Their Poems, Our Prayers
Poetry speaks in ways that prose cannot always achieve. I offer a few poems.
Denise Levertov, a British born American poet, writes in "Making Peace":
Denise Levertov, a British born American poet, writes in "Making Peace":
A voice from the dark called out,
‘The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war.’
But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can’t be imagined before it is made,
can’t be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.
A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.
A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses . . .
A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light—facets
of the forming crystal.
Mahmoud Darwish, a Palestinian poet, offers these words in his poem "In Jerusalem":
King Balak instructs Balaam to curse the Jewish people. Instead, the prophet provides us with a prayer.
“Mah tovu ohalecha, Yaakov—How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!” With these words we begin our morning prayers.
So records our Torah.
And so, we are reminded. Torah is about more than just listening to our own voice. Perhaps it is even acquired when listening to the words of our so-called enemies.
In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,And then in this week’s portion we discover this poem:
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy...ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t be safe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Muhammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me...and I forgot, like you, to die.
How fair are your tents, O Jacob,So said Balaam, the foreign prophet sent by Israel’s sworn enemy, the Moabites.
Your dwellings, O Israel!
Like palm-groves that stretch out,
Like gardens beside a river,
Like aloes planted by the Lord,
Like cedars beside the water…
They crouch, they lie down like a lion,
Like the king of beasts; who dare rouse them?
Blessed are they who bless you,
Accursed they who curse you! (Numbers 24)
King Balak instructs Balaam to curse the Jewish people. Instead, the prophet provides us with a prayer.
“Mah tovu ohalecha, Yaakov—How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!” With these words we begin our morning prayers.
So records our Torah.
And so, we are reminded. Torah is about more than just listening to our own voice. Perhaps it is even acquired when listening to the words of our so-called enemies.
LGBTQ Rights, Juneteenth and Antisemitism
What follows is the sermon from this past Shabbat when we also marked Pride Month and Juneteenth.
But there is still unfinished business we need to get busy doing. Some people are still too hesitant to open their arms to others. People are still afraid to come out to friends, to parents, to teachers. And that is on all of us. Images are everywhere about what ideal love looks like. There is the ever-present image that an ideal couple is a man and a woman. Our tradition continues to uphold this. Our language supports this. We forget that when we idealize love, and couples in this way, we too often push aside those who are struggling with how they can measure up to what is most certainly a myth. We must make room for many, different images. We must insist that if an LGBTQ couple wishes to be married under a huppah, and sanctify their relationship, we will do so. Their love deserves to be celebrated. They deserve the hora just as much as any couple. God knows I am itching to make up for lost time and this past year bereft of dancing. We can do more. We must do more. We have traveled far, but there is still a great deal of unfinished business to which to attend.
On this Shabbat we also mark Juneteenth, now, and finally a national holiday. It was on June 19, 1865, that the last enslaved African Americans were granted freedom. Two and half years after the Emancipation Proclamation, and one month after the last of the Civil War’s battles was fought. And again, we have traveled far since that day. No one would suggest (at least not publicly) that it is permissible for human beings to be enslaved, that some people are more human than others, but as we discovered last summer this nation has more distance to travel. People still believe, or at the very least act, as if God did not create all human beings in the divine image, that God did not endow each and every one of us with God-given rights.
Black lives are not valued as much as white lives in this nation of ours. We have not reckoned with our history of slavery. We have not come to terms with the fact that there were Jews who have stood on the wrong side of history, who bought and sold men and women as slaves, who brutalized other human beings, who turned away when their Black neighbors were denied mortgages or business loans or college scholarships. Only an honest accounting of these sins, only a true reckoning of these wrongs will help lift this nation towards fulfilling its promise for all its citizens. That is what Juneteenth is supposed to be about. Let it be a day when we come to terms with these wrongs so that we may, if we cannot right them immediately, at least atone for them. Have we made progress? Yes. Is there much unfinished business still do? Yes, and yes.
And in these last months we were also reminded of another realm where we have unfinished business to get working on. Namely, tackling antisemitism. And I raise this issue on this Shabbat when we are celebrating Juneteenth and honoring Pride Month, because it reared its ugly head in the intersection of these causes. To be sure antisemitism remains a threat from the right—I have not forgotten Charlottesville or Pittsburgh; I continue to worry what violence might spill over from QAnon’s fantasies—but of late the threat has emerged from the left and this hate has emerged from the very same corners that fight for LGBTQ inclusion and advocate for Black lives.
Do not apologize for this sin of antisemitism in order to come to terms with the sin of systemic racism. Do not excuse anti-Israel diatribes in order to be more welcoming to those who identify as LGBTQ. Just because those in power continue to delegitimize LGBTQ rights, just because power has too often been used to suppress Black lives, does not mean that Israel’s exercise of power in defense of its citizens is wrong. Be clear about what we stand for. Be certain of what is right and what is wrong. Israel, like this country of ours, is a wonderful, and miraculous, nation that is imperfect but given to glorious and ennobling moments. Most Israelis want to make peace with their Palestinian neighbors and have supported many peace plans, and withdrawals from territories that too many Palestinians, most notably Hamas, have rejected. Try this in particular. Travel to Tel Aviv for the gay pride parade! Read more about Gadi Yevarkan, a Member of Knesset, who was rescued from Ethiopia in 1991.
Do not run away from the causes of ensuring that Black lives matter as much as white lives in our country or that people should be free to love and marry who they wish and who they are attracted to because some who also advocate for these rights spew antisemitic hate. Call out hatred wherever it comes from. Lift up others. Help to make our nation even greater. Help to make Israel even better. Help to make our community even stronger.
There is a lot of unfinished business to which we must attend. Yes, we have made progress, but there is still so much more we must do. Let’s get busy. Let’s never forget our most glorious Jewish teaching. Every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image!
First We Grieve, Then We Move Forward
In yesterday’s weekly newsletter, Frank Bruni from The New York Times writes:
If we do not figure out how to grieve for them and how to mourn our collective losses, then we will be unable to march forward.
This week we read that Miriam and Aaron die. We also read that Moses is destined to die in the wilderness, at the edge of fulfilling his life’s mission of leading the Israelites into the Promised Land. The reason why he will not cross over into the land is because he becomes angry at the people when they complain (yet again) about the food and in particular the lack of water. He strikes the rock two times rather than commanding it as God instructed him.
God commands, “You and your brother Aaron take the rod and assemble the community, and before their very eyes order the rock to yield its water.” (Numbers 20) Instead Moses hits the rock and says, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?" Because Moses does not follow God’s command, because he hits the rock in anger, because he speaks with malice towards the Israelites, he is punished. God tells him that he will not reach the Promised Land. Instead, Joshua and Caleb will take the people into the land.
Immediately preceding this event, the Torah reports the death of Miriam, Moses’ sister and the woman largely responsible for saving Moses when Pharoah decreed that all first-born Israelites are to be killed. “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there.”
There is no mention that mourning rituals are observed for Miriam, or that Moses grieved. The Torah appears to suggest that there was little time, that the exigencies of the moment demanded otherwise. The leader could not stop. “We have to move forward!” Moses did not pause to mourn. He did not stop to grieve. And the people’s complaining became louder and more persistent.
It is understandable that Moses lost his temper. When people are grieving their emotions are raw. Even the smallest of things can throw them curveballs. They shout at the smallest of inconveniences. They cry at the tiniest of misadventures. I understand Moses’ pain.
Then again, when people do not take the time to grieve, when they suppress those feelings of loss, and longing, in what is too often deemed, a noble effort to move forward, they hamstring their futures.
If we do not mourn, if we as a nation do not allow ourselves to grieve, we will not get to that promised land. If we do not take stock of the frightening realization that we are not immune to nature’s dangers, if we do not undertake a full accounting of the failures that contributed to more deaths than otherwise would have been the case, then we will likewise curtail a brighter future.
Open restaurants and bars are not the promised land. It is instead a fairer and more equitable society in which each of us is indeed responsible for our neighbor, and quite literally our neighbor’s health and well-being.
We can only get there, we can only cross over to this promised land, if we pause to remember.
A heartbreaking and unacceptable number of people didn’t survive the coronavirus. They’re gone — their own lives cut short, their loved ones still grieving their absence. But for others, the pandemic was more of an inconvenience, and for a few, it wasn’t all that inconvenient. When they talk about how excited they are about eating in restaurants again or how eager to see a movie in a theater, their voices and manners aren’t weighed down by the recognition of what the United States and other countries have been and are going through. Of the body count. Of the ruined businesses. Of the depleted bank accounts. They mostly just sense that we’re turning a corner, and they’re looking forward, not backward.I can resonate with his description of turning a corner. I share the glee and rapture of returning to the conveniences, and luxuries of years past, of children being packed up for camp, of spontaneously going out to a favorite restaurant, of hugging friends and wishing everyone a “Shabbat Shalom.” I am taken aback about the obviousness of Bruni’s cautionary note. We have this unfortunate, American tendency to avoid even talking about the hundreds of thousands who died.
If we do not figure out how to grieve for them and how to mourn our collective losses, then we will be unable to march forward.
This week we read that Miriam and Aaron die. We also read that Moses is destined to die in the wilderness, at the edge of fulfilling his life’s mission of leading the Israelites into the Promised Land. The reason why he will not cross over into the land is because he becomes angry at the people when they complain (yet again) about the food and in particular the lack of water. He strikes the rock two times rather than commanding it as God instructed him.
God commands, “You and your brother Aaron take the rod and assemble the community, and before their very eyes order the rock to yield its water.” (Numbers 20) Instead Moses hits the rock and says, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?" Because Moses does not follow God’s command, because he hits the rock in anger, because he speaks with malice towards the Israelites, he is punished. God tells him that he will not reach the Promised Land. Instead, Joshua and Caleb will take the people into the land.
Immediately preceding this event, the Torah reports the death of Miriam, Moses’ sister and the woman largely responsible for saving Moses when Pharoah decreed that all first-born Israelites are to be killed. “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there.”
There is no mention that mourning rituals are observed for Miriam, or that Moses grieved. The Torah appears to suggest that there was little time, that the exigencies of the moment demanded otherwise. The leader could not stop. “We have to move forward!” Moses did not pause to mourn. He did not stop to grieve. And the people’s complaining became louder and more persistent.
It is understandable that Moses lost his temper. When people are grieving their emotions are raw. Even the smallest of things can throw them curveballs. They shout at the smallest of inconveniences. They cry at the tiniest of misadventures. I understand Moses’ pain.
Then again, when people do not take the time to grieve, when they suppress those feelings of loss, and longing, in what is too often deemed, a noble effort to move forward, they hamstring their futures.
If we do not mourn, if we as a nation do not allow ourselves to grieve, we will not get to that promised land. If we do not take stock of the frightening realization that we are not immune to nature’s dangers, if we do not undertake a full accounting of the failures that contributed to more deaths than otherwise would have been the case, then we will likewise curtail a brighter future.
Open restaurants and bars are not the promised land. It is instead a fairer and more equitable society in which each of us is indeed responsible for our neighbor, and quite literally our neighbor’s health and well-being.
We can only get there, we can only cross over to this promised land, if we pause to remember.
Leadership Is About Others
This week we read about Korah and his rebellion against Moses. It is a troubling story.
On the surface Korah’s complaints appear legitimate. He, and his followers, approach Moses and Aaron and say, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16)
This statement seems true. Judaism does not believe one person is holier than another. In fact, our greatest moments of holiness are achieved not when we stand alone but instead when we stand together. We require the voices of others to elevate our prayers. Moses does not hear Korah’s words as critiques but instead as threats.
He becomes distressed. Aaron becomes crestfallen. God becomes enraged. Korah and his followers are severely punished. The rebellion is mercilessly quashed. And so, the wrong, must be with Korah and his followers.
The tradition argues—at length—about Korah’s sins. What did he do to merit such punishment?
The rabbis draw inferences. They reason: “Every dispute that is for the sake of heaven, will in the end endure; but one that is not for the sake of heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his followers.” (Pirke Avot 5)
When we argue with respect, when we debate so as to understand the truth standing in opposition to our own views, this is an argument for the sake of heaven, this is a controversy like that of the first century rabbis, Hillel and Shammai. When we argue, however, to destroy the opposition, when we debate so as to undermine others, these are controversies s like those of Korah and his followers.
In the rabbinic imagination, it was all about how Korah argued, and complained. In the rabbis’ estimation, it is very much about how we debate. Controversies can make the community better or they can destroy us.
Another tradition suggests Korah’s faults to be otherwise. Moses gives a hint at Korah’s sin when he says, “Do you then want the priesthood?” The tradition opines. Korah only wanted the prestige and honor of being a priest. He did not want the attendant duties and responsibilities.
Many people want honor. Few want the work that accompanies it.
Being a priest, or a politician, or a leader, or an actor, or a musician, or even a rabbi, is not so much about the prestige, but instead about the responsibilities.
History is filled with examples of rebellions, and countries led astray, by leaders who lust after the accolades, and pomp and circumstance of their positions, more than they pine after the duties to make the lives of others better.
This is what Moses teaches. This is what Korah forgets.
Leadership is supposed to be about others. It is supposed to be about lifting others up.
On the surface Korah’s complaints appear legitimate. He, and his followers, approach Moses and Aaron and say, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16)
This statement seems true. Judaism does not believe one person is holier than another. In fact, our greatest moments of holiness are achieved not when we stand alone but instead when we stand together. We require the voices of others to elevate our prayers. Moses does not hear Korah’s words as critiques but instead as threats.
He becomes distressed. Aaron becomes crestfallen. God becomes enraged. Korah and his followers are severely punished. The rebellion is mercilessly quashed. And so, the wrong, must be with Korah and his followers.
The tradition argues—at length—about Korah’s sins. What did he do to merit such punishment?
The rabbis draw inferences. They reason: “Every dispute that is for the sake of heaven, will in the end endure; but one that is not for the sake of heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his followers.” (Pirke Avot 5)
When we argue with respect, when we debate so as to understand the truth standing in opposition to our own views, this is an argument for the sake of heaven, this is a controversy like that of the first century rabbis, Hillel and Shammai. When we argue, however, to destroy the opposition, when we debate so as to undermine others, these are controversies s like those of Korah and his followers.
In the rabbinic imagination, it was all about how Korah argued, and complained. In the rabbis’ estimation, it is very much about how we debate. Controversies can make the community better or they can destroy us.
Another tradition suggests Korah’s faults to be otherwise. Moses gives a hint at Korah’s sin when he says, “Do you then want the priesthood?” The tradition opines. Korah only wanted the prestige and honor of being a priest. He did not want the attendant duties and responsibilities.
Many people want honor. Few want the work that accompanies it.
Being a priest, or a politician, or a leader, or an actor, or a musician, or even a rabbi, is not so much about the prestige, but instead about the responsibilities.
History is filled with examples of rebellions, and countries led astray, by leaders who lust after the accolades, and pomp and circumstance of their positions, more than they pine after the duties to make the lives of others better.
This is what Moses teaches. This is what Korah forgets.
Leadership is supposed to be about others. It is supposed to be about lifting others up.
The Promised Land Is in Your Soul
When God calls to Abraham and instructs him to set out on a journey to the Promised Land, God commands: “Lech lecha—Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12)
This week when God instructs Moses to send scouts to survey the Promised Land, God similarly commands: “Shelach lecha—Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people.” (Numbers 13)
In both instances the Hebrew is unusual and perhaps untranslatable. God literally states, “Go for yourself” and “Send for yourself.” Commentators note the peculiar wording and imagine novel explanations to justify this Hebrew phrasing.
One rabbinic midrash suggests that the command to Abraham was more about him finding himself than discovering a new land. Its author writes: “Go forth to find your authentic self, to learn who you are meant to be.” Is a promised land about its geographical contours or instead about unearthing some, hidden inner promise?
Is a journey, whether undertaken at God’s command or out of inner desire, about exploring new vistas or about discovering oneself?
This week we are confronted with a new question. What could Moses possibly find out about himself when commanding others to set out on a journey? He has been leading the people for years. He has been through countless tests. The people are given to lots of complaining, and rebelling (more about that in the weeks to come). This moment appears to produce an unlikely crisis of faith for our leader.
The midrash once again makes plain what the Hebrew only implies. It imagines God saying to Moses that this reconnaissance mission is more about Moses’ needs, and perhaps the people’s, rather than God’s. Our ancient rabbis fill in the gaps, found in between the Torah’s verses and write, “God seems to be saying, ‘I have you told you already that the land is good and that I will give it to you. If you need human confirmation of that, go ahead and send scouts.’”
And I wonder. Is finding oneself, and setting out on any journey, about confirming what God already intends for us or about charting some, new undiscovered territory hidden within our own soul?
This week when God instructs Moses to send scouts to survey the Promised Land, God similarly commands: “Shelach lecha—Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people.” (Numbers 13)
In both instances the Hebrew is unusual and perhaps untranslatable. God literally states, “Go for yourself” and “Send for yourself.” Commentators note the peculiar wording and imagine novel explanations to justify this Hebrew phrasing.
One rabbinic midrash suggests that the command to Abraham was more about him finding himself than discovering a new land. Its author writes: “Go forth to find your authentic self, to learn who you are meant to be.” Is a promised land about its geographical contours or instead about unearthing some, hidden inner promise?
Is a journey, whether undertaken at God’s command or out of inner desire, about exploring new vistas or about discovering oneself?
This week we are confronted with a new question. What could Moses possibly find out about himself when commanding others to set out on a journey? He has been leading the people for years. He has been through countless tests. The people are given to lots of complaining, and rebelling (more about that in the weeks to come). This moment appears to produce an unlikely crisis of faith for our leader.
The midrash once again makes plain what the Hebrew only implies. It imagines God saying to Moses that this reconnaissance mission is more about Moses’ needs, and perhaps the people’s, rather than God’s. Our ancient rabbis fill in the gaps, found in between the Torah’s verses and write, “God seems to be saying, ‘I have you told you already that the land is good and that I will give it to you. If you need human confirmation of that, go ahead and send scouts.’”
And I wonder. Is finding oneself, and setting out on any journey, about confirming what God already intends for us or about charting some, new undiscovered territory hidden within our own soul?
The Antisemitism Pandemic
For the first time in over a year, many of us now feel like we can see around the bend of the Covid-19 pandemic. Now, most especially that many of our children can get vaccinated, and that we can safely get together with friends, and family members, our sense of relief has grown. Light is emerging from around the corner. The plague that upended our lives appears to be ebbing. Just as we wearily begin to emerge from the shadow of this plague, another grows in ferocity.
Antisemitism has once again emerged with a renewed strength that caught many off guard. Whereas several years ago we saw its ugliness, and violence, emanating from the right, now it confronts us from the left. Let me be clear. Anti-Zionism easily morphs into violent antisemitism. Hatred of Israel quickly becomes antisemitic. The evidence lies before us—be it at a sushi restaurant in Los Angeles or a synagogue in New York. It is now especially incumbent upon those who call themselves liberal, progressive or Democrat to call out the antisemitism growing from within their ranks.
People always prefer to say, “Look at how bad they are,” rather than “Look at how we have gone wrong,” or, “Look at what we have allowed to fester.” People always prefer to point accusatory fingers at those who stand on the other side of the aisle while making excuses for those who share their political commitments. This is not how we must reckon with such a plague. Call out those who traffic in antisemitic tropes. Make clear that these most recent attacks on Jews, and Israel, are irreconcilable with liberal, progressive and Democratic values. This is what is called for at this moment and in this hour.
Of course, there are legitimate criticisms of Israel’s policies and Israel’s government...
Antisemitism has once again emerged with a renewed strength that caught many off guard. Whereas several years ago we saw its ugliness, and violence, emanating from the right, now it confronts us from the left. Let me be clear. Anti-Zionism easily morphs into violent antisemitism. Hatred of Israel quickly becomes antisemitic. The evidence lies before us—be it at a sushi restaurant in Los Angeles or a synagogue in New York. It is now especially incumbent upon those who call themselves liberal, progressive or Democrat to call out the antisemitism growing from within their ranks.
People always prefer to say, “Look at how bad they are,” rather than “Look at how we have gone wrong,” or, “Look at what we have allowed to fester.” People always prefer to point accusatory fingers at those who stand on the other side of the aisle while making excuses for those who share their political commitments. This is not how we must reckon with such a plague. Call out those who traffic in antisemitic tropes. Make clear that these most recent attacks on Jews, and Israel, are irreconcilable with liberal, progressive and Democratic values. This is what is called for at this moment and in this hour.
Of course, there are legitimate criticisms of Israel’s policies and Israel’s government...
Praying for Peace, Hoping for Unity
The familiar priestly blessing, contained in this week’s portion, states: “May the Lord bless you and keep you! May the light of the Lord’s face shine upon and be gracious to you! May Lord always be present in your life and grant you peace!” (Numbers 6)
In its original formulation it was a blessing offered by the ancient priests for the Jewish people. The Torah continues “Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: ‘The Lord bless you…’” The grammar appears incorrect. The “you” of the blessing is in the singular not the plural. Why would a blessing directed to “them” be formulated in the singular?
Rabbi Simhah Leib, a Hasidic rebbe, comments: “The priestly blessing is recited in the singular, because the most important blessing that the Jewish people can have is unity.”
I am leaning on his wisdom during these trying and difficult days when Jews shout and scream at one another. We hear, “You’re too critical of the State of Israel in its hour of need and urgency!” Or, “You’re too forgiving of Israel’s wrongs and missteps!”
People often mistake unity for agreement. A group can be unified but not always agree. Disagreements, passionate debates, are part of any healthy relationship or community. There must, however, be a unity of purpose and mission.
I wonder if we have lost this unified vision. And I wonder, if this is why we are no longer able to tolerate disagreements or abide criticisms. Losing sight of a shared mission creates disunity. Do we continue to share the belief that the purpose of leading a Jewish life is not only to teach children how to perform Jewish rituals or to make sure that each and every child has a bar or bat mitzvah, but to relieve the suffering we see in our broken world?
The purpose of the Jewish people’s survival is to make the world better. Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential.” He then continues, “We learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.”
The study of Torah, the path of Torah, is a means not an end.
That remains the vision I hold before my eyes. Elie Wiesel affirms, “The mission of the Jewish people has never been to make the world more Jewish, but to make it more human.” It is not just about us.
Can we ever fulfill such a grand vision if we remain divided about the nature and purpose of our existence?
Unity remains our most fervent prayer.
“May the Lord grant you peace.”
In its original formulation it was a blessing offered by the ancient priests for the Jewish people. The Torah continues “Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: ‘The Lord bless you…’” The grammar appears incorrect. The “you” of the blessing is in the singular not the plural. Why would a blessing directed to “them” be formulated in the singular?
Rabbi Simhah Leib, a Hasidic rebbe, comments: “The priestly blessing is recited in the singular, because the most important blessing that the Jewish people can have is unity.”
I am leaning on his wisdom during these trying and difficult days when Jews shout and scream at one another. We hear, “You’re too critical of the State of Israel in its hour of need and urgency!” Or, “You’re too forgiving of Israel’s wrongs and missteps!”
People often mistake unity for agreement. A group can be unified but not always agree. Disagreements, passionate debates, are part of any healthy relationship or community. There must, however, be a unity of purpose and mission.
I wonder if we have lost this unified vision. And I wonder, if this is why we are no longer able to tolerate disagreements or abide criticisms. Losing sight of a shared mission creates disunity. Do we continue to share the belief that the purpose of leading a Jewish life is not only to teach children how to perform Jewish rituals or to make sure that each and every child has a bar or bat mitzvah, but to relieve the suffering we see in our broken world?
The purpose of the Jewish people’s survival is to make the world better. Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential.” He then continues, “We learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.”
The study of Torah, the path of Torah, is a means not an end.
That remains the vision I hold before my eyes. Elie Wiesel affirms, “The mission of the Jewish people has never been to make the world more Jewish, but to make it more human.” It is not just about us.
Can we ever fulfill such a grand vision if we remain divided about the nature and purpose of our existence?
Unity remains our most fervent prayer.
“May the Lord grant you peace.”
The Heart Speaks Truth
The medieval poet Yehudah HaLevi writes: “L’bi b’mizrach v’anochi b’sof maarav—my heart is in the East and I am in the depths of the West.” His words were an expression of the unending Jewish attachment to Jerusalem and the land of Israel.
His poem captures my sentiments at this very moment. He speaks to my heart’s travails. My attachment is to the State of Israel. My worries are tied to my brothers and sisters in the land of Israel. I am nervous about Israel’s future. I mourn for those killed and pray for those injured—both Israelis and Palestinians.
My nephew, who is living and studying in northern Tel Aviv, spent the better part of the last two evenings in a bomb shelter. Countless friends, and acquaintances, have done the same. Others are deploying to this conflict’s front lines.
It is personal. I am a Jew. This is our Jewish home...
His poem captures my sentiments at this very moment. He speaks to my heart’s travails. My attachment is to the State of Israel. My worries are tied to my brothers and sisters in the land of Israel. I am nervous about Israel’s future. I mourn for those killed and pray for those injured—both Israelis and Palestinians.
My nephew, who is living and studying in northern Tel Aviv, spent the better part of the last two evenings in a bomb shelter. Countless friends, and acquaintances, have done the same. Others are deploying to this conflict’s front lines.
It is personal. I am a Jew. This is our Jewish home...
Reclaiming the Earth
A Missouri farmer offered these words of praise and reverence for the land he and his family farmed for their entire lives. “It’s the ground that can never be replaced. They don’t make any more ground, and this ground in the spillway is the best in the world.”
I wonder where his family now farms. Ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers dynamited a hole in the Mississippi river levee, flooding the spillway, in order to save a small town. In the process they sacrificed precious Missouri farmland.
Years ago, when my family and I used to boat on the mighty Mississippi we would marvel at the homes on the river’s banks. Why would people build on a flood plain? Every year the Mississippi river floods. Every year the river nourishes the surrounding farmlands. Some years the floods are greater than others. Precious farming land comes at great cost. Apparently, this is nature’s equation. And so, every year families must flee their homes. There is a pull of the land that defies reason.
There is the pull of an ancestral home that surpasses explanation. It is the sanctity of the land that pulls families toward it.
This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25) What is the purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land must be allowed to lie fallow?
Its purpose is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns the land. There is in truth no property ownership. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that everything, that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation, but instead a right that every living thing must enjoy. The land as well is a living and breathing creation.
The sabbatical year of the land should rekindle in us a reverence for the land. To be sure the Torah’s focus is the land of Israel and its inherent holiness. Nonetheless we learn that the earth sacred. And we must therefore regain a reverence for the land and nature. There is a majesty of the earth that is lost to many of our contemporaries. We appear only to revere nature’s awesome power. Hurricanes and floods remind us however not only of nature’s fury but also of its grandeur. The sabbatical year and the river’s flooding remind us about nature’s cycle that we try in vain to defy.
We must say as well, along with farmers, “The ground beneath our very feet is the best in the world.”
The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon once wrote:
Each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. It should not occur to us when the land is washed away by nature’s fury. We should recognize it and proclaim it each and every day.
I wonder where his family now farms. Ten years ago, the Army Corps of Engineers dynamited a hole in the Mississippi river levee, flooding the spillway, in order to save a small town. In the process they sacrificed precious Missouri farmland.
Years ago, when my family and I used to boat on the mighty Mississippi we would marvel at the homes on the river’s banks. Why would people build on a flood plain? Every year the Mississippi river floods. Every year the river nourishes the surrounding farmlands. Some years the floods are greater than others. Precious farming land comes at great cost. Apparently, this is nature’s equation. And so, every year families must flee their homes. There is a pull of the land that defies reason.
There is the pull of an ancestral home that surpasses explanation. It is the sanctity of the land that pulls families toward it.
This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it alone is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25) What is the purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land must be allowed to lie fallow?
Its purpose is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns the land. There is in truth no property ownership. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that everything, that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation, but instead a right that every living thing must enjoy. The land as well is a living and breathing creation.
The sabbatical year of the land should rekindle in us a reverence for the land. To be sure the Torah’s focus is the land of Israel and its inherent holiness. Nonetheless we learn that the earth sacred. And we must therefore regain a reverence for the land and nature. There is a majesty of the earth that is lost to many of our contemporaries. We appear only to revere nature’s awesome power. Hurricanes and floods remind us however not only of nature’s fury but also of its grandeur. The sabbatical year and the river’s flooding remind us about nature’s cycle that we try in vain to defy.
We must say as well, along with farmers, “The ground beneath our very feet is the best in the world.”
The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon once wrote:
At times you imagine that you, too, are taking root in the soil that you are digging; like all that is growing around you are nurtured by the light of the sun’s rays with food from heaven. You feel that you, too, live a life in common with the tiniest blade of grass, with each flower, each tree; that you live deeply in the heart of nature, rising up from all and growing straight up into the expanse of the world.Gordon’s primary concern was the spiritual power to be found in working the land. But his lesson is still apt for our generation.
Each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. It should not occur to us when the land is washed away by nature’s fury. We should recognize it and proclaim it each and every day.
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.