Do Your Own Laundry!

Parents often tell their young children, “One day you are going to have to do your own laundry and I will no longer do it for you.” Or “One day I am not going to pick you up at your friend’s house and you are going to have to get home on your own.” Or “One day you are going to have to learn how to cook for yourself (and then you can complain to yourself about dinner).”

Hidden in such statements is the notion that as children grow older, they need to gain more independence and assume even greater responsibility. Parents are not intended to keep doing things for them. Rather, our children are supposed to learn how to do more and more things for themselves.

Likewise, God instructs the Israelites: “You shall not act at all as we now act here, each of us as we please, because you have not yet come to the allotted haven that Adonai your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 12)

The wilderness experience in the Sinai desert is akin to childhood. The Israelites had to learn how to do things for themselves so that when they finally arrive in the Promised Land, they will be able to build a nation for themselves. And yet, the Bible is a record of the Israelites’ failure to live up to this promise. The people get to the land, but do not in a sense ever grow up. In fact, almost as soon as they arrive and achieve victory over the land’s inhabitants, they are defeated.

Read the Book of Judges as but one example. “Then the Israelites did what was offensive to God and God delivered them into the hands of the Midianites for seven years.” (Judges 6). And the parent retorts, “I told you I was not going to do that for you anymore. That is why you don’t have any clean underwear. You are going to have to do the laundry yourself!”

The question remains. How do we teach responsibility? Gaining a driver’s license is not the same as being a capable driver. Reading the owner’s manual (or watching the YouTube video) is not the same as doing the laundry yourself. Ordering from Door Dash is not the same as knowing how to cook.

Responsibility is taught bit by bit. So, start at a young age.

The parent offers, “Help me prepare dinner tonight. Wash the lettuce. Peel the carrots.” Help me do the laundry. “Separate the whites from the colors.”

Teaching independence and responsibility is a long, arduous, and perhaps never-ending, process. The Bible suggests this task is never completed. The lesson is never fully realized. Our sacred text is a record of the people learning, and forgetting, and then relearning responsibility.

We may arrive at the Promised Land, but we never fully learn how to do it all for ourselves. Then again, as soon as we learn how to do it ourselves, we often become blinded by our successes, and forget how to do things on our own.

Parents, take comfort in the Bible’s stories. Even God is an imperfect parent.

Gain strength from God’s example.

Keep at it. Bit by bit.

Never lose faith in the lesson’s importance.

Walk the Walk

We are familiar with the command to love God. We recite these words every time we gather for services. The Shema states: “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.”

The Torah also commands us to hold fast to God. (Deuteronomy 11) The mystics spin mountains of interpretation about this concept of devekut—literally clinging to God. They believe that we should grow so close to God that we become one with God. We should lose ourselves in the Almighty.

Look at the words of the popular prayer, Lecha Dodi, composed by the kabbalist Shlomo Halevi Alkebetz in sixteenth century Safed: “Enter in peace, O crown of your husband; enter in gladness, enter in joy. Come to the people that keeps its faith. Enter, O bride! Enter, O bride! (Bo-i challah! Bo-i challah!)”. Shabbat is the bride and Israel is her husband.

The imagery is clear. Our love for Shabbat is consummated as the sun sets on Friday evening. There is a mystical union. We cling to God.

And while I understand this concept and appreciate the tradition, I pause before this mysticism. Lose the self? Cling to God? It appears too ethereal and not of this world. It seems, and you will forgive me, too clingy. The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Hasidic movement, rescues the mysticism of his Kabbalistic forebears. He brings their mysticism down to earth and suggests a teaching that resonates.

The Baal Shem Tov asks: “Is it possible to cling to God? Is God not a consuming fire? As Torah writes elsewhere, ‘For the Lord your God, is a consuming fire.’” He answers his own question. “Rather, adhere to God’s attributes. Just as God is compassionate, so too, you should be compassionate etc.”

He notes that getting too close to God is dangerous. In fact, history is filled with examples of mystics whose zeal consume not only themselves but their followers. (Sabbatai Zvi!) Instead, the Baal Shem Tov teaches us to cling to God’s example. God visits Abraham when he is recovering from illness. Visit the sick. God buries Moses. Attend funerals. Make sure couples dance at their weddings.

When we dance, when we mourn, when we offer comfort, we cling to God’s attributes. Our actions become Godly. Our behavior can become Godly.

Imitate God. Follow God’s example.

The Torah makes this point clear. It urges us to walk in God’s ways. Spend time here, not up there. Devote yourselves to this earth and this moment.

Walk the walk.

The Zionist Dream Is Endangered

Today is the saddest day in the Jewish calendar. Tisha B’Av marks the destruction of the Temple. In 70 CE the Romans destroyed the Temple, leveled Jerusalem, and exiled our people from the land of Israel. Our hopes for a restoration of Jewish sovereignty became the stuff of messianic hopes, heartfelt prayers, and far off dreams.

That is until the nineteenth century when Zionists began arguing that we should no longer wait for a messiah but take matters into our own hands. We began to return to the land of Israel first in small numbers and then in great waves of immigration. And a mere seventy-five years ago, our dream was realized. The State of Israel was born. Our sovereignty restored.

This week is filled with sadness for the Jewish people. The Zionist dream is in peril. Our sovereignty corrupted. A Jewish and democratic State of Israel is in danger.

For months (29 weeks and counting!) countless Israelis have protested against the government’s proposal to overhaul the judicial system. The majority agree that the system is in need of reform, but they oppose the government’s proposals. The coalition’s recent vote to eliminate the “reasonableness” doctrine and its future proposals to exert even more control over the Supreme Court will erode Israel’s democratic character.

A democracy requires an independent judiciary. Absent a constitution, Israel’s judges serve as the only check against government officials’ power. This is why a majority of Israelis oppose Prime Minister Netanyahu’s judicial overhaul. In essence they trust the justices more than they have faith in Netanyahu and his coalition partners.

Rabbi Daniel Gordis notes, “The political crisis in Israel is no longer about being in favor of the judicial reform the Netanyahu government pledged to enact, or about opposing it. It is no longer about law; it is about the almost complete erosion of any trust millions of citizens have in the government.” (The Atlantic)

Too many in Netanyahu’s ruling coalition, most especially the ultra-Orthodox partners and the zealous settler radicals (what else should one call someone like Itamar Ben-Gvir who the Israeli army rejected because of his racist extremism?) care little for Israel’s founding democratic principles. Make no mistake, their actions are not about putting forward a slightly controversial bill, but instead about changing how Israel is governed. They think little about guaranteeing the rights of minorities.

Democracies are not so much about majority rule but instead about ensuring the rights of all citizens. They are about protecting dissenters with as much vigor as rulers. Listen to the words of Menachem Begin, the founder of Netanyahu’s own Likud party, “We have learned that an elected parliamentary majority can be an instrument in the hands of a group of rulers and act as camouflage for their tyranny.” (The Israel Democracy Institute)

This is why air force pilots have been heard saying they will not serve a dictatorship. The government’s actions threaten Israel’s security. Its security is built first and foremost on unity, most especially between the government’s leaders and the IDF’s commanders.

When the Temple was destroyed the rabbis turned inward. They did not blame the Romans as much as they castigated themselves for their own demise. They told a fanciful story about how the wrong person received a party invitation and showed up to the festivities only to discover that he was unwanted. The host had him forcibly removed. The other party goers, including the rabbis in attendance, stood by and did nothing. (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b)

In his anger the unwanted guest went straight to the Roman authorities, spinning tales of how the Jews conspired against them. He set a trap for his fellow Jews to convince the Romans of the Jews’ disloyalty. The trap hinged on a matter of Jewish law. Unable to see beyond the strictures of their tradition, Jewish leaders chose to offend the authorities rather than compromise their halachah. The Romans became enraged when the offense was uncovered. And they did what Romans did.

Jerusalem was destroyed.

What was the name of the unwanted party goer? Bar Kamza. And the name of the friend who was supposed to get the invite? Kamza. The differences between a Kamza and Bar Kamza, between a friend and enemy are small indeed. The tale makes clear. There were so many opportunities for compromise. There were so many missed opportunities to avoid disaster.

This can be a moment for introspection and repair. The rabbis understood that we are one people. They taught that when we fight among ourselves, we leave the door open for our destruction. They believed that our tragedy was sown by sinat chinam, baseless hatred between Jews.

The enemy can be us.

“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem!” (Psalm 122)

The Longer the Journey, the Better the Blues

To travel from Mount Sinai to the edge of the Promised Land takes eleven days. (Deuteronomy 1)

Why did the Israelites take nearly 40 years? Because they doubted God. If they had faith, their journey from slavery to freedom, from subjugation by Pharaoh to ruling their own lives, would have been a brief trip.

Instead, it was a lengthy journey filled with struggle and loss. No one who left Egypt entered the land of Israel, save Joshua and Caleb.

It is not the direct path that writes history. It is the unplanned, and circuitous routes that provide us with the stories, and turns, and meaning that comprise our Torah.

Rebecca Solnit writes in her beautiful book, A Field Guide to Getting Lost:

People look into the future and expect that the forces of the present will unfold in a coherent and predictable way, but any examination of the past reveals that circuitous routes of change are unimaginably strange…. The music called the blues is as good an example as any of the unlikely, the evolution of African music in the southeastern American landscape, inflected by slavery and exposure to the English language, European instruments and perhaps Scottish, and English ballads—the passionate melancholy of murder ballads and songs about abandoned maidens and bloody revenges.

Had the journey only taken eleven days, had the Israelites not spent so much time losing faith and getting lost, there would be no Torah.

Willie Dixon adds, and as Howlin’ Wolf made famous:

It could be a spoonful of diamond
It could be a spoonful of gold
Just a little spoon of your precious love
Satisfy my soul

From every struggle comes some great Torah—and some wonderful music.

It Starts with Our Leaders

“Moses spoke to the heads of the Israelite tribes.” (Numbers 30)

This is an unusual formulation. In most instances the Torah states, “Moses spoke to the people.” (Numbers 31) Why does Moses speak to the tribal heads rather than the people?

Perhaps the answer can be discerned in this portion’s details about making vows. The Hatam Sofer, a leading rabbi in nineteenth century Germany, asks this very same question. He suggests the law is directed to leaders because people in public office are often tempted to make promises that they cannot keep. It is as if to say, “Be on guard of the words and promises you make—most especially if you are a leader.”

In a few weeks we will mark Tisha B’Av, the day in which we commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem’s Temple. Until the modern period and its Holocaust, this fast day marked the Jewish people’s greatest tragedy. The loss of the Temple, the destruction of Jerusalem and the slaughter of so many Jews is still remembered at Jewish weddings by the breaking of the glass.

The rabbis asked why this tragedy happened to us. It was of course the Romans, and prior to that the Babylonians, who destroyed the first and second Temples. Still the rabbis engaged in wrenching introspection to uncover how the Jewish people might be at fault for their own demise. They suggest that it was because of baseless hatred of one Jew for another. The seeds of our destruction were sown by how we screamed and yelled at each other.

The rabbis believed in argument and especially passionate debate. They taught that truth can only emerge when we openly argue and debate with one another. We read: “Any debate that is for the sake of heaven, its end will continue; but that which is not for the sake of heaven, its end will not continue. What is a debate for the sake of heaven? The debate between Rabbis Hillel and Shammai. And a debate that is not for the sake of heaven? The debate of Korah and his entire band of rebels.” (Avot 5)

There is a fine line between a positive and negative argument. It rests in how we approach those with whom we disagree. The rabbis offer us an important insight. While we might be strengthened by debate, we are weakened by tribal divisions. When we debate, we must ask, are we arguing so that truth might emerge? Or are we arguing instead to draw divisions between us?

This is why Moses speaks to the tribal heads.

Our nation is a confederation of different tribes and disparate identities. Our destruction is sown when we see our own tribal identity as the whole.

Our very survival depends on how our leaders argue and debate. It rests on how leaders speak to one another. It is secured in seeing beyond a single tribe.

Yearning to Breathe Free

I am thinking about Emma Lazarus. She is the American Jewish poet whose words are etched on the Statue of Liberty. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” Her words remain a powerful statement of American’s promise.

Emma Lazarus was raised in privilege. She descended from America’s first Jewish settlers and belonged to New York’s fabled Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue. Her father owned sugar refineries and was among this country’s early Sephardic elite. He counted among his friends the Vanderbilts and Astors. She learned with private tutors and studied German and French so that she could better assimilate into cultured society.

The rise of antisemitism in the 1880’s convinced her that she needed to do more. She ventured away from her society friends and worked with Russian refugees fleeing pogroms. She volunteered with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. She struggled with how her circumstances differed so dramatically from others’ experiences, most especially her fellow Jews.

She believed that America’s foundation is built on welcome.

We are a nation of immigrants.140 years ago Emma Lazarus penned “The New Colossus” reaffirming our our country’s founding principles.

This week we celebrated July 4th. 247 years ago our nation’s founders signed the Declaration of Independence. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

And yet these rights are not as self-evident as our founders proclaimed. The Declaration’s signers only imagined these rights for men, and not women, for Whites, and not enslaved Blacks.

If we wish these rights to become evident for all then every generation must take up the struggle again, and again, and again. They must renew the declaration’s promise. They must recommit to making these rights more apparent and even more clear.

There are those who wish to march our nation backward rather than forward. There are those who wish to obscure the promise hidden between the Declaration of Independence’s lines.

This week our portion is named for a man who wishes to pull the Israelites backward. Pinchas is a zealot who killed his fellow Jews because they strayed from his exacting vision. The portion’s import, however, is found later. It is discovered in five women: Mahlon, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah. They are the daughters of Zelophahad who argue that their inheritance should be equal to a man’s.

They declare, “Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27)

It is not zealotry that wins the day but reason and logic. The zealot wishes to turn the clock back. The thinker looks forward. She uses reason. Where others see only white spaces between the lines, she sees opportunity for the promise to become even more fulfilled.

It may not have been imagined in their own day, but it is there. Emma Lazarus saw it. We must do so as well. She understood that our nation’s promise is not about about holding on to privilege. It is instead found in welcome.

What made Emma Lazarus walk from her storied Union Square apartment to the teeming slums of Ward’s Island? We will never know what caused her to see America’s hope not in her family’s success but instead in those immigrants’ misery. We can know this.

It began with leaving her apartment.

Let all breathe free!

A Leader’s Empathy

This week it is Moses’ turn. His frustration reaches a boiling point. The people are complaining again. This time it is about the lack of water. God offers a miracle and instructs Moses to stand before the people and command the rock to bring forth water. Instead, Moses hits the rock and shouts, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (Numbers 20)

Because of this Moses is punished. He will now not be allowed to enter the promised land. He will only take the people to the edge of the land. It will be up to Joshua to lead them across the border. There is great debate among Jewish commentators about Moses’ sin. They argue about what he did to deserve such a punishment.

Some suggest it was because he hit the rock. Others say it was because he did not listen to God’s command. A few believe it was because he castigated the people and distanced himself from them when calling them rebels. The Torah remains indecisive. It is clear that Moses will not lead the people into the land. The why remains a mystery.

And that mystery leads me to wonder. Perhaps Moses’ actions were not about anger but instead about guilt. Korah and his band of rebels were Levites. They were from Moses’ tribe and in essence were family. And now they are dead. Does Moses feel guilty that his leadership has cost people their lives? Is he distraught that the promises he made to the Israelites will not come to pass? Is he frustrated with the God who chose him?

Of course, he can blame the Israelites who are deserving of blame. They never stop complaining! They lose faith in God. They question Moses at what must seem like every turn. But Moses is no ordinary leader. He is a prophet and not the typical person.

Their failures become his own. Moses blames himself. He is overcome by guilt. He is filled with empathy for the people he leads. It is as if he says to God, “If they cannot go into the land, then I do not deserve to go into the land as well. Let their fate be mine.”

Janus Korczak was a well-known physician and educator living in Poland when Nazi Germany invaded. Eventually he, and his colleague, Stefa Wilczyńska, were forced to move their children’s school to the Warsaw Ghetto. Before the ghetto was liquidated, friends offered to help save Janus and Stefa, but they and their staff decided to stay with the children and not save themselves. They and the children were murdered at Treblinka in the summer of 1942.

The children’s fate became the teachers’ destiny.

The leader, and most especially the prophet, shares, and feels, the pain of the people. Moses hits the rock because he is so aggrieved about his people’s pain. (This is the is the same man who years earlier killed a taskmaster when he was beating an Israelite slave.) He is once again pained by their sufferings. His heart is overwhelmed by their lamentations.

His sin is not an act of anger. It is not even a sin. It is instead an expression of pain.

Empathy for others overwhelms him.

Janus Korczak teaches: “I exist not to be loved and admired, but to love and act. It is not the duty of those around me to love me. Rather, it is my duty to be concerned about the world, about man.”

Empathy for others is all consuming.

The people’s fate becomes the leader’s destiny.

Look to Future for Hope

This week the Israelites’ complaining reaches a crescendo. A rebellion ensues. Korah and his followers question Moses’ leadership. God sides with Moses and kills the rebels.

On the one hand, I am sympathetic to Korah’s complaints and even his critiques of Moses. He shouts: “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) Korah suggests that Moses is no longer as humble as a leader should be. Humility is a necessary quality for effective leadership.

Korah’s frustration is understandable. Last week we learned that his generation will not enter the promised land. Because the people believed the scouts’ negative reports, they are destined to die in the wilderness. Imagine the rebels’ distress. Moses urged them to leave Egypt with the assurance that soon after their rescue from slavery they would be able to build new lives in their own land, the land of Israel.

And now that promise is no more. Their lot is going to be years of wandering. Their lives will be marked by struggle.

Their children will taste the promised land. They will only know the struggles freedom entails.

On the other hand, the rebels’ complaints go too far. Not only do they lose faith in God, and trust in Moses’ leadership, they appear to view Egypt as the promised land. They say, “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?” Their statements are divorced from fact. Egypt was not a land of bounty, but instead one of servitude and oppression.

Here is where we discover the rebels’ sin. And, we begin to understand why God’s punishment was so harsh. They saw Egypt, and not Israel, as a land flowing with milk and honey. The rebels mythologize the past. They come to believe that even a tortuous past filled with slavery is better than the promise, and hope, of a better future for their children.

When we mythologize the past, we obscure the future’s promise. Too often we say things like, “Kids today don’t…. When I was young, we knew how to…” When we utter such words, we forget that progress goes hand in hand with change. And change can be unnerving.

Of course, there are problems today. Of course, some of today’s challenges appear solvable when looking back in the rearview mirror. When we hold on to the past too tightly, we forget the problems of yesterday. The 1950’s, for example, did not face the challenges of social media, or the worries about climate change, but they also did not benefit from the welcome successes of women’s rights or enjoy the advancements the computer age has offers.

We can, and should, look to the past for wisdom, but not for hope. Why? Because we cannot go back in time. Instead, we must look to the future with hope. It is in the promise of a better tomorrow for which we must fasten our dreams.

The rabbis suggest we will be asked several questions when we approach heaven. Among these is the question, “Did you have hope in the future?” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a)

Sure, it is easier to look back. Nostalgia is a powerful drug. But the future is the only direction we can travel. It is all that stands before us. And hope is the only thing that will steer us right.

Look back for wisdom. Look forward for hope.

Take Less Selfies!

A few years ago, Susie and I visited Mystic Seaport. It was not a planned getaway. We had spent a few days with family in Provincetown and had arrived several hours early for our return ferry to Orient Point. We walked through town and made our way to the 100-year-old Mystic River Bascule Bridge. There, I struggled to take a selfie of Susie and me. After several attempts of trying to make my arm longer, a twenty-something year old walked over and asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you?” “Yes, please,” we said in unison.

We are not of the selfie generation. We are far more comfortable turning the camera outward. Does this make us old? Yes, absolutely. Does this make us wise? Perhaps.

In my seventh-grade class, I give students the opening minutes to hang out, enjoy each other’s company, and eat pizza. In those first few moments I discover what is going on in their lives. They share what they are doing in school and what after school activities they are involved in. They often talk about what they are excited about and in addition, what they are worried about.

They also often spend time on their iPhones. (Once the lesson begins their phones must be placed on another table.) They play games and take pictures of themselves. They examine the pictures to determine which is the most flattering. They ask their friends to weigh in. “Do I look better in this picture or that one?” One time, I somewhat innocently asked, “Is there ever a day when you don’t take a picture of yourself?” The students looked at me incredulously. “No, rabbi!”

I found their candid admission revelatory. How does the world look if it is filled with so many pictures of ourselves? What effect do all these selfies have on our children? What happens to self-esteem when people worry too much about how they appear to others?

In the Torah we discover a similar dilemma. Moses sends twelve scouts to reconnoiter the land before the Israelites are set to march across the border. Joshua and Caleb return with positive reports. The remaining ten suggest that the land is filled with giants and that there is no way the people will succeed in conquering the land of Canaan. They conclude, “And we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13)

How could they possibly now how they appeared to the Canaanites? They could not. And yet their worry with how they look, their obsession with how they appear to others, distracts them from their God given mission. The Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, imagines God asking, “Why are you so concerned about how you look in the eyes of the Canaanites, to the point that it distracts you from your sacred task?”

When we turn inward too much, we lose sight of not only what is happening around us but the needs of those around us. Our sacred task is to better our world, to ease the pain of those closest to us as well as lift them even higher when they rejoice. (You cannot hoist yourself in a chair for the hora!). If we worry about how we appear to others, we forget about the needs of others.

From where can we draw strength?

The Psalmist teaches: “I turn my eyes to the mountains;/ from where will my help come?/ My help comes from the Lord,/ maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121)

Turn the camera outward. Look to the world for inspiration. And there find God’s light.

My favorite photographer is Neil Folberg. I discovered his work years ago when I wandered into his studio. His black and white photographs appear to shine with color. I admire how light dances among the trees.

I wonder if the solution is simple and staring back at us. Use the selfie button less.

A stranger offered help. And she captured the best picture.

It is the response of others and the response to others that makes our world whole.

Manna and Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory

I own many cookbooks but rarely look to them for guidance. More often than not I prefer to garner recipe hints from the internet. Perhaps it is because they are not as frequently adorned with beautiful pictures that are impossible to emulate. The imagination of the meal rarely lives up to the reality.

And when it comes to food our imaginations do not always live up to our expectations. What we want to eat is not always what we can have.

I have been wondering as perhaps only a rabbi might why the Israelites complain so much about food. God provides them with manna. Our tradition suggests that this God-given sustenance tasted like whatever someone wanted it to taste like. “It tasted like rich cream.” (Numbers 11) the Torah offers. What more could they want? God gives them ice cream at every meal. And yet they cry, “If only we had meat to eat!”

How can this be? They never even tasted meat. The Israelites testify against themselves. “We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.” How can they crave something they never even tasted? Are they imagining the meals they were forced to serve to their Egyptian taskmasters? Did they think freedom is synonymous with luxury? “We want what they have!”

I find myself singing, “There is no life I know/ To compare with pure imagination/ Living there, you'll be free/ If you truly wish to be.” In Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (and I mean the version with Gene Wilder not the one with Johnny Depp), we learn many things. Everyone is overcome by desire. (Charlie’s lapse is rescued by his honesty.)

God responds to the Israelites’ complaints by providing them with a month’s supply of quail. And like Violet who blows up like a giant blueberry, they eat so much they become sick. Some commentators suggest that they were so overcome with “gluttonous craving” that they did not even bother to cook the meat and ate it immediately after slaughtering the birds. Their desires overwhelm their bellies.

Sometimes we imagine ourselves to be starving when we are not. Who among us has known true hunger or starvation? Still, we persist in describing ourselves as famished. “I am so hungry I could eat a horse!” Or more simply, “I am starving.” Even though I have said the latter on many occasions, such phrases are an insult to those who have experienced hunger and starvation. Our imaginations overwhelm our appetites.

And yet imagination is the secret ingredient to every meal. It is where the meal begins for the cook. “What will dinner look like? Could this lunch be great?” Imagination is where the meal finds its union with taste. Does it evoke remembrances? “It is almost like my grandmother’s.” Or does the meal open up new possibilities? “I did not think asparagus could taste so good.”

Jose Andres writes: Food is not just fuel! Food is history, culture, politics, art. It is nourishment for the soul. The simple fact of life is that we will be eating two or three meals a day every day until we die. We should all be experts at eating.” (Vegetables Unleashed: A Cookbook)

The Torah imagines God provides our food. “The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes.” It also hints that more rests in our own hands than we originally thought. The people had to work to transform the manna. Its taste is unleashed by their preparations. Manna provides not only sustenance but rich taste. Who does not like rich cream? Manna is like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

Is the meal miraculously transformed? Or is it instead our hands that transform it?

Too often we think the secret of every meal is desire. “I want steak!” Instead, the secret is imagination. Do we believe we are content? Do we have faith we are sated?

Can we imagine a meal that is manna worthy?

Can we work to create nourishment for the soul as well as the body?

Let’s Bless Like Tevye

In Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye blesses his daughters with the familiar words:

May the Lord protect and defend you.
Favor them, oh Lord, with happiness and peace.
Oh, hear our Sabbath prayer. Amen.

The 1964 Broadway show, written by Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick, is based on the Yiddish writer Sholom Aleichem’s story, Tevye the Dairyman, published in 1894. Songs such as “If I Were a Rich Man” and “Tradition” belie the more melancholy tone of Aleichem’s original story. Although in both our hero’s shtetl is destroyed, there are crucial differences. In particular, in the Broadway musical the family heads to Amerika; in the original story, the family makes plans to journey to the land of Israel.

The show’s conclusion affirms American Jews’ faith in their adopted land. Sholom Aleichem’s story ends with more questions than answers. The village is destroyed. Our exile persists. The State of Israel’s creation is then only a distant hope. Antisemitism and persecution remain regular features of our existence.

Too often such differences remain hidden. And yet the choices they represent begin to take form. Do we wish to keep on singing and dancing as Tevye does on stage? Do we wish to have our commitments affirmed? Or do wish to turn through the pages of the book? Do we wish to leave with new challenges placed before us?

Tevye’s blessing is based on the priestly benediction found in this week’s Torah portion:

Lord, bless you and protect you!
Lord, deal kindly and graciously to you!
Lord, bestow favor upon you and grant you peace! (Numbers 6)

Again, our association with these words is different than how the tradition has ritualized them. We believe that the priestly blessing is something that the rabbi recites. And it remains my greatest privilege to bless bnai mitzvah students with these words, as well as newborn babies and wedding couples, especially those who I have known since their earliest days. (Mazel tov!)

The tradition, however, urges parents to recite these words. They are to offer this blessing to their children (and even grandchildren) on Shabbat and holidays. Every week, parents place their hands on their children’s heads and recite these ancient words. It is a ritualized way of saying, “I love you.”

And while Tevye could not control his fate, or his children’s decisions for that matter, and while we are not likewise masters of our own destinies, or of our children’s paths as well, we do hold the power of blessing in our own hands.

Don’t rely so much on me. Instead rely on yourselves.

We can always add more blessing to our lives. We can always bless those we love.

Read a Book, Read the Book—Be Challenged

Moses Maimonides died in 1204 and was buried in Fustat, Egypt. Later he was reinterred in Tiberias, Israel. He is considered the greatest Jewish scholar who ever lived. People continue to visit his grave and pay homage to his influence and scholarship.

Two of his works are often cited. His fourteen-volume compendium of Jewish law, Mishneh Torah, and his philosophical treatise, The Guide of the Perplexed, continue to hold sway over Jewish thought.  He is so influential that Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “If one did not know that Maimonides was the name of a man, one would assume it was the name of a university.” Like many of my colleagues, I continue to turn to his writings for guidance.

It therefore might come as a surprise to learn that in the last years of his life, and following his death, his thinking and writing, were steeped in controversy. Fellow scholars found his suggestion that the Mishneh Torah was so comprehensive that it would render the rabbinic profession obsolete and threaten their livelihood. He argued that rabbis should not make their living as rabbis but should instead earn money through other vocations. Maimonides was a physician. Teaching Torah should only be done out of love for Torah.

Even more controversial was his attempt to synthesize traditional views with philosophical teachings. How do we reconcile tradition with contemporary ideas was Maimonides’ overarching question. He was enamored of Greek thought, and in particular the writings of Aristotle. Maimonides’ contemporaries leaned on ancient Greek philosophy. He discovered Aristotle from Muslim philosophers. When The Guide of the Perplexed was translated from Arabic to Hebrew, many traditional rabbis were aghast. In 1232 the leading rabbis of France issued a ban on The Guide, as well as the philosophical introduction to the Mishneh Torah.

In that same year Catholic leaders took up the cause of this anti-Maimonidean camp and burned his books. The traditionalists soon realized that their arguments had gone too far. The objections dissipated. The disagreements by and large died down. Over the centuries a compromise took hold. Study the tradition first. After sufficient mastery of these subjects, one can then dwell on philosophical writings. The banning of Maimonides’ writings was not attempted again.

The struggle continues. How do we reconcile contemporary thinking with traditional teachings?

This evening begins Shavuot, the holiday that marks the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. 

There are many passages in this holy Torah that I find unsettling. God condones violence. There are others I find objectionable. God forbids homosexual relations. There are more than a few that have stirred my soul since the day I first discovered them. God commands, “Love the stranger.” If I were to judge the Torah by the verses with which I disagree, I might urge banning it. I might suggest that no young b’nai mitzvah students should ever read its words or ponder its implications.

On this Shavuot I recommit myself to the study of Torah. I find inspiration in its challenges.  

In doing so, I also recommit to reading books and pondering their meaning. 

The point, of reading, and studying, and learning is to be challenged.

And so now, it’s off to the bookstore. I need to purchase Toni Morrison’s Beloved and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.  I need to add them to my reading list.

Every word offers a challenge and an inspiration, every sentence the opportunity for renewed obligation.

Be as Open as the Wilderness

“The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai.” (Numbers 1)

Why did God speak in the wilderness? Why did God choose such a barren place to reveal the Torah?

It is because the wilderness belongs to no one. And wisdom can be claimed by everyone. It is because this barren place is open to all. And knowledge can be found by anyone.

The rabbis add: “Anyone who does not make oneself open to all like a wilderness cannot acquire wisdom and Torah.” (Bamidbar Rabbah 1)

What does it mean to be open to all?

It means that we must remain open to learning from each and every person. If we only learn from one source, then we cannot become wise. If we only read Jewish texts, but do not study secular literature, we do not truly learn. If we only delve into the sciences but do not pore over history’s texts, then we do not become well rounded thinkers. If we, to put it into contemporary language, only watch Fox News or conversely only read The New York Times, we cannot discern the contours of the arguments that animate present society.

It also means that we must foster an openness to others. There are those with whom we love to spend time and others we do not. There are those with whom we disagree and those with whom we agree (most of the time). Are we open to all?

There are those who are Americans and others who are not. There are those who are citizens and others who are migrants. There are those who are Jewish and others who are Christians or Muslims, Hindus or Buddhists, Sikhs or atheists. Are we truly open to each and every person?

Years ago, in the Spring of 1987 to be exact, I traveled to the Sinai. I marveled at its vastness. I was awed by its expansiveness. It was harsh yet beautiful, stark yet majestic. Our Bedouin guide led us through wadis and over mountains. We struggled to keep pace with his even steps. I wondered how his pace never changed. It was consistent despite the terrain. I attempted to mirror his cadence. I discovered a camaraderie in our footsteps.

There was learning to be discerned in this wilderness.

Do we remain open to others, to people who are different than ourselves, who believe not as we do? Do we remain open to ideas other than those beliefs we hold in our own hearts?

How can we be as open and expansive as the wilderness? How can we remain receptive to the Torah that continues to be revealed in such a wide, expansive place?

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.