Vayakhel-Pekudei Sermon

This week’s Torah portion opens with the prohibition against lighting fire on Shabbat. The rabbis of course interpret this literally. They ruled that you cannot light a fire on Shabbat. You can light the fire before Shabbat. Hence there is the somewhat elaborate ritual of lighting Shabbat candles. Unlike almost all other rituals, in this case you perform the action before reciting the blessing. You light the candles, then cover your eyes, and then say the blessing. And then you open your eyes. Magically, it is as if the candles were lit. Had the blessing been said prior to the action, then you would be lighting the fire after Shabbat commences.

In addition candle lighting is set eighteen minutes prior to the start of Shabbat (and 36 minutes in Jerusalem) to avoid any errors and the chance that a fire might be kindled on this sacred day. Thus you can turn on lights before Shabbat and leave them on, but not during the day. You can warm food on a stove left on simmer but can’t cook on Shabbat. In addition you cannot drive because this would be igniting fire. Driving and the turning on of electric lights are all about this prohibition and not about forbidden work. It is not about the efforts of these actions but instead about the fires contained within them.

But fire can have symbolic meaning. Fire is after all the essence of the ner tamid and of the candles that mark the beginning of every holiday. They serve as a beacon, a reminder. Fire can also be dangerous; it can burn. I wonder if this is why it was prohibited. It can consume; it can destroy. Such powers are contrary to Shabbat; they are forbidden on this holiest of days.

The dual meaning of fire is part of its power. It echoes the Hebrew term for religious, yirat hashamayim. Literally this means fear of heaven. I prefer to translate this as standing before heaven, placing heaven at the forefront of our thoughts. I do not very much like the idea of fear. Then again perhaps fear is not that bad as a motivator.

We are sometimes motivated to do good out of fear. When your kids are young you don’t really care how the message is conveyed about running out into a busy street as long as it is heard. If you have to resort to fear then, ok. As long as your kids know they cannot run into a street, as long as they are protected from harm, in the end that’s all that matters. When your kids are older, again you just want that message about drinking and driving to be heard. You will take fear if it works. It would be nice if we could only say, “Don’t because I love you…” But it is rarely that easy.

Would it be so terrible if we were more generous, more caring, more compassionate simply because we were afraid of God’s wrath? I would take the generosity, concern and compassion. Do I care about the motivation? Or am I more concerned with the result?

I understand the discomfort. The rabbi now sounds like a conservative, right wing Christian. But for centuries Judaism has spoken and taught about the actions, the behaviors, rather than the motivation. In a word Judaism has said I will take any motivation that works as long as more people do the right thing. Is generosity tainted because it is done out of fear of heaven? Does the recipient of tzedakah, the needy person, really care about the giver’s motivation or instead the content of the gift? If you need a coat during the harshness of yesteryear’s winters do you really care why you got that coat? All that matters is your warmth.

Back to the fires. That is why fire is an apt image. Its duality gives us insight into our religious motivations. It can light the way; it can warm. It can also consume; it can burn.

Likewise yirah can also mean awe, to hold up in reverence. Yirah contains a dual meaning. Sometimes we do the right thing out of fear. Better to do it out reverence. Regardless the best is just to do the right thing.

Abraham Joshua Heschel writes:

The meaning of awe is to realize that life takes place under wide horizons, horizons that range beyond the span of an individual life or even the life of a nation, a generation, or an era. Awe enables us to perceive in the world intimations of the divine, to sense in small things the beginning of infinite significance, to sense the ultimate in the common and the simple; to feel in the rush of the passing the stillness of the eternal.

Our lives are filled with small acts. They can be as small as lighting Shabbat candles or giving tzedakah, or as small as beholding the ner tamid or reaching out to feed the hungry. In each of these we glimmer the divine. In the smallest of acts we see the light of God’s concern. It can start with kindling the Shabbat lights. It can begin with the eternal light of last week’s portion.

Regardless of where it begins the goal remains the same. It is to bring light and warmth to the world. It is to be sure that the fires of religious faith do not consume ourselves or others. It is to be certain that these fires only brighten our path.

We have a world to repair. It matters less the motivation and far more the result. There are too many people to help to argue about fear or awe. I prefer awe. Others prefer fear. Perhaps together we can better our world.

March-April Newsletter

What follows is my article from our March-April 2012 Newsletter.  In it I answer a number of our students' ask the rabbi questions.

Here are your questions, and of course my answers.

What’s your first name in English?
Steve, but you should continue to call me rabbi.

How old are you?
47. My birthday is in July when I will be 48.

This is a not smart question. R U married?
Yes. I am married to Susie. She is also a rabbi. Also I have two children. One is in high school and the other in college. By the way no question is stupid. You can only learn if you ask questions. But you may want to write out the words to your questions instead of writing in texting slang.


Are you from Israel?

No. But every Jew is connected to the land of Israel and I hope the State of Israel

Who is the President of Israel?
The President of Israel is Shimon Peres, but in Israel the real power is not in the president but the Prime Minister and that is Benjamin Netanyahu.

Why did you want to become a rabbi?
I always wanted to help people and I love learning. A rabbi is a combination of helping others and teaching and learning.

Do we ever have a field trip in Hebrew School?
I think it would be really great if we organized a youth trip to Israel for when you are in high school. How would that be for a field trip! We always visit the Holocaust Museum in Glen Cove when you are older, but it would also be really great if we went to the Jewish sites in New York City one time. I would also be happy to go with you to a Jets or Giants game.

Why did Hitler feel the need to hate our people? What’s there to hate?
There is nothing to hate. People like Hitler will hate no matter what. So the first lesson is that we can change nothing about ourselves to prevent antisemites from hating us. There are a lot of really smart people who have spent their lives studying the Nazis and the Holocaust. No one has come up with a really good answer for why Hitler, the Nazis, ordinary Germans and far too many Europeans, hated Jews so much that they wanted to murder them. To my mind there are two explanations that are important to remember. 1. The roots of antisemitism go back thousands of years. Children were taught to hate Jews for generations. From this long held hatred it is not such a logical jump to say “Let’s get rid of them.” That is why we must fight against those who hate, or make fun of, others for who and what they are. 2. Germany had so many problems right before World War II and people wanted to blame others for all of their problems. The Jews became the scapegoat. And that is the final lesson. It is always easier to blame others for our own problems.

What did Jesus do that made people believe he was the messiah?
According to the Christian Bible he performed many miracles and fulfilled the traditional Jewish vision of the messiah, a man sent by God who would save the world. The world still waits to be repaired however. Christians believe that he will return to save the world. Jews believe that he was an extraordinary man who taught some beautiful and meaningful lessons, but that he is not the messiah because he did not save the world during his lifetime.

On Mount Sinai did Moses receive the first five books of the Torah?
Yes. Moses and the entire people received not only the written Torah but all of Jewish teachings. Now I can’t prove this to you. Just like the last question it is a matter of belief so too is this question about what happened at Mount Sinai. I think we discover God when we study Torah. We bring God into the world when we live by the instructions in the Torah. I don’t worry so much about the details of what happened then. I am more concerned with what we do now.

Thanks for the questions!

Refuge from War

I am thinking about cities of refuge.

As I read about the US soldier accused of killing 16 Afghan civilians in an apparent murderous rage, I think, as I am inclined to do, of the Torah and the ancient near eastern culture from which it came.  I think in particular of the Torah's cities of refuge where someone who committed manslaughter could seek asylum, thus escaping the vengeance of family and friends.

The US soldier is now in a prison in Kansas.  He was taken out of Afghanistan so that he might be given a fair trial here in the US.

The Torah's laws are of course about manslaughter and not homicide, and certainly not the massacre of sixteen men, women and children.  Still what is the intention and lesson of these laws beyond that of safeguarding a person from extrajudicial punishment?  They come to teach that life is most prized.  Human life is most sacred.  A person cannot be killed in order to assuage emotions and in particular vengeance.  If the crime was an accident then his (or her) life continues to be cherished.

Democracies with their notions of individual rights come to reinforce this.  Thus even an accused mass murderer is accorded rights.  And he is hurried to a city where he might receive a fair trial.

I wonder why there have been so few, if any, protests against these murders?  Why was there far more protests against the burning of a few Korans?  Can democracy truly flourish where the values of honor and reverence are most cherished?  Can we sow the seeds of democratic revolution where human life is less holy than holy books?  Stand up and scream for justice with similar passion.  I love my books as well.  I love people even more.  That is the lesson of the cities of refuge.  Honor and vengeance are secondary to justice and life.

I wonder as well whether this act is one more piece of evidence that it becomes increasingly difficult to sustain war for many years.  Over time war corrodes the soul.  The acts that young men are forced to do eat away not only at their own souls, but the country's as well.  We learned this in Vietnam.  Israel learned this in Lebanon.

This does not make war in general wrong.  Sometimes we are left with no other choice.  But democracies cannot sustain such things for very long.  We hold human life in far too high esteem.  Some might say this will prove to be our undoing.  I say it is our greatest asset.  It is our most cherished prize.

It is what the lack of protests over these senseless deaths and the many protests over a few books painfully remind us.  It is what the Torah's cities of refuge come to teach us.

Addendum:
Be sure to read this article from The New York Times regarding this issue.  The following sums up the disconnect between our culture and theirs.
"'How can you compare the dishonoring of the Holy Koran with the martyrdom of innocent civilians?' said an incredulous Mullah Khaliq Dad, a member of the council of religious leaders who investigated the Koran burnings. 'The whole goal of our life is religion.'”

Vayakhel-Pekudei

Last week’s Torah portion began with the details of the ner tamid, the eternal light. This week’s begins with the prohibition of kindling fire on Shabbat. “You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the Sabbath day.” (Exodus 35:3)

The rabbis interpreted this prohibition literally. One cannot kindle fire on Shabbat. One may however make use of fire if it was lit prior to the start of Shabbat. In traditional homes lights are left on during Shabbat, but never turned on and stoves are kept at a low temperature but again never ignited. This is why many Shabbat recipes are of the slow cook variety such as cholent.

There were others who interpreted this verse in a different manner. The sectarian Karaites, who rejected the oral law, spent their Shabbat in darkness. In their worldview no manner of fire could be used on Shabbat. Scholars suggest that our lighting of candles and in particular its accompanying blessing was a response to these Karaites. Also in this blessing and the lighting of the Shabbat candles we discover the meaning of this prohibition for our times.

Fire can of course both warm and burn. It can be comforting and dangerous. It is similar to the Hebrew term, yirat hashamayim, fear of heaven. It is this term that the tradition uses to describe a person of faith. It is in a sense one who bows before heaven. Like fire’s dual meaning, yirah can also be translated as awe.

The great Jewish philosopher, Abraham Joshua Heschel, writes:

Fear is the anticipation and expectation of evil or pain, as contrasted with hope which is the anticipation of good. Awe, on the other hand, is the sense of wonder and humility inspired by the sublime or felt in the presence of mystery. Fear is “a surrender of the succors which reason offers”; awe is the acquisition of insights which the world holds in store for us. Awe, unlike fear, does not make us shrink from the awe-inspiring object, but, on the contrary, draws us near to it. This is why awe is compatible with both love and joy.

Awe is the more apt description of the faith we strive towards. We return to the lights of Shabbat.

Fire can be both dangerous and inspiring. The brilliance of the rabbis was to demand a blessing before the lighting of fire. In that way the fire is transformed into an object of holiness. Fire is not be feared. It is to be held in awe. At the beginning of Shabbat when fire is prohibited, and then again at the conclusion of Shabbat when fire is again permitted we thus offer blessings. We elevate fire to the holy. We no longer fear it. We transform the potentially dangerous and bask in its warmth.

We again turn to Heschel’s God in Search of Man:

The meaning of awe is to realize that life takes place under wide horizons, horizons that range beyond the span of an individual life or even the life of a nation, a generation, or an era. Awe enables us to perceive in the world intimations of the divine, to sense in small things the beginning of infinite significance, to sense the ultimate in the common and the simple; to feel in the rush of the passing the stillness of the eternal.

May our Shabbat lights help us to stand in awe before God and God’s world. May these fires only be awe-inspiring.

The Circle Closes and Widens

The internet both closes and widens the circles of our lives.

Last year I posted an article about the first funeral at which I officiated.  The article is re-posted below or can be found at this link.  In the article I was rather self-critical of those first efforts.  I am often self-critical.  It will always be one of my distinguishing features. In particular I then found my words wanting in the face of the enormity of death.  I still find my efforts lacking when they brush at death.  It is not that I believe I am unhelpful to the grieving families.  I recognize, even though I am also deeply humbled by this, the comfort and strength my presence brings to mourners.  Still I find all efforts in the face of death inadequate.  How can mere words measure a life?  There is a certain injustice in the eulogy.  A life well lived is summarized in well-chosen phrases, verses and perhaps even on occasion, eloquence.  That is from where the feelings of inadequacy derive.  They always accompany me to funerals.  They are a source of awe and inspiration.  May they also continue to be a source of humility.

A few months ago I received a beautiful email from the son of the first man I helped to bury many years ago in Clarksdale, Mississippi.  He wrote and sought to respond to my feelings, especially those self-critical words.  He was only appreciative of my efforts and grateful for my presence during those difficult days and their preceding weeks.  And then I read the following article in the Institute of Southern Jewish Life's quarterly newsletter.  In the opening chairman's column, Rayman L. Solomon writes:

Several months ago I received an extraordinary email from my friend, Charles Lipson. Charles grew up in a small Mississippi Delta town of Marks with his two brothers and his parents who ran a business there.  Charles' email included a very interesting column from Rabbi Steven Moskowitz of the Jewish Congregation of Brookville on Long Island's North Shore.  Rabbi Moskowitz writes about the first funeral he ever conducted over 20 years ago, in Clarksdale, MS, which was for Charles' father, Harry M. Lipson, Jr.  The Rabbi, who was a student intern, was extremely self-critical of the service he performed.  He told of going the next day to sit by the grave and ask forgiveness for what he perceived to be an inadequate performance of his duty both in terms of style and substance.  The response to the Rabbi's column, which Charles shared with a group of friends, was that from the family's perspective the Rabbi was totally incorrect and too harsh on himself.  Charles pointed out that what was most important to his family was the chance to talk before the service to the Rabbi about his father--to express their grief through sharing family stories in private.  It was the gift of having a rabbi in a community that could no longer afford to employ one that mattered beyond all else to the family.  That is the insight that led to the creation of the Rabbinic Program at the ISJL over ten years ago...

And the most important gift any rabbi asks for is to know that your presence matters, that your being there made the grief and pain more bearable, that your standing there under the huppah or on the bima made the those simchas slightly more joyous.  Now I know.  And I will continue to remind myself that such days may be just another day in a rabbi's busy schedule, but they are the most important days in those families' lives.  And I will continue to search within in.  How else can I better myself?  Even more importantly I will continue to be humbled and awed by the fact that people, some of whom know me very well and others who know me only by my title, will want me there at the greatest moments in their lives and the most terrible, darkest days.

And I will continue to recall Charles' words.

I will remain grateful that the internet helped to close that circle which had remained open for these past 20 years.   I will as well be pleased that it widened the circle of concern again including yesterday's friends in the Deep South who continue to remain steadfast in their Jewish commitments.

The article that closed, and then widened, the circle.
"Funeral Blues"
Even though I have served as a rabbi for over eighteen years, some of the most important and lasting lessons were learned in my earliest years prior to earning the title of rabbi. Many times our first experiences teach us far more than we can then admit. I still remember my grandfather teaching me how to ride a bike, his loving hand guiding me and his shouts of joy encouraging me.

There in my mind is a tableau of first memories. And so I continue to be drawn to the memory of officiating at my first funeral.

In 1987-88 I served as a student rabbi in Clarksdale, Mississippi, the birthplace of the Blues. Since the 1870’s Jews had found a niche in this community and there thrived in many businesses. Once a month I flew from Cincinnati where I was attending rabbinical school to Memphis and then rented a car, driving through the cotton fields of Northern Mississippi to Clarksdale. There I served Congregation Beth Israel, a synagogue built in the 1930’s.

By the 1970’s its membership was declining. The synagogue could no longer afford a full time rabbi and so it became a training ground for young student rabbis, until ultimately closing its doors in 2003. It was there, in Clarksdale, at the age of 23, in the first days of June 1988 that I officiated at my first funeral.

Harry Lipson Jr. died after a long battle with cancer. I carved out a few hours to visit with him and his wife Dottie during the course of my weekend trips. At the funeral I recited the words from the perfect, unused pages of my new Rabbi’s Manual. “Death has taken our beloved Harry. Our friends grieve in their darkened world…” Some of the words felt empty, and some even cruel. “For when we die we carry nothing away; our glory does not accompany us.” Others felt comforting. On some words I stumbled. On others I discovered strength.

I have never before revealed this but the next day I returned to the cemetery and sat by myself at Harry’s grave. The warm, humid Mississippi air was heavy with moisture. I asked Harry to forgive me for being the first funeral at which I officiated. I begged him to ignore my mistakes. I apologized over and over again for all of my weaknesses and flaws. I was overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy and incompetence in facing death.

And then I remembered that death is not a failure. I recalled that I became a rabbi rather than a physician because I wanted to have a manual that worked for moments just as these. I did not want to say, “There was nothing more we could do…” but instead, “I am sorry. I promise I will walk this path with you. We will face this death together. This is what our tradition says we must now do.”

The pages of my Rabbi’s Manual are now torn and wrinkled from snow and rain. The pages bear scribbling and notes as well as reminders that I no longer require. There are a few pages wrinkled from my own tears, from funerals still too painful to recount. Many have stood expectantly, looking up at me as I read from this small, holy book. There were days when I did not know how I might summon the strength to greet these expectations. Nearly every time I am drawn to remember Harry.

I recall that there is no perfect path through the valley of the shadow of death. I remember Dottie’s observation that the very words from our tradition that I found harsh and cruel she found soothing and comforting. She explained to me that it was the comfort of a familiar voice reciting what generations of Jews have spoken for thousands of years. I worried too much about the meaning of each word. She listened instead to the voice. I learned then that there is our tradition’s manual and its guidance. There is the strength we draw from our community, from each other.

I still find it remarkable that people ask me to stand by their side at countless occasions such as these. I am thankful that there have been far more simchas than tragedies in these eighteen years. In these years I have studied Torah with over 200 b’nai mitzvah students and watched as their parents welcomed them into the age of Jewish responsibility. I relish the smiles of parents and their tears of joy. I find it to be an unparalleled privilege that my congregants want me standing there at the absolute best of times and the worst. I am grateful that they see fit to call me rabbi.

I cannot promise that I will always say every word perfectly. I can promise that I will continue to call it a privilege and blessing to serve as a rabbi.

And as I learned as well in the birthplace of the Blues, from the master B.B. King: “You better not look down if you want to keep on flyin’. Put the hammer down. Keep it full speed ahead.”

Newsday Faith Column

I was recently interviewed for Newsday's "Asking the Clergy" column. The question was "It is said that God created us in the his own image. If so, was his image male because he created Adam first? Or, female, because he saved the best for last, Eve? Both images are mentioned in Scriptures. He is God, the Father in passages like Isaiah 64:8 and Jeremiah 3:4. But God also is described as mother or acting as would a mother. These are examples in Genesis 1:27 and Hosea 13:8." The column appeared on Saturday, March 10th. What follows is my response.

I think the Jewish perspective is that God is neither man nor woman. Trying to define God in human terms leads to problems because God is only subject to divine definitions.

Maimonides said that we can only talk about what God is not, not what God is. The scriptural references to God as a man are poetic license. People can imagine God however they choose to imagine God. To really, truly understand God, you must realize that God is neither man nor woman. God is not human.

The beauty of the Hebrew language is that there are many different names for God. Some are feminine. Some are masculine. But all are just scratching at the surface. The beauty of the English language, on the other hand, is that you can refer to God using gender neutral terms.

The Hebrew approach is "Let's get every name under the sun in there." The lesson I take from that is choose the name that speaks to you at that moment. My favorite name for God is HaMakom, which literally means "the place." I think it is beautiful because God is where you find God, and what your needs are directing you to call God.

Ki Tisa

This week’s Torah portion is Ki Tisa.  It begins with the following command: “This is what everyone who is entered into the records shall pay…a half-shekel as an offering to the Lord.” (Exodus 30:13)  Soon after the liberation from Egypt, the revelation at Sinai and the instructions for the building of the tabernacle is this commandment that everyone must pay taxes to the Jewish people.  Unlike the gifts that are collected for the tabernacle’s construction this half-shekel is an obligatory offering.  During Temple times this tax was collected during the current Hebrew month of Adar, hence the first Sabbath before the start of this month is still called Shabbat Shekalim.

This tax immediately follows the taking of a census.  In fact the intention of this tax was to avert the dangers associated with counting the people.  The term census is related to the Latin meaning a penalty.  To the ancient mind, counting, and counting people in particular, was fraught with danger.   This tax therefore functioned as a ransom, saying in effect, “Take my money rather than my life.”

During King David’s realm it is reported that the Jewish people were afflicted by a terrible plague because of David’s insistence on taking a census.  Perhaps this danger was because a census was often conducted in preparation for war.  Thus it is a needed reminder.  “Beware of numbering the people as you prepare for war.  If you go to war soon you will be counting the dead as well as the living.”  The march towards war must always be a cautious undertaking.

We live in a time of heightened individualism.  We do not feel that the community rises and falls based on our individual actions.  It is only our own successes, or failures, that turn on our actions.  We rebel against obligations insisting that we are tied to the community.  We see ourselves as autonomous individuals.  Laws demanding taxes for the community are scorned.  Then again perhaps the ancient Israelites felt similarly.  In this week’s portion, soon after this commandment follows the sin of the Golden Calf when the people rebel against God and build an idol.  Perhaps their sin was a result of the excessive demands the community now placed upon them.

Likewise we live in a time when we feel that the fate of our people is not tied to our individual actions.  We do not however believe that numbering the people will lead to plagues.  Then again our sense of commitment to the Jewish people grows stronger when we feel that we are threatened or in danger.  The overwhelming participation in the recent AIPAC Conference in Washington DC is indicative of this.  The fear that Iran might soon acquire nuclear weapons and that might then threaten the Jewish state is palpable.   Our sense of obligation grows.

But why must fear be the primary source of obligation to the community?  Why can’t joy also be demanding?  Why can’t our sense of obligation to the Jewish people be a constant in our lives?  Why must it always be fear that motivates?  Let it instead be joy.  Let our commitment to the Jewish people be a constant hum throughout our lives.  Let it be akin to the wordless melodies and niggunim of the Hasidic masters.

Taxes might indeed contain moral lessons.  A half-shekel does not appear a steep price.  That might very well be the lesson.   It is the smallest of amounts, it is the tiniest of obligations, that begins our commitment to the Jewish people.  Let this obligation begin with joy!

Purim

Many things mark the unique holiday of Purim.  It is a day given to drinking, feasting, costume wearing and humor.  This is remarkable given some of the story’s more serious themes.  Haman is of course considered history’s first antisemite, a man who wanted to kill all Jews because he was angry with one Jew.  It is also a story about women’s rights.

Let me explain.  It all starts at a wild party in which King Ahasuerus demands that his beautiful wife Vashti dance for him and his friends.  He instructs his servants to bring her into the party wearing (only) her crown.  “But Queen Vashti refused to come at the king’s command…”  (Esther 1:12)  She refuses to dance naked before the king and his friends.  Vashti is then banished from the palace and stripped of her crown. (Sorry I could not resist the double entendre.)

The king’s advisors fear a feminist revolt.  “Queen Vashti has committed an offense not only against your majesty but also against all the officials and against all the peoples…  For the queen’s behavior will make all wives despise their husbands…”  (Esther 1:16-17)  Vashti’s sin is that she refuses the king’s command.  She has a mind of her own.  Vashti represents an independent woman.  She has thoughts different than her husbands, ideas that are hers alone.  She is a woman who refuses to be viewed only as an object of beauty, paraded around for others to admire.

On the other hand, the Jewish heroine of the story, Esther, lives by a different rule.   And herein lies the irony of our story.  The woman who saves the Jewish people from catastrophe and the genocidal designs of Haman gains this position of power and the title of queen by winning a beauty pageant.  The Book of Esther records no words about world peace or platforms about disadvantaged children from our heroine.  She is paraded before the king after twelve months of beauty treatments.  No words are even spoken between this future queen and her king.  She wins his favor by her beauty alone.  “The king loved Esther more than all the other women, and she won his grace and favor more than all the virgins.  So he set a royal crown on her head and made her queen instead of Vashti.” (Esther 2:17)

It is a bitter irony that Esther does what Vashti refuses to do.  She parades before the king.  Our great heroine is treated as the object that Vashti refuses to become. In fact Esther never acts of her own accord.  Even when she comes to the rescue of the Jewish people it is at her uncle Mordecai’s behest.  He pleads with her before she agrees to defend her people.  He implores her by saying: “Do not imagine that you, of all the Jews, will escape with your life by being in the king’s palace…  And who knows, perhaps you have attained this royal position for just such a crisis.”  (Esther 4:13-14)  In the end it is the woman who is the object of beauty who saves the Jewish people and the independent, thinking woman who is sidelined.  No one of course asks the question of them, at what cost to each of their souls. 

As I reflect on these past week’s events and Rush Limbaugh’s hateful comments I am reminded of this story.  I recall that although we might live thousands of years past the Purim story, and decades since the feminist revolution, we continue to struggle with these very same issues. 

And so on this joyous holiday I am reminded again about the hidden meanings in this ancient parody, a story of two beautiful women who live their lives by very different rules.  Although my tradition suggests otherwise I turn this year not to Esther for strength.  This year I have resolved to choose differently. 

I choose instead Vashti.  May her courage and independence always be an inspiration. 

Tetzaveh and the Iranian Crisis Sermon

As we prepare for Purim and its story of a Persian tyrant with genocidal designs against the Jewish people, my thoughts to turn to the present crisis about modern day Iran.  There has been a great deal written about Iran’s march toward nuclear weapons, the recent sanctions and an expected attack by Israel—perhaps as soon as this summer.  One might think that given these sentiments Israelis are stocking gas masks, preparing their safe rooms and spending evenings in bomb shelters.  This is far from the case.  There appears far more worry here than in Israel.

A few observations are in order.  My observations are more about how we navigate this present conflict.  I am not of course the president, prime minister, or chief of staff.  I have no expertise in military matters.  My knowledge is more about our feelings and how we prioritize them, as well as our commitments as Jews.  Not all of these observations agree with each other.  They are meant to help us unpack what is at stake in this crisis.

1. In Israel there is widespread agreement that Iran represents a grave threat.  There is however disagreement over how to deal with this.  The most recent poll indicated that the country is evenly divided regarding a military attack.

2. We should take antisemites and tyrants at their word.  The notion that they can be swayed by reason is flawed.  The idea that the mullahs of Iran will be influenced by rational arguments is false.  Economic sanctions might very well influence them, but reason will not.

3. That being said the comparisons to 1938 are also flawed.  The notion that today’s diplomatic efforts are the same as Chamberlain’s is erroneous.  Not every antisemite, and dictator, is Hitler, as evil and as menacing as they may be.  As Gershom Gorenberg observed when you paint the current crisis in terms of the prelude to World War II then the only acceptable choice becomes a military attack.  There may come a point when that is the only option but such historical analogies shrink our options rather than expand our choices.

4. I take our president at his word when he says that a nuclear Iran is unacceptable.  We might disagree about how to prevent this, but as an American and a Jew I have to hope that he means what he says.  I have to believe that America will do everything necessary to prevent Iran from building a bomb.

5. Israel’s existential anxiety is of course greater than that of the US.  Iran’s rulers have threatened to destroy Israel and death to America.  But Israel is threatened by its proximity, by its size and by its limitation in absorbing an attack.  The threats are felt differently here rather than there and we must recognize this and come to terms with this most basic of facts.

6. We feel a great sense of discomfort when Israel and US interests don’t appear in sync.  We feel anxiety when Israel becomes a battleground in American politics.  This will become even more pronounced at the AIPAC conference.  When candidates argue who would best protect Israel we become uneasy.

7. The US should prevent Iran from acquiring nuclear weapons not to protect Israel but because it is in the US interest.  Each nation should act out of its own interest.  I would rather hear words here why Iran is a threat to the US and in Israel why it is threat to Israel.  The Iran hostage crisis defined my highschool years.  In fact Iran’s current president was then a hostage taker.  I do not understand why that is not being discussed in the US.  I do not understand why the discussion appears more about how Iran is a threat to Israel and not how it is a grave threat to the US.

8. Only Israel, its leaders and people can determine what is in its own interests.  This is not because the US is untrustworthy but because this is the very nature of Zionism.  I continue to believe that the definition of Zionism is that Israel must go it alone. The nature of having a Jewish state is that we must not depend on the world—even our greatest ally. We will write Jewish history ourselves—for better or worse. It will no longer be done to us. We will never again be victims. And this is my biggest problem with the tenor of the debate among American Jews. It is all about Jewish victimhood and not what I believe Zionism is truly about, Jewish strength. It is all about America (under Obama) is victimizing the Jewish people, and selling Israel out.  Or it is about portraying Israel as threatened with destruction and so America (and especially American Jews) should come to its rescue.  Both of these pictures are a betrayal of what I believe Zionism should be.

9. I remember the first Gulf War well.  I recall the Scuds falling on Tel Aviv and I suspect that Bush Senior then asked Israel to restrain itself from attacking Iraq so as to preserve that tenuous coalition.  Israel restrained itself at great cost to the Zionist psyche.  Israel was built on the notion that only it could guarantee its own safety, not Patriot missiles but its own might and ingenuity.  This is again at stake—and is certainly a factor in the minds of Israel’s leaders.

Yossi Klein Halevi writes ("Can Israel Trust the United States When It Comes to Iran," TNR, March 2, 2012)

The Iranian nuclear threat could force Israel to choose between two of its essential national values. On the one hand, there is the commitment to Jewish self-defense. On the other hand, there is the longing to be a respectable member of the international community. Allowing an enemy that constantly threatens Israel’s destruction to acquire the means to do so would negate Zionism’s promise to protect the Jewish people. And launching a preemptive strike without American backing could lead to Israel’s isolation and risk Zionism’s promise of restoring the Jews as a nation among nations. 

In this excruciating dilemma, the question of whether Israel can trust the administration to act militarily against Iran becomes all the more crucial. Israeli leaders believe that their window of opportunity in launching a preemptive strike will be closing in the coming months. America, though, with its vastly superior firepower, could retain a military option even after Israel’s lapses. In other words: An Israeli decision not to strike this year will mean that it effectively ceded its self-defense—against a potentially existential threat—to America. When Obama tells Israel to give sanctions time, what he is really saying is: Trust me to stop Iran militarily when you no longer can. 

Thus the very definition of what it means to be a Zionist and an Israeli is also on the table.

10. As American Jews we are destined to live with conflict as well.  We desperately want Israeli and American interests to be synonymous.  But they are not and they never will be.  Each nation has different interests and different agendas.

Yossi Klein Halevi again writes:

In the end the dilemma for both Israel and the U.S. isn’t only strategic but ethical. Israel has a moral responsibility not to surprise its closest friend with an initiative that could drastically affect American well-being. And the U.S. has a moral responsibility not to pressure its closest Middle East ally into forfeiting its right to self-defense against a potentially genocidal enemy. 

In better times, the two allies might have been able to navigate these conflicting needs. But in the absence of mutual trust, what could remain are conflicting perceptions of interest. 

We may soon face the scenario that the two nations we love will not act in harmony and that Israeli, or American, actions will bring criticism, dissension, resentment and perhaps even antisemitism.

We must remain strong.  We must remain resolute.  We must be willing to live with conflict.  We must be willing to fight for Israel’s right to defend itself as it sees fit.  And as well to defend America’s right to support its own interests—even when they might be contrary to Jewish, and Israeli, interests.

In this week’s Torah portion we read of the ner tamid, the light that must be continually tended.  For American Jews it must be a love of both Israel and America, it must be a love for the country that is our home, and the nation that is our Jewish people’s destiny.  Whatever the coming year brings, that flame must remain our eternal light.

Tetzaveh

I have been thinking about ritual objects. My thoughts are not only about how we use them. Rather they also pertain to how others abuse them.

This week we read some more details about the construction of the tabernacle, in particular instructions for the priestly vestments and a few brief words about the eternal light. “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly (ner tamid). Aaron and his sons shall set them up in the Tent of Meeting, outside the curtain which is over the Ark of the Pact, to burn from evening to morning before the Lord It shall be a due from the Israelites for all time, throughout the ages.” (Exodus 27:20-21)

In remembrance of the ancient tabernacle and in observance of this commandment, every synagogue has a ner tamid, usually translated as eternal light, situated above its Ark. It would be better to translate tamid however not as “eternal” but as “with unfailing regularity.” It was not that the ner tamid remained perpetually burning, as if by miracle, it was instead that this light had to be regularly tended. The medieval sage, Nachmanides, suggests that the ner tamid was also used to light the seven-branch menorah that stood in the Temple.

As I think about this menorah, my mind often wanders not to how these objects adorn so many synagogues, but instead to the Arch of Titus. There on that Roman arch are the reliefs of Jewish slaves being marched to Rome from their destroyed Jerusalem. There as well is the image of the menorah being carted away as a spoil of war. I also recall the many photographs of our recent enemies burning Jewish books, in particular the Talmud and the most sacred of all books, our Torah scrolls. Throughout the centuries pillars of fire consumed our most cherished possessions.

I love our Jewish books. I hold sacred our ritual objects. It causes me great pain and distress to imagine these ancient, and modern, destructions. Thus I am sympathetic to the pain caused to Muslims when they hear of their holy Koran being burned. We should remember the pain caused to our people by such fires.

I take issue however with the protestors, and rioters, in Afghanistan when they venerate these objects over human life. As much as I love our books, and as much as it pains me to ponder the Arch of Titus or the images of Nazis burning our Torah scrolls on Kristallnacht, I am more pained by the picture of a young boy standing in fear before a German soldier’s rifle. It is the murder of so many Jews that causes me the greatest pain. For our recent enemies, as well as our ancient, despoiling the sacred led to the murder of the innocent.

Amidst the reports of Afghanis rioting against the American soldiers’ burning of Korans, was another report about four Afghans who were beheaded by the Taliban. These men were accused of spying for the United States. The evidence against them was that they possessed satellite phones. Possession of such new technology is apparently an act of treason.

Veneration of the ancient to the exclusion of the modern is a belief we still confront. It is this view that sees human beings as but subjects of an ancient book. It is this view that makes human life secondary to ritual objects. It is my view, and the belief of our Jewish tradition, that human life takes precedence over all else, even our most sacred objects, even our most cherished books.

Jewish law states that we can even sell the community’s Torah scroll in order to ransom a captive. Even the most sacred of our possessions must serve human life. They are never of greater value than the most treasured of God’s gifts, life. I long for Afghans to protest against the murder of their countrymen by their co-religionists. I long for Afghans to rise up against those who would take life. I long for Muslims to stand up and say the Koran that they revere demands that they place human life first and foremost.

I remain sympathetic to the pain that burning a Koran engenders. I share this commitment to the holy. I would most certainly cry if I were to see a Torah scroll burned. Yet I long to hear something greater than these cries. Instead all I hear is silence. There is only deafening silence in the face of murder.

It is far too easy to clamor against what others do to us, to speak of victimization and defamation. It is far too easy to speak of how others trample on what we hold most dear, what we revere as sacred. But the most holy of tasks, the greatest of challenges, is always to speak of how we might change, what we might be doing wrong, to criticize our closest friends, our family and ourselves. This remains the most difficult of tasks.

In the end these are the fires that must be continually tended. We must not expect that they will burn eternally, as if by miracle. From evening until morning we must tend to these fires.

Talking about Iran

This is a 30 minute video with my teachers from the Shalom Hartman Institute: Tal Becker, Yossi Klein Halevi and Yehuda Kurtzer.  Their topic is: "What We Talk About When We Talk About Iran."  Their discussion is not about the specifics of the Iranian nuclear threat.  Instead they debate the perceptions of this threat.  Yehuda represents the American Jewish perspective and Yossi the Israeli.  Their insights are worth noting.



What follows are my thoughts.

Here in the United States the debate seems to follow two lines of thinking.  Either Obama is not doing enough (because he really does not care about Israel) or Israel is being overly hysterical about the threats it faces (again).  Regarding the first point, I can't say what might be Obama's true inner motivations, although many people speak and write as if they know exactly what he thinks and believes.  I do however find him to be naive about the Middle East. Obama acts as if he can sway by reason everyone and anyone, even tyrants.  I take dictators, and antisemites, at their word.  Jewish history teaches me that reason will not convince them of their erroneous, and evil, ways.

In addition, I continue to believe that the definition of Zionism is that Israel must go it alone. The nature of having a Jewish state is that we must not depend on the world--even our greatest ally. We will write Jewish history ourselves--for better or worse. It will no longer be done to us. We will never again be victims. This is my biggest problem with the tenor of the debate among American Jews. It is all about Jewish victimhood and not what I believe Zionism is truly about, Jewish strength. It is all about America (under Obama) is victimizing the Jewish people, and selling Israel out. 

The only reason the US should help attack, or sanction, Iran is because it serves our American interests. Iran almost hates America just as much as it hates Israel. Why no one is talking about the Iranian hostage crisis that defined my high school years is curious and troubling. Imagine what the people who took Americans hostage would do with a bomb. The president of Iran was then a hostage taker!  Iran having nuclear weapons is a threat to the world. Still sanctions are at present the better approach for American interests, especially as these sanctions have been most recently configured.

The problem that we have is that American and Israeli interests don't appear in sync. Our sense of threat is different. American Jews get palpitations when this happens. We want them to be synonymous. They are not. Israel has a shorter timetable, and faces a far greater existential threat, and therein lies the conflict. Each nation must do what is best for itself and in its own interests.  American Jews will have to live with this conflict.  Make no mistake, however.  While I may not clamor for Obama to do what is in Israel's best interest, I will support Israel in every way possible.  When Israel's leaders decide to take action to protect our nation I will stand with my people.  I might cry if the president offers little support, but I won't scream.  Recall that Reagan furiously criticized Begin when that Israeli prime minister ordered the bombing of Iraq's nuclear facility.  The US then supported a UN resolution condemning Israel.  Those two leaders had a similar distaste for each other, akin to our current two leaders.  Today's tension is all too familiar.  Conflict is part of any relationship and is part of the Israeli-American dynamic.  And we must learn to live with this present conflict.

I remain bound to the Jewish people, as I am to my family.  I am confident that Israel will do what is necessary, and required, to protect itself.

Some later additional notes:
For a prior post about these issues read my thoughts about Gershom Gorenberg's article here.
For a somewhat different view of American-Israeli relations as it relates to this Iranian crisis, read Donniel Hartman's piece here.
Watch next week's webinar from the Shalom Hartman Institute here and be sure to follow the institute's new website and materials about engaging Israel.

Terumah

When I visualize cherubs, even though I don’t much believe in these mythic beings, I still imagine Michelangelo’s renderings.  So much of our religious imagery is taken from Renaissance art.  The great artists of those days still continue to provide us with many of our visual religious images.  This is ironic given that Michelangelo for example mistakenly carved horns for Moses rather than the Torah’s “rays of light.”  And despite our tradition’s insistence otherwise, we continue to imagine Eve handing Adam an apple.  Judaism suggests the fruit was a pomegranate, fig or etrog.  So why do we depend on Renaissance artists when these angelic cherubs are described in our very own Torah?

In this week’s portion, we read of the details of the ancient tabernacle and the cherubs that adorned it.  “You shall make a cover (kapporet) of pure gold, two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide.  Make two cherubim (keruvim) of gold—make them of hammered work—at the two ends of the cover….  The cherubim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings.  They shall confront each other, the faces of the cherubim being turned toward the cover….  There I will meet you, and I will impart to you—from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Pact—all that I will command you concerning the Israelite people.” (Exodus 25:17-22)

What is a cherub?  According to biblical scholars the Hebrew word keruv is most likely related to the ancient Akkadian meaning to pray, bless or be gracious to.  These winged creatures are first mentioned in Genesis, when God positions them outside the Garden of Eden to guard its entrance.  Their depiction was common throughout the ancient Middle East.  One can surmise that the Bible’s lack of a detailed description indicates that the ancient reader had a clear understanding of what cherubim looked like.  It appears that they had human faces, the body of animals, most often a bull or lion, and large wings.  Renaissance artists depicted them as babies with wings.

I wonder why a tradition that seeks to abolish all forms of idolatry demand that we construct such images within the most sacred of precincts.  Rabbi Gunther Plaut (z”l) suggests an answer: “Apparently the cherubim belonged to an old mythological tradition that could not be dislodged, and by hiding them away in a place totally inaccessible to the people at large the danger of their adoration was minimized…”  Then again perhaps such imagery is part and parcel to being human.  We need to build things in order to better imagine God and the accompanying heavenly entourage.  Thus despite Judaism’s zealous prohibitions against idolatry and representations of the divine, attempts to picture the heavens all too often peak through.

Most years I gloss over the Torah’s descriptions about cherubs and angels, dismissing them as meaningless to my modern day faith.  I don’t believe in flying mythic creatures.  Yet human beings continue to conjure rich images, painting and sculpting our understanding of the Bible’s words.  Human beings need to imagine detailed visions. And we rely on artists to visualize the divine.  We are dependent on others to help us grasp at the divine.  Perhaps we should instead take refuge in our own hearts and minds, allowing our thoughts to paint new and original images.  That would be more in keeping with our tradition’s philosophy.

The cherubim’s purpose was to mediate between heaven and earth, to carry the prayers of human beings to the heavens.   I choose instead to rely on my words.  Perhaps a few reach to the heavens.  More often than not my words are lifted by the words of my ancestors found in our prayerbook, especially when rendered as music and song.  And then there are occasions when I discover a poem, a verse that lifts my prayers, as if soaring on wings.  William Blake writes: “To see a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower,/Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/And eternity in an hour.”

And herein is the reminder I seek.  The divine can more often than not be unlocked in the most ordinary and every day.  We need not travel to beautiful buildings, even (and especially) those as striking as the Sistine Chapel.  We need not even construct a tabernacle, ordained with cherubim.  Our thoughts, our prayers, our visions and our very own renderings are all we require.

Iran Is Not Cuba

Iran Is Not Cuba
Gershom Gorenberg's wisdom and insights are worth noting.

He suggests that the panic about Iran is more prevalent here rather than in Israel.

...[T]he people around me in Israeli society don't seem to be panicking. Perhaps it's because no one I know has received official notice that it's time to get gas masks from the Home Front Command—in contrast to the nationwide distribution effort during the period of real tension before the 1991 Gulf War. In fact, the low level of public preparedness suggests two possible conclusions: Netanyahu, Barak, and other top officials could be confident, or terribly overconfident, that Iran and its allies will not retaliate in a serious way. Alternatively, the bellicose public comments and sundry leaks are designed for political purposes, foreign or domestic.

He also argues that the comparisons to 1938 Germany are flawed.

...[T]hinking in 1938 terms risks an even more hard-line implication: Any diplomatic engagement with Iran will lead to Chamberlain-style appeasement. So military action is not just the final option; it's the only option. Despite their emotional appeal, history's extreme examples can close off rather than aid analysis.

And thus I arrive at these tentative conclusions. Prepare for war. Work tirelessly on diplomacy.

Mishpatim

The Talmud offers the following counsel regarding abortion: “If a woman is having difficulty in giving birth, one cuts up the fetus within her womb and extracts it limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over that of the fetus. But if the greater part was already born, one may not touch it, for one may not set aside one person’s life for that of another.” (Mishnah Oholot 7:8)

Two insights emerge from this text. If a woman’s life is in danger then abortion is permitted—and even demanded. Jewish authorities continue to debate what might constitute a threat to the mother’s life. More traditional authorities argue only a physical threat, more liberal offer expansive interpretations, including psychological dangers. The second insight however is the more significant and informative for our contemporary debate. The mother’s life takes precedence over that of the fetus.

As I watch today’s shrill discussions I find myself growing increasingly agitated. My religious commitments are offended when others place the life of the fetus over that of the mother. I believe otherwise. My tradition teaches me that the mother’s life takes precedence. My deeply held religious conviction tells me that it is demeaning of women, and perhaps even misogynistic, to hold that the mother’s life is of equal value to that of the developing fetus. Despite this I am willing to respect those who have different religious convictions. I ask however that they do the same. The strength of this great nation is the belief that different, and even competing, religious convictions are allowed not only to coexist but also flourish.

The fetus is of course sacred and must be treated with care and concern. It is a potential life. Its value must not be brushed aside. Its value must not be treated in a cavalier manner. Nonetheless when its potential life threatens the actual life of the mother it becomes of secondary importance. Despite the debate among Jewish authorities regarding what constitutes a threat to the life of the mother; all agree that the mother’s life is of greater importance. The mother and fetus become two lives of equal value when the baby’s head emerges. Until that moment the mother’s life takes precedence. And that is what Judaism teaches, and that is what I firmly believe.

Yet a woman’s body (as well as a man’s) is not entirely her own. Our tradition also teaches that our bodies belong to God. We cannot do whatever we want to our bodies. My religious convictions are equally offended when people speak of their bodies as if they created them, as if they control them. They are instead entrusted to us. We are commanded to care for them. We do not own them. Even our bodies are divine gifts.

This is what I learn from our Jewish tradition. My faith demands the convictions of me that our bodies are sacred, human life is holy, but as well that a mother’s life is of greater importance than the potential life of the fetus she carries. I first discover this in this week’s portion. “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning. But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” (Exodus 21:22-25)

Here we learn that monetary compensation is offered for an accidental miscarriage. In the Torah the intentional taking of a human life constitutes a capital crime. No compensation could suffice. Only the death penalty could rebalance the scales. That the Torah does not require this in the above situation is evidence of the Jewish position regarding abortion.

In addition, the meaning of an eye for an eye is not meant literally but instead figuratively. We are to determine the value of an eye. We are to calculate a fair monetary compensation for the injury. There is a profound confusion about this point. In contemporary culture an eye for an eye is instead used when speaking about exacting vengeance. Use of this biblical phrase suggests a veneer of justice, and is too often misused to justify military action. This is not how our tradition understands this phrase. There is much in the interpretation. Different religious traditions often understand the same words in different manners.

People speak as if their convictions are the beginning and end of all debate. They speak as if their religious beliefs are the determinants for all and that their interpretations are the only legitimate readings. I prefer however to look to my own faith for guidance and counsel. There I discover much to inform our current debates. There my religious convictions are restored.

My faith begins, and ends, with my tradition’s interpretations. My understanding however draws a wider circle, and includes the interpretations of others people’s religious convictions.

Appendix: A thoughtful, and immediate, critique from a congregant.
On the point that we should not impose our views of such moral issues on others, while I personally agree in general, in fact we do often impose our views of moral matters when it comes to action as opposed to belief. Our law allows all to believe what they want, and for the most part profess what they believe, but draws the line at action. Actions that contravene the norm are routinely condemned and punished, even when religiously based, and to some extent this must be so. For example, if one religion believes that smoking marijuana is required, its adherents do not get dispensation from our drug laws; if another believes children must proselytize at night in the street, it must nevertheless succumb to laws against child labor and abuse. Saying we should not impose our religious views on others, in matters such as abortion, does not really resolve the dilemma of how to deal with acts that our social “norm” considers (morally) beyond the pale. I don’t happen to think that a majority of Americans are against abortion, but if they are, if they find it so morally repugnant that they believe it cannot be tolerated at all in a civilized society, then how is a religious dissent on that issue any different from dissenting religious views regarding child abuse, polygamy, misogyny, drug use, etc.? I think it’s too easy to say each can do whatever he/she believes, because we still have some minimal societal norm to identify and enforce.
Robin

Wolpe vs. Beinart

Opinion: Wolpe vs. Beinart | Jewish Journal
Rabbi David Wolpe offers an important corrective to criticism of Israel from the left.  Wolpe writes:

...The parade of self-confident sophistries is confounding. “Denied rights simply because they are not Jews.” Beinart’s phrase elides a torturous history of renunciation, rejection, terror, promises of annihilation and, well, war. It places the entire burden of the conflict on the Israelis, inhabitants of the only state in the world whose existence is constantly questioned and threatened. It turns what has been a painful (and, to be sure, sometimes brutal) occupation of a population, with agonizing options on both sides and blood-strewn sidewalks, into the thinly veiled implication of racist oppression. If you said the reverse, that the Arab nations made war on Israel “just because they were Jews,” you would have a more supportable sentence. 

...Is there no room for honest dissent? I am no fan of the settler movement. I agree that two states is the only just and workable solution. But (and this is where we apparently diverge) I acknowledge I could be wrong about how to get there. We agree that Palestinians have suffered terribly. An end to the current impasse is urgently needed. But Beinart’s certainty about the ends of equality and statehood has frozen into lockstepping the means, and dictating acceptable attitudes. There are thoughtful, kind people who disagree. Many of them, I suspect, do not aspire to raze democracy. This e-mail is an end-zone dance, a strutting lack of humility. 

...Beinart’s e-mail represents what is wrong with the debate: It is smug in its dismissal of Israel’s leadership and grandiose in presenting one view as the sole salvation of that beleaguered nation’s honor. Peter Beinart raises crucial, abiding issues. Then he compares those who take a different view to racist destroyers of democracy. This is not debate. This is not dialogue. This is demagoguery. He is better than this and we must be, too. In Pirkei Avot, Avtalion warns sages to be careful with their words. The warning applies to those who are not sages, as well.

Orthodoxies unfortunately exist on both the right and left.  There are no easy answers to today's dilemmas.  Passionate debate must continue.  Pronouncements must be avoided.

For a reminder of Beinart's contribution to this discussion read a prior post.  There Beinart reminds us that our youth are growing increasingly distant from the State of Israel.

Going To Melody

Leon Wieseltier: Going To Melody | The New Republic
This article is a beautiful meditation about the too often ignored costs of our emerging (emerged?) digital age.  We prize the immediacy of news and information.  We equate Googling with learning.  We fail to recognize that in the process we may lose the meandering achievement of knowledge.  Wiesletier writes:

It is a matter of some importance that the nature of browsing be properly understood. Browsing is a method of humanistic education. It gathers not information but impressions, and refines them by brief (but longer than 29 seconds!) immersions in sound or language. Browsing is to Amazon what flaneurie is to Google Earth. It is an immediate encounter with the actual object of curiosity. The browser (no, not that one) is the flaneur in a room. Browsing is not idleness; or rather, it is active idleness—an exploring capacity, a kind of questing non-instrumental behavior. Browsing is the opposite of “search.” Search is precise, browsing is imprecise. When you search, you find what you were looking for; when you browse, you find what you were not looking for. Search corrects your knowledge, browsing corrects your ignorance. Search narrows, browsing enlarges. It does so by means of accidents, of unexpected adjacencies and improbable associations. On Amazon, by contrast, there are no accidents. Its adjacencies are expected and its associations are probable, because it is programmed for precedents. It takes you to where you have already been—to what you have already bought or thought of buying, and to similar things. It sells similarities. After all, serendipity is a poor business model. But serendipity is how the spirit is renewed; and a record store, like a bookstore, is nothing less than an institution of spiritual renewal. 

He speaks of the recent closing of his favorite record store.  I think as well of the closing of Borders and the many Barnes and Noble stores.  My town recently lost its record store as well.  Its independent book store, the wonderful Book Revue, still continues.  I wonder if it thrives.  Recently I wandered through its doors.  I soon found myself in the poetry section and discovered another Rainer Maria Rilke poetry book.  I was not looking for his poems.  I do not need yet another book, and another book of his poems, but how could I resist buying, "Book of Hours: Love Poems to God," especially when I read:

All who seek you
test you.
And those who find you
bind you to image and gesture.

I would rather sense you
as the earth senses you.
In my ripening
ripens
what you are.

I need from you no tricks
to prove you exist.
Time, I know,
is other than you.

No miracles, please.
Just let your laws
become clearer
from generation to generation.

I was searching for nothing.  That, at least, is what I thought.  Perhaps Wieseltier is right in his distinction between searching and browsing.  But the rows of poetry books always beckon me.  I found something even though I did not search for anything.  True knowledge surprises--and astounds.  That is its gift.  We lose these when we rely only on the internet and our computers.  Had I remained at home peering into my laptop I would not have discovered these poems.  And that is Wieseltier's great insight.  We no longer wander.  We no longer meander through rows of  books.  We no longer browse!  We no longer find comfort in the corners of libraries, surrounded by the learning of prior generations.  We only want answers.  We no longer search after knowledge and understanding.  Rather we type our questions into Google and scan its many answers.  But answers are not the same as learning.  And searching is no longer the achievement of knowledge.  Over these recent years search has grown more definitive while knowledge grows ever more diminished.  Wieseltier concludes:

My father had furniture stores. I grew up with the pathos of retail: you throw all your money into a location and an inventory, you hang out a sign, you trick out a window, you unlock a door, and (if you lack the resources to advertise formidably) you wait. If they come in, you use your skill; but they have to come in. When my father was ill, I would quit the library and mind the store. One day I set a house record for sofas sold because the store was located in a neighborhood where many U.N. people lived, and I knew more than most furniture salesmen about the crises in Iran and Cyprus. Eventually the store failed. But the failure of some stores is more repercussive than the failure of other stores. The commerce of culture is a trade in ideals of beauty, goodness, and truth. A hunger for profit exploits a hunger for meaning. If the one gets too ravenous, the other may find it harder to subsist. The disappearance of our bookstores and our record stores constitutes one of the great self-inflicted wounds of this wounding time.

And finally I return  to his earlier words: "But serendipity is how the spirit is renewed; and a record store, like a bookstore, is nothing less than an institution of spiritual renewal."

If everything becomes virtual how will we learn what we do not know we need to learn?

Yitro

This week’s Torah portion contains the Ten Commandments. According to Jewish tradition, these ten are delineated as follows and are called instead Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Sayings.

1. I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt.
2. You shall have no other gods beside Me.
3. You shall not swear falsely by the name of the Lord your God.
4. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.
5. Honor your father and you mother that you may long endure on the land.
6. You shall not murder.
7. You shall not steal.
8. You shall not commit adultery.
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10. You shall not covet your neighbor’s house.

People often place these commandments above others. In fact I often hear the following, “I am not that religious, but I do follow the Ten Commandments.” While contemporary culture gives these commandments such prominence, their place within Jewish tradition is far more convoluted.

It was once the case that these commandments were as central as people’s statements would suggest. During early rabbinic times the Ten Commandments were recited during the morning service alongside the Shema. However it was soon removed from the liturgy in response to sectarian claims (most likely early Christian) that these commandments were more important than all others. The rabbis however did not want people to think that these ten were of greater importance than others. All mitzvot, commandments, were binding. The rabbis argued that Judaism demands our commitment to 613 mitzvot.

Yet the rabbis were also keenly aware of the universality of the Ten Commandments’ message. This is why they taught that they were given in the wilderness, in a land claimed by no one. They also argued that they were translated into every language and that again their universal message was disseminated throughout the world. Even Shabbat contains a universal message within the rabbinic imagination.

While Shabbat might not appear to contain a message for the entire world, given our particular Jewish observance of the day, its message is of universal import. While I hesitate to use such evangelical language, Shabbat is a day that can benefit the entire world. Shabbat can offer respite for the soul. It is a day that can renew and restore. It is a day that is set apart from all others, offering us a chance for spiritual renewal and reflection.

Whether we sing Lecha Dodi and fill the day with Jewish music and prayers or just take a day to pause and reflect, Shabbat is a day that can benefit all. It is a day given to the world.

January-February Newsletter

What follows is my January-February 2012 Newsletter article.  Sorry for the delay in posting this article.

Here are my answers to our students’ Ask the Rabbi questions.

Can you get the words in English for your bar/bat mitzvah?

No.  I assume this question is about how hard Hebrew can sometimes be to read and chant. Every one of our students has always been able to lead the prayers.  That is why we meet with students for over six months to help get them ready.  Sometimes students write notes for themselves in their books to help them remember how to say difficult words, but you can never do that in the Torah scroll.  Every student at the JCB reads from the Torah scroll.  That takes hard work and practice.  Bar/bat mitzvah means taking responsibility for your own Judaism.  It is not always easy.  I believe that the things that are the best are not those things that are the easiest.  I know you can do it!  Besides you get to read from the most important Jewish book!  On your bar/bat mitzvah day the most important job is yours not any professionals.  That is what it means to become a bar/bat mitzvah. 

How did you train to become a rabbi?

After graduating from college (Franklin & Marshall, a great college, with a bad mascot, the diplomats) I spent five years studying in rabbinical school (Hebrew Union College).  The first year of rabbinical school was in Jerusalem where I met my wife, Susie, who is also a rabbi.  Oops I think that is off topic.  So that is a lot of school.  But the most important thing about being a rabbi is that you have to keep learning.  So every year I go back to Jerusalem to learn even more.  To be a rabbi means to love learning, and of course love people. 

What is your favorite Torah story?

My favorites are the ones I find the most challenging.  I continue to be challenged by the story about Moses hitting the rock in anger.  Because of this God does not allow him to enter the Promised Land.  I have always found this to be a very harsh punishment for what appears to be a small mistake.  So I keep searching and looking to see if maybe Moses’ mistake was much bigger than what I originally thought.  Maybe part of the lesson is that even small mistakes can sometimes have really big consequences. 

Hi, what did you think of Charlie Sheen’s comment?

Shalom!  Unfortunately antisemitism still exists.  People hate for all different reasons.  People blame others for their own mistakes and failures all the time.  Sometimes that looks really ugly.  Charlie Sheen is not the only example of a person who blames the Jewish people for his own problems.  That list is very long.  In the end it is just really sad that such a talented man is destroying his life, and also bringing down those who are trying to support him.  I used to really enjoy the show, but don’t watch it any more. 

Why is Christmas so celebrative and has Santa (who isn’t real), and lights and everything, and Hanukkah is only presents and menorahs?

First of all I would not tell your Christian friends that their hero is not real.  That is for them to decide.  Second it is not a competition.  Third we live in a country where most people are Christian so it appears that Christmas is better because it is all over the radio, and in stores, and in public displays.  Instead of looking at what you don’t have, try enjoying the pretty lights.  I like how they make the early dark nights brighter!  It won’t make you less Jewish to enjoy Christmas lights, or even sing Christmas songs.  Most important you have to compare the whole package.  Hanukkah is a minor holiday.  Present giving for Hanukkah is a really new thing.  I promise you that the Maccabees were not giving each other presents or even playing dreidle 2,200 years ago.  They were too busy fighting the war!  You have to look at all Jewish holidays not just the one that comes near Christmas.  Sukkot is a major holiday and is for example all about joy and happiness.  My sukkah is even decorated with lights.  Or look at Passover, another major holiday.  How fun is it to find the afikomen?  The most important thing is to remember that Judaism is all about joy and celebration.  I look forward to dancing with you during the hora at your bar/bat mitzvah!  How much more fun does there need to be? 

Keep asking your questions.  They continue to be the best way to learn!

Beshalach Sermon

In this week’s portion the people finally leave Egypt.  They do not travel very far before they are nearly overtaken by Pharaoh and his army.  We read of this famous scene describing the Israelites standing at the shore of the Sea of Reeds, fearful again for their lives.  Everyone knows the story.  God of course splits the sea and the people travel through.  The Egyptian army is drowned in the sea.

There are two midrashim about this event and the questions about miracles that it raises.  The first is a modern midrash.

1. Even though the splitting of the sea was a great and wondrous miracle some people still only saw the mud beneath their feet.  They never looked up.  They only saw the mud dirtying their sandals.  The lesson is clear.  There are many miracles, all around us, but sometimes we only see the mud.

2.  According to an ancient midrash, God did not bring this miracle immediately.  God waited until the people demonstrated their faith.  And the people waited for one person, a man named Nachshon.  It was he who was responsible for God’s miracle.  How?  He jumped into the waters.  Only until the waters covered his mouth did God finally split the sea.  Thus you have to have faith.  You have to jump in head first if you really want to see miracles.

Following this miracle at the sea, Miriam led the people in celebration on the other side.  There was singing and dancing.  The most important lesson is that the Torah continues after this portion.  It does not stop on the other side with this great celebration.  The journey continues. The people did not stop with a great celebration. They traveled to Mount Sinai.  They wandered through the wilderness.

If we are going to apply this lesson to our own times it occurs to me that we place too much emphasis on celebrations and milestones.  We should focus instead on the journey.  I am not suggesting that I don’t like a good party.  I certainly do.  But the central focus should not be the ceremony. If we are talking about b’nai mitzvah it should not be about how many verses a student chants, or how well the bar/bat mitzvah sermon is crafted.  Instead it should be about the process of learning.  What values did s/he learn as s/he prepared for this day?

What would happen if birthday parties were not about “Wow I am 50 years old” but instead about “This is what I have learned in my 50 years.”  Then we would not wake up the next day depressed that the party is over (or hung over).  Instead we would say, “This what I hope to learn in my next 50 years.”  What would happen if come Monday the Super Bowl was not about the winner but instead about the season—of each and every team, and about the hopes for next year’s season?  Will the Giants’ sense of family be as profound if they lose the big game?

I know.  I am being overly idealistic.  But the lesson is important to remember.  The lesson is not to focus on the milestones and instead about the journey.  The Hasidic rebbe, Rabbi Ohrbach offers this comment:  “This is an indication of what happens so often when one’s striving for a certain goal is finally realized.  As long as one is striving, the goal is something greatly desired.  However, once one has realized the goal, it seems to shrink in importance.  The mundane reality of everyday life dissolves all the beautiful dreams and one realizes all the problems that still lie ahead.”

Life is not about the parties and celebrations.  It is instead about the journey, the wandering, the trip, the striving.  The poet Robert Browning said:  "A man's reach must exceed his grasp/Or what's a heaven for?”  Thus keep on striving, keep on journeying and even wandering.  And always be like Nachshon.  Have the courage to jump in the waters.

Rabbi Steven Moskowitz

February 3, 2012

Some Medals are Pinned to Your Soul

Bartali Honoured For Saving Jews During The Holocaust | Cyclingnews.com
A fellow cyclist shared this article about Gino Bartali, the Italian champion cyclist and winner of the Giro d'Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946 and the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948.  Apparently Yad VaShem is researching whether he also deserves recognition as one of the Righteous of the Nations, those who worked to save Jews from the World War II Nazi death machine.  His long rides were not the apparent training rides that others thought them to be but instead efforts to smuggle documents to Jews seeking to escape.  These documents were hidden in his bicycle.  It is also reported that at least on one such occasion he led Jews across the Alps himself.  Explaining it as part of his training he pulled a wagon behind his bicycle with a secret compartment holding Jewish refugees.  His efforts helped to save the lives of 800 Jews.  His only public comment about these efforts was the statement: "Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."  He died in May 2000.

Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther.

And the next time I get up out of my saddle and try to muscle up a climb I should remember to use the derailleur instead and shift to an easier gear.  It is the derailleur that Bartali also helped to pioneer.

I  must remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.