplifting experience. If you usually wear a kippah and tallis in synagogue then put them on. If you like to dress up for services, then do so. I know no one will see how stunning you look, but it might help to get you into the right frame of mind. But certainly, don't make outfits a fight with your kids. Let them enjoy the service and take in the music of our prayers however they are comfortable.
If you like to follow along in the prayerbook then have your prayerbook open or download the Kindle or free Flip versions. Some of the prayers will be shown on the screen. Sing along, and sing really loudly, when you see those words. Listening to our cantor will help to lift your spirits. But singing along with her will add to your experience.
God hears all prayers wherever they might be offered—and however they might sound. When it comes to prayers it's first and foremost about the words and the intentions.
When we light the Rosh Hashanah candles on the bima, you can light your candles. When we drink the kiddush wine, you can drink some wine. Of course, you can start earlier with the wine if you like. And by all means have a plate of apples and honey, and maybe even a round hallah, waiting to enjoy for what will be your own private oneg.
If you are watching these services by yourself, and you're missing the opportunity of seeing your fellow congregants, then call them or FaceTime them before or after services. And if you know congregants who are watching services by themselves then call them before or after services. Or even call them during services. If kibbitzing with friends during services is part of what makes Rosh Hashanah enjoyable then do it.
The only rule for this year is that we need to grab as many opportunities as possible to lift our spirits.
May these services help to strengthen our spirits. May this Rosh Hashanah help to carry us toward a year of health.
Finding Kindness
This week was a good week.
I discovered a poem.
It was revealed to me as I turned through the pages of our new prayerbook, Mishkan HaLev. It called to me as I prepared for the upcoming High Holidays.
I learned more about the inspiration for the poem. While traveling on her honeymoon in Columbia, the bus on which she and her husband journeyed was robbed. A man was killed, and all of their belongings were stolen. Left alone when her husband went searching for how to get themselves out of this mess, she met a stranger who listened to her tale, despite her broken Spanish, and offered sympathy and compassion in return.
The poem emerged. It was if it scribbled its own words in her journal.
I started wondering.
Is every revelation born of serendipity? Is compassion best felt from those we least expect? Can kindness only be learned through pain?
The Torah declares: “Therefore, write down this poem and teach it to the people of Israel; put it in their mouths, in order that this poem may be My witness against the people of Israel.” (Deuteronomy 31)
Is the Torah’s journey of pain intended to teach kindness and compassion?
I recognize. This is not the poem the Torah intended. And yet I remain thankful for the teaching.
I remain grateful for small discoveries—and poems that uplift a week and offer reminders that kindness can transform us, and even something so seemingly small as listening to another’s pain can redeem our burdens.
I discovered a poem.
It was revealed to me as I turned through the pages of our new prayerbook, Mishkan HaLev. It called to me as I prepared for the upcoming High Holidays.
Before you know what kindness really isI endeavored to learn more about the poet who until this blessed hour was unknown to me. Naomi Shihab Nye was born in my hometown of St. Louis, Missouri. Her father was a Palestinian refugee and her mother an American who traced her lineage back to Germany. Nye spent her teenage years moving between Jerusalem and San Antonio, Texas.
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
I learned more about the inspiration for the poem. While traveling on her honeymoon in Columbia, the bus on which she and her husband journeyed was robbed. A man was killed, and all of their belongings were stolen. Left alone when her husband went searching for how to get themselves out of this mess, she met a stranger who listened to her tale, despite her broken Spanish, and offered sympathy and compassion in return.
The poem emerged. It was if it scribbled its own words in her journal.
I started wondering.
Is every revelation born of serendipity? Is compassion best felt from those we least expect? Can kindness only be learned through pain?
The Torah declares: “Therefore, write down this poem and teach it to the people of Israel; put it in their mouths, in order that this poem may be My witness against the people of Israel.” (Deuteronomy 31)
Is the Torah’s journey of pain intended to teach kindness and compassion?
I recognize. This is not the poem the Torah intended. And yet I remain thankful for the teaching.
I remain grateful for small discoveries—and poems that uplift a week and offer reminders that kindness can transform us, and even something so seemingly small as listening to another’s pain can redeem our burdens.
Indifferent No More!
We offer prayers of strength and healing to our fellow Americans who are only beginning to survey the devastation from Hurricane Laura.
This week we read, Ki Tetzei, the Torah portion containing the most commandments. According to Moses Maimonides, the great medieval Jewish thinker, 72 mitzvot can be discerned from this week’s verses. They offer detailed instructions for how to reach out to others, of how we might best express our concern for other human beings. These rules are about inculcating the value of compassion for our neighbors.
This principle is illustrated by one example: “If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow… so too you shall do with anything that your fellow loses and you find: you must not remain indifferent.” (Deuteronomy 22) The tradition adds several exclamation points to this commandment when it rules that anyone who finds a lost object or animal and does not try to return it to its rightful owner is considered a thief.
The wisdom is clear. If, when finding an object, we say not, “Look what I found!” but instead ask, “To whom does this belong?” we begin to fashion a wider circle of concern. Our failures to correct injustices, whether they be small or large, begins with our indifference. How do we begin to turn toward others and not away?
This week we were confronted by the image of a black man shot by police officers. While the specifics of this case remain obscured, we join in offering prayers for Jacob Blake’s recovery. We pray that his Milwaukee home might soon find peace. We pray for strength in behalf of those who raise their voices in protest. One fact remains startlingly clear. Black men, and women, are far more likely to suffer violent deaths at the hands of police than their white neighbors. I have known this truth for some time, but I feel as if I have only begun to see it this summer.
I shall not remain indifferent.
Do the many objects adorning my home, that bring me a measure of comfort and peace, really belong to me or are they better meant to be shared with others? Does my continued silence, and the seemingly petty efforts to correct past failings, constitute the thievery our tradition admonishes us against?
I shall not remain indifferent.
I desperately want to look away. This is not the America I know. This is not the America I love. But as I am learning more and more this is the America my neighbors know. This is the America they find difficult to love. My dream is tarnished by their pain.
I turn to the wisdom of our tradition. But even Moses Maimonides is failing me. And so, I turn to other voices.
Maya Angelou, the American poet and civil rights activist writes in her incomparable poem, “A Brave and Startling Truth”:
…We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
The miraculous is the neighbor I wish to ignore. I can no longer turn away. I must not turn aside. Their pain must become my pain.
Do not remain indifferent.
This week we read, Ki Tetzei, the Torah portion containing the most commandments. According to Moses Maimonides, the great medieval Jewish thinker, 72 mitzvot can be discerned from this week’s verses. They offer detailed instructions for how to reach out to others, of how we might best express our concern for other human beings. These rules are about inculcating the value of compassion for our neighbors.
This principle is illustrated by one example: “If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow… so too you shall do with anything that your fellow loses and you find: you must not remain indifferent.” (Deuteronomy 22) The tradition adds several exclamation points to this commandment when it rules that anyone who finds a lost object or animal and does not try to return it to its rightful owner is considered a thief.
The wisdom is clear. If, when finding an object, we say not, “Look what I found!” but instead ask, “To whom does this belong?” we begin to fashion a wider circle of concern. Our failures to correct injustices, whether they be small or large, begins with our indifference. How do we begin to turn toward others and not away?
This week we were confronted by the image of a black man shot by police officers. While the specifics of this case remain obscured, we join in offering prayers for Jacob Blake’s recovery. We pray that his Milwaukee home might soon find peace. We pray for strength in behalf of those who raise their voices in protest. One fact remains startlingly clear. Black men, and women, are far more likely to suffer violent deaths at the hands of police than their white neighbors. I have known this truth for some time, but I feel as if I have only begun to see it this summer.
I shall not remain indifferent.
Do the many objects adorning my home, that bring me a measure of comfort and peace, really belong to me or are they better meant to be shared with others? Does my continued silence, and the seemingly petty efforts to correct past failings, constitute the thievery our tradition admonishes us against?
I shall not remain indifferent.
I desperately want to look away. This is not the America I know. This is not the America I love. But as I am learning more and more this is the America my neighbors know. This is the America they find difficult to love. My dream is tarnished by their pain.
I turn to the wisdom of our tradition. But even Moses Maimonides is failing me. And so, I turn to other voices.
Maya Angelou, the American poet and civil rights activist writes in her incomparable poem, “A Brave and Startling Truth”:
…We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
The miraculous is the neighbor I wish to ignore. I can no longer turn away. I must not turn aside. Their pain must become my pain.
Do not remain indifferent.
Rearrange the Furniture
A familiar Yiddish folktale.
Once upon a time in a small village lived a seemingly poor unfortunate man who lived with his wife, his mother, and his six children in a little one-room hut. Because they were so crowded, the once loving couple often argued. The children were rambunctious, and often fought. In winter, when the nights were long and the days were cold, life was especially difficult. The hut was full of crying and quarreling.
Once upon a time in a small village lived a seemingly poor unfortunate man who lived with his wife, his mother, and his six children in a little one-room hut. Because they were so crowded, the once loving couple often argued. The children were rambunctious, and often fought. In winter, when the nights were long and the days were cold, life was especially difficult. The hut was full of crying and quarreling.
One day, when the poor unfortunate man couldn’t take it anymore, he ran to the Rabbi for advice. “Rabbi,” he cried, “things are really bad, and only seem to be getting worse. We are so poor that my mother, my wife, my six children, and I all live together in one small hut. We are too crowded, and there’s so much noise. Help me, Rabbi. I’ll do whatever you say.”
The Rabbi thought for a long while. At last he said, “Tell me, my poor man, do you have any animals, perhaps a chicken or two?” “Yes,” said the man. “I do have a few chickens, also a rooster and a goose. “Excellent,” said the Rabbi. “Now go home and take the chickens, the rooster, and the goose and bring them into your hut to live with you.” Although the man was a bit surprised, he said, “Of course, Rabbi. I will do whatever you say.”
The poor unfortunate man hurried home and took the chickens, the rooster, and the goose out of the shed and brought them into his little hut. When some weeks had passed, life in the hut was worse than before. Now along with the quarreling and crying there was honking, crowing, and clucking. There were even feathers in the soup and goose poop on the floor. The hut grew smaller, and the children bigger.
When the poor unfortunate man couldn’t stand it any longer, he again ran to the Rabbi for advice. “Rabbi,” he cried, “you should see what misfortune has befallen me. Now with the crying and quarreling, there is also honking, clucking, and crowing, and even feathers in the soup. Rabbi, it couldn’t get any worse. Help me, please.” The Rabbi listened and thought. At last he said, “Tell me, do you happen to have a goat?” “Oh, yes, I do have an old goat, but he’s not worth much.” “Excellent,” said the Rabbi. “Now go home and take the old goat into your hut to live with you.” “You cannot possibly mean for me to do this, Rabbi!” cried the man. “Come, come now, my good man, you must do as I say at once,” said the Rabbi.
The poor unfortunate man shuffled back home with his head hanging down and took the goat into his hut. When some weeks had gone by, life in the little hut was much worse. Now, with the crying, quarreling, clucking, honking, and crowing, the goat went wild, pushing and butting everyone with his horns. The hut seemed even smaller, and the children appeared bigger. When the poor unfortunate man couldn’t stand it another minute, he again ran to the Rabbi. “Rabbi help me!” he screamed. “Now the goat is running wild. My life is a nightmare.”
The Rabbi listened and thought. At last he said, “Tell me, my poor man. Is it possible that you have a cow? Young or old it doesn’t really matter.” “Yes, Rabbi, it’s true I have a cow,” said the poor man fearfully. “Go home then,” said the Rabbi, “and take the cow into your hut.” “Oh, no, you cannot mean for me to do this, Rabbi!” cried the man. “Do it at once,” said the Rabbi. The poor unfortunate man trudged home with a heavy heart and took the cow into his hut. “My Rabbi is surely crazy?” he thought.
When some weeks had gone by, life in the hut was even worse than before. Everyone quarreled, even the chickens. The goat ran wild. The cow trampled everything. (And the poop, well that should not be detailed.) The poor man could hardly believe his misfortune. At last, when he could stand it no longer, he ran to the Rabbi for help. “Rabbi,” he shrieked, “help me, save me, the end of the world has come! The cow is trampling everything. There is no room even to breathe. It’s worse than a nightmare!” The Rabbi again listened and thought. He offered words of support and sympathy.
At last he said, “Go home now, my friend, and let the animals out of your hut.” “I will, I will, I’ll do it right away,” said the man. The poor unfortunate man hurried home and let the cow, the goat, the chickens, the goose, and the rooster out of his little hut. That night the poor man and all his family slept peacefully. There was no crowing, no clucking, no honking. There was plenty of room to breathe. The children no longer fought. And there was no longer anything for husband and wife to argue about. They just wrapped their arms around each other, smiling and breathing in the peace that had enveloped their home.
The very next day the poor man ran back to the Rabbi. “Rabbi,” he cried, “you are so wise. You have made life sweet. With just my family in the hut, it’s so quiet, so roomy, and so peaceful. My home is filled with blessings! You have restored joy to our hearts.” (My retelling is based on It Could Always Be Worse: A Yiddish Folktale by Margot Zemach.)
Sometimes all it takes to see our blessings is a little rearranging.
Blessings are more about perspective than fact. Shaping this perspective is the essence of the Jewish command to recite blessings. We say a blessing so that we are more apt to count our blessings, so we are more likely to see our blessings.
Perhaps for these High Holidays that will be like no other, all we need to do is a little rearranging. Then our blessings will become clearer. Perhaps it is as simple as rearranging the furniture.
Today is the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul, beginning the forty days of repentance that culminate in Yom Kippur’s final shofar blast. Let the rearranging begin. Let us turn toward one another. Let us begin the task of shaping our perspective. Let us begin this new command of transforming our homes small sanctuary.
These days blessings are harder and harder to see, but they are still there, all around us. It may be as easy as moving some things around.
The poor unfortunate man hurried home and took the chickens, the rooster, and the goose out of the shed and brought them into his little hut. When some weeks had passed, life in the hut was worse than before. Now along with the quarreling and crying there was honking, crowing, and clucking. There were even feathers in the soup and goose poop on the floor. The hut grew smaller, and the children bigger.
When the poor unfortunate man couldn’t stand it any longer, he again ran to the Rabbi for advice. “Rabbi,” he cried, “you should see what misfortune has befallen me. Now with the crying and quarreling, there is also honking, clucking, and crowing, and even feathers in the soup. Rabbi, it couldn’t get any worse. Help me, please.” The Rabbi listened and thought. At last he said, “Tell me, do you happen to have a goat?” “Oh, yes, I do have an old goat, but he’s not worth much.” “Excellent,” said the Rabbi. “Now go home and take the old goat into your hut to live with you.” “You cannot possibly mean for me to do this, Rabbi!” cried the man. “Come, come now, my good man, you must do as I say at once,” said the Rabbi.
The poor unfortunate man shuffled back home with his head hanging down and took the goat into his hut. When some weeks had gone by, life in the little hut was much worse. Now, with the crying, quarreling, clucking, honking, and crowing, the goat went wild, pushing and butting everyone with his horns. The hut seemed even smaller, and the children appeared bigger. When the poor unfortunate man couldn’t stand it another minute, he again ran to the Rabbi. “Rabbi help me!” he screamed. “Now the goat is running wild. My life is a nightmare.”
The Rabbi listened and thought. At last he said, “Tell me, my poor man. Is it possible that you have a cow? Young or old it doesn’t really matter.” “Yes, Rabbi, it’s true I have a cow,” said the poor man fearfully. “Go home then,” said the Rabbi, “and take the cow into your hut.” “Oh, no, you cannot mean for me to do this, Rabbi!” cried the man. “Do it at once,” said the Rabbi. The poor unfortunate man trudged home with a heavy heart and took the cow into his hut. “My Rabbi is surely crazy?” he thought.
When some weeks had gone by, life in the hut was even worse than before. Everyone quarreled, even the chickens. The goat ran wild. The cow trampled everything. (And the poop, well that should not be detailed.) The poor man could hardly believe his misfortune. At last, when he could stand it no longer, he ran to the Rabbi for help. “Rabbi,” he shrieked, “help me, save me, the end of the world has come! The cow is trampling everything. There is no room even to breathe. It’s worse than a nightmare!” The Rabbi again listened and thought. He offered words of support and sympathy.
At last he said, “Go home now, my friend, and let the animals out of your hut.” “I will, I will, I’ll do it right away,” said the man. The poor unfortunate man hurried home and let the cow, the goat, the chickens, the goose, and the rooster out of his little hut. That night the poor man and all his family slept peacefully. There was no crowing, no clucking, no honking. There was plenty of room to breathe. The children no longer fought. And there was no longer anything for husband and wife to argue about. They just wrapped their arms around each other, smiling and breathing in the peace that had enveloped their home.
The very next day the poor man ran back to the Rabbi. “Rabbi,” he cried, “you are so wise. You have made life sweet. With just my family in the hut, it’s so quiet, so roomy, and so peaceful. My home is filled with blessings! You have restored joy to our hearts.” (My retelling is based on It Could Always Be Worse: A Yiddish Folktale by Margot Zemach.)
Sometimes all it takes to see our blessings is a little rearranging.
Blessings are more about perspective than fact. Shaping this perspective is the essence of the Jewish command to recite blessings. We say a blessing so that we are more apt to count our blessings, so we are more likely to see our blessings.
Perhaps for these High Holidays that will be like no other, all we need to do is a little rearranging. Then our blessings will become clearer. Perhaps it is as simple as rearranging the furniture.
Today is the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul, beginning the forty days of repentance that culminate in Yom Kippur’s final shofar blast. Let the rearranging begin. Let us turn toward one another. Let us begin the task of shaping our perspective. Let us begin this new command of transforming our homes small sanctuary.
These days blessings are harder and harder to see, but they are still there, all around us. It may be as easy as moving some things around.
No More Tests and Trials
Really? Another calamity? Now you throw hurricanes at us too.
The Torah responds: “Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that He might test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts…” (Deuteronomy 8)
And I shout back, “No more tests.”
Our prayer book adds: “Purify our hearts to serve You in truth.”
Why must there be so many hardships? And why must there be any hardship at all? How do these challenges purify our hearts? At the very least can these difficulties be spread out. Why does tzuris appear to come in successive waves? Just when we feel like we are gaining enough strength to stand up again another wave comes crashing in and knocks us down.
The tradition suggests that the righteous are tested even more than the wicked. Abraham was, for example, tested not one time but ten. Who then would we want to aspire toward righteousness? The tradition counters that what makes people truly righteous is that they do not seek the title of tzaddik. They do good for its own sake. They do not wish to acquire status and stature. Their suffering becomes added proof of their righteousness.
Still these days I find myself wanting to run in the other direction. 2020 is exhausting. It is bedeviling. Enough! No more!
Then again if we are able to find meaning in even the most difficult of challenges, and amidst this current piling of incremental difficulties, we will better for it. When we are tested our hearts grow stronger. The problem is not these tests and trials. It is found instead when we offer meaning and lessons about other people’s challenges. When we offer a cliché to a friend, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” Or when we try to interpret someone else’s pain or explain away their difficulty, we add to the pile of tzuris. In that moment, when we think we are offering a healing explanation we do more harm than good. No one wants their pain to be justified.
During Tuesday’s storm our beautiful apple tree was uprooted and fell on our neighbor’s property. Yesterday our neighbor walked over to our house so we could strategize about the tree’s removal. I had never met Dan before. I only saw his family playing on the other side of our fence.
Perhaps a new friendship will take root. After five years of living on either side of the fence a tropical storm forced us to strike up a conversation.
The wilderness, and the tempestuous challenges found therein, is indeed where life is lived. It occupies the majority of the Torah. There is no Torah found after this last book of Deuteronomy when we cross over to the Promised Land. Our Torah is only discovered in the hardships of the wilderness.
While I am exhausted by this year’s unending tests, I have faith I will emerge stronger and even better.
Your heart is likewise in your hands. Your challenges are yours from which to wrest meaning. You must carve your own path through the wilderness.
But you never know. A new friend might be found on the other side of the fence ready and willing to walk by your side.
Together we can hope, and pray, there is not too much more wilderness ahead.
The Torah responds: “Remember the long way that the Lord your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, that He might test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts…” (Deuteronomy 8)
And I shout back, “No more tests.”
Our prayer book adds: “Purify our hearts to serve You in truth.”
Why must there be so many hardships? And why must there be any hardship at all? How do these challenges purify our hearts? At the very least can these difficulties be spread out. Why does tzuris appear to come in successive waves? Just when we feel like we are gaining enough strength to stand up again another wave comes crashing in and knocks us down.
The tradition suggests that the righteous are tested even more than the wicked. Abraham was, for example, tested not one time but ten. Who then would we want to aspire toward righteousness? The tradition counters that what makes people truly righteous is that they do not seek the title of tzaddik. They do good for its own sake. They do not wish to acquire status and stature. Their suffering becomes added proof of their righteousness.
Still these days I find myself wanting to run in the other direction. 2020 is exhausting. It is bedeviling. Enough! No more!
Then again if we are able to find meaning in even the most difficult of challenges, and amidst this current piling of incremental difficulties, we will better for it. When we are tested our hearts grow stronger. The problem is not these tests and trials. It is found instead when we offer meaning and lessons about other people’s challenges. When we offer a cliché to a friend, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” Or when we try to interpret someone else’s pain or explain away their difficulty, we add to the pile of tzuris. In that moment, when we think we are offering a healing explanation we do more harm than good. No one wants their pain to be justified.
During Tuesday’s storm our beautiful apple tree was uprooted and fell on our neighbor’s property. Yesterday our neighbor walked over to our house so we could strategize about the tree’s removal. I had never met Dan before. I only saw his family playing on the other side of our fence.
Perhaps a new friendship will take root. After five years of living on either side of the fence a tropical storm forced us to strike up a conversation.
The wilderness, and the tempestuous challenges found therein, is indeed where life is lived. It occupies the majority of the Torah. There is no Torah found after this last book of Deuteronomy when we cross over to the Promised Land. Our Torah is only discovered in the hardships of the wilderness.
While I am exhausted by this year’s unending tests, I have faith I will emerge stronger and even better.
Your heart is likewise in your hands. Your challenges are yours from which to wrest meaning. You must carve your own path through the wilderness.
But you never know. A new friend might be found on the other side of the fence ready and willing to walk by your side.
Together we can hope, and pray, there is not too much more wilderness ahead.