Spring Brings Hints of Gladness

“On the seventh day God finished the work that God had been doing.” (Genesis 2)

What work was left to be done on this day? What finishing touches did the world require? the rabbis ask. Again, they answer their own question. God created menucha—rest. This teaches us that rest is a divine gift.

In the rabbinic imagination, we are not talking about sleeping or even a taking a nap, but rather rest that restores the soul. The prayerbook attests to this idea and teaches that Shabbat menucha is different than ordinary rest. In addition to its holiness, menucha is described in its pages as a “rest reflecting Your lavish love and true faithfulness, in peace and tranquility, contentment and quietude—a perfect rest in which You delight.”

How can we discover a rest that offers us peace and tranquility, contentment and quietude? It seems almost impossible.

Then again, now that Spring has bloomed, it may be as easy as venturing outside, going for walk and breathing in nature’s beauty. Tell your children to put their phones down, grab their hands and go for a walk. Teach them not to look at screens but at the flowers and trees, birds and even the bugs crawling on the leaves. Teach them to say with you, “Look at how wonderful the world is!”

The Torah concurs. So important is rest that even the land requires it. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25). And while our tradition views the sabbatical year as applying only to the land of Israel (may it soon know peace!), I am beginning to think that it should apply beyond these borders. If rest is a divine gift, then all of God’s creations should enjoy it.

And thus, when I marvel at the landscaping surrounding my home and the beautiful trees now unfurling their leaves (as well coughing up their allergy inducing pollen), I find myself correcting my thoughts. I used to say, “Look at my trees.” Now I say instead, “Look at God’s trees.”

The poet Mary Oliver exclaims:

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

And I imagine the trees taking in a breath and filling their veins with Shabbat menucha. I watch as they restore the earth—and refresh my soul.

Abraham Joshua Heschel writes: “There are three ways in which we may relate ourselves to the world—we may exploit it, we may enjoy it, and we may accept it in awe.”

Indeed, I am awed. Look at the beauty, and marvels, and wonders God has created. I behold hints of gladness in the air.

We Always Need to Give Thanks

Rabbis debate everything.

In ancient times the rabbis argued about the world to come and what will still be required of us. When the messiah comes and perfects the world will we, for example, still need to pray? After all, when peace finally reigns, when there is no more oppression or, when no human being goes to sleep hungry or cold, what more do we need to pray for?

Rabbis also answer their own questions.

Rabbis Pinhas, Levi and Johanan said in the name of Rabbi Menahem of Galilee: “In the world to come, all prayers shall cease, but the prayer of thanksgiving shall never cease.” (Midrash Tanhuma Emor)

We will always need to say thanks. We will always want to say thanks?

When all wrongs are righted, when peace is at long last achieved, why do we need to keep offering thanks to God? If we have everything, would we even feel the impulse to say thanks? Isn’t the impulse to say thanks precipitated by gaining what we did not have? When we gain what we did not previously have, we are filled with gratitude. (Or are we never sated and keep wanting more?)

The rabbis urge otherwise. They argue that our spirits must always be filled with gratitude, regardless of what we may or may not have and regardless of how we feel. Take their approach to food as but one example. When do we say the motzi and offer thanks for the meal? We say the prayer before we even taste the hallah. We say, “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth,” before we even know if the meal is delicious or not.

We do not begin the meal with words of “I would have preferred steak.” Or, “Really, chicken again.” Instead, gratitude emerges from our mouths before we even allow food to touch our lips.

The meal is transformed by our thanks, as well as the people sitting by our sides.

Saying thank you shifts our outlook. We might think we were not given enough or even that we deserved more but offering prayers of thanks cures our feelings of emptiness. Our souls become full. They are always overflowing. Why? Because they are filled with thanks.

This is why we say the prayers we say when we are confronted with death. Before we tear the ribbon we shout praises to God. Of course the tear is far more representative of our feelings. And yet in that moment, Judaism instructs us to say thanks. Whether we are granted many years with our loved ones, or few, whether their deaths were tragic or peaceful, we say thank you for their lives. Thank you for their teachings. Thank you for the blessings of their companionship.

It does not make the hurt go away. It does not dissipate the longing. It does strengthen us. A soul filled with gratitude is stronger. There is no better option for returning us to friends. There is no other choice for sending us back to the world. We continue offering the Kaddish. We shout praises, and thanks, to God.

Saying thanks makes us better. Even when we have all else, when we have everything we might want and everything God can offer, we still say thanks. Too often we think peace is the more important prayer. It is instead the prayer of thanksgiving.

Our thanks will transform us. And it will outlast us.

The Torah states: “When you sacrifice a thanksgiving offering to the Lord, sacrifice it so that it may be acceptable in your favor.” (Leviticus 22)

Saying thanks makes life feel more favorable.

The debate continues.

Building Our Home

On June 7, 1967, Israeli troops climbed the steep path toward the Old City, then under the control of Jordanian forces, and stormed through the city’s Zion Gate, finally making their way to the Western Wall. There the soldiers sang Hatikvah, prayed and cried. The Kotel, and the Jewish Quarter, the entire Old City and East Jerusalem were now, at long last, under Jewish control. 

And yet even though I often go the Wall and touch the stones erected thousands of years ago by our Jewish ancestors when they built the Temple, and wander the narrow streets of the Old City, often stopping for a Turkish coffee in the Muslim Quarter, the spot that continues to take my breath away is not in the East but in the West. After ascending this steep path, lined with fragrant rosemary bushes, I turn around and look to the valley below.

There, in the distance, with the Old City behind me, and atop another hill is Yemin Moshe, the first Jewish settlement built outside the city’s walls. And then, filling every view, are the new buildings, hotels, and apartments, that comprise West Jerusalem. I think to myself. “There was little here seventy-five years ago. And now hundreds of thousands of people call these neighborhoods home.” 

In that moment, the controversies that are an ever-present part of what lies behind me, seem to fade into the distance. I cannot see from this spot the security fence, and wall, that separates the West Bank from Jerusalem. 

I see only the new. I take in only the potential. 

The dream is real. The prayers have been realized.

We have returned to this place. We have built a home. 

Of course, our return, and our building of this home, have been challenging, and at times imperfect. Our settling has unsettled others. And yet, in that moment, I see only perfection—or perhaps the reaching for perfection. 

What an extraordinary blessing it is to live in this time and at this moment. There is a sovereign State of Israel.

Later, I will argue about its pitfalls and its current struggles. For now, after reaching these heights and catching my breath, I will take in the scent of rosemary and revel in the sight of what has been created.

Our hope is not yet lost,

It is two thousand years old,

To be a free people in our own land,

The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Remembering the Holocaust

On Tuesday, the State of Israel observed Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. 

Following the Holocaust, and the destruction of much of European Jewry, Israel’s founders debated which day to observe and commemorate our greatest tragedy. In 1951 the Knesset took up the argument. Some urged the day should be the tenth of Tevet, a traditional fast day marking the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem in the sixth century BCE. (The Chief Rabbinate favored this day.)

Others suggested the eighth of Av, the day the Nazis began the liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto. (The Nazis often chose dates that held Jewish significance.) Given this date’s proximity to the ninth of Av, the fast day commemorating the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple by the Romans in 70 CE, it was rejected. Some argued for the first of September, the day Nazi Germany invaded Poland and World War II began.

Others favored the fourteenth of Nisan, the day the Warsaw Ghetto’s small band of Jews began their revolt against the Nazis. These fighters kept the Nazi army at bay for nearly one month. (Poland’s army lasted slightly longer.) This date seemed impractical given that Passover begins that evening and so the Knesset resolved that the date should be the twenty seventh of Nisan, five days after the conclusion of the Passover holiday. They wished to maintain the connection between our armed revolt against the Nazis and our remembrance of the murdered six million Jews.

In the first year that Yom HaShoah was observed, a statue of Mordecai Anielewicz, the leader of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, was unveiled. Israel’s early leaders wished to proclaim the importance of a Jewish army. Like the Warsaw Ghetto fighters, we can defend ourselves against our enemies. Now we have the IDF! In fact, the official name for the day is Yom HaZikaron laShoah ve-laG’vurah, Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day.

There were, however, other examples of heroism. Most did not in fact involve weapons. In the camps, people shared morsels of food with others even though such an act might lead to their own demise. Some secretly observed Jewish holidays and offered prayers. Think about this. Even keeping track of the calendar and knowing when Passover began was an act of defiance. There were countless examples of spiritual heroism. Many remain lost to history. Others we still recall.

Many know the words of Anne Frank, who penned words of hopefulness while hiding in an Amsterdam attic. The despair that surrounded her did not color her outlook. Likewise, Etty Hillesum recorded her most intimate thoughts in a diary that was published in 1981. In An Interrupted Life, she speaks about love (and making love) while living in the Netherlands during the war.

Etty served on the Jewish Council of Westerbrok. The Nazis established these councils to force Jewish leaders to decide who was transported from ghettos to concentration camps. On September 7, 1943, Etty and her family were sent to Auschwitz. I have always wondered if she placed her own name on that fateful list. Was this journey her act of bravery?

Etty Hillesum died in the Auschwitz concentration camp a few months later. I return to her writings.

She proclaims: “And even if we stay alive, we shall carry the wounds with us throughout our lives. And yet I don’t think that life is meaningless. And God is not accountable to us for the senseless harm we cause one another.”

I find hope in her words. I find heroism in her prophetic call.

The wounds remain. The senseless harm persists.

Lean Into Silence

And Aaron was silent.” (Leviticus 10)

I have always been puzzled by Aaron’s silence. After the death of his sons Nadav and Avihu he does not speak. He does not offer a complaint against God. He does not raise his voice in understandable, and justifiable, anger. Instead, he is silent.

And while I do not believe anyone should criticize a mourner or suggestion that one emotion is better than another, I am perplexed by his silence. Stoicism in the face of grief seems misplaced. It is not a sign of strength to hold back tears and be strong for others. Tears, and sobbing, complaint and even anger, are greater testaments to strength, than the withholding of emotions.

If silence is appropriate it should instead be worn by those offering comfort to the mourners. Too often, well-meaning friends attempt to placate the pain, and grief, of friends with inappropriate words. Cliches like “You have to be strong,” or “You will get over it” or even “He is in a better place” or “At least she is no longer in pain” are not helpful.

Instead, practice silence. Listen. Offer a hug. And if one must say anything, recount a story, or a memory about the person who died.

Don’t lean into cliches. They do not work. More often than not these phrases hurt. Words cannot fix every heartache. Be present. Stand alongside your friend. Accept the silence however awkward it might appear. Affirm your friend’s pain. Don’t rush in with words. Even the most well-chosen words fall short.

The rabbis suggest that Aaron’s silence indicates his acceptance of God’s judgment. I am not so sure. I wonder. Is this why the Mourner’s Kaddish does not mention death. This prayer is instead piles of praise for God. “Blessed, praised, honored, exalted, extolled, glorified, adored, and lauded the name of the Holy Blessed One, beyond all earthly words and songs of blessing, praise, and comfort.”

And the congregation responds, “Amen.” We affirm the grief.

Is this possible? Even the Kaddish struggles to acknowledge the death we confront.

The Kaddish likewise falls silent. And all we can say is, “Amen.” We stand with you.

This week I am going to lean into this silence.

Sometimes, there are no words.

Passover's Us and Them

Judaism fights the impulse to say God favors us and only us. Sometimes, however, it yields to this impulse. Take for example the very name of this evening’s holiday: Passover.

God spares us and saves us while striking down the Egyptians and their first born. Then again as we recall these very same plagues, we lessen our joy by removing one drop of wine from our celebratory cups. Our joy is diminished because others suffered so that we might go free. In that moment of particularism, we acknowledge a universal spirit.

God rescues the Israelites. They walk through the sea on dry land. The Egyptian army is drowned in the sea. Our tradition adds: when the angels celebrate our enemies defeat, God admonishes them and says, “My children are drowning.”

The tension continues. The push and pull between universalism and particularism are played out in the Seder’s rituals. Chosenness is sometimes viewed as exclusive favor. “God took us out of Egypt, gave us the Shabbat and the Torah. Dayyenu!” More often it is seen as testimony to additional responsibility. “Ha lachma anya. Let all who are hungry, come and eat.”

Even hidden within the name for this evening’s dessert are hints of this tension. Afikomen is not a Hebrew word but instead Greek. It means dessert or even the after party. One of the central rituals of this festive meal, celebrating the Jewish people’s rescue from foreign rulers, is tied to the very customs from which we try to differentiate ourselves. Let the search for the afikomen begin. Let the after party start!

The seder concludes. “Next year in Jerusalem!” And yet we live in America.

There is no resolution to the tension. We are meant to affirm both.

We are free. Others are not yet free.

Change Your Clothes

In ancient times, we offered daily sacrifices. There was the burnt offering which consisted of two yearling lambs, one sacrificed in the morning and another in the evening. In addition, there was a grain offering that was consumed on the altar. The priest also tended to these rituals and made sure the altar fire burned throughout the day.

In the morning, his first task was removing the ashes. This was not left to anyone else. The dirty, and I would imagine somewhat disgusting, job of cleaning out the sacrificial altar was done by the priest himself. “He shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.” (Leviticus 6)

Interestingly before taking the ashes outside the camp, he had to change his clothes. He wears his priestly garb when working within the sacred precinct. Before moving outside, he changes his clothes. This appears strange. Why not change before cleaning up the ashes? Wear the dirty work clothes for such a job is my thinking. Instead, it seems that it is not so much about the dirtiness of the project as opposed to where he is working.

The Hasidic rebbe, Simhah Bunem, offers a startingly observation. The reason why the priest puts on ordinary clothes serves as a reminder to the priest of his place within the community. He must never forget his link to the ordinary people who spend their days in mundane pursuits. He may spend almost every hour of his day occupying himself with holy work, but for at least a moment every day he must recall that he is in truth just like everyone else.

Too often leaders because of their position, or wealth, forget their connection to others. Every day they must find the means to restore the connection to others. Leadership is supposed to be in the service of others. Wealth can be transformed into something holy by the question of what more can we do for others.

Perhaps the only reminder we need is to change our outfit. We must never forget that we are just like everyone else.

Ask the Painful Questions

These days I am plagued by a question. How does a group come to recognize its wrongs?

Last week I traveled to Washington DC. There we visited the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. As one wanders through its exhibits one question stands out, “Where was America?” After hours walking through this painful history, one confronts newspaper headlines reporting the murder of Europe’s Jews. Juxtaposed with these reports, one sees a copy of a letter from Assistant US Secretary of War, John McCloy.

He writes: “At the present critical stage of the war in Europe, our strategic air forces are engaged in the destruction of industrial target systems vital to the dwindling war potential of the enemy, from which they should not be diverted.” And yet, US forces bombed factories within five miles of Auschwitz-Birkenau. The question lingers. Where was America?

And then one comes to an additional exhibit about the Rohingya genocide. Myanmar officials continue their oppression, persecution, and murder of their country’s Muslim minority. Nearly one million are now refugees. Nearly 25,000 have been killed. The question continues. Where is America?

We crossed the Mall, and then visited the National Museum of African American History and Culture. As one enters, the words of the Declaration of Independence are seen emblazoned on the wall: “All men are created equal.” The journey through the exhibits moves from slave ships to plantations, and continues from the 1960’s civil rights struggle to today’s Black Lives Matter protests. As one turns the corner, the large wall is again seen. The words of Langston Hughes’ epic poem are etched above: “I, too, am America.”

The realization is stunning. It is the same wall. The same nation that changed the world with the words, “All men are created equal” is the same nation that enslaved Blacks. The two are inseparable. The question has changed. What is America? Can we be both great and flawed? And then it occurred to me. Whereas the atrocities in Europe happened over there, I felt an increasing intimacy to America’s ongoing struggle with racism and its lingering presence in the country I call home.

We began our trip with a private tour of the US Capitol with Representative Steve Israel. He is an extraordinary tour guide and a compelling historian. We sat in the House of Representatives. We spoke of the debates that occurred there. He showed us where some of the January 6th rioters (insurrectionists!) climbed through windows to storm the chamber. We then made our way to the lobby.

We stood in front of a majestic painting of George Washington. Representative Israel shared with us how fortunate Washington and his troops were during the Battle of Long Island. If not for a miraculous fog, the surrounding British forces would have surely destroyed the Continental Army who were encamped in Brooklyn Heights. Washington’s military blunder was redeemed by nature’s saving grace. We then spoke about Washington’s evident grimace. Everyone shared the well-known fact that our first president had false teeth. “They were made out of wood,” we said in near unison.

Our historian corrected us. “They were the teeth of enslaved Blacks. Other times they were taken from cadavers.” Representative Israel continued, “Sometimes slave owners paid for these teeth. Other times, they did not.” Now I too grimaced. The pain of our history was almost too much to bear. We are flawed. “The genius of our founders,” Israel suggested, “is found in the words they penned. The spoke about creating a ‘more perfect union.’ They did not believe the United States of America is perfect, but that we would always be reaching to be more perfect.”

The Torah responds to my lingering questions. “If it is the whole community of Israel that has erred and the matter escapes the notice of the congregation, so that they do any of the things which by the Lord’s commandments ought not to be done, and they realize their guilt (ashamnu!)—when the sin through which they incurred guilt becomes known, the congregation shall offer a bull of the herd as a sin offering, and bring it before the Ten of Meeting.” (Leviticus 4)

For the first time in my life, I find myself longing for a restoration of Leviticus’ promise. Maybe we need the sacrifices. Perhaps the rabbis were right. Soon after the Temple was destroyed and we could no longer perform these sacrifices, they argued our idyllic life was lost. The sacrifices offered us the perfect antidote to rectify wrongs. They provided us with a mechanism to publicly declare our wrongs and restore order. Only then can we create a better future.

I wonder what can be done today. We struggle to come to terms with our past mistakes. We wrestle with how to even teach about such imperfections. We dare not mention such wrongs. We hesitate to talk about our founders’ wrongs and nation’s sins.

A perfect past does not exist. A better future is always within reach. I wonder how to get there.

One thing appears clear. We can only get there if we are unafraid to ask such questions.

Creating in God's Shadow

This week we read about the requirements for building the tabernacle. These details were already offered in prior chapters. Are these now repeated because the Israelites need a reminder about what they should be setting their hearts to build? So soon after gathering against Aaron and pressuring him to help them build the Golden Calf Moses reasserts his leadership and gathers them for a renewed holy purpose.

We can gather for bad. We can congregate for good. The leader helps redirect the people’s energies. “Take from among you gifts to the Lord; everyone whose hearts so move them shall bring them—gifts for the Lord: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple and crimson yarns…” (Exodus 35)

And then Moses singles out an artisan from among the tribe of Judah who will lead this project. His name is Bezalel. The Torah records: “God has endowed him with a divine spirit of skill (hokhmah), ability (t’vunah) and knowledge (da-at) of every kind of craft.” The famous medieval commentator, Rashi, offers this explanation about the differences between these artistic qualities.

Skill, or wisdom, is what a person learns from others. Ability describes one’s own insights or experiences. Knowledge, he equates, with divine inspiration. Artistic creations sometimes overwhelm us with their power. We wonder what unknown, or otherworldly, source inspired the artist. This is what Rashi deems da-at. It is not simply knowledge but instead divine knowledge.

Often, we think of artists as singular. We describe the artists we admire as unique and unparalleled. It is how I felt when I walked into La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona’s soon to be completed cathedral. The work on this church began in 1882. It was conceived by Antoni Gaudi. The stained-glass windows are unlike anything I have ever seen before. The way the windows illuminate the sun’s rays are breathtaking. And yet Gaudi most certainly saw his creations as standing on the shoulders of his Christian faith.

The Torah reminds us of an important lesson. Artists must learn from others. They lean on their predecessors.

No creative work stands disconnected from others. They are bound together by the thread of wisdom that ties one generation to another.

Everyone must learn from others. Everyone must stand on the shoulders of their teachers. That is the essence of wisdom. That is what engenders the greatest skill and artistry.

All creations are manifestations of the divine. We create in the shadow of God. And this of course is what the Hebrew name Bezalel means.

Defend Israel's Democracy

Israel is on fire from within and from without.

From the outside it continues to face lethal terrorist attacks and the specter of an increasingly emboldened and nuclear Iran. From within it faces something which has long been simmering but has now found voices of legitimacy within the current ruling coalition.

I mourn the deaths. Their numbers increase. Two young brothers, Hillel and Yagel Yaniv, were recently murdered when traveling to their home. Elan Ganeles, an American who had made aliyah, was also murdered. He was on his way to a friend’s wedding. Rockets are fired from Gaza at Israeli towns. Terrorism continues.

Israel responds with force. Its soldiers kill terrorists. Its police continue to thwart planned attacks. Fierce fighting was reported in Jenin. Settlers rioted in the town of Huwara. They burned hundreds of homes. A Palestinian was killed. Sameh Aqtesh. I grieve over the deaths of innocent Palestinians.

During these riots, Israeli soldiers rescued Palestinians from their burning homes. Their commanding officer called the settlers’ rampage a pogrom....

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Secure the Soul

Purim is celebrated on Monday evening. With its penchant for costumes and carnivals, it is a day typically relegated to children. And yet the rabbis imagined otherwise. The Talmud commands: “A person is obligated to get drunk until they do not know the difference between 'cursed is Haman' and 'Blessed is Mordechai.'” (Megillah 7b)

This is derived from the concluding lines of the Book of Esther: “The same days on which the Jews enjoyed relief from their enemies and the same month which had been transformed from one of grief and mourning into one of festive joy, they were now to observe them as days of feasting and merrymaking.” (Esther 9). Nothing suggests feasting and merrymaking more than abundant food and most especially, plenty of wine and spirits.

Still, it is a curious commandment and gives one pause. This is how we are supposed to commemorate a victory over antisemitism? We are supposed to get wasted? This is counterintuitive. The only way to achieve victory over antisemites is by remaining clear headed. The essence of confronting evil and hate lies in the ability to draw distinctions. When we get drunk nothing is clear. Often the lines between right and wrong become blurred. And we must keep these straight. We must remain clear eyed if we are to face today’s threats.

Antisemitism threatens us in two ways. One is the obvious. Throughout our long history, and especially our more recent history, antisemites have succeeded in carrying out their lethal threats. We have been gunned down in synagogues and supermarkets. We have been murdered in Nazi concentration camps and chased from cities and villages. The list is lengthy. It is painful to enumerate. What began with Haman did not end with Mordecai’s victory. This threat remains forever clear.

The other danger is blurred. Antisemites threaten our soul. We can become consumed by the fear antisemitism ingenerates. Take our response to last weekend’s so called “Day of Hate” as but one example. The Jewish community, its leaders and members, discussed this in more detail and at greater length than the Nazis who promoted this day. (There is nothing neo about people who call themselves Nazis!). We became consumed by fear.

I understand the worry. I hear the nervousness. I am attuned to the fears. Still, I wonder. What is the cost of these worries to our spirits? What happens to a people who is forever on guard, who fears what dangers might lie in wait around every corner, who worries what threats may lurk beneath every word?

What about the security of the soul? How might we better attend to our embattled souls?

Just as we can become consumed by overindulging in the alcohol that our Purim celebrations demand, so too can we become consumed by our fears. On this Purim, I wonder if this was the hidden message contained in the rabbis’ command.

Antisemitism is real. Its threats are not unfounded. Let us recognize that its dangers remain twofold. The danger about which we can exert the most control we are the least attentive. It is within our power to banish fear. We worry about guards and cameras, doors and safe rooms and will continue to do so. We ignore the needs of the soul.

Take a cue from our tradition and Purim’s message.

Feast. Rejoice. Celebrate Jewish life.

And then perhaps the soul will feel more secure.

Building the Sanctuary of the Heart

The Hasidic movement was founded by Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer in eighteenth century Ukraine. It was a radical departure from traditional norms in which rabbinic leadership was predicated on scholarship and in particular mastery of the Talmud.

Rabbi Israel, who later became known as the Baal Shem Tov, was a schoolteacher and laborer. He was more enamored of mystical texts such as the Zohar than classical rabbinic texts. He loved meditating rather than studying. Unlike other rabbis he did not spend his days poring over traditional passages. Instead, he would spend considerable time wandering in the woods. He taught that the spiritual path was a mystical road open to anyone.

The secret is not, the Hasidic masters taught, mastery of chapter and verse, but instead in finding a teacher, a rebbe. Follow in his footsteps. Sing wordless melodies (niggunim) by his side. These were always the best medicine and the recipe Hasidism offered to the Jewish masses hungry for spirituality but unable to devote hours to study and learning.

Each of the Hasidic masters who followed Rabbi Israel offered nuanced perspectives. They developed competing schools of thought. Each generation refined their masters’ teachings and sometimes offered insights not heretofore known. Some took their master’s teachings in new and unfound directions.

Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk drew a sharp contrast with his predecessors. Whereas the Baal Shem Tov was forgiving in his approach and emphasized God’s compassion, the Kotzker rebbe as he later became known, was obsessed with God’s justice. In fact, he was so intoxicated with truth that he burned nearly all of his writings. Nothing a person writes could ever really approximate God’s truth.

Too often the outer life veils the inner. We spend our days dwelling on appearances and outer trappings rather than focusing on mastering the spirit.

Abraham Joshua Heschel observes:

If he were alive today, the Kotzker would look aghast at the replacement of spirituality by aesthetics, spontaneity by decorum. Like Kierkegaard he would vehemently condemn an aesthetic concept of Judaism acted out in customs, ceremonies, sentimental celebrations and polished oratory, as well as in decorative representations of God in terms of grandiose temples. He would also reject the reduction of Judaism to an outward compliance with ritual laws, strict observance mingled with dishonesty, the pedantic performance of rituals as a form of opportunism. (A Passion for Truth)

Menahem Mendel was unforgiving. He burned with truth. For the last twenty years of his life the rebbe lived in seclusion. Truth sometimes makes us abandon friends. Hard truths exile friendship.

The Torah commands: “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25)

Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk comments: “It says ‘among them’ and not ‘among it,’ to teach you that each person must build the sanctuary in his own heart; then God will dwell among them.”

It is not enough to build synagogues or temples, institutions or organizations. What matters instead is the sanctuary we build within. It is the truth we hold in our hearts.

Heschel again:

The Kotzker would call upon us to be uneasy about our situation, to feel ashamed of our peace of mind, of our spiritual stagnation. One’s integrity must constantly be examined. In his view, self-assurance, smug certainty of one’s honesty was as objectionable as brazen dishonesty. A moderately clean heart was like a moderately foul egg. Lukewarm Judaism would be as effective in purging our character as a lukewarm furnace in melting steel.

How do can we ignite the furnace in our hearts?

How can we live with truth and not as well live alone?

Why Study Chemistry? Why Study Torah?

Recently my seventh graders engaged in a heated discussion about the virtues of the subjects they are studying in school. I asked them which class they liked the best. “Math,” said one. “FCS,” said another one. “What is FCS?” I asked. “Family and Consumer Science,” they answered. “What is “Family and Consumer Science?” I responded. “We learn how to cook and sew,” a student chimed in.

All their answers hinged on the subjects’ apparent usefulness. They reasoned they should know how to balance a checkbook and cook dinner. Learning about American history was another matter. Studying the periodic table did not make much sense. I offered, “Isn’t there value in learning for learning’s sake? Isn’t their merit in learning how to think? Isn’t there interest in finding meaning and inspiration in something as small as an atom?”

This week, I open the Torah to a flurry of laws. I read:

When an ox gores a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be stoned and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner of the ox is not to be punished. If, however, that ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and it kills a man or a woman—the ox shall be stoned and its owner, too, shall be put to death. (Exodus 21)

I hear my seventh grader’s questions. “What does a goring ox have to do with me? No one, I know, even owns an ox.”

The renowned biblical scholar, Nahum Sarna, suggests that the Torah’s laws are unique and stand apart from other ancient near eastern law codes. Other ancient codes made distinctions between the human life that was taken. In other words, there was a guilty party received greater punishment if the person killed or injured was a prince. A wealthy person’s life was accorded more weight. In the bible’s estimation, no distinction can be made between people.

Sarna writes: “The sanctity of human life is such as to make bloodshed the consummate offense, one viewed with unspeakable horror. Neither man nor beast that destroys a life can remain thereafter untainted.” All human life is precious. All people are created in God’s image.

It is not about the ox. It is instead about human life.

And it is about our responsibility to others. Each of us must protect the wellbeing of those around us.

It may appear irrelevant, but this is perhaps as important as O2 and H2O.

The laws about a goring ox can provide us with needed sustenance.

Give Me Some Rest

People often say they are spiritual and not religious. “Rabbi, I am not really into organized religion. I am spiritual.” Sometimes I respond, “You do recognize that you are talking to one of the organizers.” Most of the time, I offer an understanding nod and ask them to tell me more. They suggest that they find spirituality and meaning in nature. They believe in the Ten Commandments. By this they mean the ethical precepts such as, “You shall not murder. You shall not steal.”

I do not have the heart to remind them about the fourth commandment, “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of Lord your God: you shall not do any work.” (Exodus 20)

In the early 1970’s Princeton University conducted a study of its seminary students. All the students were of course familiar with the story from Christian scriptures about the Good Samaritan from which the law protecting someone who stops to help another derives. This tale emphasizes that it is often ordinary people, not devout or holy people, who help those in need.

All the students were told that they had to travel to another campus building where they would partner with a fellow student on a sermon. They then divided the group into three. The first group was told that they had little time and they should rush across campus. The second was told that although they were not rushed, they needed to arrive promptly. The third was told that they could take their time and there was no sense of urgency regarding their arrival.

On their way to the other building, all the students confronted a stranger who appeared desperate and in need. Here is what the study revealed. 63% of those who did not feel rushed stopped to help. 45% of the participants who felt slightly rushed stopped. And only 10% of those students who believed that they were running late offered help to the stranger.

And here is the lesson. There is an ethical dimension to feeling rested. When one feels hurried there feels little time to do anything else. There is little room for others.

The tradition teaches that Shabbat is an expression of our freedom from slavery. Time is a gift given to free people. Judaism sanctifies time. It values time because it restores the soul. Shabbat is a vacation for the soul.

In New York everything seems rushed. Time is not something to hold sacred. Instead, it is something to conquer. “Did you take the LIE or the Northern State?” Time is not restorative. Instead, it is something wasted. “Can you believe the airlines? My flight was delayed for two hours.” We can never rest.

Our cellphones interrupt our meals. They intrude in our time with family. How many conversations were recently interrupted by someone who looked up from their phone’s notification and blurted out, “We shot that Chinese balloon down!” People interrupt others midsentence to share news items. Does it really matter when we find out such news?

We can never relax.

Judith Shulevitz writes in her breathtaking book, The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time:

In a world of brightness and portability and instantaneous intimacy, the Sabbath foists on the consciousness the blackness of night, the heaviness of objects, the miles that keep us apart. The Sabbath prefers natural to artificial light. If we want to travel, it would make us walk, though not too far. If we long for social interaction, it would have us meet our fellow man and woman face-to-face. If we wish to bend the world to our will, it would insist that we forgo the vast majority of the devices that extend our reach and multiply our efficacy.

Perhaps the message, and import, of Shabbat is not so much about its seeming organization but instead about making room for others.

There is only one way to discover this. It is about feeling rested.

Put the cellphone down if not for the day, then at least for the day’s appointed meal.

Become attuned to the soul’s need for rest.

Breathe in the gift Shabbat provides.

I am grateful to the inspiration discovered for this article from Ezra Klein Interviews Judith Shulevitz on The Ezra Klein Show podcast.

Why the Journey Is So Long and Hard

The Torah relates: “God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer.” (Exodus 13)

Why? Why not take the more direct route? Why lead the Israelites on a roundabout path? The commentators debate this question.

Many suggest that God’s concern was practical. If the people traveled through what is today the Gaza Strip, an area then controlled by the Philistines, they would most assuredly confront war. This of course might give them pause. They might have a change of heart and want to return to slavery. The Torah agrees: “God said, ‘The people may have a change of heart when they see war and return to Egypt.’” The medieval commentators Rashi and Nachmanides concur.

On the literal level this makes sense. Then again God parts the Sea of Reeds. The sea is divided so that the Israelites might escape the advancing Egyptians. In the beautiful poem “Song of the Sea,” that includes our Mi Chamocha prayer, the Israelites exclaim: “Pharaoh’s chariots and his army God has cast into the sea; and the pick of his officers are drowned in the Sea of Reeds.” (Exodus 15) So why would God not fight the battles with the Philistines as well?

Perhaps the stated reason does not offer the more important lesson.

The commentators Ibn Ezra and Maimonides offer more interesting explanations. Ibn Ezra suggests that the Israelites first had to sense freedom before claiming the land of Israel as their own. They needed to live as a free people, wandering throughout the wilderness, before establishing freedom in the land of Israel. Maimonides, on the other hand, suggests that the Israelites needed to take this roundabout route so that they might experience hardship. The hunger and pain, rebellions and complaining, offer important lessons for these former slaves. Only after taking these lessons to heart will they be able establish their own nation.

The easy path rarely offers the greatest lessons. When things are given to us without struggle, or even suffering, we do not always appreciate them as we should. What we earn through hardship and pain is sometimes more meaningful than even the most valuable gifts.

What is truly priceless is that which we craft with our own hands through struggle and sacrifice. That is what we most prize!

And it is about these we most often sing God’s blessings: “Mi chamochah ba-eilim, Adonai! Who is like You, O God, among the gods that are worshipped? Who is like You, majestic in holiness, awesome in splendor, working wonders? (Exodus 15)

Taste the Wonder

When I was young and we would go out for a nice dinner with my grandparents, towards the end of the meal when everyone was sharing their delight about the restaurant and raving about this dish or that, my Nana would quietly sit there. I would then invariably ask her, “Nana what did you think about dinner?” And she would respond, “It was tasty.”

Her response never wavered. It could be the best meal or the worst, the most expensive restaurant, or the least. Food was tasty, never delicious. Meals were not deserving of accolades unless of course she was related to the cook and then superlatives could be showered on my mom or dad or even me when I cooked the one thing I could make as a child, an omelet.

On Monday we entered the Hebrew month of Shevat. In two weeks, we will celebrate Tu B’Shevat (the fifteenth of the month), the day on which we mark the new year of the trees. This month is associated with the faint beginnings of spring. In the land of Israel trees begin to blossom, most particularly the beautiful, pink flowers of almond trees.

And the Jewish mystics associated this month of Shevat with taste.

The only time I ever recall my Nana offering something other than her usual tasty judgment about was when she told me about her first bite of a tomato. Soon after arriving in America from Eastern Europe someone gave her a tomato to eat. The vegetable was unfamiliar to her, and she thought it was an apple. When she bit into it and the tomato exploded, she spit it out. She hated it. The taste did not mirror the expectation.

Sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory are the different types of taste, although some experts suggest there are more. (I am sure the family experts will weigh in on this debate and my son, and probably my mother, and perhaps even my nephew will suggest corrections.) What makes chefs celebrated masters are how they finesse these tastes and conjure flavors from ingredients that in other people’s hands taste ordinary and familiar.

On our recent congregational trip to Israel our best adventures were often unplanned and unexpected, and they frequently involved food. We arrived at a hummus restaurant to discover that it had lost electricity moments beforehand and yet we discovered the most delicious hummus many of us have ever tasted. Was it because our expectations were diminished by the darkened surroundings?

On another occasion we decided to stop for lunch at a goat farm where they make many different varieties of goat cheese. We were apprehensive about bringing so many young children to a restaurant that serves only goat cheese. They devoured the goat cheese pizzas. Susie and I enjoyed goat cheese rice pudding after savoring the best cheeses we ever tasted. Again, I wonder. Is taste more a matter of expectations than reality? Did our apprehension awaken our taste buds to unexpected surprises? Is this what makes cooking more of an art?

So much of taste is driven by what we know and what we expect. Familiarity too often guides are cooking habits and restaurant choices.

Defy expectations and it becomes a luxury.

My Nana knew hunger. She recalled times without enough food to calm her hunger pains. For her, could eating ever be transformed and become something more than tasty? Then again perhaps tasty is the highest praise she could offer.

And perhaps taste is a luxury everyone can enjoy and appreciate. Let go of expectations.

The mystics were right. Savor every morsel. Allow the faint beginnings of spring heralded by this month of Shevat to awaken your senses.

Let us taste its wonder.

Take a Breath

Before God brings down the plagues on Egypt, Moses tells the people they will soon be freed from slavery and delivered to the promised land. The Torah relates: “But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” (Exodus 6)

A story. One winter evening, during the darkest days of the Holocaust when Hugo Gryn and his father were imprisoned by the Nazis, Gryn’s father instructed him to come to a quiet corner of the barrack. His father said, “My son, tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. Hugo then watched in astonishment as his father plucked a few threads from his tattered prison uniform in order to create makeshift wicks for the Hanukkah lights. He then gently placed these in several days’ miniscule margarine ration.

Hugo became incensed with his father. “You did not eat your margarine. You need those calories to survive. We could have even spread it on that measly crust of bread they gave us. Instead, you saved it to kindle Hanukkah lights?” Hugo’s father turned to him and said, “My dear son, you and I have seen that it is possible to live a very, very long time without food. But Hugo, a person cannot live, for even a day, without hope.”

I have often told this story. It is inspiring. It seems almost super-human. How can someone stave off hunger for the sake of lighting a candle? How can anyone be hopeful in the midst of such extraordinary cruelty and death?

The Israelites’ reaction seems the more understandable.

The Hebrew can be translated as follows: “They would not listen to Moses; their spirits were shortened (m’kotzer ruach) and their servitude hard.” What does it mean for our spirits to be shortened? How do we become so dispirited?

It all depends on how one feeds the soul and nourishes the spirit. For Hugo Gryn’s father it only required saving some margarine. For others it might require more. How do we instill hope in our hearts? How can we fortify our souls? Is it possible to lengthen our spirits?

The medieval commentator, Rashi, reads ruach not as spirit but more literally as breath and suggests: “If one is in anguish his breath comes in short gasps and he cannot draw long breaths.” Perhaps it is a simple as drawing long breaths.

One can perseverate over the difficulties in one’s life or the many catastrophes the world faces or one can breathe in the beauty of the world—however obscured it may sometimes appear and the gift of our lives—however challenging they may be, and say thank You, God. Blessed be God’s name.

“Blessed are You Adonai in whose hand is every living soul and the breath of all flesh.” the morning prayer suggests.

The long breath. Or the short breath. Many times that choice is within our grasp.

Rise Up and Take Note

My sermon in honor of Martin Luther King Jr Day. Discrimination is real. Racism in America is a pervasive force. What are we to do? We must rise up and take note!

 

This weekend we mark Martin Luther King Jr Day and so I wish to reflect on the lessons we can, and should, draw from Reverend King’s example. He fought, and died, so that African Americans might achieve equal rights in this nation that promises equal rights for all. That struggle continues. The promise remains unfulfilled.

A few years ago, I travelled with a number of rabbis to Montgomery, Alabama to visit the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. This remarkable, and stirring, museum was inspired by Bryan Stevenson who founded the Equal Justice Initiative that fights for those who are wrongly incarcerated. Among its more startling exhibits are soil remains from sites where Blacks were lynched and terrorized. There were photographs on the museum walls showing how snacks were distributed to those who attended these lynchings. Children were brought by parents to these hangings as if these acts of terror constituted proper entertainment. Such lynchings occurred in our country into the 1950’s.

As one leaves the museum and memorial, one confronts rows of copper metal slabs with the names of Southern towns etched on their surface. These are where such horrors occurred. These bear witness to the locations of past lynchings. A sign indicates the purpose and intention of these rows and rows of slabs. They are for the towns to claim and erect in their squares. Then they might confront their past. Only by acknowledging past wrongs can we build the better future that Martin Luther King dreamed about. None of these has yet to be claimed. Bryan Stevenson remarked, “I’m not interested in talking about America’s history because I want to punish America. I want to liberate America.”

We have much work to be done. Our nation can do better. It must do better. The fight against injustice continues. It did not end when Martin Luther King gave his famous “I Have a Dream Speech.” It did not end when George Floyd was killed and many of us first started talking about the racial inequalities that undergird American society. The struggle did not begin in those moments. We became aware of the struggle. To be honest, most of us, including myself, have not even entered this struggle. It was something we were engaged with a few years ago but have by and large moved on from. The struggle continues. And so, on this Martin Luther King Jr Day I wish to reflect on our role in this ongoing struggle. Discrimination is real. Racism in America is a pervasive force. What are we to do?

My seventh graders tackled this question last night when we discussed Martin Luther King’s legacy. We spoke about what he was fighting for. I then asked them if they would be willing to get arrested like King did. They said, “No.” I was of course glad that was their answer, and I affirmed their commitments. I wonder. If we are not willing to get arrested, if we are not willing to take up the call of civil disobedience what can we do? As always, I turned to the Torah for some answers. Let us look to the Torah. This week we begin the Book of Exodus which tells many familiar stories. There are in fact several telling examples from this week’s portion. They point us in the direction of how we might begin to fight injustices.

The first example is that of the Hebrew midwives, Shifrah and Puah, who disobeyed Pharaoh’s edict to kill the Hebrew baby boys. Theirs is the first example of civil disobedience. They do not thunder like Reverend King about how wrong and immoral Pharaoh’s laws are. Instead, they simply disobey. They offer contrived excuses to Pharaoh when he confronts them. They say, “Before the midwife can come to the Hebrew women, they have given birth.” Why do they do this? The Torah explains why. They fear God. They fear, and revere, what you are supposed to. They look not to Pharaoh but instead to God. They do what is right. They save the children.

There are countless examples of people doing such acts throughout the world’s tortured history. In fact, the most common denominator among those who were righteous gentiles and saved Jews during the Holocaust was that they were simple, pious people. They were the ordinary folk and the ordinary heroes. It was not always the prophets who thundered about injustices. More often than not it was people such as Shifrah and Puah who just did the right thing and saved one soul.

The second is a counter example. When young Moses leaves the palace, he sees an Egyptian taskmaster beating a Hebrew slave. What does he do? He kills the taskmaster. Although his righteous anger is justified, his actions cannot serve as an example for us. We are not Moses.

We cannot, and must not, take the law into our own hands and most especially try to mete out punishment—however deserving it may be. That is for the courts—however imperfect they be. And that is for God—however mysterious God’s actions might appear.

Moses then runs from Egypt and makes his way to Midian. And there he defends seven women and offers us a third and oftentimes overlooked example. These women were being accosted by local shepherds who prevented them from drawing the water from the well. The Torah states: “Moses rose up and saved them, and he watered their flock.” This points us to an important character trait that we must foster if we are to stand up against injustice. That is rising up. Vayakom! Stand up. Take notice of when others are being hurt—or as my seventh graders suggested, stand up against bullying. Do something. It can be a simple as making sure these women had enough water to defending a friend, or a stranger, against hurtful words.

And this brings me to the Torah’s final example and the last bit of advice for this weekend’s sacred day. When Pharaoh proclaims that Hebrew boys must be drown in the Nile, Moses’ mother and sister wrap him in a basket after they realize they can hide him no longer. There he is found by none other than Pharaoh’s own daughter. When she discovers the child, she says the most remarkable of things. She opens the basket and states, “This must be a Hebrew child.” And since you have seen the movies, and read the book, you know what happens next. She then raises this baby as her own. The Torah makes explicit what we surmise. It states, “She takes pity on the child.” She does so even though knowing full well that it is contrary to her father’s rulings. She saves this slave child. She ensures that the Torah’s story is a story about salvation. It does begin with the saving of one soul.

Moreover, Pharaoh’s daughter is the one who names the hero of our entire Torah. She calls him, Moses, meaning he was drawn out of the water. Have you ever reflected on this? We read the Five Books of Moses. Moses is named by the daughter of the chief villain of our tale. And we never learn the name of Pharaoh’s daughter. She is our unnamed savior! And she is the person who ensures our redemption from Egypt.

Bryan Stevenson argues that the answer to injustices is that we must get proximate. He does not mean that we have to get near the problem, but instead that we have to get near the person. We have to take note of the person who is wronged or who is suffering. We have to take note like Pharaoh’s daughter did. She opened the basket and looked inside! We must draw near. We have to stand up like Moses did.

We can travel through our beloved Long Island pretending that such injustices do not exist. Or we can stand up and take note. We can think our homes small as we peruse the paper’s real estate section and say we don’t live in palace like Pharaoh’s daughter so how can her example apply to us? Or we can realize that our homes, and our privileges, and our luxuries, are far more than what billions of people throughout the world, and the millions in our nation, have and therefore take a cue from this unnamed princess. Rather than raise our voices, we can quietly help others.

Rise up. Take note. There is at least one soul that we can save. And even though your name might likewise remain unrecorded the book that soul writes might very well change the world.

May we find the strength to rise up and take note.

Eternal Struggles

Leon Wieseltier writes:

There are problems and there are struggles. Problems have solutions; struggles have outcomes. Problems are technical; struggles are historical. Problems recur; struggles persist. Problems teach impatience; struggles teach patience. Problems are fixed; struggles are fought. Problems require skill; struggles require character. Problems demand knowledge; struggles demand wisdom. Problems may end; struggles may not end. A problem that does not end is a defeat or a failure; a struggle that does not end is a responsibility and a legacy.

We turn to the Book of Exodus. It details our enslavement in Egypt and then our miraculous rescue from slavery. And yet our freedom does not end the institution of slavery. In fact, the Bible’s record is mixed. Even though the injustice and cruelty of the Israelites’ slavery are remedied, slavery continues.

The Bible details laws about how one must treat slaves. Hebrew slaves are accorded more rights than others. We read, “When you acquire a Hebrew slave, that person shall serve six years—and shall go free in the seventh year, without payment.” (Exodus 21) Slavery endures. It was not eradicated with the Exodus. Its abolition remains our sacred task.

Likewise, the civil war did not end discrimination against African Americans. Racism continues. The defeat of Nazi tyranny did not eliminate the hatred of Jews and Judaism. Antisemitism gains new life in our own day.

These are struggles that span generations. Wieseltier counsels that our error is treating these as problems for which we can find practical—or technological—fixes rather than girding ourselves for life-long fights. I ponder his advice.

Does this new-found revelation lead to despair? World War II was only a battle? The Civil War a skirmish? The magnitude of these struggles can lead to a despondent spirit. Where can I discover a measure of hopefulness?

History’s timeline is long and its struggles are mighty. I recognize that I may not see the day when slavery ends. I may not witness antisemitism eradicated. I may never behold a time when war and bloodshed cease.

Their absence remains my hope. The fight against discrimination, antisemitism and violence must forever remain our struggles.

This is why patience and character are the most necessary of requirements.

Reverend Martin Luther King Jr thundered:

Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of .brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

Now is still the time. Now will forever be the time.

The dream continues. The struggle endures.

The responsibility is eternal.

Our True Jewish Identity

The English term Jew originates in the Hebrew Yehudi, meaning from the tribe of Judah. This week we read, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet; so that tribute shall come to him, and the homage of peoples be his.” (Genesis 49)

Judah was one of Jacob’s eldest sons. Each of these sons gave birth to one of the twelve tribes. Some 3,000 year ago, after the death of King Solomon, the northern kingdom of Israel, comprising the territory of ten of these tribes, was conquered by the Assyrians, which led to their absorption into the Assyrian empire or their integration into the southern kingdom. This southern kingdom of Judah was formed by the combination of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin. Eventually the tribe of Benjamin was likewise absorbed and thus Judah’s descendants came to dominant the ancient landscape and the future Jewish story.

To be a Jew is to trace one’s lineage or connection to this tribe of Judah. To be Jewish is perhaps a different matter. It can be at times confusing and confounding.

George Santos, our rightfully embattled incoming representative, contorts the term, and defames those who take pride in their Jewish identities as well as those who believe honesty—at least about oneself—is a prerequisite to service, to mean that he is only somewhat Jewish. He appears to believe that an invented biographical detail about having one Jewish grandparent allows him to make a partial claim on being a Jew.

Can one’s Jewish identity be partial?

For millennia we have debated the meaning of these terms and argued about our identities. (This controversy did not start with Santos!) What does being Jewish mean? What does saying, “I am a Jew!” convey?

We can hear our brethren suggesting that some people are members of the tribe and others are not. In today’s Israel, these debates will soon emerge anew, and we will once again fight (and I expect, vociferously) about who is a Jew. Ultra-Orthodox rabbis will argue that only a person who is born to a Jewish mother or converted to Judaism according to the strictures of Jewish law should be welcomed as an immigrant in the State of Israel.

I have sometimes been called to attest to such matters. Recently I was asked to affirm the Jewish identity of a student who is making aliya and moving to Israel. I had to state that his mother is Jewish. I did so happily. And yet, this definition feels unsatisfactory. The rabbis authored this innovation some 2,000 years ago at a time when the mother’s identity was clear, but the father’s might be more difficult to ascertain. When Roman soldiers, for example, raped Jewish women, the rabbis’ decision to trace one’s lineage from the father to the mother was an act of compassion. It brought people into the community who otherwise would have been written out.

Now it may have the oppositive effect.

Recognizing this, the Reform movement shifted the emphasis from birth to practice in the 1980’s. It proclaimed that if someone has one Jewish parent and identifies as a Jew, they should be considered Jewish. And while this definition makes it more difficult to size people up and makes what was once a clear and decisive line gray, it is more in keeping with who we really are.

To be a Jew is about what we do. We are defined by our actions. Maybe we should spend less time sizing other people up and more time thinking about how we want to assert our own Jewish identities.

In Abraham’s time the term used was not “Yehudi—Jew” but instead, “Ivri—Hebrew”. This word is more about what defined Abraham rather than about his birth father or mother. Ivri comes from the term to cross over. Abraham and Sarah moved from Ur to the land of Canaan. He travelled from one place to another. Why?

Because God called to him and commanded him to go. In response, he moved to a better place. He found there a life of meaning—or perhaps he found this on the way. He took matters into his own hands. And he was defined by his journey.

Our Jewish identities might begin with what our parents give us (or they may not), but they must always be defined by what we do. It is not enough to call ourselves a Jew, or a member of the tribe. We must seek instead to move the world as Abraham’s journey did. We must be called Jew by the noble actions we perform.

Only then will tribute come to us and the homage of peoples be ours.