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.”
No More Miracles
You cannot sustain the miraculous. It is a flash that quickly dissipates.
And yet people still chase after them. That’s why they pilgrimage to religious sites, hoping to recapture the spirit of what once happened there. They spend inordinate resources to travel back to where the inspiration for their faith first occurred. This is a mistaken effort and one which Judaism by and large rejects, although more by accident rather than design.
We do not know the exact location of Mount Sinai. The Torah does not record the burial place of its hero Moses. We cannot even find the Sea of Reeds.
And yet the impulse to rediscover such miraculous inspirations still drive religious followers. The medieval philosopher and poet, Yehudah HaLevi, who authored countless poems, most notably the words, “My heart is in the East, but I am trapped in the depths of the West,” died during his journey to reach the Holy Land. Legend records that he was killed as he reached out to touch the stones of Jerusalem’s gates, but he actually never made it to the land of Israel.
People often ask, how come our kids don’t see the modern State of Israel as miraculous. “What’s wrong with them? Don’t they understand and appreciate the modern-day miracle Israel represents?” These questioners recall the moments of euphoria after the State of Israel was founded or following Israel’s unexpected (and miraculous) victory in the Six Day War. Or they remember, as I am often given to relate, Israel’s daring rescue of hostages in Entebbe and the feelings of celebration and affirmation (and even vindication) that we then experienced.
I remember the day like it was yesterday when we, and every other New Yorker, cheered the Israeli navy ships entering the harbor on July 4, 1976. We forget the obvious. Our children were not there on that day. And no matter how many times we might take them out on a boat to New York harbor, or bring them to the battlefields that dot Jerusalem’s landscape, and describe yesterday’s scene they cannot truly imagine the moment. They cannot feel what I felt. They cannot say with me, “It was a miracle.” And that’s not their fault! Stop blaming them.
For my children, our wedding pictures likewise do not recapture the feelings of euphoria and joy Susie and I then experienced. For them it conjures questions like, “Eema, was that dress really in style? Abba, you had so much hair back then. Uncle Mickey looks so young. Who is that person?” They do not say, “Wow, you guys are so in love. Everyone looks so happy.” My memories cannot, and will not, become their thoughts.
This is to be expected. They were not there to experience it. Joy is but a moment. The miraculous is fleeting. History can never do it justice or even accurately capture it. No amount of storytelling, or berating, will accomplish otherwise.
Three days after the Israelites pass through the Sea of Reeds, a mere 72 hours after experiencing the most profound of miracles, the people begin their complaining once again. “And the people grumbled against Moses, saying, ‘What shall we drink?’” (Exodus 15)
The Torah makes clear what our struggles illuminate. The miraculous is unsustainable. It is beyond teaching. Miracles cannot be sustained for the generation who even experience them.
Why doesn’t God continue to perform miracles, like the splitting of the sea, in our own generation?
Because our faith depends not on miracles, performed today or even yesterday, but instead on ordinary and everyday experience. Jewish faith revolves around constant, daily, work.
The sun still shines. Say a blessing. Give thanks.
A stranger is in need, or even a friend. Give tzedakah. Make a phone call. Restore faith.
There is no place to which to travel but here and now.
And yet people still chase after them. That’s why they pilgrimage to religious sites, hoping to recapture the spirit of what once happened there. They spend inordinate resources to travel back to where the inspiration for their faith first occurred. This is a mistaken effort and one which Judaism by and large rejects, although more by accident rather than design.
We do not know the exact location of Mount Sinai. The Torah does not record the burial place of its hero Moses. We cannot even find the Sea of Reeds.
And yet the impulse to rediscover such miraculous inspirations still drive religious followers. The medieval philosopher and poet, Yehudah HaLevi, who authored countless poems, most notably the words, “My heart is in the East, but I am trapped in the depths of the West,” died during his journey to reach the Holy Land. Legend records that he was killed as he reached out to touch the stones of Jerusalem’s gates, but he actually never made it to the land of Israel.
People often ask, how come our kids don’t see the modern State of Israel as miraculous. “What’s wrong with them? Don’t they understand and appreciate the modern-day miracle Israel represents?” These questioners recall the moments of euphoria after the State of Israel was founded or following Israel’s unexpected (and miraculous) victory in the Six Day War. Or they remember, as I am often given to relate, Israel’s daring rescue of hostages in Entebbe and the feelings of celebration and affirmation (and even vindication) that we then experienced.
I remember the day like it was yesterday when we, and every other New Yorker, cheered the Israeli navy ships entering the harbor on July 4, 1976. We forget the obvious. Our children were not there on that day. And no matter how many times we might take them out on a boat to New York harbor, or bring them to the battlefields that dot Jerusalem’s landscape, and describe yesterday’s scene they cannot truly imagine the moment. They cannot feel what I felt. They cannot say with me, “It was a miracle.” And that’s not their fault! Stop blaming them.
For my children, our wedding pictures likewise do not recapture the feelings of euphoria and joy Susie and I then experienced. For them it conjures questions like, “Eema, was that dress really in style? Abba, you had so much hair back then. Uncle Mickey looks so young. Who is that person?” They do not say, “Wow, you guys are so in love. Everyone looks so happy.” My memories cannot, and will not, become their thoughts.
This is to be expected. They were not there to experience it. Joy is but a moment. The miraculous is fleeting. History can never do it justice or even accurately capture it. No amount of storytelling, or berating, will accomplish otherwise.
Three days after the Israelites pass through the Sea of Reeds, a mere 72 hours after experiencing the most profound of miracles, the people begin their complaining once again. “And the people grumbled against Moses, saying, ‘What shall we drink?’” (Exodus 15)
The Torah makes clear what our struggles illuminate. The miraculous is unsustainable. It is beyond teaching. Miracles cannot be sustained for the generation who even experience them.
Why doesn’t God continue to perform miracles, like the splitting of the sea, in our own generation?
Because our faith depends not on miracles, performed today or even yesterday, but instead on ordinary and everyday experience. Jewish faith revolves around constant, daily, work.
The sun still shines. Say a blessing. Give thanks.
A stranger is in need, or even a friend. Give tzedakah. Make a phone call. Restore faith.
There is no place to which to travel but here and now.
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.
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...
Renewing Friendships
As we close the Book of Genesis, and bury our remaining patriarchs, mourning in particular the death of Joseph, and as we bid farewell to the last remaining hours of 2020 with its searing pain and unrivaled singularity--who could ever have imagined a year like the one we just experienced--I wish to offer one lesson gained from 2020. This is what staying home for these many months has taught me.
Sometime in May, my brother suggested (thank you Mike!) the idea for Monday Musings, in which I talk with friends and colleagues for 15-20 minutes. I was a guest on Mike's show before creating one of my own. He is the rabbi of Temple Shir Shalom in West Bloomfield, Michigan.
The thought is that this program can serve as a spiritual kick start to the week, that our conversations can inspire others or give our listeners ideas to ponder. In a year in which weeks seem to blur into one another and look all too similar to each other, we envisioned that at the very least they can begin with different and varied thoughts. A meeting with someone from whom we might learn something new can start each week.
The program evolved as time marched forward. I realized that I did not want to debate, or argue, with colleagues. I did not want the experience to be marked by disagreement but instead by discovery. There is plenty of disagreement out there and far too often argument that masquerades as entertainment rather than thoughtful debate. I wished instead to learn about friends' passions and gain insights from their personal journeys.
And I share this not so much as a promotional piece for my program (or Mike's for that matter), but instead as an opportunity to share what I have learned and to suggest that each of us can do likewise and gain similar sustenance from weekly get-togethers with friends.
Start every week with a phone call with a friend, although better to see your friend's face on FaceTime or Zoom. Put the date on the calendar well in advance. Allow yourself the pleasure of looking forward to catching up with your friend. And most important of all, use this as an opportunity to listen to what life has taught these friends. Don't talk about what you miss or how much you wished you could see them. Just listen to their offerings and be open to their wisdom.
I am privileged to be blessed by so many friends, some of whom I speak with regularly and others with whom this program provided me an excuse to rekindle friendships from years ago. Of course, it still pains me that I cannot see them in person and that I cannot even plan my next adventure when I might cross paths with them or even, and most especially, discover new friends on some as of yet, unscheduled journey.
And yet, when I look back on the year, I realize these Monday conversations helped me. I begin every week asking a friend to teach me. Every Monday I wake up and get to drink in the wisdom of others.
I recognize that longing for the adventures, and vacations, of the past and pining after the company of friends and family, as well as the frivolity of the celebrations that brought us together is a privilege and blessing many others might not share (there are far too many who long not for companionship but instead for food, shelter and warmth) and while I pledge to do more to help others, I also recognize that it is these very encounters that serve as the food on which my soul depends.
I miss seeing people in person. I did not need a pandemic to remind me that I am a people person. I am buoyed by the presence of others. And I have little doubt that I may very well start crying when I am able to hug a friend for the first time. I am lifted by community and even by crowds. (Today I even find myself dreaming about the day when I will be pushing through crowds of people in a jam-packed Penn Station.)
It is as if I am lifted in the hora's chair each and every time I am in the presence of others. And so, Monday Musings became my chair. I greeted each Monday morning as an opportunity to be hoisted on high.
I did not expect that when the idea for Monday Musings was first proposed that it would also help to sustain me. When I look back on this past year I have come to recognize that waking up each Monday in anticipation of seeing a friend and catching up with him or her has helped me. And it can help each of us as well.
So, make a list of friends. Schedule a conversation.
And open your heart to the wisdom of friends.
Your week will be transformed by the discussions. Your year might even be likewise redeemed.
Happy New Year! May 2021 only bring blessings of health.
Sometime in May, my brother suggested (thank you Mike!) the idea for Monday Musings, in which I talk with friends and colleagues for 15-20 minutes. I was a guest on Mike's show before creating one of my own. He is the rabbi of Temple Shir Shalom in West Bloomfield, Michigan.
The thought is that this program can serve as a spiritual kick start to the week, that our conversations can inspire others or give our listeners ideas to ponder. In a year in which weeks seem to blur into one another and look all too similar to each other, we envisioned that at the very least they can begin with different and varied thoughts. A meeting with someone from whom we might learn something new can start each week.
The program evolved as time marched forward. I realized that I did not want to debate, or argue, with colleagues. I did not want the experience to be marked by disagreement but instead by discovery. There is plenty of disagreement out there and far too often argument that masquerades as entertainment rather than thoughtful debate. I wished instead to learn about friends' passions and gain insights from their personal journeys.
And I share this not so much as a promotional piece for my program (or Mike's for that matter), but instead as an opportunity to share what I have learned and to suggest that each of us can do likewise and gain similar sustenance from weekly get-togethers with friends.
Start every week with a phone call with a friend, although better to see your friend's face on FaceTime or Zoom. Put the date on the calendar well in advance. Allow yourself the pleasure of looking forward to catching up with your friend. And most important of all, use this as an opportunity to listen to what life has taught these friends. Don't talk about what you miss or how much you wished you could see them. Just listen to their offerings and be open to their wisdom.
I am privileged to be blessed by so many friends, some of whom I speak with regularly and others with whom this program provided me an excuse to rekindle friendships from years ago. Of course, it still pains me that I cannot see them in person and that I cannot even plan my next adventure when I might cross paths with them or even, and most especially, discover new friends on some as of yet, unscheduled journey.
And yet, when I look back on the year, I realize these Monday conversations helped me. I begin every week asking a friend to teach me. Every Monday I wake up and get to drink in the wisdom of others.
I recognize that longing for the adventures, and vacations, of the past and pining after the company of friends and family, as well as the frivolity of the celebrations that brought us together is a privilege and blessing many others might not share (there are far too many who long not for companionship but instead for food, shelter and warmth) and while I pledge to do more to help others, I also recognize that it is these very encounters that serve as the food on which my soul depends.
I miss seeing people in person. I did not need a pandemic to remind me that I am a people person. I am buoyed by the presence of others. And I have little doubt that I may very well start crying when I am able to hug a friend for the first time. I am lifted by community and even by crowds. (Today I even find myself dreaming about the day when I will be pushing through crowds of people in a jam-packed Penn Station.)
It is as if I am lifted in the hora's chair each and every time I am in the presence of others. And so, Monday Musings became my chair. I greeted each Monday morning as an opportunity to be hoisted on high.
I did not expect that when the idea for Monday Musings was first proposed that it would also help to sustain me. When I look back on this past year I have come to recognize that waking up each Monday in anticipation of seeing a friend and catching up with him or her has helped me. And it can help each of us as well.
So, make a list of friends. Schedule a conversation.
And open your heart to the wisdom of friends.
Your week will be transformed by the discussions. Your year might even be likewise redeemed.
Happy New Year! May 2021 only bring blessings of health.
Compassion Rewrites History
After many years apart, and at odds, Joseph and his brothers are reconciled. It is prompted by the elder Judah’s petitions. “For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” (Genesis 44) Judah appears to be a changed man.
He now fears that the loss of his youngest brother Benjamin would cause his father Jacob’s death. Earlier he offered no such worry when he and his brothers sold Joseph into slavery and told their father that his beloved son was killed by wild beasts. Earlier Judah and his brothers only exhibited resentment towards Joseph and anger that their father favored him.
Now they offer compassion. They acknowledge that Jacob shares a special bond with Benjamin, the son of his beloved wife Rachel who died in childbirth. It is this note of compassion that moves Joseph to offer forgiveness. It is their newfound understanding of the special bond one son shares with their father that causes Joseph to no longer to see the pain caused by their terrible deed but instead the good that has now transpired.
Can good really emerge from terrible deeds? Can future successes redeem history’s errors?
The Torah reports: “Joseph could no longer control himself…. He said to his brothers, ‘I am Joseph. Is my father still well?” Perhaps Joseph has also rediscovered a favored place in his heart for his father. Perhaps he was once angry at his father for doting on him and pushing his brothers toward their near deadly resentment. Joseph continues: “Now do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
It is a remarkable transformation. The brothers have changed. Joseph too is a new man. Resentment and anger have become love and affection. All are transformed by compassion and understanding.
Years of anger, years of seething are seemingly undone in an instant, by a few well-chosen words. I do not imagine their ill feelings are forgotten.
And yet is appears to be so. “Joseph kissed all his brothers and wept upon them.” (Genesis 45)
An act of compassion, a newfound understanding can rewrite history.
The Genesis of Healing and Reconciliation
We are nearing the end of the Book of Genesis. This week we find ourselves in the midst of the Joseph story. Our hero Joseph, recently sold into slavery by his brothers, has now achieved power and renown in Egypt. The brothers who think he is a slave in a faraway land must now approach him and beg for food. They do not recognize him. He walks like an Egyptian. He talks like an Egyptian. He, however, recognizes them. And so, Joseph tests them.
Much of Genesis can be viewed through the lens of the siblings it portrays. It is a story about brotherly love, although more often than not jealousy and rivalry. Ultimately the book concludes with a note of forgiveness and reconciliation. There are four sets of brothers.
We open with Cain and Abel, the children of Adam and Eve. Cain is so consumed with anger that he kills his brother Abel. The hatred, apparently fostered by God’s acceptance of Abel’s sacrifice and not Cain’s, is never overcome.
The next set of brothers is Isaac and Ishmael. They too have difficulty getting along, although fare better than their predecessors. After Isaac is born Sarah banishes his brother Ishmael. They are forced to live apart from each other. And yet they come together to bury their father Abraham. No words are exchanged. After the funeral they immediately go their separate ways. Still there appears a moment of reconciliation.
Next, we read about Jacob and Esau. After Jacob steals the birthright Esau threatens to kill him. Jacob runs from his angry brother. He builds a successful life, again living apart from his brother for many years. Later they are reunited. The Torah offers a tender description about their reconciliation: “Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33) But then once again the brothers go their separate ways.
The Joseph story is far lengthier and offers more detail. It occupies four portions. It is the culminating story of the Book of Genesis.
In response to Joseph’s test, he discovers that his brothers have changed. They rise up and protect their younger brother Benjamin rather than betray him as they did Joseph. Joseph is overcome with emotion and offers a model of forgiveness. He states: “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” The brothers are dumfounded and unable to speak. “Then Joseph kissed all his brothers and wept upon them.” (Genesis 45) Finally they speak to each other. Joseph and his brothers forgive their wrongs.
Unlike the prior instances, Joseph’s brothers do not part ways after their reconciliation. The brothers, as well as their father Jacob, and their mothers, join Joseph in Egypt. The family is reunited. The brothers speak to each other. They are reconciled. It begins with Joseph’s forgiveness.
Perhaps that is lesson of the Book of Genesis.
Brothers, and siblings, and families, are often at odds. And yet this can change. It can turn. It may take years, or even generations, but ultimately there can be full reconciliation.
Many families are unable to repair divides. They keep each other at a distance. A few, however, can right the wrongs of yesterday. Joseph’s family offers the model of complete reconciliation and repair.
That is the most certainly the concluding note of the Book of Genesis. It might very well be its most important lesson.
Much of Genesis can be viewed through the lens of the siblings it portrays. It is a story about brotherly love, although more often than not jealousy and rivalry. Ultimately the book concludes with a note of forgiveness and reconciliation. There are four sets of brothers.
We open with Cain and Abel, the children of Adam and Eve. Cain is so consumed with anger that he kills his brother Abel. The hatred, apparently fostered by God’s acceptance of Abel’s sacrifice and not Cain’s, is never overcome.
The next set of brothers is Isaac and Ishmael. They too have difficulty getting along, although fare better than their predecessors. After Isaac is born Sarah banishes his brother Ishmael. They are forced to live apart from each other. And yet they come together to bury their father Abraham. No words are exchanged. After the funeral they immediately go their separate ways. Still there appears a moment of reconciliation.
Next, we read about Jacob and Esau. After Jacob steals the birthright Esau threatens to kill him. Jacob runs from his angry brother. He builds a successful life, again living apart from his brother for many years. Later they are reunited. The Torah offers a tender description about their reconciliation: “Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33) But then once again the brothers go their separate ways.
The Joseph story is far lengthier and offers more detail. It occupies four portions. It is the culminating story of the Book of Genesis.
In response to Joseph’s test, he discovers that his brothers have changed. They rise up and protect their younger brother Benjamin rather than betray him as they did Joseph. Joseph is overcome with emotion and offers a model of forgiveness. He states: “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” The brothers are dumfounded and unable to speak. “Then Joseph kissed all his brothers and wept upon them.” (Genesis 45) Finally they speak to each other. Joseph and his brothers forgive their wrongs.
Unlike the prior instances, Joseph’s brothers do not part ways after their reconciliation. The brothers, as well as their father Jacob, and their mothers, join Joseph in Egypt. The family is reunited. The brothers speak to each other. They are reconciled. It begins with Joseph’s forgiveness.
Perhaps that is lesson of the Book of Genesis.
Brothers, and siblings, and families, are often at odds. And yet this can change. It can turn. It may take years, or even generations, but ultimately there can be full reconciliation.
Many families are unable to repair divides. They keep each other at a distance. A few, however, can right the wrongs of yesterday. Joseph’s family offers the model of complete reconciliation and repair.
That is the most certainly the concluding note of the Book of Genesis. It might very well be its most important lesson.
Our Questions Are Our Heritage
The Hasidic master, Sefat Emet, points out that Jacob is not called whole (shalem) until after he limps. “Jacob arrived shalem in the city of Shechem.” (Genesis 33:18) This week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach, describes the journey from which he arrives in Shechem. It describes our patriarch’s movement from cheating and brokenness to wholeness and peace.
Jacob, now married with two wives, two maidservants, eleven sons and one daughter, many slaves and an abundance of livestock, sets out to return to his native land. At the same place where he dreamed of a ladder reaching to heaven, he sends his family across the river and again spends the night alone. He is understandably nervous about the impending reunion with his brother Esau who twenty years earlier vowed to kill him for stealing the birthright.
That night his experience is neither a dream nor an earthly reality. He wrestles with a being that is described as divine. Unable to free himself from Jacob’s grasp the being offers Jacob a blessing in exchange for his release. This being declares, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32:29) The being wrenches Jacob’s hip causing him to limp.
Jacob’s new name becomes the name of the Jewish people. Yisrael means to wrestle with God. What a remarkable statement about our people and our tradition! We can wrestle with God. We can question God. In fact, we should question God. While most people understand that questioning is part and parcel to being Jewish, few appreciate that such questioning extends towards heaven. The rabbis called this notion, chutzpah klappei shamayim, chutzpah towards heaven. It is a beautiful and telling concept.
Long ago the rabbis codified action over belief, the duties of the hands over the feelings of the heart. We have books and books detailing exactly which cuts of beef are kosher, when to recite the Shema, even how much we should give to tzedakah. We do not have such books telling us exactly what we must believe. We have many discussions and debates about these questions, but no creeds. We have codes of action not creeds of belief.
It is this embrace of many different theologies that makes Judaism unique and to my mind, extraordinary. I don’t have to have it all figured out. I can still question. I can still wonder. I can still ask: why does God not heal every person who is sick and infirm? Why is there pain and suffering in God’s world?
Questions—and even, or perhaps most especially, questions of God—define us.
Isidor Isaac Rabi, who was awarded the 1944 Nobel Prize in Physics, was once asked why he became a scientist. He answered, “My mother made me a scientist without ever intending it. Every other Jewish mother in Brooklyn would ask her child after school, ‘Nu? Did you learn anything today?’ But not my mother. She always asked me a different question. She would greet me with the words, ‘Izzy, did you ask a good question today?’ That difference—asking good questions—made me become a scientist.”
Don’t be afraid to ask good questions. Don’t be afraid to ask tough questions. Most of all, never think that your questioning makes you less Jewish. In fact, it is what makes you worthy of your name, the children of Israel.
The question remains our most important heritage.
Jacob, now married with two wives, two maidservants, eleven sons and one daughter, many slaves and an abundance of livestock, sets out to return to his native land. At the same place where he dreamed of a ladder reaching to heaven, he sends his family across the river and again spends the night alone. He is understandably nervous about the impending reunion with his brother Esau who twenty years earlier vowed to kill him for stealing the birthright.
That night his experience is neither a dream nor an earthly reality. He wrestles with a being that is described as divine. Unable to free himself from Jacob’s grasp the being offers Jacob a blessing in exchange for his release. This being declares, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32:29) The being wrenches Jacob’s hip causing him to limp.
Jacob’s new name becomes the name of the Jewish people. Yisrael means to wrestle with God. What a remarkable statement about our people and our tradition! We can wrestle with God. We can question God. In fact, we should question God. While most people understand that questioning is part and parcel to being Jewish, few appreciate that such questioning extends towards heaven. The rabbis called this notion, chutzpah klappei shamayim, chutzpah towards heaven. It is a beautiful and telling concept.
Long ago the rabbis codified action over belief, the duties of the hands over the feelings of the heart. We have books and books detailing exactly which cuts of beef are kosher, when to recite the Shema, even how much we should give to tzedakah. We do not have such books telling us exactly what we must believe. We have many discussions and debates about these questions, but no creeds. We have codes of action not creeds of belief.
It is this embrace of many different theologies that makes Judaism unique and to my mind, extraordinary. I don’t have to have it all figured out. I can still question. I can still wonder. I can still ask: why does God not heal every person who is sick and infirm? Why is there pain and suffering in God’s world?
Questions—and even, or perhaps most especially, questions of God—define us.
Isidor Isaac Rabi, who was awarded the 1944 Nobel Prize in Physics, was once asked why he became a scientist. He answered, “My mother made me a scientist without ever intending it. Every other Jewish mother in Brooklyn would ask her child after school, ‘Nu? Did you learn anything today?’ But not my mother. She always asked me a different question. She would greet me with the words, ‘Izzy, did you ask a good question today?’ That difference—asking good questions—made me become a scientist.”
Don’t be afraid to ask good questions. Don’t be afraid to ask tough questions. Most of all, never think that your questioning makes you less Jewish. In fact, it is what makes you worthy of your name, the children of Israel.
The question remains our most important heritage.
Seeing Is Believing
The cliché “seeing is believing” is an apt description for a prominent refrain the Genesis stories.
In Genesis 21, for example, we read of Ishmael who when dying from hunger and thirst is miraculously saved by the appearance of a well. “Then God opened Hagar’s eyes and she saw a well of water.” Then again perhaps the well was there all along.
In Genesis 22 we read, “When Abraham lifted up his eyes, he saw a ram, caught in the thicket by its horns. So, Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering in place of his son.” Did God make the ram appear out of thin air or was it there all along and Abraham failed to see it because he was blinded by desire to fulfill God’s command?
Most people read the Bible and think that miracles are akin to magic. God magically provides a well and a ram. In my estimation however miracles are about the lifting up of the eyes. The ram was always there. Abraham only needed turn away from his son, bound on the sacrificial altar, and loosen his grip on the knife.
The well was there all along. Hagar only needed to wipe the tears from her face to see what was already there. Sometimes zealousness and grief prevent us from seeing what (miraculously) stand before us.
This refrain is what makes this week’s portion and its story all the more remarkable. Jacob, with the help of his mother Rebekah, tricks his father Isaac and steals the blessing intended for his brother Esau. The story begins: “When Isaac was old and his eyes were too dim to see…” (Genesis 27) Jacob prepares a meal for his father and dresses like his brother Esau as his mother directs him and says to Isaac, “I am Esau, your first born: I have done as you told me. Pray sit up and eat of my game, that you may give me your innermost blessing.” The Torah continues, “So Jacob drew close to his father Isaac, who felt him and wondered, ‘The voice is the voice of Jacob, yet the hands are the hands of Esau.’ Isaac did not recognize him, because his hands were hairy like those of his brother Esau; and so, he blessed him.”
Whereas the stories about Abraham are about opening eyes, those about Isaac are about closing the eyes. Earlier Isaac asks his father Abraham, “’Here are the firestone and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering? And Abraham said, ‘God will see to the sheep for the offering, my son.’ And the two of them walked as one.” (Genesis 22)
The haunting question about our patriarch Isaac’s life is does he choose not to see? Was he a willing participant to his own near sacrifice? And in this week’s reading, we must ask: did he choose willful blindness?
To have faith in God is to stand in awe, or literally to fear heaven. In Hebrew the words for seeing and having faith are very close and share the same root. What therefore is the relationship between seeing and believing? When is not seeing, as with our patriarch Isaac, a matter of faith and a necessity for life?
When do miracles depend on opening our eyes?
In Genesis 21, for example, we read of Ishmael who when dying from hunger and thirst is miraculously saved by the appearance of a well. “Then God opened Hagar’s eyes and she saw a well of water.” Then again perhaps the well was there all along.
In Genesis 22 we read, “When Abraham lifted up his eyes, he saw a ram, caught in the thicket by its horns. So, Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering in place of his son.” Did God make the ram appear out of thin air or was it there all along and Abraham failed to see it because he was blinded by desire to fulfill God’s command?
Most people read the Bible and think that miracles are akin to magic. God magically provides a well and a ram. In my estimation however miracles are about the lifting up of the eyes. The ram was always there. Abraham only needed turn away from his son, bound on the sacrificial altar, and loosen his grip on the knife.
The well was there all along. Hagar only needed to wipe the tears from her face to see what was already there. Sometimes zealousness and grief prevent us from seeing what (miraculously) stand before us.
This refrain is what makes this week’s portion and its story all the more remarkable. Jacob, with the help of his mother Rebekah, tricks his father Isaac and steals the blessing intended for his brother Esau. The story begins: “When Isaac was old and his eyes were too dim to see…” (Genesis 27) Jacob prepares a meal for his father and dresses like his brother Esau as his mother directs him and says to Isaac, “I am Esau, your first born: I have done as you told me. Pray sit up and eat of my game, that you may give me your innermost blessing.” The Torah continues, “So Jacob drew close to his father Isaac, who felt him and wondered, ‘The voice is the voice of Jacob, yet the hands are the hands of Esau.’ Isaac did not recognize him, because his hands were hairy like those of his brother Esau; and so, he blessed him.”
Whereas the stories about Abraham are about opening eyes, those about Isaac are about closing the eyes. Earlier Isaac asks his father Abraham, “’Here are the firestone and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering? And Abraham said, ‘God will see to the sheep for the offering, my son.’ And the two of them walked as one.” (Genesis 22)
The haunting question about our patriarch Isaac’s life is does he choose not to see? Was he a willing participant to his own near sacrifice? And in this week’s reading, we must ask: did he choose willful blindness?
To have faith in God is to stand in awe, or literally to fear heaven. In Hebrew the words for seeing and having faith are very close and share the same root. What therefore is the relationship between seeing and believing? When is not seeing, as with our patriarch Isaac, a matter of faith and a necessity for life?
When do miracles depend on opening our eyes?
And when do relationships hinge on turning a blind eye?
We Are All Resident Aliens; We Are All Brothers and Sisters
Heba Nabil Iskandarani recently became a Spanish citizen. The story of how this 26-year-old Palestinian refugee from Lebanon, with no state calling her a citizen, acquired a Spanish passport is a fascinating tale.
After Iskandarani discovered that her Palestinian father had Jewish roots dating back to the Spanish expulsion, she applied for Spanish citizenship. In 2015 Spain adopted a law whose intention was to atone for its persecution and forced exile of the Spanish Jewish community in 1492. The law allowed descendants of Sephardic Jews to apply for citizenship if they could demonstrate Jewish ancestry and a special connection to Spain. In the past five years, over 150,000 succeeded and became Spanish citizens. Of these 43,000 are like Iskandarani not Jewish.
Iskandarani was able to prove her Jewish roots after uncovering her great-grandmother’s old identity card whose name Latife Djerbi references an island off the coast of Tunisia where many Sephardic Jews once lived. In addition, the family observed the curious Springtime custom of dipping hard-boiled eggs in saltwater. Iskandarani now thinks that what the family called a Tunisian tradition was actually a Passover seder ritual. Her mother also always thought it strange that no one in her husband’s family had Muslim names. Her uncles were named Jacob, Ruben, Moses and Zachary.
And so now, with her Spanish passport in hand, Heba Nabil Iskandarani can visit Jaffa, the city where her grandfather was born but which he fled at the start of the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. She remarked that her family’s Jewishness exiled them first from Spain and then their Muslim identity forced them out of the nascent state of Israel. She said, “Quite ironic don’t you think being exiled twice for the exact same reason?” Iskandarani continues to be interested in Judaism and fascinated by her Jewish roots.
The journey continues.
After Sarah’s death in the land of Canaan, Abraham approached the Hittites to purchase a burial plot. He said, “I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site…” (Genesis 23) And Ephron sold him the Cave of Machpelah in the city of Hebron. It is there that all the patriarchs and matriarchs: Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob and Leah are buried. Only Rachel is buried elsewhere, in Bethlehem.
The term resident alien is a curious term. The Hebrew reads, “ger v’toshav” and can be more literally translated as “stranger and resident.” In some ways this encapsulates Abraham’s feelings and perhaps our own as well. We are all at home and apart. We sometimes feel like strangers and other times feel like citizens. In one generation we feel at home and in another, exiled and without a nation to call our own. We are all indeed resident aliens.
We wander from exile to welcome, from resident to alien.
Heba Nabil Iskandarani’s discovery could have been our own journey. We are more alike than we care to admit.
We are all indeed brothers and sisters.
The Torah reports: “This was the total span of Abraham’s life: one hundred and seventy-five years. And Abraham breathed his last, dying at good ripe age, old and contended.” (Genesis 25) His sons, Isaac and Ishmael, apart for many years, at war for generations, come together. While they do not speak to each other, they do participate in one activity as one.
Together they bury their father.
And I continue to draw hope from these stories.
After Iskandarani discovered that her Palestinian father had Jewish roots dating back to the Spanish expulsion, she applied for Spanish citizenship. In 2015 Spain adopted a law whose intention was to atone for its persecution and forced exile of the Spanish Jewish community in 1492. The law allowed descendants of Sephardic Jews to apply for citizenship if they could demonstrate Jewish ancestry and a special connection to Spain. In the past five years, over 150,000 succeeded and became Spanish citizens. Of these 43,000 are like Iskandarani not Jewish.
Iskandarani was able to prove her Jewish roots after uncovering her great-grandmother’s old identity card whose name Latife Djerbi references an island off the coast of Tunisia where many Sephardic Jews once lived. In addition, the family observed the curious Springtime custom of dipping hard-boiled eggs in saltwater. Iskandarani now thinks that what the family called a Tunisian tradition was actually a Passover seder ritual. Her mother also always thought it strange that no one in her husband’s family had Muslim names. Her uncles were named Jacob, Ruben, Moses and Zachary.
And so now, with her Spanish passport in hand, Heba Nabil Iskandarani can visit Jaffa, the city where her grandfather was born but which he fled at the start of the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. She remarked that her family’s Jewishness exiled them first from Spain and then their Muslim identity forced them out of the nascent state of Israel. She said, “Quite ironic don’t you think being exiled twice for the exact same reason?” Iskandarani continues to be interested in Judaism and fascinated by her Jewish roots.
The journey continues.
After Sarah’s death in the land of Canaan, Abraham approached the Hittites to purchase a burial plot. He said, “I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site…” (Genesis 23) And Ephron sold him the Cave of Machpelah in the city of Hebron. It is there that all the patriarchs and matriarchs: Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob and Leah are buried. Only Rachel is buried elsewhere, in Bethlehem.
The term resident alien is a curious term. The Hebrew reads, “ger v’toshav” and can be more literally translated as “stranger and resident.” In some ways this encapsulates Abraham’s feelings and perhaps our own as well. We are all at home and apart. We sometimes feel like strangers and other times feel like citizens. In one generation we feel at home and in another, exiled and without a nation to call our own. We are all indeed resident aliens.
We wander from exile to welcome, from resident to alien.
Heba Nabil Iskandarani’s discovery could have been our own journey. We are more alike than we care to admit.
We are all indeed brothers and sisters.
The Torah reports: “This was the total span of Abraham’s life: one hundred and seventy-five years. And Abraham breathed his last, dying at good ripe age, old and contended.” (Genesis 25) His sons, Isaac and Ishmael, apart for many years, at war for generations, come together. While they do not speak to each other, they do participate in one activity as one.
Together they bury their father.
And I continue to draw hope from these stories.
Following in Our Father's Footsteps
Although the reading of the Torah in public dates back to Ezra and the fifth century BCE (and traditional authorities say, Moses), the weekly division of the Torah into fifty-four portions hearkens to Babylonian times, approximately 1500 years ago. And so, we conclude last week’s portion with the words, “The days of Terah (Abraham’s father) came to 205 years; and Terah died in Haran.” (Genesis 11:32)
We begin this week with the verse: “The Lord said to Abraham, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’” (Genesis 12:1) For thousands of years, we have read these sentences a week apart, and have therefore seen them as disconnected.
The rabbis plant the question in our hearts by this division. Why was Abraham called? And they have an answer ready-made. They offer countless stories about Abraham’s character explaining why God called him. I would imagine in synagogues throughout the world rabbis will begin their weekly discourses describing the story about young Abraham working in his father’s idol shop.
This all too familiar rabbinic midrash in which Abraham destroys all but one idol and then blames the destruction on the remaining idol seeks to offer a reason why God called Abraham seemingly out of nowhere. The rabbis see in Abraham the first monotheist who on his own recognized that there must be one God who created the world and moves history rather than a multitude of idols for each and every occasion.
But this out of nowhere understanding of the call is dependent on the division of the Torah into our portions and the dividing line between Parashat Noach and Lech Lecha being drawn between the end of chapter of eleven and the beginning of twelve. By drawing the line in this way, the rabbis add an exclamation point to their understanding of Abraham. They draw an arrow to the theology they wish to teach. They imply that the story moves because of Abraham’s vision. God is one, they exclaim.
Such is the power of the editor’s hand. If we read these verses as connected, however, we gain an additional understanding of Abraham’s actions. The Torah relates: “Terah took his son Abraham and his daughter-in-law Sarah and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan; but when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there.” (Genesis 11:31)
Why did Terah take his family on this journey? Why did he set out to what would soon be called the Promised Land?
Perhaps the answer is discovered in the prior verse: “Now Sarah was barren; she had no child.” Could it be as simple as a father saying to his son, “You and your wife are despondent. We need a change of scenery.” Does the story move from one chapter to another because of a father’s love rather than God’s command?
Then again perhaps the answer is even more plain. Abraham’s family were wanderers. They travel from place to place. Their home was wherever they camped for the night. The land of Canaan was not a promise (yet) but another destination in a long list of waypoints.
This week we open our Torah and think that Abraham was not heading toward the Promised Land until God called to him. This is in fact not the case. He was already heading towards the land of Canaan. He was stopped in his tracks by father’s death in Haran. And then, like most dutiful sons, he picks up the journey where his father left it and sets out to where his father intended.
And now I am left with even more questions. By setting out for the land of Canaan is Abraham honoring his father or God? Was Abraham honoring his father and continuing the journey already mapped out or fulfilling God’s command and living up to an even greater ideal? Does the distinction matter?
The competing voices of God and parents is a tension throughout Abraham’s life. Later God commands Abraham to sacrifice his promised son. Which is the more important: honoring parents or living up to an ideal? Isaac, the promised son, goes willingly, honoring his father. Abraham goes willingly as well, honoring the ideal. Can we synthesize the two? Can this tension ever be resolved?
I am left to wonder.
God’s call to Abraham is not so much about spurring our forefather Abraham to leave his father’s house and his native land but instead about sanctifying a journey already mapped out. It is also about elevating one place over another. It is there, in the land of Canaan, where we best discover God’s call.
And how does Abraham respond?
He stays there—in the Promised Land—for a while and will of course later return (as will we) but for now keeps on walking. “And Abraham journeyed by stages to the Negev.” (Genesis 12:9)
Perhaps he is first and foremost his father’s son. He will always be a wanderer.
The imprint of parents remains as an everlasting inheritance.
We begin this week with the verse: “The Lord said to Abraham, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’” (Genesis 12:1) For thousands of years, we have read these sentences a week apart, and have therefore seen them as disconnected.
The rabbis plant the question in our hearts by this division. Why was Abraham called? And they have an answer ready-made. They offer countless stories about Abraham’s character explaining why God called him. I would imagine in synagogues throughout the world rabbis will begin their weekly discourses describing the story about young Abraham working in his father’s idol shop.
This all too familiar rabbinic midrash in which Abraham destroys all but one idol and then blames the destruction on the remaining idol seeks to offer a reason why God called Abraham seemingly out of nowhere. The rabbis see in Abraham the first monotheist who on his own recognized that there must be one God who created the world and moves history rather than a multitude of idols for each and every occasion.
But this out of nowhere understanding of the call is dependent on the division of the Torah into our portions and the dividing line between Parashat Noach and Lech Lecha being drawn between the end of chapter of eleven and the beginning of twelve. By drawing the line in this way, the rabbis add an exclamation point to their understanding of Abraham. They draw an arrow to the theology they wish to teach. They imply that the story moves because of Abraham’s vision. God is one, they exclaim.
Such is the power of the editor’s hand. If we read these verses as connected, however, we gain an additional understanding of Abraham’s actions. The Torah relates: “Terah took his son Abraham and his daughter-in-law Sarah and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan; but when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there.” (Genesis 11:31)
Why did Terah take his family on this journey? Why did he set out to what would soon be called the Promised Land?
Perhaps the answer is discovered in the prior verse: “Now Sarah was barren; she had no child.” Could it be as simple as a father saying to his son, “You and your wife are despondent. We need a change of scenery.” Does the story move from one chapter to another because of a father’s love rather than God’s command?
Then again perhaps the answer is even more plain. Abraham’s family were wanderers. They travel from place to place. Their home was wherever they camped for the night. The land of Canaan was not a promise (yet) but another destination in a long list of waypoints.
This week we open our Torah and think that Abraham was not heading toward the Promised Land until God called to him. This is in fact not the case. He was already heading towards the land of Canaan. He was stopped in his tracks by father’s death in Haran. And then, like most dutiful sons, he picks up the journey where his father left it and sets out to where his father intended.
And now I am left with even more questions. By setting out for the land of Canaan is Abraham honoring his father or God? Was Abraham honoring his father and continuing the journey already mapped out or fulfilling God’s command and living up to an even greater ideal? Does the distinction matter?
The competing voices of God and parents is a tension throughout Abraham’s life. Later God commands Abraham to sacrifice his promised son. Which is the more important: honoring parents or living up to an ideal? Isaac, the promised son, goes willingly, honoring his father. Abraham goes willingly as well, honoring the ideal. Can we synthesize the two? Can this tension ever be resolved?
I am left to wonder.
God’s call to Abraham is not so much about spurring our forefather Abraham to leave his father’s house and his native land but instead about sanctifying a journey already mapped out. It is also about elevating one place over another. It is there, in the land of Canaan, where we best discover God’s call.
And how does Abraham respond?
He stays there—in the Promised Land—for a while and will of course later return (as will we) but for now keeps on walking. “And Abraham journeyed by stages to the Negev.” (Genesis 12:9)
Perhaps he is first and foremost his father’s son. He will always be a wanderer.
The imprint of parents remains as an everlasting inheritance.
Walking and Sauntering
Henry David Thoreau in his seminal essay, "Walking" idealizes going for a walk in the woods. The purpose of such an endeavor is not to reach a destination but instead to be at one with nature. He recommends these walks should be at least four hours long. We should saunter through nature.
Sauntering, he explains, is derived from the Middle Ages when people wandered about the Europe, asking for charity, in their quest to journey to "a la SainteTerre," the Holy Land. He writes:
And while I am troubled by the term crusade for it conjures negative connotations in my Jewish heart, I find his idealism deeply uplifting. Every walk is a religious quest, a pilgrimage, to a far-off destination, where insights, discoveries, and even revelations are found during the journey rather than at the moment of arrival.
God calls each of our heroes as they walk. Moses discovers God in a lowly bush as he is shepherding. God appears to stop him in his tracks. There is movement in these calls. The first words Abraham hears are: "Lech lecha-go forth." This week, we read "Noah walked with God." (Genesis 6) What does the Torah mean by this walking?
The biblical commentator, Sforno, who lived in fifteenth century Italy, responds: "Noah walked in God's way trying to be helpful to others, and to instruct them and if necessary, to rebuke them, as our sages pointed out." This is the typical Jewish answer.
Walking means to follow the Jewish path, to walk in the path of our ancestors. In fact, the Hebrew word for law, halachah, comes from the very same root as walking. It would be better to translate halachah as "walkway" for that is what the word implies.
The path is laid out before you. Follow it. Stay on the walkway. And this is how Jewish interpreters have long understood the phrase "walked with God."
The Hebrew verb is written in the reflexive. It therefore implies, walk with God and find yourself. This is exactly what our ancestors set out to do but our commentators failed to understand. Our biblical heroes forged a path for themselves while walking.
Back to Thoreau. The truth emerges on the walk. The revelation is discovered when you go for a walk. It does not have to be four hours, but you need to set out with no destination in mind and no route laid out. The meandering path through the woods, or the wilderness, can be an act of self-discovery, and perhaps it can even be an elucidation of inherited traditions. Then again nature offers revelation in what the eyes see, the ears hear and the nose smells-all while on the walk.
Henry David Thoreau concludes: "So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn."
Saunter towards truth.
Meander forward.
Sauntering, he explains, is derived from the Middle Ages when people wandered about the Europe, asking for charity, in their quest to journey to "a la SainteTerre," the Holy Land. He writes:
This is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.... For every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth and reconquer this Holy Land.
And while I am troubled by the term crusade for it conjures negative connotations in my Jewish heart, I find his idealism deeply uplifting. Every walk is a religious quest, a pilgrimage, to a far-off destination, where insights, discoveries, and even revelations are found during the journey rather than at the moment of arrival.
God calls each of our heroes as they walk. Moses discovers God in a lowly bush as he is shepherding. God appears to stop him in his tracks. There is movement in these calls. The first words Abraham hears are: "Lech lecha-go forth." This week, we read "Noah walked with God." (Genesis 6) What does the Torah mean by this walking?
The biblical commentator, Sforno, who lived in fifteenth century Italy, responds: "Noah walked in God's way trying to be helpful to others, and to instruct them and if necessary, to rebuke them, as our sages pointed out." This is the typical Jewish answer.
Walking means to follow the Jewish path, to walk in the path of our ancestors. In fact, the Hebrew word for law, halachah, comes from the very same root as walking. It would be better to translate halachah as "walkway" for that is what the word implies.
The path is laid out before you. Follow it. Stay on the walkway. And this is how Jewish interpreters have long understood the phrase "walked with God."
The Hebrew verb is written in the reflexive. It therefore implies, walk with God and find yourself. This is exactly what our ancestors set out to do but our commentators failed to understand. Our biblical heroes forged a path for themselves while walking.
Back to Thoreau. The truth emerges on the walk. The revelation is discovered when you go for a walk. It does not have to be four hours, but you need to set out with no destination in mind and no route laid out. The meandering path through the woods, or the wilderness, can be an act of self-discovery, and perhaps it can even be an elucidation of inherited traditions. Then again nature offers revelation in what the eyes see, the ears hear and the nose smells-all while on the walk.
Henry David Thoreau concludes: "So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn."
Saunter towards truth.
Meander forward.
This Is Very Good; We Could Be Very Good
I have a life-long fascination with the Northern Lights. Their luminous beauty inspires me. I have long wanted to travel to Iceland or Scandinavia, or even Alaska to see this winter spectacle. A bat mitzvah student recently reminded me that they are also called aurora borealis. She too is fascinated by them and wants to see them with her own eyes. She helped to rekindle my fascination with their beauty.
To my eyes, these lights appear as evidence of God’s handiwork.
“God said, ‘Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate day from night; they shall serve as signs for the set times—the days and the years; and they shall serve as lights in the expanse of the sky to shine upon the earth.’” (Genesis 1)
Then again scientists teach us that solar flares send microscopic particles hurtling toward the earth. These protons and electrons then bounce off the atmosphere and gather around the poles. These excited particles create energy that then produce the dazzling display of light with flashes of green and the occasional pink. This is the same principle that produces the colors in neon signs except in that case plugging the sign in an electric socket causes the electrons to bounce around the gas inside the tubes.
That is at least my rudimentary understanding of the science that causes this incredible natural phenomenon. I relish in the beauty of nature.
The awe-inspiring heavens stop us in our tracks. We marvel at the multitude of stars in the nighttime sky. We are unable to count the millions we can see. God agrees and shares my sense of awe. “And God saw that this was good.”
On the sixth day, after the creation of human beings, the Torah reports, “And God saw all that God had made, and found it very good.”
And yet we often fail to live up to “very good.” In fact, the remainder of the Torah is evidence of our failures to live up to God’s expectations. Not to give away next week’s story, but there is a flood. Why? Because people are flouting rules and the earth becomes filled with lawlessness. Soon after that is Sodom and Gomorrah. Then, Abraham nearly sacrifices his son. Very good? You decide. Moses gets angry—a lot. The Israelites complain—again a lot. They create a Golden Calf. That’s very bad and nowhere near very good.
The Torah is one example after another of people, heroes and villains alike, falling short. We could be very good, but time and again we are not. The concluding note of creation, that God found it very good, seems to be a set up. God saw that we can be very good. And the Torah then describes all the ways in which we are not—and perhaps points in the direction of how we can live up to the promise of very good.
But sometimes I don’t want to wade through all of the struggles and failures. And so, I look up to the heavens and behold the stars. Nature can serve as an antidote to human ills. Can the Northern Lights inspire us to do better?
Do they prompt us? Even though we are often not very good, there is still plenty of time to do good.
To my eyes, these lights appear as evidence of God’s handiwork.
“God said, ‘Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate day from night; they shall serve as signs for the set times—the days and the years; and they shall serve as lights in the expanse of the sky to shine upon the earth.’” (Genesis 1)
Then again scientists teach us that solar flares send microscopic particles hurtling toward the earth. These protons and electrons then bounce off the atmosphere and gather around the poles. These excited particles create energy that then produce the dazzling display of light with flashes of green and the occasional pink. This is the same principle that produces the colors in neon signs except in that case plugging the sign in an electric socket causes the electrons to bounce around the gas inside the tubes.
That is at least my rudimentary understanding of the science that causes this incredible natural phenomenon. I relish in the beauty of nature.
The awe-inspiring heavens stop us in our tracks. We marvel at the multitude of stars in the nighttime sky. We are unable to count the millions we can see. God agrees and shares my sense of awe. “And God saw that this was good.”
On the sixth day, after the creation of human beings, the Torah reports, “And God saw all that God had made, and found it very good.”
And yet we often fail to live up to “very good.” In fact, the remainder of the Torah is evidence of our failures to live up to God’s expectations. Not to give away next week’s story, but there is a flood. Why? Because people are flouting rules and the earth becomes filled with lawlessness. Soon after that is Sodom and Gomorrah. Then, Abraham nearly sacrifices his son. Very good? You decide. Moses gets angry—a lot. The Israelites complain—again a lot. They create a Golden Calf. That’s very bad and nowhere near very good.
The Torah is one example after another of people, heroes and villains alike, falling short. We could be very good, but time and again we are not. The concluding note of creation, that God found it very good, seems to be a set up. God saw that we can be very good. And the Torah then describes all the ways in which we are not—and perhaps points in the direction of how we can live up to the promise of very good.
But sometimes I don’t want to wade through all of the struggles and failures. And so, I look up to the heavens and behold the stars. Nature can serve as an antidote to human ills. Can the Northern Lights inspire us to do better?
Do they prompt us? Even though we are often not very good, there is still plenty of time to do good.
And God waits to say once again, “very good.”
The Torah Cannot Be Torah Without Us
It is a tree of life for those who hold fast to it, and all its supporters are happy. Its ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace.” (Proverbs 3:17-18)
Recited at the conclusion of the Torah reading service, these verses from Proverbs reinforce the centrality of Torah in Jewish life throughout the ages. They remind us that the Torah, the story of our people, is to be prized and revered.
The beginning of the Torah service, too, when the scroll is paraded through the congregation in a ritual known as hakafah offers us an opportunity to demonstrate our love of Torah – with kisses. As the Torah passes through the aisles, it is customary to reach out to touch it – with a hand, a prayer book, the corner of your tallit – and then to touch that object to your lips....
Recited at the conclusion of the Torah reading service, these verses from Proverbs reinforce the centrality of Torah in Jewish life throughout the ages. They remind us that the Torah, the story of our people, is to be prized and revered.
The beginning of the Torah service, too, when the scroll is paraded through the congregation in a ritual known as hakafah offers us an opportunity to demonstrate our love of Torah – with kisses. As the Torah passes through the aisles, it is customary to reach out to touch it – with a hand, a prayer book, the corner of your tallit – and then to touch that object to your lips....
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.
Say Your Blessings Slowly
This week we read a lengthy list of curses, beginning with what the Torah imagines to be the worst kind of people: “Cursed be the person who misdirects a blind person on his way.— And all the people shall say, Amen. Cursed be the person who subverts the rights of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow.— And all the people shall say, Amen.” (Deuteronomy 27)
It continues with a list of what will befall those who disobey God’s command: “Cursed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl.” And an abbreviated list of blessings that those who heed God’s mitzvot will enjoy: “Blessed shall you be in the city and blessed shall you be in the country.” (Deuteronomy 28)
The theology is crystal clear. Obey God’s commandments and blessings will follow. Disobey God’s mitzvot and you will see a long, detailed list of curses. It is not a very comforting thought. The graphic curses are in fact frightening. They make one recoil. Perhaps they even make people uncomfortable with the Torah and its stark theology. I for one don’t find the threat of cures a particularly effective way of motivating me to do good.
The tradition appears to recognize this dilemma. When chanting this portion, the Torah reader chants these lengthy curses in a very soft voice and in a rushed manner. To recite these curses in a loud and commanding voice would be to suggest a confidence in this theology. It would be to affirm something we experience to be false. Everyone can cite examples of people who follow all the commandments and yet experience far too many calamities and likewise those who appear to subvert the rights of the stranger and appear to enjoy untold blessings. And so, what do we do? We recite these words in hushed tones.
It is almost as if the tradition is instructing us to dwell on the blessings and rush past the curses.
The Hasidic master Simhah Bunim of Pshischa notices something more. He teaches that these detailed punishments are only attached to one specific command. He hears the Torah shouting: “Because you would not serve the Lord your God in joy and gladness over the abundance of everything.”
It continues with a list of what will befall those who disobey God’s command: “Cursed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl.” And an abbreviated list of blessings that those who heed God’s mitzvot will enjoy: “Blessed shall you be in the city and blessed shall you be in the country.” (Deuteronomy 28)
The theology is crystal clear. Obey God’s commandments and blessings will follow. Disobey God’s mitzvot and you will see a long, detailed list of curses. It is not a very comforting thought. The graphic curses are in fact frightening. They make one recoil. Perhaps they even make people uncomfortable with the Torah and its stark theology. I for one don’t find the threat of cures a particularly effective way of motivating me to do good.
The tradition appears to recognize this dilemma. When chanting this portion, the Torah reader chants these lengthy curses in a very soft voice and in a rushed manner. To recite these curses in a loud and commanding voice would be to suggest a confidence in this theology. It would be to affirm something we experience to be false. Everyone can cite examples of people who follow all the commandments and yet experience far too many calamities and likewise those who appear to subvert the rights of the stranger and appear to enjoy untold blessings. And so, what do we do? We recite these words in hushed tones.
It is almost as if the tradition is instructing us to dwell on the blessings and rush past the curses.
The Hasidic master Simhah Bunim of Pshischa notices something more. He teaches that these detailed punishments are only attached to one specific command. He hears the Torah shouting: “Because you would not serve the Lord your God in joy and gladness over the abundance of everything.”
Perhaps the rebbe is correct. And all we require is the ability of the Hasidic masters to rejoice with even the most meager of blessings. They teach. All it takes is the posture of joy and gladness.
And I am beginning to detect how to begin and how to reorient this cursed year. Quickly, and softly, detail the curses. Slowly, and loudly, enumerate our blessings.
And then let joy and gladness fill your hearts.
And I am beginning to detect how to begin and how to reorient this cursed year. Quickly, and softly, detail the curses. Slowly, and loudly, enumerate our blessings.
And then let joy and gladness fill your hearts.
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.
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.