The Heart Speaks Truth
The medieval poet Yehudah HaLevi writes: “L’bi b’mizrach v’anochi b’sof maarav—my heart is in the East and I am in the depths of the West.” His words were an expression of the unending Jewish attachment to Jerusalem and the land of Israel.
His poem captures my sentiments at this very moment. He speaks to my heart’s travails. My attachment is to the State of Israel. My worries are tied to my brothers and sisters in the land of Israel. I am nervous about Israel’s future. I mourn for those killed and pray for those injured—both Israelis and Palestinians.
My nephew, who is living and studying in northern Tel Aviv, spent the better part of the last two evenings in a bomb shelter. Countless friends, and acquaintances, have done the same. Others are deploying to this conflict’s front lines.
It is personal. I am a Jew. This is our Jewish home...
His poem captures my sentiments at this very moment. He speaks to my heart’s travails. My attachment is to the State of Israel. My worries are tied to my brothers and sisters in the land of Israel. I am nervous about Israel’s future. I mourn for those killed and pray for those injured—both Israelis and Palestinians.
My nephew, who is living and studying in northern Tel Aviv, spent the better part of the last two evenings in a bomb shelter. Countless friends, and acquaintances, have done the same. Others are deploying to this conflict’s front lines.
It is personal. I am a Jew. This is our Jewish home...
Reclaiming the Earth
A Missouri farmer offered these words of praise and reverence for the land he and his family farmed for their entire lives. “It’s the ground that can never be replaced. They don’t make any more ground, and this ground in the spillway is the best in the world.”
I wonder where his family now farms. Ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers dynamited a hole in the Mississippi river levee, flooding the spillway, in order to save a small town. In the process they sacrificed precious Missouri farmland.
Years ago, when my family and I used to boat on the mighty Mississippi we would marvel at the homes on the river’s banks. Why would people build on a flood plain? Every year the Mississippi river floods. Every year the river nourishes the surrounding farmlands. Some years the floods are greater than others. Precious farming land comes at great cost. Apparently, this is nature’s equation. And so, every year families must flee their homes. There is a pull of the land that defies reason.
There is the pull of an ancestral home that surpasses explanation. It is the sanctity of the land that pulls families toward it.
This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25) What is the purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land must be allowed to lie fallow?
Its purpose is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns the land. There is in truth no property ownership. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that everything, that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation, but instead a right that every living thing must enjoy. The land as well is a living and breathing creation.
The sabbatical year of the land should rekindle in us a reverence for the land. To be sure the Torah’s focus is the land of Israel and its inherent holiness. Nonetheless we learn that the earth sacred. And we must therefore regain a reverence for the land and nature. There is a majesty of the earth that is lost to many of our contemporaries. We appear only to revere nature’s awesome power. Hurricanes and floods remind us however not only of nature’s fury but also of its grandeur. The sabbatical year and the river’s flooding remind us about nature’s cycle that we try in vain to defy.
We must say as well, along with farmers, “The ground beneath our very feet is the best in the world.”
The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon once wrote:
Each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. It should not occur to us when the land is washed away by nature’s fury. We should recognize it and proclaim it each and every day.
I wonder where his family now farms. Ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers dynamited a hole in the Mississippi river levee, flooding the spillway, in order to save a small town. In the process they sacrificed precious Missouri farmland.
Years ago, when my family and I used to boat on the mighty Mississippi we would marvel at the homes on the river’s banks. Why would people build on a flood plain? Every year the Mississippi river floods. Every year the river nourishes the surrounding farmlands. Some years the floods are greater than others. Precious farming land comes at great cost. Apparently, this is nature’s equation. And so, every year families must flee their homes. There is a pull of the land that defies reason.
There is the pull of an ancestral home that surpasses explanation. It is the sanctity of the land that pulls families toward it.
This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25) What is the purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land must be allowed to lie fallow?
Its purpose is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns the land. There is in truth no property ownership. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that everything, that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation, but instead a right that every living thing must enjoy. The land as well is a living and breathing creation.
The sabbatical year of the land should rekindle in us a reverence for the land. To be sure the Torah’s focus is the land of Israel and its inherent holiness. Nonetheless we learn that the earth sacred. And we must therefore regain a reverence for the land and nature. There is a majesty of the earth that is lost to many of our contemporaries. We appear only to revere nature’s awesome power. Hurricanes and floods remind us however not only of nature’s fury but also of its grandeur. The sabbatical year and the river’s flooding remind us about nature’s cycle that we try in vain to defy.
We must say as well, along with farmers, “The ground beneath our very feet is the best in the world.”
The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon once wrote:
At times you imagine that you, too, are taking root in the soil that you are digging; like all that is growing around you are nurtured by the light of the sun’s rays with food from heaven. You feel that you, too, live a life in common with the tiniest blade of grass, with each flower, each tree; that you live deeply in the heart of nature, rising up from all and growing straight up into the expanse of the world.Gordon’s primary concern was the spiritual power to be found in working the land. But his lesson is still apt for our generation.
Each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. It should not occur to us when the land is washed away by nature’s fury. We should recognize it and proclaim it each and every day.
Hear Her Pain!
Many are the examples of those who abuse their power to take advantage of others. During the past year, many have been the instances when women have revealed how they were victimized, their personhood objectified or their bodies inappropriately touched or how they were forced into unwanted sexual relationships, or even raped. The details of many situations are only recently coming to light. The details of far too many remain hidden in women’s memories.
This week, it was revealed that a leading rabbi, a fellow Reform colleague, committed some of these very sins. Nearly fifty years ago he took advantage of his position and coerced a few young women into sexual relationships. He justified his actions to these young, impressionable women by using the Jewish philosophy of Martin Buber. Buber argues that we gain glimmers of the divine when we experience what he termed an I-Thou encounter with another, when all that exists—however briefly—is that relation.
I have always found Buber’s philosophy revelatory. Martin Buber, more than any other thinker, opened Judaism’s door for me. That slim volume of I-Thou and its companion Hasidism and Modern Man (sic!) signify my invitation to explore and learn more about my heritage. It was painful to read that for another his philosophy did the exact opposite. In the hands of an abusive teacher, Buber slammed the door shut. Only recently did this brave woman peer through Judaism’s door. Ironically it was the pandemic that helped to push it open.
During these past High Holidays, she could visit the synagogue of her youth, but now from the comfort of her home. She took in the new rabbi’s words about coming to grips with past sins and failures and approached her with the painful story of her youth. The synagogue is now openly reckoning with what was done in its name.
I greatly admire Rabbi Angela Buchdahl and the leadership of Manhattan’s Central Synagogue. They have shown exemplary strength and courage. For countless generations, the impulse was to do otherwise. “It happened long ago,” I am sure some suggested. “He is no longer our rabbi,” others perhaps said. Throughout history an institution’s strength was seen as synonymous with its (male) leaders. “If we reveal his flaws, if we speak of his sins, then our synagogue (or church or government or orchestra…) will be weaker or God forbid, destroyed.”
But what about her pain?
Why does an institution’s strength not rest on an honest reckoning with past sins and failures? Why don’t we help to lift up those who feel cast aside? Why is an institution not strengthened by hearing the voice of those in pain and most especially those who have been hurt by an institution meant to protect them? Why don’t we say more often, “God forbid, we should continue to ignore the cries of those who are hurting and too scared to enter our doors.
Our tradition is emphatic about the sin of hillul hashem, desecrating God’s name. It is used to describe a wrong committed in public. The worry is that when someone sees another publicly flouting a mitzvah, others might then surmise it is permissible to commit such a wrong. Leading others astray was for our ancient rabbis a great worry and a cardinal sin. How much the more so when a leader commits such a sin. Then people are distanced from their heritage. Their traditions no longer offer healing but pain.
The Torah proclaims: “You shall not desecrate My holy name.” (Leviticus 22)
Think of the many women who were shut out of our sacred institutions. Think of the pain caused in our tradition’s name—although perhaps few in number it must be acknowledged. Atonement and repair must be sought.
There is no other path, but this tortured road. We must honestly look back in order to move ahead.
Holiness is not about protecting the past. It is instead about opening our ears to the pain within our midst. That is where we will indeed find glimmers of the divine.
This week, it was revealed that a leading rabbi, a fellow Reform colleague, committed some of these very sins. Nearly fifty years ago he took advantage of his position and coerced a few young women into sexual relationships. He justified his actions to these young, impressionable women by using the Jewish philosophy of Martin Buber. Buber argues that we gain glimmers of the divine when we experience what he termed an I-Thou encounter with another, when all that exists—however briefly—is that relation.
I have always found Buber’s philosophy revelatory. Martin Buber, more than any other thinker, opened Judaism’s door for me. That slim volume of I-Thou and its companion Hasidism and Modern Man (sic!) signify my invitation to explore and learn more about my heritage. It was painful to read that for another his philosophy did the exact opposite. In the hands of an abusive teacher, Buber slammed the door shut. Only recently did this brave woman peer through Judaism’s door. Ironically it was the pandemic that helped to push it open.
During these past High Holidays, she could visit the synagogue of her youth, but now from the comfort of her home. She took in the new rabbi’s words about coming to grips with past sins and failures and approached her with the painful story of her youth. The synagogue is now openly reckoning with what was done in its name.
I greatly admire Rabbi Angela Buchdahl and the leadership of Manhattan’s Central Synagogue. They have shown exemplary strength and courage. For countless generations, the impulse was to do otherwise. “It happened long ago,” I am sure some suggested. “He is no longer our rabbi,” others perhaps said. Throughout history an institution’s strength was seen as synonymous with its (male) leaders. “If we reveal his flaws, if we speak of his sins, then our synagogue (or church or government or orchestra…) will be weaker or God forbid, destroyed.”
But what about her pain?
Why does an institution’s strength not rest on an honest reckoning with past sins and failures? Why don’t we help to lift up those who feel cast aside? Why is an institution not strengthened by hearing the voice of those in pain and most especially those who have been hurt by an institution meant to protect them? Why don’t we say more often, “God forbid, we should continue to ignore the cries of those who are hurting and too scared to enter our doors.
Our tradition is emphatic about the sin of hillul hashem, desecrating God’s name. It is used to describe a wrong committed in public. The worry is that when someone sees another publicly flouting a mitzvah, others might then surmise it is permissible to commit such a wrong. Leading others astray was for our ancient rabbis a great worry and a cardinal sin. How much the more so when a leader commits such a sin. Then people are distanced from their heritage. Their traditions no longer offer healing but pain.
The Torah proclaims: “You shall not desecrate My holy name.” (Leviticus 22)
Think of the many women who were shut out of our sacred institutions. Think of the pain caused in our tradition’s name—although perhaps few in number it must be acknowledged. Atonement and repair must be sought.
There is no other path, but this tortured road. We must honestly look back in order to move ahead.
Holiness is not about protecting the past. It is instead about opening our ears to the pain within our midst. That is where we will indeed find glimmers of the divine.
Addendum:
Read "A Statement from the Women's Rabbinic Network" for suggestions of what more needs to be done: "No one should be expected to view harassment, abuse, and assault as the price they need to pay in order to be ordained, to serve in congregations or Jewish organizations, and to be members of Jewish communities."
Who Is My Neighbor?
Who is my neighbor?
Is it the person who lives on my block? Or is it the Jew who lives in Tel Aviv? Is neighbor defined by physical distance or instead by emotional connection?
We tend to rely more on feelings rather than distance when defining who is in and who is out. We rely on emotional nearness rather than short distance separating us from others.
The Torah proclaims: “Love your neighbor as yourself!” (Leviticus 19) If this statement were about loving those to whom we already feel close, then what would be the point of this command? The Torah cannot mean that we are to love those to whom we feel a kinship. Instead, it commands the difficult. It obligates us contrary to our feelings.
We are told to love those who are nearby but those to whom we do not feel close.
Think of those who live mere blocks from our homes, who toil mowing our lawns or who clear the tables at the restaurants we used to frequent. These are our neighbors!
On Tuesday, a Minneapolis jury found former police officer Derek Chauvin guilty of murdering George Floyd. Many, including myself, breathed a sigh of relief that he was found guilty. Here sat someone who publicly crushed the breath out of another human being. Here sat a police officer who is duty bound to protect but instead killed.
I exhaled. At least in this brazen instance, justice was upheld. Our judicial system might deliver just punishment. Still, I find myself feeling disconnected. I am distant. I stand apart.
Who is my neighbor?
Do I identify with the Black victim whose experience is so unlike my own? Never have I been stricken by terror when police officers approach my car. Do I feel a kinship with the White police officer? Never have I brandished a gun, or a taser for that matter, to quell a dispute. The distance between a George Floyd and a Derek Chauvin is vast. The distance between their experiences and my own are monumental.
Miles separate the experiences of Black and Whites in our great nation. Even though little distance separates our lives, our feelings of connection remain thousands of miles apart. Is it even surmountable?
Can we begin to view each other as neighbors?
According to some the exact center of the Torah is Leviticus 19, the Holiness Code, and the exact center of this chapter is verse eighteen: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Until we hear the Torah’s commandment as a daily admonishment, the distance will remain vast. Repair, and true justice, will remain insurmountable.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
That is the center of our Torah. It must as well become the center of our obligations.
Is it the person who lives on my block? Or is it the Jew who lives in Tel Aviv? Is neighbor defined by physical distance or instead by emotional connection?
We tend to rely more on feelings rather than distance when defining who is in and who is out. We rely on emotional nearness rather than short distance separating us from others.
The Torah proclaims: “Love your neighbor as yourself!” (Leviticus 19) If this statement were about loving those to whom we already feel close, then what would be the point of this command? The Torah cannot mean that we are to love those to whom we feel a kinship. Instead, it commands the difficult. It obligates us contrary to our feelings.
We are told to love those who are nearby but those to whom we do not feel close.
Think of those who live mere blocks from our homes, who toil mowing our lawns or who clear the tables at the restaurants we used to frequent. These are our neighbors!
On Tuesday, a Minneapolis jury found former police officer Derek Chauvin guilty of murdering George Floyd. Many, including myself, breathed a sigh of relief that he was found guilty. Here sat someone who publicly crushed the breath out of another human being. Here sat a police officer who is duty bound to protect but instead killed.
I exhaled. At least in this brazen instance, justice was upheld. Our judicial system might deliver just punishment. Still, I find myself feeling disconnected. I am distant. I stand apart.
Who is my neighbor?
Do I identify with the Black victim whose experience is so unlike my own? Never have I been stricken by terror when police officers approach my car. Do I feel a kinship with the White police officer? Never have I brandished a gun, or a taser for that matter, to quell a dispute. The distance between a George Floyd and a Derek Chauvin is vast. The distance between their experiences and my own are monumental.
Miles separate the experiences of Black and Whites in our great nation. Even though little distance separates our lives, our feelings of connection remain thousands of miles apart. Is it even surmountable?
Can we begin to view each other as neighbors?
According to some the exact center of the Torah is Leviticus 19, the Holiness Code, and the exact center of this chapter is verse eighteen: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Until we hear the Torah’s commandment as a daily admonishment, the distance will remain vast. Repair, and true justice, will remain insurmountable.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
That is the center of our Torah. It must as well become the center of our obligations.
Celebrating the Land, Celebrating Israel
In the nineteenth, and early twentieth, century the roots of the modern State of Israel were sown. Zionist thinkers argued about the character, and purpose, of the state for which we now celebrate seventy tree years of independence.
People are most familiar with Theodor Herzl who more than any other thinker, laid the foundation stones for the modern state of Israel. He was a masterful organizer, convening the First Zionist Congress in 1897. He was a tireless politician. Herzl’s political Zionism envisioned a state for the Jews, wherever it might be located, that would finally cure the world of antisemitism. Although his dream did not succeed in eradicating antisemitism, it did lay the groundwork for the modern state. The State of Israel would be, as it now most certainly is, the master of its own fate. No longer would Jews be subjugated to the whims of tyrants. Instead, they would rule their own lives.
Unlike Herzl, Ahad Haam, believed that such a state must be located in our ancient land and that there we must speak Hebrew. This state must be a Jewish state in which Jewish culture and the rhythms of Jewish life were observed. He did not mean by this traditional Jewish observance. Instead, he understood that schools would mark Sukkot and Hanukkah. On Friday evenings when people ventured out to cafes, as they currently do in great numbers, they would greet each other by saying, “Shabbat Shalom.” The culture would be steeped with Jewish resonance. And this would help to cure the spiritual malaise that infected the Jewish people. In Israel Jews would find a place that helped to revitalize the Jewish spirit.
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook is considered the founder of religious Zionism. For many nineteenth and early twentieth century traditional Jews, Zionism ran counter to the religious belief that the Jewish people could only reclaim sovereignty in the land of Israel when God sends the messiah. Kook argued that secular Zionists were doing God’s work even if they refused to acknowledge it. He was instrumental in accommodating traditional Jewish belief with Zionist activities. One could believe in the idea of the coming of the messiah while still working to build a Jewish state. Today, his philosophy continues to be influential with those who see messianic overtones in the modern State of Israel, and in particular its victory in the Six Day War.
These three thinkers continue to find currents in today’s Israel. Their thoughts shape modern Jews’ estimation of Israel’s great success.
And yet lately I find myself drawn to the works of a lesser-known Zionist thinker, A.D. Gordon. Long associated with the early kibbutz movement, Gordon believed that the revitalization of the Jewish spirit would come about by renewing our connection to the land. While he was not enamored of the socialist ideals of the kibbutz movement, he felt that the only way Jews could be saved was by getting their hands dirty working the land. He wrote:
As we continue to celebrate Israel’s technological achievements and prowess, perhaps we should take a moment and hearken back to the spiritual power of our return to the land.
Touching the earth is what can renew the Jewish people.
People are most familiar with Theodor Herzl who more than any other thinker, laid the foundation stones for the modern state of Israel. He was a masterful organizer, convening the First Zionist Congress in 1897. He was a tireless politician. Herzl’s political Zionism envisioned a state for the Jews, wherever it might be located, that would finally cure the world of antisemitism. Although his dream did not succeed in eradicating antisemitism, it did lay the groundwork for the modern state. The State of Israel would be, as it now most certainly is, the master of its own fate. No longer would Jews be subjugated to the whims of tyrants. Instead, they would rule their own lives.
Unlike Herzl, Ahad Haam, believed that such a state must be located in our ancient land and that there we must speak Hebrew. This state must be a Jewish state in which Jewish culture and the rhythms of Jewish life were observed. He did not mean by this traditional Jewish observance. Instead, he understood that schools would mark Sukkot and Hanukkah. On Friday evenings when people ventured out to cafes, as they currently do in great numbers, they would greet each other by saying, “Shabbat Shalom.” The culture would be steeped with Jewish resonance. And this would help to cure the spiritual malaise that infected the Jewish people. In Israel Jews would find a place that helped to revitalize the Jewish spirit.
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook is considered the founder of religious Zionism. For many nineteenth and early twentieth century traditional Jews, Zionism ran counter to the religious belief that the Jewish people could only reclaim sovereignty in the land of Israel when God sends the messiah. Kook argued that secular Zionists were doing God’s work even if they refused to acknowledge it. He was instrumental in accommodating traditional Jewish belief with Zionist activities. One could believe in the idea of the coming of the messiah while still working to build a Jewish state. Today, his philosophy continues to be influential with those who see messianic overtones in the modern State of Israel, and in particular its victory in the Six Day War.
These three thinkers continue to find currents in today’s Israel. Their thoughts shape modern Jews’ estimation of Israel’s great success.
And yet lately I find myself drawn to the works of a lesser-known Zionist thinker, A.D. Gordon. Long associated with the early kibbutz movement, Gordon believed that the revitalization of the Jewish spirit would come about by renewing our connection to the land. While he was not enamored of the socialist ideals of the kibbutz movement, he felt that the only way Jews could be saved was by getting their hands dirty working the land. He wrote:
We come to our Homeland in order to be planted in our natural soil from which we have been uprooted, to strike our roots deep into its life-giving substances, and to stretch out our branches in the sustaining and creating air and sunlight of the Homeland. Here, in Palestine, is the force attracting all the scattered cells of the people to unite into one living national organism.The land is what animates the spirit.
As we continue to celebrate Israel’s technological achievements and prowess, perhaps we should take a moment and hearken back to the spiritual power of our return to the land.
Touching the earth is what can renew the Jewish people.
Justice for the Six Million?
Yom HaShoah v’HaGevurah (Holocaust Martyrs and Heroes Remembrance Day) is today. It is a day filled with special services, concerts and public ceremonies. But no commemoration can adequately mark this tragedy. Still, it was not always the case that such services marked our calendar.
Sixty years ago, Israeli agents captured Adolf Eichmann in Argentina and secreted him to the state for trial. Eichmann was one of the principal architects of the Nazi final solution. David Ben Gurion made the startling announcement to the Knesset and the world at large. So many years later we still fail to recognize the significance of Eichmann’s trial and the historic shift it represented. It was pivotal in our understanding of the Holocaust and our formulation of modern Jewish identity. It was the day that survivors’ stories began to be told—and heard.
In 1961 Holocaust museums did not dot the landscape of American cities. Yad VaShem was only established in 1953 and Yom HaShoah declared that same year. The Eichmann trial brought the Holocaust to the world’s attention. The Nuremberg trials that immediately followed the end of World War II did not do the same. With the Eichmann trial the recent victims, now embodied in a fledgling state, tried their former tormentor. With this trial the memory of the Holocaust was forever tied to the State of Israel.
Attorney General Gideon Hausner proclaimed: “In this place, where I stand before you, judges of Israel, to serve as the prosecutor of Adolf Eichmann, I do not stand alone. With me, here, at this very moment, stand six million prosecutors.” One hundred survivors shared riveting testimony in order to add human faces to the millions of victims and the crimes committed by the accused.
One of the most famous of these survivors was Abba Kovner, Israeli poet and leader of the Vilna ghetto’s resistance. While the intention of showcasing the testimony of survivors was noble and most certainly served to humanize the innumerable victims, it also gave rise to unintended consequences. The parade of survivors suggested that the modern State of Israel represents justice for the Holocaust.
We have been living with this unfortunate linkage ever since. We must stop perpetuating this myth. The modern Jewish state is not recompense for the suffering our people endured in the Holocaust. Israel is not about justice for the Holocaust. It is about an end to Jewish homelessness. It is about our return home. By contrast there can never be justice for the Holocaust.
Yes, we must pursue Nazis and their sympathizers (as well as their modern-day reincarnations) until they are no more. We must redouble our efforts to recover stolen Jewish property. And we must always remember the Holocaust, but not as justification for the State of Israel.
Instead, we must remember so that we may forever prevent another holocaust. When others suffer, we must speak out. We must bring the likes of Eichmann to trial not so much in the pursuit of justice but instead in the service of memory. Remembering is ennobling and humanizing.
Punishment for our tormentors: yes. Justice for the millions of victims: impossible. There can never be justice for the six million. There can only be remembrance. The modern State of Israel must never be seen as justice for our suffering. There can never be adequate payment or recompense for suffering.
Eichmann was found guilty, hanged and his ashes scattered in the Mediterranean Sea, beyond Israel’s territorial waters, thus denying a grave for his followers to pilgrimage and a country to claim his memory. May his memory be erased by the ocean’s waves.
Abba Kovner wrote of his sister who was murdered during the Holocaust:
Sixty years ago, Israeli agents captured Adolf Eichmann in Argentina and secreted him to the state for trial. Eichmann was one of the principal architects of the Nazi final solution. David Ben Gurion made the startling announcement to the Knesset and the world at large. So many years later we still fail to recognize the significance of Eichmann’s trial and the historic shift it represented. It was pivotal in our understanding of the Holocaust and our formulation of modern Jewish identity. It was the day that survivors’ stories began to be told—and heard.
In 1961 Holocaust museums did not dot the landscape of American cities. Yad VaShem was only established in 1953 and Yom HaShoah declared that same year. The Eichmann trial brought the Holocaust to the world’s attention. The Nuremberg trials that immediately followed the end of World War II did not do the same. With the Eichmann trial the recent victims, now embodied in a fledgling state, tried their former tormentor. With this trial the memory of the Holocaust was forever tied to the State of Israel.
Attorney General Gideon Hausner proclaimed: “In this place, where I stand before you, judges of Israel, to serve as the prosecutor of Adolf Eichmann, I do not stand alone. With me, here, at this very moment, stand six million prosecutors.” One hundred survivors shared riveting testimony in order to add human faces to the millions of victims and the crimes committed by the accused.
One of the most famous of these survivors was Abba Kovner, Israeli poet and leader of the Vilna ghetto’s resistance. While the intention of showcasing the testimony of survivors was noble and most certainly served to humanize the innumerable victims, it also gave rise to unintended consequences. The parade of survivors suggested that the modern State of Israel represents justice for the Holocaust.
We have been living with this unfortunate linkage ever since. We must stop perpetuating this myth. The modern Jewish state is not recompense for the suffering our people endured in the Holocaust. Israel is not about justice for the Holocaust. It is about an end to Jewish homelessness. It is about our return home. By contrast there can never be justice for the Holocaust.
Yes, we must pursue Nazis and their sympathizers (as well as their modern-day reincarnations) until they are no more. We must redouble our efforts to recover stolen Jewish property. And we must always remember the Holocaust, but not as justification for the State of Israel.
Instead, we must remember so that we may forever prevent another holocaust. When others suffer, we must speak out. We must bring the likes of Eichmann to trial not so much in the pursuit of justice but instead in the service of memory. Remembering is ennobling and humanizing.
Punishment for our tormentors: yes. Justice for the millions of victims: impossible. There can never be justice for the six million. There can only be remembrance. The modern State of Israel must never be seen as justice for our suffering. There can never be adequate payment or recompense for suffering.
Eichmann was found guilty, hanged and his ashes scattered in the Mediterranean Sea, beyond Israel’s territorial waters, thus denying a grave for his followers to pilgrimage and a country to claim his memory. May his memory be erased by the ocean’s waves.
Abba Kovner wrote of his sister who was murdered during the Holocaust:
My sister, in her bridal veil, sits at the tableMay the memories of our murdered millions serve as a blessing, calling us to bring healing to our broken world. And may Israel continue to grant us the feeling of home.
alone. From the shelter of the mourners
the voice of the bridegroom draws near.
without you we shall set the table
the ketubah will be written in stone.
Count Down to Revelation and Meaning
I feel like I have been living in the Omer for the better part of a year.
The Omer is the seven-week period in between Passover and Shavuot. According to tradition every evening, beginning on the second night of Passover, we recite a blessing and count: “Today is five days of the Omer.”
I have now been counting the days, and weeks, since last year’s seders and perhaps even from last year’s Purim celebrations. I feel like what was only supposed to last for weeks, and then months, now promises to last for at best six seasons.
The trepidation associated with the Omer is now our daily existence.
The Omer represents a mysterious custom. In ancient times, when our lives were more intimately tied to the land, we counted the sheaves of grain (omer). Passover was tied to the barley harvest and Shavuot to that of wheat. There was great worry, and even fear, about the impending harvest. Will the harvest be plentiful enough? Will our grain stores last us through the summer and into the fall, before the fall harvest of Sukkot?
This is why some suggest the tradition assigned semi-mourning practices to this Omer period. Weddings are not celebrated. Large dinners, and even dancing, are even forbidden. When is the last time you danced on a crowded dance floor?
These restrictions are lifted on Lag B’Omer (the thirty third day of the Omer). Why?
The tradition suggests a legend. During the second century, thousands of Rabbi Akiva’s students died from a mysterious plague. The Talmud reports the number to be 24,000. But then just as mysteriously the plague ended, and the deaths ceased, on Lag B’Omer. And thus, in remembrance of this miracle, the mourning ends on the thirty third day of the Omer.
The Omer also connects the theme of Passover to that of Shavuot. Passover celebrates our going free from Egypt and Shavuot the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. And thus, we count the days in anticipation of marrying our freedom to its revealed meaning. The freedom granted to us on Passover is given its import on Shavuot.
Will this summer offer us similar revelation? Will our lives then have even greater meaning?
The Omer, and its mystery, and most particularly its tragic deaths, its trepidation and fear, makes me feel like we are living in similar times.
And what is the tradition’s response? Keep counting. And say a blessing.
Give thanks to God. For when all else eludes you it is always better to fill your soul with gratitude and reverence.
This is always the best medicine. Then, and now.
The Omer is the seven-week period in between Passover and Shavuot. According to tradition every evening, beginning on the second night of Passover, we recite a blessing and count: “Today is five days of the Omer.”
I have now been counting the days, and weeks, since last year’s seders and perhaps even from last year’s Purim celebrations. I feel like what was only supposed to last for weeks, and then months, now promises to last for at best six seasons.
The trepidation associated with the Omer is now our daily existence.
The Omer represents a mysterious custom. In ancient times, when our lives were more intimately tied to the land, we counted the sheaves of grain (omer). Passover was tied to the barley harvest and Shavuot to that of wheat. There was great worry, and even fear, about the impending harvest. Will the harvest be plentiful enough? Will our grain stores last us through the summer and into the fall, before the fall harvest of Sukkot?
This is why some suggest the tradition assigned semi-mourning practices to this Omer period. Weddings are not celebrated. Large dinners, and even dancing, are even forbidden. When is the last time you danced on a crowded dance floor?
These restrictions are lifted on Lag B’Omer (the thirty third day of the Omer). Why?
The tradition suggests a legend. During the second century, thousands of Rabbi Akiva’s students died from a mysterious plague. The Talmud reports the number to be 24,000. But then just as mysteriously the plague ended, and the deaths ceased, on Lag B’Omer. And thus, in remembrance of this miracle, the mourning ends on the thirty third day of the Omer.
The Omer also connects the theme of Passover to that of Shavuot. Passover celebrates our going free from Egypt and Shavuot the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. And thus, we count the days in anticipation of marrying our freedom to its revealed meaning. The freedom granted to us on Passover is given its import on Shavuot.
Will this summer offer us similar revelation? Will our lives then have even greater meaning?
The Omer, and its mystery, and most particularly its tragic deaths, its trepidation and fear, makes me feel like we are living in similar times.
And what is the tradition’s response? Keep counting. And say a blessing.
Give thanks to God. For when all else eludes you it is always better to fill your soul with gratitude and reverence.
This is always the best medicine. Then, and now.
It's a Tie!
Many years ago, when studying in Jerusalem, my friend and I skipped an evening lecture to attend a soccer match between Maccabi Tel Aviv and Beitar Yerushalyim. Our teachers were displeased with our decision. What could we possibly learn at a soccer stadium? How to curse in the most colorful of ways? Soccer matches do not represent the highbrow culture of the poet Yehudah Amichai or the thoughtful debate of the beit midrash, the study hall. We watched fights break out. We looked on in disbelief as fans threw smoke bombs.
It was a rather unsatisfying game. The final score was 0-0. It ended in a tie. It concluded with the fans muttering “Teiku.” Modern Hebrew has borrowed a word from Talmudic times. It has lifted a word out of the study hall and brought it into the everyday.
Teiku is the Talmud’s word for when a debate is concluded without rendering a decision. It means let it stand. Others say it is an acronym meaning when Elijah comes and heralds the coming of the messiah this disagreement will be resolved. This is the original meaning for Elijah’s cup at the Seder table. Some rabbis said there should be four cups of wine and others said five. Teiku! For now, we compromise. We drink four cups and leave the fifth for Elijah.
No one wins. No one loses.
The beauty, and genius, of the Talmud is that it allows contradictions to stand. Our book is not a law code of answers. It is a record of discussions and debates. The Jewish people are often called the people of the book. Many think this phrase refers to the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, but it is the Talmud that better gives life to our spirit. What we find in the pages of the Talmud best exemplifies the Jewish heart. It is there that Israel, the people of the book, is born. And again, it is here, in this book that the outline of the Seders we will soon celebrate are given expression.
Its central ritual is the four questions. The Seder is about elucidating questions. Every action is crafted so as to prompt us to ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
Rabbis who vociferously disagreed with each other are found on the same page of the Talmud. Family members who continue to disagree with each other sit at the same Seder table. That is the most important lesson of the Talmud’s volumes. Even though we disagree, every one of us, can be discovered on the same page.
Today, by contrast, we value ideology over debate. We tend to value loyalty to ideas over devotion to community. We write those with whom we disagree out of our books.
The Talmud is our heart. That is the lesson I learned from my teacher, Rabbi David Hartman.
Teiku! Let it stand.
We can scream and yell for our team. We should argue for our view. We should fight to advance our position. When passions get the better of us, we might even curse. Debate is not always as highbrow as our teachers would like it to be.
Heated arguments guarantee our future. Knowing when to let it stand ensures that we have others with which to argue, and that allow family members to stay seated together around the Seder table.
Lift Elijah’s cup up high. Sing to Eliyahu HaNavi. One day Elijah will come and solve all our dilemmas.
For now, we only have each other.
Teiku. 0-0!
It was a rather unsatisfying game. The final score was 0-0. It ended in a tie. It concluded with the fans muttering “Teiku.” Modern Hebrew has borrowed a word from Talmudic times. It has lifted a word out of the study hall and brought it into the everyday.
Teiku is the Talmud’s word for when a debate is concluded without rendering a decision. It means let it stand. Others say it is an acronym meaning when Elijah comes and heralds the coming of the messiah this disagreement will be resolved. This is the original meaning for Elijah’s cup at the Seder table. Some rabbis said there should be four cups of wine and others said five. Teiku! For now, we compromise. We drink four cups and leave the fifth for Elijah.
No one wins. No one loses.
The beauty, and genius, of the Talmud is that it allows contradictions to stand. Our book is not a law code of answers. It is a record of discussions and debates. The Jewish people are often called the people of the book. Many think this phrase refers to the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, but it is the Talmud that better gives life to our spirit. What we find in the pages of the Talmud best exemplifies the Jewish heart. It is there that Israel, the people of the book, is born. And again, it is here, in this book that the outline of the Seders we will soon celebrate are given expression.
Its central ritual is the four questions. The Seder is about elucidating questions. Every action is crafted so as to prompt us to ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
Rabbis who vociferously disagreed with each other are found on the same page of the Talmud. Family members who continue to disagree with each other sit at the same Seder table. That is the most important lesson of the Talmud’s volumes. Even though we disagree, every one of us, can be discovered on the same page.
Today, by contrast, we value ideology over debate. We tend to value loyalty to ideas over devotion to community. We write those with whom we disagree out of our books.
The Talmud is our heart. That is the lesson I learned from my teacher, Rabbi David Hartman.
Teiku! Let it stand.
We can scream and yell for our team. We should argue for our view. We should fight to advance our position. When passions get the better of us, we might even curse. Debate is not always as highbrow as our teachers would like it to be.
Heated arguments guarantee our future. Knowing when to let it stand ensures that we have others with which to argue, and that allow family members to stay seated together around the Seder table.
Lift Elijah’s cup up high. Sing to Eliyahu HaNavi. One day Elijah will come and solve all our dilemmas.
For now, we only have each other.
Teiku. 0-0!
Offer Empathy
The sacrifices detailed with obsessive length in the Book of Leviticus, are about bridging the distance between human beings and God. The people offer up animals and grains, and the Torah reports God accepts these offerings. “It is a burnt offering, an offering by fire, of pleasing odor to the Lord.” (Leviticus 1) The smell of the smoke rising up from the sacrifice appears to bridge the gap between heaven and earth.
The Hebrew term for sacrifice is korban, coming from the root to draw near.
And so, it is quite striking that the opening word of this book is vayikra, to call. The book begins with the words, “And God called to Moses.” To call out suggests there is a chasm separating speaker from listener. In most other instances, God speaks (vayidaber) with Moses. Elsewhere their conversations are marked by intimacy. Their discussions appear like those between two friends. Here, God calls out. It is as if they are no longer close enough to talk. What separates them in this moment?
Why is there distance in the very moment when receiving the commandments to draw near?
Perhaps Moses is afraid. The medieval commentator, Moses Nachmanides, believes this to be the case. Moses was intimidated by the awesome grandeur of the sacrificial ceremonies. Their holiness, and perhaps all the fire, blood, and guts overwhelmed him. This suggestion seems odd. How could the person who was unafraid to commune with God on the mountaintop be afraid when approaching the Tent of Meeting’s sacrifices?
Perhaps it was because on Mount Sinai, there was no distance between God and Moses, between God and humanity. In the wilderness, the distance appears greater. The responsibility to bridge that divide, with only the tools of the everyday is fraught with worry. Finding God in the here and now is oftentimes daunting. Offering sacrifices is sometimes terrifying.
And yet, breaking down distance is our sacred task.
There are many divides now separating us. We stand apart from the earth that gives us food. We stand apart from the many places that define our lives: the synagogue, the gym, theatres, concert halls, restaurants, family members’ dining room tables, grand holiday celebrations.
We stand apart from each other. We make excuses for violence. Eight people were murdered. Women are victimized. Asians are targeted. People who work for meager wages are cast aside.
We call out from a distance.
And what is the sacrifice now demanded of us?
Empathy.
It is the one thing that can bridge any distance and traverse any divide. Empathy means transforming one’s perspective. We begin to see things through other people’s eyes and no longer through our own eyes alone. Thinking about others, and their concerns, creating room most especially for their pains, makes us feel vulnerable. Fear and terror creep into our hearts. It is easier to shut others out. It is less fearful to cast their pains aside.
Empathy means that someone else’s terror finds a place in your heart. It means that your pain, and your experiences, or these days, the places and people that used to fill your everyday lives, are not the totality of pain that fills your soul.
Empathy is a sacrifice. It is about no longer seeing the self as the center of the universe.
Offer up empathy.
That is the sacrifice we must now bring.
Be not afraid.
The Hebrew term for sacrifice is korban, coming from the root to draw near.
And so, it is quite striking that the opening word of this book is vayikra, to call. The book begins with the words, “And God called to Moses.” To call out suggests there is a chasm separating speaker from listener. In most other instances, God speaks (vayidaber) with Moses. Elsewhere their conversations are marked by intimacy. Their discussions appear like those between two friends. Here, God calls out. It is as if they are no longer close enough to talk. What separates them in this moment?
Why is there distance in the very moment when receiving the commandments to draw near?
Perhaps Moses is afraid. The medieval commentator, Moses Nachmanides, believes this to be the case. Moses was intimidated by the awesome grandeur of the sacrificial ceremonies. Their holiness, and perhaps all the fire, blood, and guts overwhelmed him. This suggestion seems odd. How could the person who was unafraid to commune with God on the mountaintop be afraid when approaching the Tent of Meeting’s sacrifices?
Perhaps it was because on Mount Sinai, there was no distance between God and Moses, between God and humanity. In the wilderness, the distance appears greater. The responsibility to bridge that divide, with only the tools of the everyday is fraught with worry. Finding God in the here and now is oftentimes daunting. Offering sacrifices is sometimes terrifying.
And yet, breaking down distance is our sacred task.
There are many divides now separating us. We stand apart from the earth that gives us food. We stand apart from the many places that define our lives: the synagogue, the gym, theatres, concert halls, restaurants, family members’ dining room tables, grand holiday celebrations.
We stand apart from each other. We make excuses for violence. Eight people were murdered. Women are victimized. Asians are targeted. People who work for meager wages are cast aside.
We call out from a distance.
And what is the sacrifice now demanded of us?
Empathy.
It is the one thing that can bridge any distance and traverse any divide. Empathy means transforming one’s perspective. We begin to see things through other people’s eyes and no longer through our own eyes alone. Thinking about others, and their concerns, creating room most especially for their pains, makes us feel vulnerable. Fear and terror creep into our hearts. It is easier to shut others out. It is less fearful to cast their pains aside.
Empathy means that someone else’s terror finds a place in your heart. It means that your pain, and your experiences, or these days, the places and people that used to fill your everyday lives, are not the totality of pain that fills your soul.
Empathy is a sacrifice. It is about no longer seeing the self as the center of the universe.
Offer up empathy.
That is the sacrifice we must now bring.
Be not afraid.
Gathering Goodness
Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira was a popular teacher in pre-war Poland, leading a community in a Warsaw suburb. After the German invasion, and following the death of his family, he was shipped to the Warsaw ghetto. There he managed to run a secret synagogue. His teachings and sermons were popular among those trapped in the ghetto.
As the Warsaw ghetto uprising neared its bitter end, Rabbi Shapira prepared for the worst. He hid his sermons and teachings in a milk canister. After the war they were found by a construction worker. His writings continue to be studied to this day. I have spent some mornings in the warmth of Jerusalem’s summer pouring over his words. I return again and again to his work Bnai Machshavah Tovah, a treatise on creating and sustaining a conscious community.
He writes there of the power of community and how the group can elevate individuals and lead them to holiness. For Judaism gathering is of prime importance. Our tradition maintains an unmitigated faith in the group. It believes that we are at our best when standing with others, that with the aid of the group we can better achieve holiness and realize our full human potential. The community is the corrective to individual wants and needs. The congregation lifts us. The synagogue nurtures us. The community guides us.
And so, in this week’s portion we read: “Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community… This is what the Lord has commanded: Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them…” (Exodus 35:1-5) The people join together and build the mishkan, the tabernacle, so that they might focus their worship of God while wandering throughout the wilderness.
I wonder. Should this faith in the edifying power of the group remain unqualified? We also confront the opposite example. In last week’s reading we are reminded of the golden calf: “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered (vayikahel) against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32:1) The group gathered for ill. Together they built an idol.
In one instance the people gathered for good, the other for bad. The Hebrew root of “gathered” (kuf-hey-lamed) indicates how close the positive and negative stand near each other. The two portions stand side by side. The line between whether we gather for good or for bad remains but a hairsbreadth apart.
That line continues to haunt thinkers. Following the Holocaust, the field of social psychology began to emerge. It struggled with the question of how so many people could join together for evil ends. Studies were conducted. Research analyzed. In one such experiment the conforming impulse was unveiled. Members of a group were asked true or false questions that could be objectively measured. Is A taller than B, for example. Nine out ten people were told to offer the wrong answer when asked in public. These nine said true when in fact the answer was false. The tenth person was then asked for his answer. In the vast majority of situations this person answered true despite the fact that the answer was false. The desire to conform clouded people’s vision. Truth and falsehood were obscured.
Do we conform for good or bad? Do we gather together to build the golden calf or the tabernacle? The group can either serve as medicine or toxin. Rabbi Shapira notes: “The techniques available to a group are qualitatively different than what an individual can hope to attain.” Much rests in the hands of the leader. In one instance Moses was present. In the other our leader was absent. The people’s vision became blurred.
After the uprising the Nazis sent Rabbi Shapira to the Trawniki work camp. There he was offered the opportunity to join fellow prisoners in an escape attempt. He elected instead to stay with his students. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira was shot to death on November 3, 1943.
And yet people continue to gather and read his words.
As the Warsaw ghetto uprising neared its bitter end, Rabbi Shapira prepared for the worst. He hid his sermons and teachings in a milk canister. After the war they were found by a construction worker. His writings continue to be studied to this day. I have spent some mornings in the warmth of Jerusalem’s summer pouring over his words. I return again and again to his work Bnai Machshavah Tovah, a treatise on creating and sustaining a conscious community.
He writes there of the power of community and how the group can elevate individuals and lead them to holiness. For Judaism gathering is of prime importance. Our tradition maintains an unmitigated faith in the group. It believes that we are at our best when standing with others, that with the aid of the group we can better achieve holiness and realize our full human potential. The community is the corrective to individual wants and needs. The congregation lifts us. The synagogue nurtures us. The community guides us.
And so, in this week’s portion we read: “Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community… This is what the Lord has commanded: Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them…” (Exodus 35:1-5) The people join together and build the mishkan, the tabernacle, so that they might focus their worship of God while wandering throughout the wilderness.
I wonder. Should this faith in the edifying power of the group remain unqualified? We also confront the opposite example. In last week’s reading we are reminded of the golden calf: “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered (vayikahel) against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32:1) The group gathered for ill. Together they built an idol.
In one instance the people gathered for good, the other for bad. The Hebrew root of “gathered” (kuf-hey-lamed) indicates how close the positive and negative stand near each other. The two portions stand side by side. The line between whether we gather for good or for bad remains but a hairsbreadth apart.
That line continues to haunt thinkers. Following the Holocaust, the field of social psychology began to emerge. It struggled with the question of how so many people could join together for evil ends. Studies were conducted. Research analyzed. In one such experiment the conforming impulse was unveiled. Members of a group were asked true or false questions that could be objectively measured. Is A taller than B, for example. Nine out ten people were told to offer the wrong answer when asked in public. These nine said true when in fact the answer was false. The tenth person was then asked for his answer. In the vast majority of situations this person answered true despite the fact that the answer was false. The desire to conform clouded people’s vision. Truth and falsehood were obscured.
Do we conform for good or bad? Do we gather together to build the golden calf or the tabernacle? The group can either serve as medicine or toxin. Rabbi Shapira notes: “The techniques available to a group are qualitatively different than what an individual can hope to attain.” Much rests in the hands of the leader. In one instance Moses was present. In the other our leader was absent. The people’s vision became blurred.
After the uprising the Nazis sent Rabbi Shapira to the Trawniki work camp. There he was offered the opportunity to join fellow prisoners in an escape attempt. He elected instead to stay with his students. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira was shot to death on November 3, 1943.
And yet people continue to gather and read his words.
Smash Anger
Soon after receiving the Torah on Mount Sinai which of course contains many commandments forbidding idolatry, the Israelites build a Golden Calf and bow down to it. They were understandably nervous and worried. In their estimation, Moses had abandoned them. He was spending more time communing with God than with them.
The people complain to Aaron, “Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him.” (Exodus 32) Aaron quickly, and surprisingly, acquiesces to their demand and builds for them an idol in the familiar image of a calf.
After forty days of wild partying (ok the Torah does not put it in those words), Moses finally descends from the mountain. Despite the fact that God warns Moses about what he is going to see, when he does actually see the people dancing before the idol, he becomes enraged. Moses smashes the tablets and then burns the Golden Calf. He then grinds the idol into powder, dumps it into the water, and forces the Israelites drink it.
And while I don’t particularly like Moses’ version of washing the Israelites mouths out with soap, I do understand his passion, indignation and anger. The idol should be smashed to bits. Not the tablets, however.
The people complain to Aaron, “Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him.” (Exodus 32) Aaron quickly, and surprisingly, acquiesces to their demand and builds for them an idol in the familiar image of a calf.
After forty days of wild partying (ok the Torah does not put it in those words), Moses finally descends from the mountain. Despite the fact that God warns Moses about what he is going to see, when he does actually see the people dancing before the idol, he becomes enraged. Moses smashes the tablets and then burns the Golden Calf. He then grinds the idol into powder, dumps it into the water, and forces the Israelites drink it.
And while I don’t particularly like Moses’ version of washing the Israelites mouths out with soap, I do understand his passion, indignation and anger. The idol should be smashed to bits. Not the tablets, however.
And herein lies the lesson about anger. Even when the object of anger, or the person with whom one is angry, is deserving of rage, other things, and other people, get hurt in the process. How many times, after a justifiably frustrating day at work, or after reading a report about the day’s news that makes one’s blood boil, does a person snap and get angry with those closest to them? Children, for example, can be frustrating when they neglect to clean up their rooms, but does such an oversight, even a repeated one, really deserve a shout or curse?
Too often anger makes us smash the good stuff along with the deserving things. Like Moses, we frequently smash our sacred tablets when we should instead be grinding our Twitter and Facebook feeds into powder.
Because of his anger, Moses is forced to go back to the mountain top and get a new set of tablets. He can replace the broken tablets, but can repair the brokenness?
The rabbis teach that when the tabernacle was completed, they contain not only the whole tablets, inscribed by God, but also the broken tablets smashed by Moses. Perhaps their message is that even though the destroyed tablets can be replaced, the brokenness can never really be repaired.
Be careful when lashing out in anger. Even though your rage might be justified, good stuff inevitably gets broken in the process. Anger is never so focused as to only touch its rightful target. Something important, and even sacred, always gets broken in the process.
Too often anger makes us smash the good stuff along with the deserving things. Like Moses, we frequently smash our sacred tablets when we should instead be grinding our Twitter and Facebook feeds into powder.
Because of his anger, Moses is forced to go back to the mountain top and get a new set of tablets. He can replace the broken tablets, but can repair the brokenness?
The rabbis teach that when the tabernacle was completed, they contain not only the whole tablets, inscribed by God, but also the broken tablets smashed by Moses. Perhaps their message is that even though the destroyed tablets can be replaced, the brokenness can never really be repaired.
Be careful when lashing out in anger. Even though your rage might be justified, good stuff inevitably gets broken in the process. Anger is never so focused as to only touch its rightful target. Something important, and even sacred, always gets broken in the process.
The Hasidic Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav therefore teaches: “One must sweeten anger with compassion.”
You Gotta Laugh
It’s a topsy turvy world and Purim’s tale is a topsy turvy story. Here is that story once again.
A long, long time ago, in the land of Persia, and the city of Shushan, there lived a king and queen.
One day Queen Vashti refuses to dance naked in front of the drunken King Achashverosh and his friends. Flummoxed by her refusal the king consults with his male advisors who say, “Now all women will ignore men’s commands. They will refuse all of their husbands’ demands. Kick Vashti out of the palace.” The king is easily persuaded and goes along with their advice. And so, Vashti loses her crown.
And how does the king pick a new queen? He consults with his advisors who tell him to organize a beauty pageant. Esther of course wins the pageant. The Bible relates that she spent twelve months preparing herself: “Six months with oil of myrrh and six months with perfumes and women’s cosmetics.” We learn nothing about Esther’s character. We are taught nothing about her wisdom. We know only that she hides her Jewish identity and that is she is exceedingly beautiful. This is why she is selected as queen.
Meanwhile, her uncle Mordecai refuses to bow down to Haman, so the king’s most trusted advisor suggests that the king kill all the Jews. The logic and rationale of antisemites was, and perhaps always will be, elusive. Esther’s character emerges. Her wisdom shines. She fasts and prays. Esther reveals her Jewish identity to the king and explains how her life is threatened.
“Who is he and where is he who dares do this?” stammers the king. Esther points toward Haman. “The enemy is this evil Haman!” she declares.
Haman and his sons are hanged. The Jews make bloody war against their enemies. They emerge victorious, and their enemies are routed and killed.
The story illustrates that all plans can be upended, and every strategy turned upside down. What is expected does not always come to pass.
This tale rings true in our own age. Who could have expected what has transpired since we last celebrated Purim? Who could have planned for the year we just experienced?
And so, on Purim we are commanded not take ourselves so seriously and not bemoan our fate. We dare even to make fun of history. On this holiday we laugh or at least we try to laugh.
The Talmud says that we can only fully accept the Torah on Purim. Why? Because laughter is the key to acceptance. Because not taking ourselves, or even our history, so seriously is the recipe for redemption.
In messianic times all festivals will be abolished except for this holiday of Purim. When the messiah vanquishes evil and eradicates all the injustices about which we continue to despair we will still need to laugh.
We always require laughter—most especially in our own day, and in this year.
A long, long time ago, in the land of Persia, and the city of Shushan, there lived a king and queen.
One day Queen Vashti refuses to dance naked in front of the drunken King Achashverosh and his friends. Flummoxed by her refusal the king consults with his male advisors who say, “Now all women will ignore men’s commands. They will refuse all of their husbands’ demands. Kick Vashti out of the palace.” The king is easily persuaded and goes along with their advice. And so, Vashti loses her crown.
And how does the king pick a new queen? He consults with his advisors who tell him to organize a beauty pageant. Esther of course wins the pageant. The Bible relates that she spent twelve months preparing herself: “Six months with oil of myrrh and six months with perfumes and women’s cosmetics.” We learn nothing about Esther’s character. We are taught nothing about her wisdom. We know only that she hides her Jewish identity and that is she is exceedingly beautiful. This is why she is selected as queen.
Meanwhile, her uncle Mordecai refuses to bow down to Haman, so the king’s most trusted advisor suggests that the king kill all the Jews. The logic and rationale of antisemites was, and perhaps always will be, elusive. Esther’s character emerges. Her wisdom shines. She fasts and prays. Esther reveals her Jewish identity to the king and explains how her life is threatened.
“Who is he and where is he who dares do this?” stammers the king. Esther points toward Haman. “The enemy is this evil Haman!” she declares.
Haman and his sons are hanged. The Jews make bloody war against their enemies. They emerge victorious, and their enemies are routed and killed.
The story illustrates that all plans can be upended, and every strategy turned upside down. What is expected does not always come to pass.
This tale rings true in our own age. Who could have expected what has transpired since we last celebrated Purim? Who could have planned for the year we just experienced?
And so, on Purim we are commanded not take ourselves so seriously and not bemoan our fate. We dare even to make fun of history. On this holiday we laugh or at least we try to laugh.
The Talmud says that we can only fully accept the Torah on Purim. Why? Because laughter is the key to acceptance. Because not taking ourselves, or even our history, so seriously is the recipe for redemption.
In messianic times all festivals will be abolished except for this holiday of Purim. When the messiah vanquishes evil and eradicates all the injustices about which we continue to despair we will still need to laugh.
We always require laughter—most especially in our own day, and in this year.
Give Diamonds
This week we read about the building of the tabernacle. God commands Moses: “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.” (Exodus 25)
Gifts, most especially those intended for the building of the sanctuary, should come from the heart. They should not be coerced (or even commanded?) but freely given.
The Torah continues: “And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece.”
That’s quite an exhaustive list. I wonder. How can gifts that are supposed to be freely given come from such a detailed list? If they are indeed gifts of the heart, shouldn’t the giver decide what to give, rather than the recipient?
“Dear Susie, I know you said you wanted diamonds for your birthday, but I decided to give you some lapis lazuli instead.” How do you think that is going to go over? Even though Susie likes lapis lazuli if she is expecting (suggested?) diamonds then most would agree that this would not be a good decision on my part. Giving a gift is not so much about the object itself but instead about bringing joy, and happiness, to the recipient.
God knows what God wants. And while we may not associate the giving of material things to God, perhaps God’s intention is not the accumulation of objects but that the gift giver achieves a measure of holiness by fulfilling God’s wishes. Our freedom only finds meaning in relationship to something greater. It is not about getting to do, or give, whatever one wants. It is instead about fulfilling God’s desire and pledging one’s heart to the recipient’s wishes.
This is not to suggest that Judaism’s ideal is some mystical notion in which one’s freedom, and desires, are completely negated and entirely subsumed in God. Our freedom is about choosing to do what God wants of us and deciding to do what someone else wishes of us.
We gain something of value by giving.
Too often people think that gift giving is all about the recipient and nothing about the giver. In fact, the Torah’s word for gift is terumah which comes from the Hebrew to elevate. The Hasidic rabbi, Levi Yitzhak of Berdechev, makes clear what the Hebrew only implies. This means that gift giving elevates the giver to a higher level.
When the intention of the giver aligns with that of the recipient the gift becomes a true gift of the heart. It does not matter if the wish list is said out loud or commanded from on high, when giving gifts both giver and recipient are uplifted.
We are elevated by our giving.
Gifts, most especially those intended for the building of the sanctuary, should come from the heart. They should not be coerced (or even commanded?) but freely given.
The Torah continues: “And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece.”
That’s quite an exhaustive list. I wonder. How can gifts that are supposed to be freely given come from such a detailed list? If they are indeed gifts of the heart, shouldn’t the giver decide what to give, rather than the recipient?
“Dear Susie, I know you said you wanted diamonds for your birthday, but I decided to give you some lapis lazuli instead.” How do you think that is going to go over? Even though Susie likes lapis lazuli if she is expecting (suggested?) diamonds then most would agree that this would not be a good decision on my part. Giving a gift is not so much about the object itself but instead about bringing joy, and happiness, to the recipient.
God knows what God wants. And while we may not associate the giving of material things to God, perhaps God’s intention is not the accumulation of objects but that the gift giver achieves a measure of holiness by fulfilling God’s wishes. Our freedom only finds meaning in relationship to something greater. It is not about getting to do, or give, whatever one wants. It is instead about fulfilling God’s desire and pledging one’s heart to the recipient’s wishes.
This is not to suggest that Judaism’s ideal is some mystical notion in which one’s freedom, and desires, are completely negated and entirely subsumed in God. Our freedom is about choosing to do what God wants of us and deciding to do what someone else wishes of us.
We gain something of value by giving.
Too often people think that gift giving is all about the recipient and nothing about the giver. In fact, the Torah’s word for gift is terumah which comes from the Hebrew to elevate. The Hasidic rabbi, Levi Yitzhak of Berdechev, makes clear what the Hebrew only implies. This means that gift giving elevates the giver to a higher level.
When the intention of the giver aligns with that of the recipient the gift becomes a true gift of the heart. It does not matter if the wish list is said out loud or commanded from on high, when giving gifts both giver and recipient are uplifted.
We are elevated by our giving.
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.
It's Really About Character
Like so many proud Americans I was shocked and dismayed by Wednesday’s events. To see the Confederate flag marched through the Capital, rioters wearing Proud Boy slogans and QAnon paraphernalia, groups who traffic in conspiracy theories and antisemitism, to see people smashing the Capital’s windows, the mob desecrating the American flag and climbing Congress’ walls as if it were a jungle gym, to stare in disbelief as rioters vandalized our government’s sacred halls while senators and representatives scurried to safety, to read that people were killed and officers were injured and that one then died all on the day in which Congress was supposed to formally recognize the Electoral College votes and affirm Joseph Biden and Kamala Harris as our next president and vice-president, and finally, to hear President Trump’s earlier words exhorting the crowd to do such violence, was more than I could take. It was more than I could bear. Never was I more ashamed, and frightened to be an American.
The hallmark of our system is that we have elections, some of which are of course hotly contested, but when they are over one person is deemed as having gained more votes, whether they be elector or popular votes, and he or she is granted the privilege of serving as our president, vice-president, representative, senator, governor, town supervisor or whatever the office may be. The person who earns less votes then graciously concedes and the disappointed among us start working towards the next election and righting the wrongs they believe their political opponent will now unveil.Senator John McCain offered these words when Senator Barak Obama became President Elect Obama: “I would not be an American worthy of the name, should I regret a fate that has allowed me the extraordinary privilege of serving this country for a half a century. Today, I was a candidate for the highest office in the country I love so much. And tonight, I remain her servant. That is blessing enough for anyone and I thank the people of Arizona for it. Tonight — tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Sen. Obama, I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president.”
That is the system and that is how it is supposed to work. Until now. Until this year.
And so, when things go terribly wrong, I return to the values that I hold dear, I turn to the pages of our Jewish tradition. Here are the truths that Judaism has long preached about and which Wednesday laid bare how lacking we indeed are regarding these core values and how much we need to relearn these tenets.
First of all, there is a right way to argue and a wrong way. We call it machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven. We disagree but with respect for those holding opposing views. We do not vilify the other. We do not denigrate those who disagree with us or hold to different beliefs. We don’t call those with whom we disagree words like stupid or criminal. We believe disagreement sharpens our own arguments and betters our community and country. It is not about winning and losing. It is not about besting the other. It is about trying to figure out how we are going to go forward and that means how both the person I am arguing with and I are going to go forward together. That more than anything is what we have lost during these past years.
Leadership furthermore is about service. It is about devotion to the community. It is about dedication to everyone even, and perhaps most especially, those with whom the leader disagrees, and even vehemently disagrees. John McCain understood this. He embodied the idea that leadership begins with character and a devotion to serve others. It hinges on a clear sense of what is right and wrong. For too long we have papered over, and excused, the character flaws of President Trump. We have now seen what their fruits bear. I have always believed, and I would like to think, taught, that so much, if not all, begins and ends with character. It mattered when Bill Clinton was found lacking in his character and our nation then paid for it, and it matters even more now, with Donald Trump.
It appears to me that President Trump views the world, and most particularly his office, not as a matter of sacred service but instead, and you will forgive the metaphor, a candy jar. He sees the world not, as Judaism sees it, a divine blessing, in which we are intended to better, improve and most especially, relieve the suffering and imperfections we see around us, but instead a matter of what can be taken. “Let me grab what I want and what I can.” It is this broken world view that came crashing to a stop when the election results were finally tallied. If the world is only a candy jar from which I take what I deserve then receiving less votes than Joe Biden in the election becomes in such a worldview, not what can I learn from this moment, and how can I do better in the future, but instead look at the injustices done to me. Look at what they took away from me. And it is from here and this worldview that conspiracy theories are spun to explain away mistakes and opportunities for growth and learning and turned instead into injustices done to me by mysterious nefarious forces.
Listen to John McCain again when he spoke about the election loss. He said, “And though we fell short, the failure is mine, not yours.” So much of our precious democracy, and our system, rests on the concession of the losing party, and perhaps as well the graciousness of the victor. But I realize now that the seemingly mundane custom of the concession speech may be the more important and could very well be the foundation stone upon which this precarious system rests. We need the person who received less votes to say, “It was fair.” That’s what John McCain said as well, “My friends, we have come to the end of a long journey,” he said. “The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly.” That is what a true patriot says. That is how a person of character speaks. It is long past time making excuses for President Trump’s character flaws. We are paying dearly for them. They have invited antisemites, and conspiracy theorists, to crash down the doors of our nation’s sacred halls. Enough! And so now we must pledge, “Never forget the lessons of Wednesday, January 6th!”
Do we need as well another illustration of Judaism’s message about lashon harah, gossip? The worst kind is called motzi shem ra, the deliberate spreading of falsehoods. Words matter, our tradition reminds us. Words can cause injury. And they did just that on Wednesday. After weeks, and months, of spreading falsehoods that the election was somehow rigged, we saw how words can be transformed into bloodshed. Shame on all the leaders who joined in these efforts, or who remained silent for the past few months. Joe Biden will be our next president. That was determined, loud and clear, by Saturday, November 7th. All the talk about stolen elections and voting irregularities undermines this fragile project called, the United States of America. It may advance a momentary victory, it may further a political career, but in the end, it only further undermines our shared sense of commonality. Such talk invalidates this great, but imperfect, democracy. There really is only an us, and our shared commitment to the legitimacy of each and every vote. We desperately require leaders who will affirm this and say, “I may not have won but I believe in our system.”
Judaism counsels that small, seemingly innocent, lies can grow into outright falsehoods and that those falsehoods can quickly lead to violence and bloodshed. Look no farther than Wednesday for evidence of this truth. Senator Romney, whose politics I continue to disagree with but whose character I greatly admire, said: “We gather today due to a selfish man’s injured pride and the outrage of his supporters whom he has deliberately misinformed for the past two months and stirred to action this very morning. What happened here today was an insurrection, incited by the President of the United States. Those who choose to continue to support his dangerous gambit by objecting to the results of a legitimate, democratic election will forever be seen as being complicit in an unprecedented attack against our democracy.” It really is not about winners and losers. It is not about the spoils of victory or the stinging of defeat. It is about us, and that means all of us. When people truly devote themselves to service, to country, to community, or even to congregation, it is only about us and never about just me or just you.
And so, I close with what should now be abundantly clear, the words of one of my heroes, Senator John McCain, who taught us more about who we are in his moment of loss in the 2008 presidential election, than all his victories in senate elections. And that makes sense for a man whose character was tested, and perhaps even bettered, when imprisoned for years during the Vietnam War. McCain said: “Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that.”
And after this terribly dark and frightening week, it is this very association each of us must endeavor to reclaim. May God grant us the strength to do so.