Dover Emet: Speaking the Truth

Jewish Guilt: It's Optional

2012-01-17T17:19:00.001-08:00

I would like to talk today about guilt, a subject that weJews are self-proclaimed experts on. Why is that? 'Jewish guilt' issomething that we all joke about, something that we all feel bonded over. There are many theories as to why we are so good at guilt. One ofmy favorites is that we, more than many peoples of this world, feel theparticular weight of our history. For us, the past looms large--in theTorah, in our wandering through the world; through our struggles with Crusadersand Cossacks and Nazis through the centuries, we have more than our share ofbaggage to lug through the generations. We also know that we're a part ofa very special people, with very high expectations of ourselves--and that aloneis enough to make us quite neurotic.
It's clear from the Torah that guilt was aroundeven in the earliest days. As we finish the Book of Genesis today, we find thebrothers of Joseph burdened by their past mistreatment of their brother, andfull of fear of Joseph's retribution. We are told that once their father,Jacob, has died, the brothers are particularly terrified of Joseph. Theyjoin together and plead with Joseph, they even fib, saying that before he died,their father Jacob had said that he wanted Joseph to forgive his brothers. Hearinghis brothers talk this way, the Torah tells us, 'Vayevk Yosef b'dabram eilav,'"And Joseph wept hearing them talk like this."
Why did Joseph cry? Most of us hear thisstory, and we think that Joseph is crying because, even after all these yearssince he revealed himself to his shocked brothers, they still don't trust him. They still think that Joseph has been bearing this grudge against themall these years, and the only reason he didn't attack them was that his fatherJacob was still alive. Now, with their father dead, the brothers fearedthat they had no more protection. And so Joseph cried because he saw howthey never believed that Joseph had forgiven them.
But in the Midrash, there's a hint that Joseph'stears are not just his hurt that his brothers still don't trust him. TheMidrash says "Vayar Achei Yosef," "And the brothers saw thattheir father had died..." What did they see now that caused them tofear? They saw that when they returned from the funeral of Jacob, Josephstopped at the pit that they had thrown him in to say the blessing that one isobligated to say at a place where a miracle happened to him...When they sawthis, they said "Now that our father is deceased, we fear that Joseph willhate us and avenge all of the evil that we did to him."
So this Midrash is pointing us to something veryinteresting: it's not that they didn't trust that Joseph had forgiventhem before. But now, says the Midrash, the brothers SAW Joseph lookingdown at that pit that they threw him in all those years ago, and this, justafter he buried his father Jacob. And what are the brothers feeling atthat moment? Guilt. Horrible guilt. They felt guilt because theyknew that their past travesties shortened their father's life. They felt guiltbecause they all remembered what Jacob had said to Pharaoh when he first metPharaoh. Jacob had said, "M'at ura'im hayu shnei y'mei chayay,""Few and hard have been the years of my life, nor do they come up to thespan of my fathers during their sojourns." They all knew that Jacobdied younger than his forefathers. He died younger because he lived forso many years with a broken heart--broken because he thought he had lost hisbeloved son Joseph. At that moment, standing at the pit, the brothers panickedbecause they realized that the final consequence of their dastardly act allthose years before had come to pass: their father died too soon. And Joseph knew it. Joseph knew that if the brothers hadn't been socruel, they would not be burying their father. In short, the brotherswere wracked with guilt. And it was in seeing this guilt that was sodestroying his brothers, in seeing that, Joseph cried.
But in all their guilt, the brothers failed totruly understand that Joseph was a Tzadik, a righteous and very great man. Joseph's response to his brothers' guilt is one of the greatest and mostpowerful lessons in the Torah. He says "Have no fear!" "Kihatachat Elohim Ani?" "Am I a substitute for God? Besides,though you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about thepresent result--'lahachayot 'am rav'--the survival of many people."
Once again, Joseph jolts his brothers with hisunbelievable forgiveness and kindness. 'Hatachat Elohim Ani,'Am I asubstitute for God? In other words, he is saying, Do you really thinkthat I'm in a position to play God with you, and to punish you for your wrongs? All I can tell you is that we experienced what you did to me as somethingterrible at the time, yes. But look what it did, it put me in a positionnot only to save your lives, but countless lives. 'Elohim chashvahletovah,' God intended all that for the good. "V'atah, al tir'u," Sonow, don't be afraid," said Joseph. "I will sustain you andyour children." And then, in a rare literary and descriptive moment, theTorah adds, "vayinachem otam vayidaber al libam," "And Josephcomforted them and spoke [kindly] to their hearts."
Joseph was crying because he saw how guilt wastearing apart his brothers' hearts, and led them to project their worstnightmares onto their brother Joseph. But Joseph comforted them bytelling them that their guilt, and their subsequent fears--while natural--werenot necessary. Joseph was telling his brothers a message that we all needto hear: if you're tearing yourself apart over something that you feelthat you did wrong, something terrible, even something that you feel isunforgivable; just remember one thing: we're not God. We thinkwe're such experts on what was supposed to happen and what was not supposed tohappen. Some of us are so sure that we 'shouldn't have' done whatever wedid, that we will spend the rest of our lives punishing ourselves.
But Joseph was coming from the deepest wisdom ofour tradition. To this day, whenever we experience something bad thathappens, something like death, or any terrible occurrence, we say 'Baruch dayanha'Emet,' Blessed is God, the True Judge; or we can translate it as 'the Judgeof Truth.' What it means is that the Truth, which sometimes plays outover many years, even over many generations, is the Ultimate judge of ouractions. We may think we ????so sure that we did the wrong thing, but we can'tabsolutely know that it 'shouldn't have' happened.
Now of course, this doesn't mean that we shouldn'trecognize our wrong actions, or that we shouldn't attempt to make amends inevery way that we can. No, the brothers did a terrible thing. Andit did cause unspeakable heartache for their father, and it did shorten hislifespan. What Joseph is trying to say is that guilt itself is optional. To this day, many of us actually believe that we should make ourselvesfeel guilty, that we should punish and berate ourselves--because only then willwe be truly penitent. But Joseph shows his brothers that the only thingguilt does is that it destroys our souls, and it makes us paranoid.
Joseph understands something that is trulymystifying to the rest of the brothers: think back to something in yourlife, something that you feel truly guilty over. In the moment that youdid wrong, could you really have done differently, given what you knew, or howyou understood things, or how much insight or understanding you had at thattime? If we really go back and remember, most of us (at least those of uswho are not mentally ill or sociopaths) will realize that we couldn't have doneit differently. Joseph understood this insight so deeply, that even as hewatched his father die as a result of all his grief, he felt no grudge againsthis brothers for their past wrong. He simply didn't bother. Allthat he cared about was what he had with his brothers here and now. Now, hisbrothers understood their wrongdoing. Now, they were alive. Now, hewas in a position to save life, to save 'am rav--countless lives.
And so, Josephs tzedek, his righteousness, is agreat teacher to all of us who sit here now, weighed down by whatever guilts wemay know. His tzedek shows us all that if we feel guilt, we can welcomeit as an important teacher to us. It shows us where we feel that we havedone wrong, where we have made a mistake, where we need to make T'shuvah, tobecome better. We can acknowledge it, we can make amends, and once wehave done that, we're done with it. It's no longer necessary because we're notGod. It's not our job to berate ourselves or others over what we feelguilt about. Our job is simple: to strive to be like Joseph: to learn from the pain of the past, but not to be defined by it. Our job is to derive wisdom from the past, not to be chained to it; ourjob humbly seek to move forward with the insight we have gained. No matter whatwrongs we have done, each moment that we're alive, we have so much power to dogood. May our guilts and our past sufferings indeed be our teachers. May we teach forgiveness by learning first and foremost how to forgiveourselves. And may we, like Joseph before us, use our forgivenesslahachayot 'am rav--for the sake of life, the lives of countless others.

Is it JUST about being Jewish?...

2011-12-07T08:43:00.001-08:00

Every yearat this time, I just can’t get over it. I am amazed at the incredible success of Hanukah in Americanculture. It’s amazing how many shops andrestaurants and homes proudly display menorahs, dreidles, and blue and whitedecorations right alongside Christmas cheer. And I no longer buy into the Jewish angst about the inauthenticity ofHanukah—that it’s only hyped up because of Christmas. I have come to see that, while there ispartial truth in this fear, it’s also true that Hanukah has evolved into atruly American Jewish holiday, one where Jews assert their pride inbeing Jewish especially in the face of Christmas. We’re proudly Jewish, and we have nothing tohide—that’s the brilliant light in the darkness of the American Jewishexperience that Hanukah has become all about, and I’m all for it! I love Hanukah because it works: we American Jews find personal meaning andsignificance in a truly Jewish ritual expression!

I love thesubject of what works and what doesn’t work in Judaism. We can all easily point to aspects of Judaismthat have “made it” in American Jewish life: Hanukah, Passover seders, mezzuzahs, bar mitzvahs. These have all made it because we Jews dothem in large numbers, and many of us find these practices really meaningful. And why is that? It’s because all these ritual actions areaffirmations of Jewish identity, of course. America is a place that celebrates our cultural tapestry of ethnic and group identities, and being Jewishis a really meaningful identity to have in this country.

But there’sa question that lurks behind the American Jewish success story: is being proud of our Jewish identity reallyenough? Or is Judaism about somethingmore than that? Of course, the answer tothis depends on whom you ask. For manyof us, Judaism is certainly more than just identity. It has a sacred core, a cannon of brilliantteachings, a system of cherished values and ethics. But for vastly greater numbers of AmericanJews, Judaism doesn’t need to be more than the rituals that affirm our identityas Jews, as a medium of proudly asserting our familial heritage of beingJewish. The deepest question that lurksfor me, then, is: for these vast numbersof proudly Jewish Americans, ought not Judaism be something more,something deeper?

In theTorah today, we read about the extraordinary life’s journey of Yaakov, ofJacob. In many ways, the drama andrichness of Jacob’s life is in stark contrast to the paucity of information wehave about his father Isaac. Other thansurviving the ultimate drama of Abraham’s near sacrificing of him, we actuallyhear very little about Isaac. We learnmostly that Isaac redug the same wells that his father Abraham had dug yearsbefore. And that’s mostly it. But Jacob! He has his ladder, he has epic travels, romance, love triangles,struggles with villains, wrestling with angels! When Jacob dreams of his ladder to heaven, God even says: “Ani AdonaiElohei Avraham avicha v’Elohei Yitzhak:” “I am the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac!” Isaac seems to be chopped liver in this line;the real father of Jacob is Abraham! Isthat really fair? In a way, yes. TheTorah clearly sets up many parallels between Jacob and Abraham that it doesn’tset up with Isaac.

LikeAbraham, Jacob also went on an epic journey in his life from his father’sbirthplace. Abraham journeyed from Haranto the Land of Canaan. Jacob journeyedfrom the Land of Canaan to Haran. Isaac,he never left home. He can’t even leavehome to procure his own bride. Abrahamsends his servant Eliezar to get a bride for Isaac. But Jacob, he goes himself, and finds hisbride all on his own. Abraham had tomuster his own strength and courage, enough to stand up to injustice, even toargue and struggle with God before the destruction of Sodom and Gemorrah. Jacob, too, must muster his own innerstrength and courage. Jacob, too,wrestles with a Divine Being at a pivotal moment in his life. Nothing like this happens with Isaac. He never struggles or argues with God. So all these comparisons suggest that eachPatriarch had a specific role. Abrahamis the first. Isaac’s role was simply tomaintain the traditions that his father had begun. But Jacob, his role is not just to maintaintraditions, he must be like Abraham his reaffirming the core spiritualboldness, courage, and innovation that made Abraham great.

Our sagestells us that Isaac was just like his dad—except for one crucialdifference: he lacked his father’soriginality, his panache, his iconoclasm. And it’s not just that Jacob had the maverick spiritual boldness thatIsaac lacked. Jacob had the unique andparadoxic challenge of affirming both Abraham’s traditions together withAbraham’s innovative spirit. We see thisin another parallel between Jacob and Abraham: they both change theirnames—with one crucial difference. WhenAvram became Avraham, God tells him that this new name is forever more toreplace his old name. When Yaakov becomesYisrael after he wrestles with the angel, God and the Torah keep switching backand forth between the old name and the new name. The symbolism is clear: whereas Avraham represents a total breakwith the past; Yisrael is stillconnected to the former Yaakov; he still maintains the traditions of hisforefathers.

But still,Jacob is an innovator, a chip off grandpa’s old block. The Midrash points out that Jacob was thefirst to make a neder, a spiritual vow before God. In making a vow, he is showing us all how wecan take charge of our own personal relationship to God and to holiness, how wecan forge our own commitments, and that kind of relationship to God had notbeen seen before Jacob. Whereas Isaaconly walked “yachdav” together with his father Avraham, Jacob ‘vayivaterlevado,’ he was left alone on his own path, as Abraham had been as well.

Jacob,then, is the greatest teacher of what it really means to be Jewish. Being Jewish is not just being like Isaac;it’s not just about accessing and digging into our fathers’ wells forcommitment to tradition in each generation. It’s not even just about celebrating Judaism as an intellectual orethical tradition. The truest anddeepest way into Judaism is not through Isaac’s identity alone, but throughJacob’s journey itself. Jacob’sjourney is the journey of finding our own path into the tradition thatwe have been given. It’s not just aboutaffirming customs. It’s not just aboutblind imitation of what our fathers and mothers have done. It’s about living out of the core spirit oforiginality, of boldness and passion and connection to God and to life—whichwas why God chose Abraham in the first place. Its about a willingness to face our angels or our demons even as wetravel our life-path—that’s what Abraham did, and that’s what Jacob affirmed. Even though Jacob, after it was all said anddone, ended up right back in Hevron where his father and grandfather lived, hecame home understanding why he was in this tradition. And his amazing life-story is all the richerbecause of it.

There’s onemore example in our comparison of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob that really drivesthis message home. Abraham, we are told,built altars to God, and it says, “vayikra beShem Adonai,” “he invoked the Nameof God.” True to form, Isaac did just exactly the same thing: he built altars‘vayikra beShem Adonai,” he invoked God’s name. What this means is that they both publicly called out God’s name even inthe pagan world: they taught that therewas one God for anyone to hear. RabbiYitzhak Twersky points out Jacob built altars, but he didn’t do it like justlike Abraham. Of Jacob, the Torah says, “vayatzev sham mizbeach,” “He built…analtar,” “vayikra lo El Elohei Yisrael,” “and he called it El, the God ofIsrael.” (Genesis 33:20). In the Talmud,Rabbi Acha in the name of Rabbi Eliezar explains that this new wording is alsoa hint in the Torah that it wasn’t just Jacob naming an altar in the way hisfathers had done. Now it was God whowas, in fact, ‘vayikra lo’ who called him, El, the name of God! Yes, you heard right: God called him God, because he took thecovenant, the tradition, the commandments, and expressed them in the deepest,truest, most original and unique way of himself. And in that bold assertion of his own uniqueexpression of his relationship with God through the tradition, the Talmud showsus that he was most truly in the image of God!

In this personally authentic way,Jacob was truly Yisrael, and he shows us, his descendants, how to be mostauthentically Jewish for all time. Jacob also poses a great opportunity for us,his Jewish descendants in 20^th-century America. We truly ‘get’ the idea of personal meaningand relevance. And as it turns out, we’re most Jewish when we seek this withinour tradition. But we must ask ourselvessome tough questions: Is my Jewish lifea technology through which I express my most authentic self? Am I experiencing the traditions and ritualsand commandments of my ancestors and living them as more than just affirmationsof my Jewish identity? Is my Judaismjust about my identity, or is it the path on which I journey to discover mymost authentic connection to wisdom and spirit, to life itself? Is it just my family tradition, or is it mygateway to confronting my demons and my angels to guide me to my very bestself? If your answers to any of thesequestions indicate that Judaism is not fully what it could be for you, that’sokay! You have the rest of our life nowreframe Judaism, to live it as a journey to your highest Truth. May we all learn to live not only the courageand faith of Abraham, the traditions and devotion of Isaac, but mostimportantly wisdom and spirit of Jacob, of Yisrael. And may that path help us all to find theImage of God alive in each of us.

The Eyes of God

2011-11-14T07:14:00.000-08:00

Think of any problem in the human condition. Anything. It doesn’t matter what it is. Any war. The Holocaust. The economic crisis. Terrorism. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Global warming. Crime--any crime at all. Any man-made tzuris you can think of. The ultimate solution to the problems of humanity arises out of Parashat Vayera. I know that sounds like a rather over-blown claim. But I mean it. The implications of the story we encounter are that big. I am going to take you through some well-known biblical stories, stories that many of us have strong feelings about. I’m going to ask you to set aside your previous conclusions and judgments of these stories for the next few minutes, and listen to me tell them as if you have never heard them before. I will show us how the great trials of Abraham actually present us with a solution to our deepest human problems, if only we see how it all fits together. I’m going to present a radical re-reading of our texts, an approach that I will show, is the way I believe it’s supposed to be read. According to the Torah. The solution to all our problems begins in a place that is, paradoxically, altogether deep and patently obvious: in our simple willingness to look and to see.

This is Parashat Vayera. Vayera is from the Hebrew verb meaning ‘to see.’ Through the life of Abraham, we learn about when we can “see God,” and when we can’t. The stories we read today have a lot to do with the theme of guests and strangers. Abraham is the great teacher this week about the Mitzvah of Hachnasat Orchim, of welcoming guests to our homes. Abraham, we are told, is so wonderful, so committed to welcoming strangers to his home, that when he sees three strangers passing by his tent, he runs to welcome them, to do everything he can to feed them and make them comfortable—and this, even though he himself has just undergone circumcision without anesthesia! This kind of dedication to welcoming strangers, our sages teach, is what makes Abraham the father of many nations—for him and for Sarah, no one is a stranger in their home! And to make the point even stronger, our sages teach, we have the pitiful contrast between Abraham’s hospitality and Lot’s hospitality. Lot, too, welcomes the same three strangers into his home in Sodom and Gomorrah, but when the local mob wants to have their way with the guests, Lot offers them his own daughter to rape instead, in order to be nice to his guests. Gevalt! How despicable of Lot! He’s nice to strangers, but he’s willing to make his own daughter into less than a stranger, to dehumanize her, and give her to the mob. Disgusting! Thank God for Abraham! If Lot is willing to turn a member of his own household, his own family, into a stranger, thank God for Abraham, where no one is ever a stranger in his tent! There’s only one problem with this neat and tidy contrast between wonderful Abraham and disgraceful Lot: it doesn’t quite work.

You may recall that there is someone who is not treated as well as everyone else, even in Abraham’s tent. In fact, it’s more than one person: it’s Sarah’s handmaiden Hagar and her son—Abraham’s son—Yishma’el. After Isaac, the beloved son, is born, Sarah demands that Yishma’el and his mother be driven out of their home. Abraham is distressed, and God Godself tells Abraham that he should listen to his wife. And so, mother and child are cast off by our beloved Abraham. They are rendered homeless in the desert. When they run out of water, Hagar places her child down to die and she weeps in despair. Until finally, God opens Hagar’s eyes, and she sees a life-giving well to save her and her son in the desert. So the question we are forced to ask ourselves is: how different really is old Father Abraham from Lot? After all, the both warmly welcomed strangers, and yet both were willing to turn members of their own family—their own children--into less than strangers, and to cast them off to oblivion!

Well wait a minute, we might argue. At least Abraham was distressed. And it was none other than God who told Abraham that it was okay to do this, that Yishma’el would eventually be okay! According to our English Chumash, God says “Do not be distressed over the boy or your slave; whatever Sarah tells you, do as she says...as for the [boy], I will make a nation of him, too, for he is your seed.” Lot had no such assurances when he offered up his own daughter! Well, God didn’t necessarily say what our English translation says. If we look very carefully at the Hebrew where God purportedly tells Abraham to send Hagar and Yishma’el away, it doesn’t say that at all! If you translate the Hebrew literally, God says ‘Al yerah b’einecha al hana’ar v’al amatecha,’ literally: “Don’t do what’s evil in your eye upon that boy and your handmaiden.” God goes on, “Ki asher tomar eilecha Sarah shma b’kolah,” “For whatever Sarah shall say to you, Listen to her voice.” Let’s put this in regular English: God seems to be saying: ‘Abraham, don’t do something if you see it to be evil in your eyes. Yes, listen to the voice of your wife when she cries out that Isaac must be the heir to the Covenant; but also remember, Avraham, that your son Yishma’el--he too is your son, your seed, the father of a great nation as well.” But it seems as if Abraham either ignored or couldn't grasp what God meant by ‘Al yerah b’einecha,’ ‘Don’t do what’s evil in your eye.’ He just focused on listening to Sarah’s voice, and thought God meant that he had to do Sarah’s bidding, and so he threw Hagar and her boy out. And in that act of confusion, of rejection, the greatest lesson in the world was now set in motion...

Think about the very name of the handmaiden, Hagar. Her name suggests the Hebrew ‘HaGer,’ which means “The Stranger.” Hagar is an Egyptian girl living in Abraham and Sarah’s tent. She’s the perennial outsider who remains a stranger even in our midst, the constant bugaboo, the fly-in-the-ointment. Her son Yishma’el “mitzachek,” he ‘plays around,’ his very presence ‘fools around’ with Abraham and Sarah’s great plans to create a new nation that worships the One True God. Hagar, the Stranger and her kid, they just don’t fit in with the program. What do you do with those nasty Strangers whose very presence undermines our noblest plans? We get rid of them. Drive them out. Surround ourselves only with people who pose no challenges to us. But in our story, God is greater even than Abraham and Sarah’s noblest goals. Hagar is no Stranger for God. And Yishma’el’s name literally means that God will hear his cries for help in the wilderness. It’s no accident that the Torah makes our heart break not for Abraham, but for Hagar in her moment of despair. It’s no accident that God opens her eyes to find life-giving waters. Judaism has long taught, through Abraham’s example, that it is through welcoming strangers into our home that we can make the presence of God appear—literally ‘to be seen’ in our lives. And the Torah teaches us that this applies kal vechomer, all the more so, to the Stranger whom we think we can never live with in our tents! In other words, it’s all well and good to have an open heart and an open mind, to welcome to your table all those who will agree with you. But what about the people in our own tents, in our own family, who do not agree with us? If we still see someone in our own tent, in our own family, as a Stranger—even as an enemy—then our work is not done! Then God is not fully seen yet in this world!

And now hold onto your hats: this is why God had to tell Abraham to be willing to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac! According to the Zohar, his command to offer up his beloved child Isaac, is the only possible way for Abraham to ascend to the highest level of Chesed, of Lovingkindess. We have long wondered, how is this willingness to offer up his child Chesed?! The answer is that Abraham must serve, together with Isaac, as the living example, once and for all for all the world to see—how we must burst through our blind spots, and see no one as a Stranger. With his knife poised over his son, Avraham finallly saw the “ra b’einecha,” the evil in his eyes--the ultimate betrayal of his own son. What God asked Abraham to do was to be willing to see his beloved child--Isaac (but also Yishma’el!) through the eyes of God Godself: to be willing to see how everyone whom we call “Stranger” is the beloved child of God! What Abraham finally saw in that moment, with his own knife poised above his beloved child, was what God sees, every time a human being is attacked, raped, abandoned, killed. When Abraham felt that unspeakable agony of the knife poised above his own little boy’s throat—he is showing all the generations of our people what we are doing to GOD every time we call another human being a stranger, an other, an enemy. And when finally, God stays Abraham’s hand, the Torah says “Vayisa Avraham et eynav vayar,” “And Abraham lifted up his eyes and he saw.” Now truly, Abraham saw. Now he can see: there are no Strangers. No enemies. Not even if they live in our very midst, in our very tents. And what did Abraham see, an ‘eyl achar,’ a Ram behind—a Ram to be offered in place of his child. That Hebrew word ‘achar’ hints at the Hebrew word “Acher,” which means, “Other,” or even “Stranger.” A ram for a sacrifice in biblical terms is a symbol of gratitude. It means: Thank God. Thank God, because now Abraham is Chesed, he is Kindness. And now he will never do what is evil in his eyes; now he sees that there are no Strangers.

And there’s one important coda to this story in the Midrash, in the rabbinic stories. After Sarah died, the Torah tells us that Abraham married another woman whose name was Keturah, whose name means ‘sweet-smelling spices,’ the sweet-spiced smell of that arises from a sacrificial offering. According to the rabbis, Ketura was none other than Hagar herself. Now, her name was forever changed: she was no longer The Stranger, but the sweet fragrance of Gratitude itself, taken back, with Chesed, with Love, with healing, into the home that she had been driven out of, back now into the tent of Abraham.

So there you have it: the solution to every problem known to humankind: look are truly see: before you is the child of God, just like your child. The solution to it all became possible in that moment of Abraham’s seeing what is evil in his eyes, and so now we must never again do what is evil in our eyes. It all became possible in Abrahams ability to see with God’s eyes, to find empathy, to find Chesed, ulitmate Kindness. Abraham’s final great trial challenges each one of us: who would you be if you walked through life seeing no one as a Stranger, no one as the enemy? How would you participate in society? How would you forevermore treat your family, your neighbors, your government differently? Our world is beset by innumerable problems from the ways in which we create strangers of one another. Albert Einstein purportedly once said, “We can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them.” Thanks to Abraham’s courage, we can now all see the world through different eyes; through the eyes of empathy, of God’s empathy. When Abraham finally lifted his eyes and saw that there are no Strangers at that spot--the spot that would one day be the Temple Mount in Jerusalem--he gave that place a name. He called it Adonai Yireh: God will see. What it means is that here, once and for all, may we see as God sees, and do what it right. May we all fulfill our heritage, and show the world to see with the eyes of God.

The Safest Place in the World

2011-10-16T09:47:00.001-07:00

Take a moment and go inside and ask yourself a question: When was the last time you really felt safe? I don’t mean ‘safe’ in the sense of ‘not in a war zone.’ I mean, when did you feel totally safe. Ultimately safe. Existentially safe in this life? Can you think of a time at all? Try as hard as you can to find a place, a time, a memory, when you knew that kind of safety, that kind of blissful security. If you’re anything like me, you might have a hard time locating a specific memory. Some of us may not be able to think of a single memory at all that fits this criteria. It’s a funny thing to contemplate, because somewhere inside, we feel like we must have had an experience of being cosmically safe, but it’s hard to find a memory that directly points to one experience of it. I can tell you that when I think about this question, I can’t find a particular story in my life like that; it’s more of a feeling about my relationships through my life. I’m particularly drawn back to my early childhood. I have memories of being held by my parents and grandparents, keeping me safe. I have other memories, ironic memories of feeling safe. I remember the very first time the woman who would be my wife took my hand for the very first time—it was a moment when everything else about my life felt anything but safe, but in that moment of her taking my hand, in that reassuring touch, there was a moment—however fleeting—of infinite safety. I suspect that most of us can, if we try hard, find similar kinds of memories; memories not so much of stories or anecdotes, but fleeting moments, moments of feeling close to another, moments that might have little to do with the outer circumstances of our lives, but rather more to do with a feeling of connection, of love, of spirit itself… Today is Sukkot. It’s a fitting holiday for this moment in our yearly journey: we have come through Yom Kippur. We have prayed and pleaded for our well-being—our very safety—in the coming year. We emerge humbled from the experience. And Sukkot itself arises from the profundity of the Yamim Noraim with a message of Simchah, of joy and celebration. It’s a wonderful counterpart to what we have just come through. But Sukkot is rich and complex in how it calls us to celebrate. We celebrate and rejoice on the razor’s edge between security and insecurity. If Yom Kippur weighed on our hearts, and maybe even brought us to tears about life’s insecurity, then Sukkot brings us to music and laughter in response to the very same insecurity. Like all the most profound messages of Judaism, Sukkot is paradoxical. We know entirely well that some of us might not be here this time next year to rejoice—vehayiyta ach sameach, and You shall be so joyful, despite this truth! What kind of crazy alchemy, what kind of black magic is this that our deepest existential insecurities become the silver platter on which we place our cup that runneth over? Indeed, Sukkot goes to extreme lengths to drive the message home of Yom Kippur. You think your life is so secure in your nice climate-controlled house? Well then go outside and gather some rickety wood and cloth and build a sorry excuse for a dwelling, with a bunch of leaves for a roof. You think the life you have is going to go on forever? Try to think that while eating lunch in the Sukkah, when one stiff wind can topple the whole thing right over! veHayiyta Ach Sameach! And you shall be so joyful even with all of that! Are we crazy? Actually, we’re not crazy at all… We have come through quite a few months in the history of the world. The Middle East has changed overnight. Israel’s standing in the world is all the more isolated. Here at home, our economic future looms with dreadful uncertainties. This summer in Washington, we survived an earthquake followed by a hurricane in a matter of days of each other. Last month, we commemorated ten years since the day those two towers—those two symbols of American might and strength—suddenly, so unexpectedly, came crashing down. Is it really crazy on Sukkot for us to leave our secure houses, to leave our fantasies about our own power, and to acknowledge the True Reality; to acknowledge that we’re really not running the show here, that we don’t know what’s coming, that we don’t know how much time we have left? Sukkot, in many ways, is the final acknowledgement of what we woke up to on Rosh HaShanah: that this life as we know it, is not secure. And the world around us shows us, it’s not just on Sukkot, but all year long, that it’s true. We never were in control, we never actually have perfect security in this world. Vehayiyta Ach Sameach! But you must be so joyful! Why? Because—and here’s the great and wonderful paradox of Sukkot—we may never be perfectly secure, but we can be safe! Ultimately safe! Cosmically safe! And the reason for this is because the safety that I’m talking about is not material safety. It’s spiritual safety. It’s just like those memories of feeling safe I asked you to remember. If you go deep enough inside, you can ‘remember’ feeling ultimately, spiritually safe, even if you can’t conjure a specific memory. And the reason for this is that it’s not a memory of a thing at all. It’s the memory of the knowledge of the soul. There’s that beautiful midrash about how, before we were born, we could see from one end of the universe to the other, but then, moments before birth, an angel comes and says ‘Shhh!’ and we are born not remembering all the deep soul-knowledge that we once had. Perhaps we can’t put our finger on it directly, but we know we once understood. And now in our lives, we can understand once again, just for fleeting moments—in the loving touch of a parent to a child, in the safe embrace we experience of our beloved. In those moments that flash by, we somehow know that we are so much more than all the troubles and trials and circumstances that limit us, that challenge us, that seem to threaten our security. For an instant, we come to know that somewhere, deep in our souls, there is a stillness, a peace, a Presence that no life-circumstances can touch. In fact, we discover in those moments that all the insecurities of our lives are hevel, a breath, a mere whisp of air. In those moments of feeling safe, which are really moments of true love and true connection, we understand that who we really are is beyond birth and death itself. We sit in the Sukkah to bring ourselves to remember who we really are. We are not this stuff that withers and is blown away on a breeze. We sit in that Sukkah and it doesn’t matter how beautifully we decorate it: nothing compares to the infinite beauty of our loved ones’ faces shining in the shadowed light of that Sukkah. Nothing can compare to the blessings of who we are, and what we have in each other right here, right now. We realize that however insecure and fleeting this world is, this whole passing and fleeting life of ours is a treasure because we get to spend this moment here for each other. And this achingly beautiful moment that is passing is so perfect, so joyful, because it reminds us that what we really share can never go away. VeHayiyta Ach Sameach—and so, how can we be, even in this fleeting and insecure world, anything but joyful in the face of the Ultimate Truth, in the faces of our beloveds, holding our hands, sharing our undying love. May each of us find the place where are safe this year in our Sukkot. May we come to realize that it doesn’t dwell in our Sukkah at all, but in the truest place of our souls. Chag Sameach!

The Pursuit of Longing

2011-10-09T12:18:00.001-07:00

I remember when I was a very little boy, around the age of three, my parents did a big mitzvah: they took in a woman who didn’t have a home of her own, and gave her room and board, and in exchange, she kept up the house and helped take care of me. The woman’s name was Ruthie. My parents tell me that Ruthie liked to keep to herself, with a sad, wistful, faraway look in her eye. Ruthie apparently had had a son once, a son whom she had lost, but she never spoke of him. Whenever my mother asked her about what happened with her son, she never wanted to discuss it. But one thing drove away her sadness: she loved me! I mean, she adored little three-year-old me. The sad, quiet Ruthie whom my parents describe doesn’t match my memories. All I remember is her unreserved smile, her laughter, her hugs, her loving touch, her carrying me and taking me everywhere with her. I remember feeling so safe and loved whenever I was around her. And my parents confirm this memory: she was a different person when she was with me. It was like her loving me filled up some kind of emptiness she had inside... And then there was the day that strange red car—that I had never seen before—pulled up in our driveway. I remember the grown-ups talking downstairs. I remember being told to play outside for a while. Then, the car was gone. And so was Ruthie. Later, I found out that on that day, out of the blue, Ruthie’s sister had shown up in that big red car. Without warning that day, she had Ruthie pack her things, and together they left for some state far away. Ruthie never said goodbye. The sisters didn’t say where they were going, and we never heard from Ruthie again. I don’t remember how I felt at the time, but looking back today, I’m certainly not angry with Ruthie. How could I be? I have no doubt about how much she loved me. She was not a woman of words. Even as a little child, I knew, I could feel deep down how much I meant to her. And to this day, I have no doubt that she simply didn’t know how to say goodbye. Her sister had shown up without warning. She was totally unprepared, and how could she find the words, how could she cope with such a goodbye to this little child who, for a brief moment of her life, filled a terrible emptiness. How could she express her gratitude, her love? I have no doubt that she would have, if she could have. If she’s still alive, wherever she may be, I hope she doesn’t feel regret. I hope she knows that I remember her, with love and with longing for her healing from her loss of her own little boy. I long for that with a longing that is really more that I can express in words... The Torah tells us the story of the end of Moses’ life. Moses says “V’Etchanan El Adonai,” “I pleaded with God at that time, saying, O Lord God, You who let Your servant see the first works of your greatness and Your mighty hand, You whose powerful deeds no god in heaven or on earth can equal! Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan...” But God did not grant Moses’ request. Instead, God said to Moses, “Go up to the summit of Pisgah and gaze about, to the west, the north, the south, and the east. Look at it well, for you shall not go across yonder Jordan…” It doesn’t take much for any of us to put ourselves in Moses’ place in this life. For each and every one of us, there is a Promised Land somewhere over across the great River of Life, somewhere where we know we can’t fully arrive to, not in this lifetime, no matter how much we crave it, thirst for it, desire it…it is beyond our reach. In every one of us, there is always a place of yearning of something more to say, to do, to accomplish. We tend to go through our lives, avoiding experiences of yearning and longing, experiences of feeling life as incomplete or lacking some kind of wholeness. The name of the game for us today is the Pursuit of Happiness, after all. We are taught to make the most of life’s opportunities, always to remember to have fun and enjoy life, not to get caught up in downer spirits. We are taught that we can always drown out the blues and the dissatisfactions of life if we get a great job, a great house, we own great things, go on great vacations, get great notoriety and ‘success’—then we can overcome that gnawing tugging of our hearts in the background—right? No. Actually, we can’t. People nowadays will shop to try to cover over that inner feeling of longing. They’ll shop until they become hoarders. Others turn to alcohol or sex or drugs or food or any manner of addiction to seek to escape that feeling of incompleteness inside that society says we “shouldn’t” have. But no amount of material possessions or diversionary activities can save us from standing on that summit with Moses, knowing that we can’t fully cross over… One of the greatest privileges I have as a rabbi is that I get to perform weddings. One of the most beautiful things in the world I get to see is the shining faces of a couple looking right at me under that Huppah: faces of such love and such pure joy and happiness. We all know, of course, that the moment we wait for at a Jewish wedding (before the kiss, of course) is the moment that the glass is broken and we shout Mazel Tov! I often get the question what the breaking of the glass means. Many of us have heard that it represents remembering the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem even at such moments of greatest joy. That answer is true, but it’s only partially true. It’s also a ritual act that captures, perhaps better than anything else, the real kind of joy that is happening at a wedding. When a couple stands under that Huppah, it’s a little taste of perfection, of perfect happiness; the Huppah becomes a little Garden of Eden. But that perfection cannot last, not in this world. We must break the spell. With the breaking of the glass, we ‘wake up’ and remember that the love and joy of that moment, as beautiful and perfect as it is, is a fleeting flash in a world where nothing lasts. I think that’s the real reason why we cry at weddings. We are overcome by longing—a longing that is really love itself welling up within us: love for that beautiful couple discovering such happiness in a world where life so quickly passes. It wasn’t for nothing that the song goes, “Is this the little girl I carried, Is this the little boy at play. I don’t remember growing older—when did they?” That plaintive song perfectly captures what I’m talking about! It’s all about yearning, longing. We Jewish people have a unique and brilliant relationship to the fundamentally human and universal capacity to long and yearn for what could be in this life. In other religious traditions, there are different responses to human longing. Some religions teach their adherents to sublimate their longings and surrender or submit to the will of the deity. Some Eastern religions talk about tangha- “desire” and “dissatisfaction” as the essence of all human suffering, the very thing that must be “extinguished” in our human nature. But we Jews, we go in the opposite direction: we embrace this longing as that which makes us most human, and closest to God. Longing and yearning are everywhere in Judaism. It is the essence of our prayers: we long for a return from exile, back to the Land of Israel, we long to rebuild Jerusalem, we long for the Mashiach. Our texts are filled with expressions of longing. “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,” we pray. We pray never to lose our longing. We may lose everything else, but please, O God, not that yearning.. Longing and yearning lie at the very heart-center of Judaism. We are the people who yearn. Longing is the national genius of the Jewish people, the essential magic ingredient of our survival through the ages. We may have known exile and centuries of catastrophes and persecutions. And how have we collectively responded to these losses? With anger, bitterness and hatred? No. We have, as a people, always responded with an ever-deepening longing to come home, to repair the brokenness of the world that we can feel in the broken places in our hearts. So many of us are filled with concern for our lives, for our families, for the world. Some of us reflect today and wish our lives could have been better, that we had made different decisions, or that we could get back a happiness or contentment that we remember we once had. Any and all of these life situations are a variation on the theme of longing. And the brilliance of our tradition tells us: don’t run away from these dissatisfactions, these concerns, even that sadness. Don’t be afraid to embrace it. Embracing our longing, not fleeing from it, is the secret to healing our lives. In other words, we cannot pursue happiness until we pursue our longing first!When we say the Ashrei, we say the line “Poteach et yadecha, umasbia lechol chai ratzon,” It’s like we ritually become like Adam in Michelangelo’s Cistine Chapel—now with hand inverted palm up toward God’s open hand: “You, God, open Your hand, and you satisfy every living thing with ‘ratzon.’ “ What is ‘ratzon?’ It is usually translated as God’s good “will” or “favor.” But in the Zohar, our sages teach us that what ‘ratzon’ really means is ‘longing!’ What does this mean? That in some mysterious way, the act of embracing our own longing, is how we come full circle and satisfy that very longing! That God opens God’s hand to us, and satisfies us by giving us our capacity for yearning. And why is this so? It is because in truth, as Abraham Joshua Heschel taught, it is God who yearns for us. Our infinite yearning is the very image of God within us! Every time we feel that ache inside, it is God’s longing for us to come home. If you want to find the face of God in your life, seek the places where your life feels the most imperfect! When Moses stood on that summit and pleaded to cross over, perhaps that was the greatest piece of Torah he gave over in his entire life. He stands for us all. In his standing there, he shows us that if there’s anything that each and every one of us in this world has in common, it is a deep soul-knowledge that this world, this life we live is not perfected, not whole. Each and every one of us has within us a vast ocean of such depth of feeling, a sea of imponderable depths of love and kindness and goodness that we can’t possibly give over in this one little lifetime. We can try mightily, and still we fall short; ultimately we are misunderstood, we don’t make it. The great pathos of our human condition, is that it is not possible for any of us to live up to the potential of goodness that dwells within us. The myth that life is just about pursuing happiness ignores this truth. There is always a part of us that grieves over the love that we can’t give over—and to know this, to embrace it, paradoxically, is the only real wholeness—in Hebrew ‘Shalom’—the only real peace and joy. Why? Because our longing is our greatest motivator to action and to justice. When I know that I have more kindness within my soul than I can ever give over, and so do you, there’s a joining—you and me—and all I feel is compassion, the deepest empathy with you. And I am motivated to act out of kindness, as much as I can, for you. Even if we know that we can never do enough, even if we can’t save the world, or even one person, we can die trying. The greatest act of courage, the noblest of our humanity, is when we transform our yearning into action, when we reach out in kindness for the sake one another in this world. Every Mitzvah, when it’s all said and done, is yearning transformed into action. When we reach out fully knowing that we may never succeed—or perhaps we will—the success is not in the result, but in the action born of the longing itself for the sake of another’s happiness. The generation of Israelites that left Egypt journeyed for forty years and never made it to the Promised Land. It wasn’t their arrival, but their yearning will to journey forward—for the sake of their children and children’s children- that continues to inspire all future generations. “Lo aleicha hamlacha ligmor” “You are not required to finish the task,” say our ancient sages in the Mishnah, “V’lo atah ben chorin lehibatel mimenah,” “But neither are you free to desist from trying.” It doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter how much of your potential you have lived up to, or squandered. It doesn’t matter if your better years are behind you, or if you have all the material trappings of success you could want. We’re all together in this. The aching of your heart that you know so well is there in the hearts of everyone you see, of everyone you know. There are no exceptions. I got my first taste of this truth so many years ago, in Ruthie’s bittersweet and unfulfilled longing for her own child, a longing that found only a fleeting respite in her love for me; a longing that motivated her to share nothing but joy with me, despite her sadness. From Ruthie, I learned that yearning and love are not different emotions, but are really two aspects of the same One Love, a love that comes from nowhere other than God. When we acknowledge this Love, this truth, we, together, make God’s dream for us come true for one another. Rabbi Heschel, as usual, summed it up best. He said:“…he who craves for the light of God [foregoes] his ease for ardor,[and forgoes his] life for [the sake of] love,knowing that contentment[--happiness--]is the shadow, not the light.The great yearning that sweeps eternity is a yearning to praise, a yearning to serve.And when the waves of that yearning swell in our soulsall the barriers are pushed aside:the crust of callousness,the hysteria of vanity,the orgies of arrogance.For it is not the I [myself] that trembles [with longing] alone,[yearning] is not a stir out of my soul [alone]but [rather yearning is] an eternal flutter that sweeps us all.”On Yom Kippur, the day of fasting, may the hunger of our souls to be a blessing ignite our deepest passions to do what we can, in our own beautiful, limited ways, to make this world a blessing.

God Doesn't Give Us More Than We Can Handle

2011-10-02T13:58:00.001-07:00

It has been two and half years since my little girl, my youngest, Meirav, was diagnosed with Type 1 “Juvenile” Diabetes. In some ways, it seems like centuries ago, since that terrible day when she was rushed to the hospital, having trouble breathing, her skin, ashen. It seems like another lifetime now, the moment the doctors told us that our beautiful, perfect little girl had an incurable disease; a disease that would require insulin dependence and constant monitoring to keep her alive—for the rest of her life. I’ll never forget those images of those early moments and days in the hospital: my little one hooked up to all those tubes and wires in intensive care; her cries in fear and pain; the doctors, nurses, technicians frantically working around her; the look in my wife’s eyes as she steeled herself to be strong for her and for us all; my wife’s hand holding Meirav’s little limp hand in her palm. The ensuing days, trying to get my mind around this sudden new reality; the nurses teaching Batya and me how to manage this incredibly complex regimen of insulin, of blood-monitoring, of administering injections into our own child’s arm. It was all so overwhelming—Meirav’s fears and my constant attempts to sublimate my own fears. I remember, only in fleeting memories now, the despair, the moments of darkness, the sense of being betrayed by my hopes and prayers that God would protect my children from illness, from disease of this magnitude. But I wasn’t spared, as so many of us, despite our prayers, are not spared such things. That was two and a half years ago. Two and half years of us learning, together with Meirav, how to manage this disease. The frightening moments when she can feel her blood glucose plummeting, or soaring dangerously high. Learning to avoid disaster day by day—a process that is truly more of an art than an exact science. Two and half years later, Type 1 “Juvenile” Diabetes is the “new normal” for the Steinlauf family. But there’s a big difference between this moment and those first overwhelming and nightmarish moments. Today, I’m fine. So is my wife. And so is Meirav. In fact we’re all fine, and happy. And even more importantly, I no longer feel betrayed by God. In fact, despite everything, my faith at this moment is vastly greater than it was before. I don’t usually like to talk about life experiences as “testing” us, but if we choose to look at this experience of my child’s diabetes as a test of faith, then I would like to believe that my family and I have “passed” that test. And on this day, I would like to talk about how I can stand here before you, with a joyful and abiding faith in life’s goodness, despite everything. Back in my old synagogue, I knew an amazing woman, whose two young children suffered from multiple health problems. And she shared with me a saying that gave her lots of strength. She often said, over and over, “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” And I was so happy that this woman had that belief to hold onto, to give her strength. But in all honesty, I wasn’t sure how much I agreed with that statement. After all, I can think of all kinds of people who are dealt more than they can handle: the mentally ill who are homeless, children who are abused and then die or are killed, people who die of starvation. In my experience, I have seen just too many people who couldn’t make it. But today, I think I understand what that saying really means. It’s not a simple platitude that denies the harsh realities of life. It is, instead, a statement of faith in life itself. It’s a statement that, in truth is not so much about God as it is about our very selves, our very souls—even when the worst thing--the unthinkable--happens, there’s a truth to the fact that we can handle so much more than we think we can. I share these stories this Rosh HaShanah for several reasons. First, among us in this synagogue right now there are so many with stories parallel to mine. So many of us bear stories of our children, or our parents or loved ones, and our brave struggles to hold onto faith despite so many hardships. In fact, every one of us faces in our lives the prospect of loss, of fearing for our loved one’s safety and well-being. I tell my story, as well, because there are fears and insecurities that we all share together: what’s going to happen to our livelihoods in this economy? What kind of future do our children have in a world that is changing so fast—and so much of that change is not for the good? And then there’s Israel. What prospects are there for our people and our homeland now, with the chances of a viable peace process looking so grim as events develop in the UN and in the middle east? We’re all together in this moment, beset by so many fears, so many possible nightmares. It would be nice, indeed, to have faith that there’s a God up there, who despite all these possibilities, is never going to give us more than we can handle… In the Torah, there’s a poignant moment when Rivka is pregnant with her twins, soon to be born as the rival brothers, Jacob and Esau. “Vayitrotzetzu habanim b’kirbah,” “But the twins struggled in her womb. She was plagued by a violent and difficult pregnancy. And so Rivka went before God and asked, “Im ken lamah zeh Anochi?” “If this is so, why do I exist?” Such a heartbreaking question! Such words that express so much suffering, pain and grief. And God answers her and says that two nations are in her womb, nations that will always struggle, but the older shall serve the younger. It’s quite an answer, but I have always been struck by the fact that it doesn’t quite answer Rivka’s actual question! I don’t hear in her words just a request for a prophecy. I hear the plaintive tones of a woman bowled over by her life, at the end of her rope. Lamah zeh Anochi—Why am I?! I hear the prayer of a woman who wants assurances from God that it’s okay, that she’s okay, that God will care for her. But God doesn’t give her an easy and straightforward answer in this story. God doesn’t promise that her path will be an easy one. God doesn’t give her any one thing to believe in, any one crutch to hold onto about herself, even though her request was deeply personal. Instead, God gives her the message that she’s part of a bigger unfolding story. Instead of a belief, God gives her something more valuable. God sets her feet on the path toward having faith in life’s unfolding path itself. As miraculous as the Voice of God was that spoke to her, it was not enough to impart the truest kind of faith in Rivka. The only one who could give Rivka real faith, was Rivka herself… You see, in our Jewish perspective, there is a difference between “belief” and “faith.” When we ‘believe’ in something, we’re always believing in a concept, a thought, a story about our life. In some religious traditions, there is a requirement or an expectation to ‘believe’ in a set of ideas or stories in order to be considered a true “believer.” Beliefs, of course, don’t just need to be religious. Beliefs can also be arrived at through reason and logic and deduction. But at its core, a belief is an intellectual exercise. It’s “up here.” Faith, on the other hand, is of a different order. Faith is about trusting an inner ‘knowing’ that runs deeper than ideas or concepts. If belief is a mental decision, faith is borne only of experience itself. Beliefs may defy logic. Faith transcends logic. Beliefs live in the intellect. Faith lives in the spirit, in our very souls. Rivka went to God in search of words to believe in; instead, she got a life-path that gave her faith that she was part of something far greater than anything she had ever dreamed about herself before. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel expressed this insight most eloquently. He said, “Faith is not a feature of man’s mentality…It’s essence is not disclosed in the way we utter it, but in the soul’s being in accord with what is relevant to God…[in] our being carried away by the tide of [God’s] thoughts, rising beyond the desolate ken of man’s despair.” The writer Alan Watts said it even more succinctly: “Belief clings; faith lets go.” What does this mean? It’s not only life’s blessings, but sometimes it’s the worst of all experiences--even the experience of our own children suffering, our loved ones dying—these are sometimes the only things that can shake us to our core, that can bring us to let go of who we were, to let go of our arrogance, to let go of our expectations of ourselves, of others…of God. Sometimes it is only when life breaks our heart that we are broken open and finally able to find a deeper Truth within us that we never could have found before. I know that in my life, I have known moments of ‘lamah zeh Anochi,’ moments of such despair and darkness. At those moments, I couldn’t possibly find a way to believe that God was giving me something that I could handle. It was only after I clawed my way out of those moments that I discovered that I survived it, and was changed by it. How did I survive it? How was I changed? I don’t know. I have no idea. All I can say is that something carried me through those experiences—not a belief, not a concept, nor a story, not something outside of me at all. It was, in fact, my very brokenness that revealed a strength inside of me, a strength that could not come into existence without the brokenness itself. It was my brokenness that forced me to find new answers, to seek and notice all the wonderful and caring people and resources around me to help me find the light again. I have found that this strength born of life’s nightmares is not just a raw life-force. It’s a healing strength, a caring strength. A strength that inexorably brings me from despair to hope, from darkness to light, from confusion to clarity. It’s a strength that’s bigger than I am. Another name for that strength might be kindness. It might be compassion. It might be love itself. Or maybe, just maybe it’s God. But it’s not just God. It’s me. It’s my deepest essence, my deepest Truth. My Highest Self. It’s me in the image of God.William James once said “…if an unusual necessity forces us to press onward, a surprising thing occurs. … we … find, beyond the very extremity of … distress…sources of strength habitually not taxed at all, because habitually we never push though the obstruction, never pass those early critical points.” He was onto this idea!‘God doesn’t give us more than we can handle’ doesn’t mean that God will necessarily spare us from tragedies and loss and pain. It doesn’t mean that if people suffer, they “should” handle it better because God gave them that suffering. God forbid! What it really means is that if you fear that you can’t handle even the worst nightmare, even the unthinkable—you might just be wrong. We look around at the world: we see so much violence, war, murder, anti-Semitism, children stricken with incurable diseases, people who are homeless and dying. And in our intellectualized realm of “belief” we conclude that we’d never handle any of that if it, God forbid, happens to us. But perhaps the very purpose of this life is for us to get over these beliefs about ourselves. Maybe there’s more within us than we can possibly imagine. Maybe there’s more kindness out there in the world than we give it credit for after all. Lamah Zeh Anochi—Why am I? Maybe God avoids easy answers to that question until we discover for ourselves that we are, in fact, so much more than “Anochi” --than what we thought we were in the first place! We can handle it—even if we lose our dearest treasured ones, even if our whole world comes crashing down on us, even if we must face death itself—because somehow, against our better logic, each of us is destined, sooner or later, to discover that there is a light within our souls that shines brighter than any darkness.A few weeks ago I took my daughter for a special father-daughter outing to the Natural History Museum. As we walked through the crowd, my daughter noticed a boy in a wheelchair being pushed by his father. The boy was a couple of years older than my daughter. Gaunt and pale, his legs were withered and small in his wheelchair. Later, Meirav said to me, “I feel bad for that boy.” I said to her, “Are you so sure that boy is really so sad? Maybe he’s having a perfectly wonderful time.” I went on to explain to her that so many amazing people come up to me and say with total care and good-will, and the most serious concern, “How is your daughter?” And I didn’t need to say anything further: Meirav smiled when I told her this. I smiled back. “You know, and I know, that you’re great. Maybe that boy was having as a good a time in the museum as you were.” You see, during the past two and half years since those difficult first days, we have not only learned how to manage a disease. My child has learned to appreciate the miracle of her body. She has come to find such strength, enough to want to reach out to other children and help them find their strength. My family and I have learned that there are so many people in this world—doctors, amazing nurses, people devoting their lives to helping, to being there, to finding a cure; there are so many miracles of medicine, of modern technology. We have come to see how many miracles keep my daughter alive and thriving day by day, moment by moment—miracles that are so much greater than anything we could have imagined. So indeed, we are great, and my faith is deeper now than anything I could have dreamed of before.I share my story this Rosh HaShanah because Meirav’s and my personal journey of faith is a perfect reflection-in-miniature of the Jewish people’s journey of faith through the centuries. Yes, our people know so many fears right now. And yet, we know that somehow, something miraculous and beyond our ken has carried us through thousands of years of loss and difficulties, of pain and anguish—and has brought us again to reasons for joy and to the deepest of wisdom and strength to sustain us for generations. Yes, Israel’s predicament seems intractable right now, and yet we know that, despite everything, our homeland has risen up to become one of the most remarkable, powerful, and shining success-stories of this earth in our time. We might not know what concept to believe in right now that will give us answers to reassure us; and yet, more importantly, we can look into the soul of our people—the most miraculous surviving people of all time—and know, in a way that transcends reason, that we will overcome our difficulties in Israel and here at home. We can know that we will yet—as parents and children, husbands and wives, as friends, as citizens of this earth— we can and will survive whatever it is that will come, we can and will thrive, and we will yet be a shining light to the nations with a light that shines forth—so powerfully, so mysteriously, and yet so surely—from each of our hearts.

The Chosen People?

2011-09-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

We Jews have a lot to be proud of. We have a long and ancient history. We have been beacons of justice and ethical teachings for countless generations. We have survived more attempts at annihilation than we care to number. And despite everything—exile, civilizations rising and falling, ever-shifting politics and locales—we have survived and have been successful beyond anyone’s imagination. There’s a very special feeling that we have about our identity as Jews. Yes, it’s pride. But it’s also gratitude and wonder, and a deep feeling of a collective heritage and destiny in this world that we share. And there’s also a phrase that often gets quoted and bandied about: we’re the “Chosen People.” Many of us associate our special feeling of Jewishness with that “chosenness.” How could we not—there is so much that feels special about being Jewish. But for obvious reasons, the “Chosen People” expression also engenders a lot of resentment from other peoples, both non-Jewish and Jewish. Does it really mean that we think that God made us inherently better than everyone else? This week’s Torah-reading has one of the core references that have given rise to the idea of the “Chosen People.” It says, “And God has affirmed --‘Hayom’—today--‘L’hiyot lo l’Am Segulah—to be God’s ‘Treasured People.’ So the original expression is ‘treasured,’ not exactly ‘Chosen.’ But the Torah then goes on and says, “God will set you--‘Elion al kol haGoyim’—above all the nations—‘Lit’hilah, uleShem, Ul’tifaret’—in praise, in fame, and in glory, and you shall be an “Am Kadosh,” a Holy People to the Lord Your God. When you hear words like that, it’s hard not to think that we have a religion with a superiority complex! In all fairness, all religions understand themselves to bear ultimate truth. All religions see their own adherents as possessing a special role and destiny. And so Israelite superiority in the ancient world is one aspect of this teaching. Luckily, however, we have the wealth of the Jewish tradition to turn to that can give us some more insight into this teaching. The good news is that anyone who takes the idea of the Chosen People to mean that we Jews should think that we’re inherently better than everyone else, is confused.The great 18th-century Rebbe, Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev discussed this very line, and brought to light some very interesting insights that we don’t necessarily notice on the surface. He said, yes, it certainly says that we Jews are a people treasured by God. It certainly places us over the many idol-worshiping nations of the ancient world as morally superior. But there are some interesting hints of other dimensions to this text as well. When it says, for example, that we will be superior to the other nations in praise, in fame, and in glory, Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev notices that those three adjectives are in an interesting order. If we are indeed some kind of superior class of supermen and superwomen, wouldn’t our fame be renowned, and first in the series of adjectives to describe us? But it’s not. “Fame” comes second, not first.Levi Yitzchak explains that what makes us so special to God, so treasured, so holy, isn’t that we’re smarter or better than anyone else. Take a look at the ancient Israelites at the moment that these lines were originally uttered. They were finishing their 40-year wandering in the desert. Over all the long years, they had really messed up. They made massive mistakes. They endlessly lost faith, they had complained, they were regularly willing to give up and run back to slavery in Egypt. They made the Golden Calf. They even mounted a full-scale rebellion at one point against Moses and Aaron, and their leaders were only stopped when God opened the earth and swallowed them up. Not a good track record, and certainly not people distinguished as on a higher plane than all others. But at that moment, as they were poised to go over the River Jordan into the Promised Land, they made it. Despite all their failings and sins, they had climbed back up. They found a way to rekindle their faith. They were devoted to the Covenant with God, and were brave enough to face their new lives in the land. The great 19th century Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch noticed that the word “Hayom,” meaning ‘today,’ keeps appearing again and again at this section of the Torah. He explains that we truly became a treasured people ‘hayom,’ on that day, after all the 40 years were over—because we were willing to take responsibility for our past and for our destiny right then—even before we entered the land, even before we had anything, while we were still in the wilderness. Hayom, on that day, we owned up to ourselves. We made T’shuvah, we returned to the best in our humanity. In our willingness to get real with ourselves, to make T’shuvah, to honestly Return, this is what makes us an ‘Am Segulah, a treasured people to God.Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev explains: you know why the Torah uses the word ‘Tifaret,’ ‘Glory’ to describe us? Is it because we’re just so great? No! The only real Tiferet in the world, the only real glory is when we human beings are willing to embrace even our worst sins, our worst mistakes, our most shameful moments. And instead of running away from them, we bravely go into them. And we learn from them. And we use the insight from these experiences to be the very cornerstone of our strength, of our faith, of our bravery. That turn-around, that transformation, is what is truly glorious. And this is why, according the Rabbi Levi Yitzchak, those three adjectives are in their unique order. The last and final word is Tifaret, glory. Glory comes last in the series, because true glory comes at last: when we can transform even our greatest failures into the sources of our greatest success. In this way, glory comes last, but certainly not least. The thing we thought was the least worthy part of ourselves—our guilts, our shames, our mistakes—this can be our crowning jewel. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak describes how God uses our past sins that we have transformed as a garment that God proudly wears. When we really make T’shuvah, that’s when we become the glory of God! So indeed, God did choose the Israelites. God did set them above all the depraved and immoral idolatrous nations of the ancient world, and bestowed upon them the merit of inheriting the Land of Israel. But that chosenness is not a badge of honor that we get to wear no matter what. It’s God’s banner, worn when we are willing to be like our ancestors in the desert. Just like those ancient Israelites, we have all made some bad mistakes in our lives. We all have so many things we wish we hadn’t said or done. We have things in our past that we’re ashamed of. But Hayom, on this day, we can go inside and transform our past to become our greatest strength.. Rosh HaShanah is just a week and a half away. On that day, we will say ‘Hayom Harat Olam,’ this day is the birthday of the world. On Rosh Hashanah, we will remind ourselves, over and over, that we certainly are not more special than anything else in this miraculous world that is treasured by God. But like our ancestors before us, we become a people, we become a treasure to God, when we own up to our lives. We get to be a shining example to all the nations of the world that our humanity and this world is not hopeless. Even if we have made a mess of our lives and this world, we can always turn it all around Hayom, today, right now, when we turn our hearts around and face the Truth. This year, may we embrace the Truth that if we are chosen for anything, it is teach all the peoples of this world how we are all the treasure of God.

Never Lie To Yourself

2011-05-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

This is a very special weekend here at Adas Israel. This is the weekend where we will have our Garden of the Righteous ceremony, which honors the memory of Righteous Gentiles who saved Jews during the Holocaust. This year, we honor the memory of Jose Arturo Casstellanos, an El Salvadoran diplomat, who used his influence to issue visas to Jews imperiled by the Third Reich. Castellanos, incredibly, is credited with saving 40,000 Jews from almost certain death from the Nazis. We are, of course, so honored that his daughter, Frieda and granddaughter, are with us. And we are so awed by his amazing story. Once again, we can marvel at this quality we call ‘righteousness,’ this unbelievable courage to risk everything, even one’s own life, for the sake of strangers. The purpose of our event is not just to tell the story of a hero, but to inspire us all, to impart the message that this kind of righteousness is, in fact, something that we are all—as Jews, as human beings—called to in this world. But how do we do it? How could we ever find within ourselves that kind of strength and courage to live as righteous human beings?
The answer to this question is, in many ways, the very essence of Judaism. And it is also the essential theme of this week’s parashah: Kedoshim, the spiritual and literal heart of the Torah. It begins with the words Kedoshim tihiyu, You shall be Holy, for I, the Lord your God, am Holy. It’s quite a charge to the Jewish people when you think about it. We must embody, through all our generations, a uniquely Godly quality called Holiness in our every word, our every gesture, our every decision, our every action. But what is Holiness? In many ways, the meaning of that word is ineffable. Holiness is the quality that makes God, God! And our charge is to live out that Holiness, even though we are imperfect human beings. Our rabbinic and kabbalistic traditions use lots of textual allusions in these lines to reveal a deep truth in this Divine charge: that Israel is like a bride marrying the Groom, who is God. And so, as a people, we are wedded to that Holiness. In our very love for God, like a bride for a groom, we lovingly uphold the inner essence of our Beloved in our lives. So whatever Holiness ‘is,’ it’s all about separating ourselves from the world—just a little bit—just enough so that when we go about our day, there’s a little piece of the Godly in our every action. In essence, so that the eyes of God behold the world through our own eyes; so that the Hands of God move through our hands. It’s a beautiful teaching: the result is that we are called upon to be a people not quite the same as the rest of human society; we are called upon to be not mundane, but just a little elevated in our compassion, in our sense of justice; and separate from the world in our care and concern. But, of course, this is no easy task to accomplish. It takes a lifetime of practice. And our whole system of mitzvoth and study are there to get us to that lifetime of practicing Holiness.
In essence, the whole rest of parashat Kedoshim parses out specific examples of commandments where we can act out this Godly quality of Holiness. Case in point: the Torah tells us “uvekatzrechem et k’tzir artz’chem,” and when you reap the harvest of your field, “lo tichle pe’at sad’cha lakatzir,” “do not reap the corner of the field, [but leave it over for the poor].” It’s a beautiful commandment that creates a society where those who have nothing are remember by everyone else. The corner of every field belongs not to the landowner, but forever more to the poor. But our sages noted an interesting inconsistency in this commandment. When the command begins, God addresses the Israelites in the plural—uvekkatzrechem—when you, plural, harvest; and then it shifts to the singular and says ‘lo techaleh’ do not reap. Why this shift from plural to singular in one sentence? The Kli Yakar, a 16th century commentator, explains this shift with a mashal, a story: there was once a very poor village making plans for the celebration of Simchat Torah, and for the celebration, there was not enough schnapps, or alcoholic beverages to go around. So what did they decide to do? They sent around a barrel to every household, and asked each householder to contribute one glass of schnapps for the communal pool. The first householder thought to himself, ‘Since everyone is going to contribute, I’ll just put in a glass full of water. It’s not like anyone is really going to notice!’ Well, guess what? Everyone in the village had the same selfish thought. And what dismay there was on Simchat Torah when they discovered that they all had a barrel full of water instead of schnapps to celebrate!
So what’s the moral of the story? There is indeed a mandate on us all collectively as the Jewish people to be holy, to leave the corners of our fields for the poor. But don’t assume, just because the mitzvah is in the plural, that you “cut corners” for yourself. To be Holy means that you take the responsibility deeply, profoundly to yourself. In that subtle shift from the plural to the singular, therein is the essence of Holiness, of righteousness itself: it all rides on how much I can see how everyone, the plurality of us all, rides on me and this one decision I make right here, right now. That’s Holiness! That’s Righteousness! Take care, Israelites, our tradition teaches. Don’t just “forget” to leave the corner for the poor. Don’t figure out clever and deceptive ways to get around the injunction. The stakes are just too high.
After the Torah commands us about the corners of our fields, the injunction ends very clearly, very powerfully with the words, “Ani Adonai Eloheichem!” I am the Lord your God. And, of course, that’s a nice way to punctuate the command. Don’t be selfish or untrue, because I’m God. I said so. Don’t think you can get away with shirking this because I, God, know the Truth. As 21st century Jews, we can read this injunction, and we can understand why ending it with ‘…because God said so,’ might be very motivational for our ancestors. But perhaps that lacks a motivational power for many of us today. But before we right it off as having no more force, take a moment to consider the power of this statement in its context. The Torah reading began with the words ‘Kedoshim tehiyu,” You shall be Holy, for I, the Lord your God am Holy. And so remember what we said a moment ago: To be Jewish is to be Holy, to be ‘wed’ to God, yes. But even if you don’t know what to believe about God, we can all agree on what is “Godly:” it’s that apartness, the elevatedness, that practice of abstracting from our experience just enough to see and act with eyes and hearts and hands of compassion. So that little statement “Ani Adonai Eloheichem” isn’t just “I’m God and I say so.” It’s a way of saying ‘Remember who you are.’ ‘Remember your real purpose in this life.’ Don’t fall into the trap of being merely human. Yes, we’re human, but we have a spark of the Godly that lives in potential in our every action, in every moment.
Ani Adonai Eloheichem. There’s the potential for the Godly, the Holy, the Righteous in this very moment, in this very decision. Remember! Holiness happens in our realization that this moment, this choice, is actually bigger than you are. There’s an ethical imperative right here, right now. Holiness comes down to this one choice, this one realization: are you going to turn to selfishness, or are you going to face your responsibility to the world in this moment?
Another way of understanding this choice of Godliness, of Holiness is that it all comes down, quite simply, to the Truth of this moment. Are you going to face the Truth, or are you going to lie to yourself: that’s okay, everyone else will be contributing the schnapps. Oh, it’s okay, everyone else is going to leave the corner of their field. That’s okay, everyone else will pay their taxes honestly. That’s okay, I’m sure someone else—maybe in a better position than me—that someone else will save the Jews. Here’s what it means to be Holy: to be holy is to commit ourselves, body and soul, never ever to lie to ourselves.
And there it is: what is the righteousness that makes for a great man, a hero, like Jose Arturo Castellanos? It’s the righteousness of a man who refused to look away from the Truth. It’s the righteousness of a man who understood that there was an ethical imperative in this moment, in this choice, that was vastly greater than he. It’s the righteousness of a man who would not, who could not deceive himself. Why? Because Ani Adonai Eloheichem: because he understood that to be fully human is to rise above the mundane, to be separate and elevated above even his own complacency, above his own self-centered impulses. There is something so inspiring in this, and so beautiful that we Jews can celebrate this essentially Jewish imperative to Holiness, to Rigtheousness, reflected back from the heroism of a non-Jew. It gives us hope that the Holiness that lies at the heart of our Torah, is a Holiness that one day we can share with the all the human beings of this earth. Tomorrow, we will join together with Jews and non-Jews, Americans and Latinos, all races and creeds to celebrate this righteousness, this Holiness that can overcome all darkness and evil. May we indeed be inspired by the heroism of Castellanos, may his memory inspire us to affirm the Holiness of our Jewish souls. May we, like Castellanos, never again lie to ourselves. May we face the Truth, no matter how difficult that Truth is to face. And in that Truth, may we find the Face of God showing us the way to preserve life, to uphold justice, and transform this earth to a place, once and for all, of peace.

Gold in the Walls

2011-04-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

It never ceases to amaze me how deeply passions run about Israel. And I don’t mean just among members of this congregation. I don’t even mean among Jews alone. It’s amazing how the whole world seems always so impassioned, so hyper vigilant, so ready to scream and yell and battle over the fate of Israel, the Jewish State. Why is that? Why is the media so focused on it? Why do so many people, everywhere it seems, have such definite, absolute opinions about who is right and who is wrong in Israel? Why is the whole world so quick to polarize over this place? At times, it really seems as if there’s something supernatural going on, something particularly energizing about the Land of Israel in the collective human unconscious. And maybe this really is so. If you read the Torah, there’s no doubt about the particular spiritual power of the Land of Israel. It really is a unique focal point of the world. According to our ancient tradition, things happen in that particular place that don’t quite happen in that way anywhere else.
Case in point is the subject of this week’s Torah-reading: the Metzora, the ones afflicted with Tzara’at, that strange affliction that not only causes a white, scaly outbreak on the skin, but also on one’s clothes, and even in the walls of one’s house. And particularly, it seems, the houses of the Land of Israel are uniquely susceptible to contract this disease. Remember, last week we learned what this disease is really about: it’s obviously not just an illness. It’s a spiritual affliction that is the physical manifestation of a spiritual degradation. Tzara’at is the result of spreading Lashon Hara, evil speech, hateful, twisted, and corrupt ideas that can corrode the human spirit, and undo the very fabric of decent society. Engage in calumny, gossip, slander, hate speech, and you will be zapped in the Land of Israel with this disease. Speak unkind and careless speech within your family, and the very walls of your home will begin to rot away with this Divinely-sent affliction. A home afflicted is obviously a very powerful metaphor for the destructive nature of hateful speech: the house, the home, the safe-place—even this can be fodder for the spreading of the worst and lowest behaviors of humanity. So take care, Israelites, even in the privacy of your homes, and never spread hate or evil, no matter where you are!
But this idea of a house afflicted has even deeper implications about the moral power of the Land of Israel, implications that have resonance even into our own times: the Torah says, “When you enter the land of Canaan that I give you la’achuzah, as a possession, and I inflict tzara’at, an eruptive plague ‘b’veit eretz achuzatchem,’ in your house in the land you possess…” Rashi, the great medieval commentator, brings in an interesting Midrashic interpretation of this verse. He explains that the Israelites, when they came into the Land of Cana’an, actually inhabited the houses that had belonged to the ‘Amorites, the pagans who had been on the land before. He explains that the ‘Amorites concealed treasures of gold within the walls of their houses during the Israelites’ 40-year wanderings, because they knew that the Israelites would eventually come, dispossess them, and chase them from their homes. So they hid them. Why did they do this? Because they knew what God had told Abraham all those years before: that one day his offspring would come and inherit the Land. They knew that once their own sinfulness reached the critical breaking point, then the Israelites would arrive and they would be expelled from the Land. So they hid their gold in the walls knowing their time of expulsion was near, but they were ever-hopeful that eventually, even the Israelites’ sinfulness would result in their—the Israelitess’-- expulsion—at which time the ‘Amorites could return to their old houses, and get their gold back from inside the walls. But, with the hindsight of history, we know that the ‘Amorites never did return to the land, because their pagan sinfulness was so great, they were completely wiped out.
But it was good news for us! Even when our walls were afflicted, we had to rip down those walls, and lo and behold, we, the Israelites, discovered gold in those walls for us!
Embedded in this story, like the gold embedded in the walls, is the notion that the Land of Israel is not like other places. It has a moral reckoning for its inhabitants: if your immorality and sin become too great—the land will vomit you out…Our sages even see this warning embedded in the Hebrew of our Torah reading: there’s a funny repetition of the Hebrew word ‘achuzah,’ which means ‘possession.’ It says ‘When you come into the Land that I [God] give you la’achuzah, as a possession’…and then it talks about tzara’at in your house in ‘eretz achuzatchem’ in the Land of your possession. Why use the same word twice in the same sentence? Because, our sages explain, God wants us to know that we possess this land not by our own power, but because God gave it to us. And furthermore, if we start to claim absolute possession and ownership over the land, as if it’s ‘achuzatchem,’ as if it’s our possession—that’s when our very houses will start to rot with disease! It’s as if our tradition wants us to remember that “our” very land, “our” very houses on that land, they didn’t originally belong to us at all. It’s only when we humbly recognize this, then we can find the gold in the walls…
But wait a minute. There’s a disturbing paradox in this teaching, isn’t there? It’s only when we Israelites are arrogantly spreading evil speech that our houses get afflicted with this disease, and then, when we rip down the rotting walls—we’re getting rewarded for our arrogant speech with gold! Is that fair? Is that right? Why would God allow us to be rewarded for our evil speech in the land?
The answer comes when we consider the nature of our so-called ‘reward’ of gold. That gold in the walls, it was once the priceless treasures of those poor old ‘Amorites, now long gone from the Land. It represents their hopes and dreams of their future return to their homes. And now we get their gold. We even get their houses. It’s a reward, indeed. But put yourself in the place of that humbled Israelite, afflicted with a Divine punishment for their own arrogant words; now finding gold from someone else expelled by God from my own house for their arrogant sinfulness, now lost to this land and to history. As shiny and valuable as that gold may be, it doesn’t feel like much of a reward, does it. If you’re anything like me, that gold, even that house, feels kind of sickening. It feels tragic. And it leaves us in a tail-spin.
And this, I believe, is the very point of this teaching. Like so many of the wisest teachings of our Jewish tradition, it’s there to disturb us, to discomfit us, to bring about a dark uneasiness deep within our souls about our moral standing in the Land of Israel, and in the world: We Jewish people, look at our place in the Land of Israel. Look at our homeland, the very homes we live in. It is such a blessing. It is such a miracle. It is such a gift of God. Indeed, the Land is ours to possess! But take care and remember: this Land was once the possessions of others. Remember your own arrogance on that Land. Remember that as soon as you make an idol of the land itself, of your house itself, you literally bring down that house, you bring down the holiness of the Land, and you endanger your very place on the Land. Let the rotting disease on the walls, and the shining gold within stand as an eternal reminder of this truth.
No wonder there are such eternal passions surrounding the Land of Israel in the collective human unconscious. It’s a land that bears scars of loss, of moral struggle, and of our highest yearning for redemption. Isn’t it amazing how the deepest struggles in the modern state of Israel directly reflect some of our most ancient struggles about the land: different peoples claiming the land as their own; the Jewish people with our sense of our holy and God-given connection to the Land; the collective guilts and angers surrounding accusations of one people dispossessing another people. These themes and messages are not just current events. These themes have been defining the moral struggles of the Land literally since time immemorial.
We all yearn for a solution, once and for all, for the problems and challenges that beset our people in the Land of Israel. This is why our passions flare so fiercely. But our tradition wants us to understand that the Land of Israel, like it’s very name, Yisrael, mean’s ‘struggle.’ Struggle with God. Struggle for truth. Struggle for what is right and good in a place that is inherently and deeply complex. Embedded in the land is indeed the purest and most precious of gold—the gold of spirit, of insight, of Torah, of moral excellence. But that gold always comes with a price. It always bares the scars of those who have failed to live up to its worth. This is what it means to live in the Land of Israel—not to be free of struggle, but to lift that struggle up, and see it as a struggle toward goodness, toward holiness, toward humility, compassion and justice. So long as we look upon the walls of our homes in the Land of Israel, and see in the very walls a message that humbles us, that drives us not toward polarized hatreds but toward wisdom and justice, then the struggle of our Land, the struggle of centuries, is truly worth it.

Ice Cream Breakfast

2011-03-02T14:06:00.000-08:00

My grandmother had a good death. One that any of us would hope for. She was 99 years old. She had seen her children, her grandchildren, and great grandchildren grow and flourish. She never lost her mental abilities, or her wicked sense of humor. She lived her life devoted to her family and her people. One of the greatest lessons of her amazing century of life came at the very end itself.

My Grandma lived her life with great simplicity. She neither had riches nor required them. She never craved extravagance. Whenever a milestone, an accomplishment or a special event came up through the years, she and my grandfather always marked the occasion in one special way. They would sit down together and have a little vanilla ice cream in a glass of ginger ale . By the time Grandma died, she hadn’t had this treat in many years, maybe not since Grandpa died 20 years ago. But that final day of her life, she told the woman caring for her that she was having a craving: could she get a little vanilla ice cream with ginger ale? It was first thing in the morning, but her health aid, ever the angel she was, went and got this treat for her. Grandma had her vanilla and ginger ale float for breakfast, and asked for second, and even third helping. Not long after this, she simply closed her eyes and died.

It is absolutely clear that my grandma knew that this was it. She knew it was her time. She knew that she had lived a beautiful life, and since it was ending, why not celebrate it?

I like to say that we all learn Torah from one another. I believe that ‘Torah’ is not just the Five Books of Moses. “The Torah” is actually a mirror that we hold up before ourselves that shows us the infinite uniqueness of our own souls. We can find infinite Divine wisdom by studying the Torah. And we can find infinite Divine wisdom by studying each other, by truly listening to one another, by being students of one another. Grandma gave me Divine Wisdom through her good death. She taught me that death is not anything to be afraid of. She taught me that each of us has our time in this life. For some of us, it may be a century. For others, something shorter, for some—too short. But whatever time we have, it is so very precious. We all know that it is precious, in our reflective moments.

But Grandma went beyond this insight. She understood that sometimes, it’s good to have ice cream for breakfast. More than good. Ice cream floats at 8:00 a.m. are sometimes essential; they are what make us truly human when it’s all said and done. Our humanity is at its best when we mark life’s passages through our ceremonies and rituals that direct our minds and hearts to life’s sweetness, to life’s amazing brilliance—so rich, so incomprehensible, so beautiful because it passes so quickly: it could be a hundred years or vastly fewer. When it’s all said and done, length of years cannot compare to quality of years.

We often attempt to fill our lives with entertainments, riches, and extravagant distractions. We’re afraid to face life’s transience. But grandma seemed to know better. She knew that life’s not an impending loss to be avoided. It’s a gift to acknowledge by tasting its sweetness while we have it. I am so proud to be Lucille Klayman’s grandson. I am proud to live and represent her beloved Judaism. Like Grandma, Judaism also teaches us to pause in the midst of life each and every day--in gratitude and wonder--to taste life’s sweetness through our rituals and ceremonies that remind us of life’s gifts.

The Shabbat after her funeral, my family gathered together for Shabbat dinner. And guess what we all had for desert that night? Batya and I have a new tradition now to mark milestones together with our children: vanilla ice cream with ginger ale. In this way, we are blessed by the memory of Grandma’s good death—a sweet treat to remind us that God blesses us, as God blessed Grandma, by keeping us alive, by sustaining us, and by bringing us to the blessing of this moment. May we all be similarly blessed, as my Grandma was. May we all be blessed not only with a century of life, but a life where we know how each moment truly is a sweet blessing.

Mobs and the Potential for Good

2011-02-22T20:28:00.000-08:00

Last week, President Obama delivered a message when President Hosni Mubarak finally stepped down from his place of power. Obama said “while the sights and sounds that we heard were entirely Egyptian, we can’t help but hear the echoes of history -- echoes from Germans tearing down a wall, Indonesian students taking to the streets, Gandhi leading his people down the path of justice. As Martin Luther King said in celebrating the birth of a new nation in Ghana while trying to perfect his own, “There is something in the soul that cries out for freedom.” Those were the cries that came from Tahrir Square, and the entire world has taken note.” These are beautiful and inspiring words of our president in the face of extraordinary change in the middle east. As Jews, we have watched the images on television, read the reports in the newspapers, and we heard Obama’s remarks. And we can’t help but have a terribly ambivalent reaction. This isn’t just any popular uprising for the sake of democracy. These are Arab countries. This is Egypt. Mitzrayim. This was our sworn enemy with whom we entered into an uneasy yet solid peace agreement decades ago. These countries can profoundly threaten the safety of the State of Israel. On the one hand, it is the common folk marching for justice, for their rights—something so very close to our Jewish souls. On the other hand, how many of those common folk would applaud and do anything to obliterate the Jewish State? What’s worse is that we’re all too aware of the threats of the mobs, particularly mobs of our enemies. We Jews bear the painful scars of mobs of crusaders, of Cossaks, of Nazis, of the mobs in Iran. We know what peril lies in mobs who have no love for the Jews or for Israel.

Indeed, in our own experience, we know from the dangers of mobs going awry. This week’s parashah is defined by the evils and dangers of mob mentality. I’m speaking, of course, of the mob of Israelites who feared when Moses didn’t come down from the mountain. The Israelites who demanded that Aharon fashion a god of gold who would go before them. The Israelites who said ‘Eileh Eloheicha, Yisrael’—this is your god, O Israel! –to the Golden Calf. God is enraged at this brazen act of idolatry. “Ata, hanichah li,” “Now, let me be,” God declares, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them. But it is at this intense and horrifying moment that something fascinating happens: Moses steps up and intercedes on behalf of the sinful Israelites. He argues for the sake of their survival. He reminds God that the Egyptians would note that this God of Israel is evil, who rescues the Israelites, only to destroy them in the desert. He reminds God of the favor incurred by Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob: of their loyalty and his covenant with their descendants. With this, God relents God’s anger. It’s an incredible moment: here we have the classic angry God of the biblical account. Only now, this angry God is surprisingly willing to be ‘talked down,’ by Moses.

When God says ‘hanicha li,’ “Let me be,” to Moses, and when you think about it, it’s a rather strange thing to say. God is God. God is all powerful. Why in heaven or earth would God say ‘Let me be’ to a human being, as if he were being restrained? In the Talmud,[1] we find a extraordinary teaching of Rabbi Abahu that illustrates the power of this moment: Abahu says, “this teaches that Moses took hold of the Holy One, blessed be He, like a man who seizes his fellow by his garment and said before Him: Sovereign of the Universe, I will not let You go until You forgive and pardon them.” Rashi, the great medieval commentator, presents a different perspective on this. Rashi explains: “Here God created an opening, and informed [Moses] that the matter rested on him; if he would pray, God would not destroy them.” Either way you look at it—either it’s Moses taking a hold of God’s “garment,” or God using a figure of speech to prompt Moses—this is a moment of empowering Moses to rise to his greatest nobility of spirit, to defend his people, to speak the worthiness of the people of Israel before God. And miraculously it works!

It’s especially miraculous when you compare this moment to other moments of Divine wrath in the Bible. When God wipes out the world in the great flood, there’s no discussion at all. Noach doesn’t even have a chance to speak up. When God destroys Sodom and Gomorrah, at least he gives Abraham a chance to defend the potential innocent of the cities—to no avail, of course. There isn’t anyone worthy of saving there. But at this moment, the great sin of the people in worship ing the Golden Calf, there is something altogether new in the world. God says ‘hanichah li.’ Those Hebrew words, ‘Let me be,’ can also literally be translated as “Let me down:” Talk me down! In a sense, it really is an opening: God is saying, ‘Go for it, Moses. Now you can bring down my rage at them, even though they certainly don’t deserve it, I’m willing to be talked down. I am willing to forgive them, if you are truly willing to believe in them!

There’s a wonderful midrash where God literally says this point. “Whenever I win an argument with my children, as at the time of the Flood or of Sodom and Gomorrah,” says God, “I lose. Whenever I lose an argument, I win.” What this means is that at the Flood, and particularly at Sodom and Gomorrah, God won the argument, but in the ultimate sense, God loses. The rabbis of the Midrash are quick to recognize on a visceral level what we all feel when we encounter the destroying God of the Bible: God loses when people die at God’s hand, even if the victims deserved the punishment. When we human beings, however, win in the argument against God, when we talk even God down so that life itself is preserved, then ultimately God wins. God, the rigid judgmental God of old, wants to lose the argument! Our Torah reveals that God wants more than anything to lose so that the human spirit can express faith in itself to overcome our propensity to evil.

The mob of Israelites committed the worst kind of sin in the Bible: idolatry itself. And yet, God wants Moses to recognize their potential for holiness despite this sin. The reason for this is because here, unlike the Flood, unlike Sodom and Gomorroah, there really is the potential for the good. Moses speaks this potential, showing how they are the descendants of the covenant, how they bear a connection to something greater than their present limitedness, and when we human beings can own this sense of our potential, the destroying angry God willingly recedes.

It’s hard to resist comparisons between the ancient and the modern. Today, it’s not the Israelites, but the Arab peoples and the Egyptians who are the crowd whom we fear can become a mob. And now, the Egyptians have overthrown their Pharaoh. When Obama, and much of the world, and a real part of ourselves looks on this moment, we see indeed the potential for holiness in this act. But going from a mob to a holy people isn’t easy. Moses had to smash the tablets of the Ten Commandments to remind them how badly they had strayed. And indeed, in the middle east, the idolatries of Muslim Fundamentalism, of Israel-hatred and anti-Semitism often run rampant among the mobs. The precarious transitions of power can so easily be turned on an evil path. But then again, the people acted not out of hatred or a desire for violence, but out of a genuine desire for rights, for freedom, for justice in their land.

On some level, I can feel the presence of God hanging over the middle east at this moment, saying ‘hanichah li,’ ‘Talk me down.’ There is so much potential for this to go bad. And yet, God waits for the world, for us, and for the Middle Eastern peoples themselves to see and live by the potential for the good that is in this moment. We can only imagine how difficult it was for Moses to speak out on behalf of the Israelites’ potential. Like God, Moses too must have felt betrayed and filled with doubt about the Israelites goodness. And yet, he overcame his rage and doubts, and stood up for their potential. At this moment in history, we are like Moses. God has given us the opening. Can we rise to see the potential for real democracy, for a healthy and just society in Egypt and elsewhere, despite all our reasons to retreat into fear and defensiveness because of the people’s and the states’ shortcomings? Can we, like God in our Parashah, be the people of infinite compassion, despite everything, and applaud a genuine desire for the kind of democracy and blessings that we have here and in the State of Israel? Can we see past our ancient enmities, and be willing to join with the best among these people in a shared search for a more just and compassionate world? The potential is there. And the God of Israel, and of all people’s is waiting only for us to acknowledge this shared potential. May we find that potential fulfilled together. May we overcome our fears, even as we seek to do what we must to protect ourselves. And together, may the children of Israel and the children of Yishma’el join together to make the world a holier place.

The Greatest Miracle

2010-12-18T19:31:00.000-08:00

I am endlessly amazed by our great city. It is one of the most exciting places in the world to live. People in our congregation, people you run into any day on the streets around here, are committing to changing the world, and making it a better place. Perhaps that’s why it’s all the more shocking to realize that Washington DC is a city racked with terrible poverty and injustice. You wouldn’t know it walking around this lovely Northwest section of the District. But you only have to go a couple of miles from here, to other neighborhoods, and the city looks radically different: dangerous neighborhoods, crime, drugs, desperation. When you study the statistics, the numbers are staggering: one out of eight households in the District of Columbia struggles with hunger-related issues. The number of families on the foodstamp program in the District is at an all-time high, with 120,000 residents—one fifth of the population of this city—using foodstamps. In recent months, perhaps because of the economic downturn, there has been a dramatic increase in the number of people needing food from local food banks and pantries. Some of these establishments are struggling to keep up with demands. Kristin Roberts is a community nutrition associate for DC Hunger Solutions, which is an advocacy and policy organization for federal food programs. In a recent publication from American University,[1] Roberts dispelled the myth that high demand for food only corresponds to the colder winter months. In many ways, she explained, it’s worse in the summer months because so many DC children don’t have access to inexpensive or free meal programs in the DC public school system. The problem is that bad. Hunger and dire poverty is not something just in Haiti or Africa or the Third World. It’s right here. It’s just a matter of blocks from here.

This week in the Torah, we have reached the end of the book of Genesis. We’re on the cusp of the end of the year. We have come through thanksgiving and Hanukkah. We are so grateful for blessings that we have as we reach endings and new beginnings: our lives, our health, the gifts we possess, the food on our table. In the Torah this week, we see a window into the Jewish notion of gratitude for life’s blessings. We all understand gratitude. It is one of the most noble of human responses to life’s goodness. In Hebrew, we call it Hakarat HaTov, which literally means ‘recognition of the Good.’ But in Judaism, gratitude goes far beyond a simple full-hearted recognition. As with all things, Judaism sees in gratitude a powerful call to action. In the Torah, we read the famous moment where the dying old Jacob blesses his beloved son Joseph through Joseph’s two sons, Ephraim and Menasheh. In his blessing, Jacob says, “The God in whose ways my fathers Abraham and Isaac walked, God who had been my Shepherd from the day of my birth until this day,” “HaMalakh HaGo’el oti mikol ra,” “The angel who has redeemed me from all harm – bless these lads.” (Gen. 46:33)

In this famous and powerful blessing, we find the core of the blessing that parents have blessed sons with for thousands of years at the Shabbat table—“Yesimcha Elohim k’Ephraim v’chi Menasheh,” “May God make you as Ephraim and Menasheh.” That blessing began with Jacob’s expression of gratitude to God for having survived so much hardship, so much travail, to be reunited with his beloved son Joseph, to live to see his grandsons saved from hunger and starvation when famine had plagued the land. And yet, when we contemplate this blessings, there is something strange about it. First, Jacob recognizes God who has been his protection, but then he also recognizes the ‘malakh hago’el,’ the saving Angel. Is the angel just another way of referring to God, or is he saying he has had two protectors in his life?

In the Talmud,[2] our ancient sages teach that indeed, Jacob seems to refer to two different kinds of protection in this blessing. Rabbi Yochanan taught the following: “ Fending off hunger is more difficult than redemption. How do we know that? Redemption, explains Rabbi Yochanan, requires only the assistance of an angel, as it says, “HaMalakh HaGo’el oti mikol ra,” “The Angel who saved me from all harm.” Fending off hunger, on the other hand, requires direct divine intervention, as it says, “God who has been my shepherd.”

In this fascinating teaching, Rabbi Yochanan makes a radical claim: that putting food on your table is a greater miracle than Redemption itself! In Judaism, we typically think of Ge’ulah, of Redemption as the greatest kind of miracle. The redemption from slavery in Egypt, redemption from captivity, redemption from any kind of dire straits the Jewish people have known at the hands of tyrants and oppressors throughout our history—all of these great redemptions, according to Rabbi Yochanan, take a back seat to the miracle of ending hunger itself. Any act of redemption from oppression, says Rabbi Yochanan, is something that God could simply send an angel to carry out if God wanted. But ending hunger, this requires the direct and miraculous hand of God! The implications of this teaching are enormous.

Think about what Jacob experienced in his life. He had lived in exile from his home, and he is thankful and grateful for sending him an angel of Redemption who brought him out of harms way. But Jacob also lived through a devastating famine. All food disappeared. But it wasn’t just a rescuing angel, it was God who turned the wheel of fate itself and placed his son Joseph at Pharaoh’s right hand to set about a complex chain of miraculous conditions that saved him from that hunger. It wasn’t just one redeeming act or angel that saved him, it was a mind-boggling process of twists and turns of life’s journey that miraculously brought him and his family up from the jaws of almost certain death of starvation. And for this, he is grateful only to God. Only a God could give him a blessing of this awesome magnitude.

What’s true for Jacob is true for you and for me. There is no greater miracle than the fact that we, through forces way beyond our control or influence, are able to have food on our tables three meals a day. If you want proof that there is, indeed, a God, look no further than your full belly after any meal you have today. You and I have been blessed more than any words can say. How many countless conditions have come together to enable us to enjoy the blessings that we have at this moment? The fact that we have been born to the families that we have, in the time and place in history that we have been born into; the fact that we have had access to the kinds of education and opportunities that we have had. Any of these individual conditions have been our “redeeming angels.” But when we put it all together, this is God giving us the gift of our lives.

The vast majority of the world, as well as the people who live just a matter of blocks away from us, haven’t had these angels to redeem them. They haven’t yet felt the hand of God feeding them in the ways that they need. And so, our very essence and purpose in the world is to be the bnai Yisrael, the children of Israel—the descendants of Jacob. Our purpose is our Hakarat HaTov, our recognition, like Jacob himself, of the goodness and blessings and redemptions that we have been given so that we can be the redeeming angels for those who have not yet been blessed. Collectively, our greatest purpose is to be the very hand of God acting in the world to bring the greatest miracle of all—the end to hunger and poverty and injustice in this world.

Thank God, here at Adas Israel, we have our Ezra Pantry food collection and our partnership with SOME, So Others Might Eat. We have our Anne Frank House that provides housing for the homeless, as well as our partnership with other food collection agencies like Project Isaiah, as well as our partnership with N Street Village on Christmas Day and throughout the year. And there are many other fine organizations and opportunities as well through our congregational community, and either I or Rabbi Feinberg will be happy to talk to you further about getting involved in our Tikkun Olam, Repair the World, projects.

For the Jewish people, gratitude for life’s blessings is only the beginning. Our gratitude for our Torah, for our blessings, for God’s deliverance of us, is our motivation to take action to transform this world. May, indeed, our gratitude be our gift that we share with all those in our midst, and around the world, who do not yet feel that gratitude. May God continue to bless us with all that is good, and may all the peoples of this world come to know that goodness as well.

[1] http://inews6.americanobserver.net/articles/study-hunger-poverty-inequality-prevalent-dc

[2] Pesachim 118a

The Evolution of Hanukkah

2010-12-01T19:17:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you have heard some Jews laugh and brush off Hanukkah: “If only people knew how relatively minor and insignificant Hanukkah is,” they say, “they would never make such a big deal of it.” Have you ever heard this before: “It’s not that Hanukkah isn’t important—of course, it’s an important holiday about a miraculous victory of the Maccabbees,” they say. “It’s just that, compared to major holidays like Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Pesach, Hanukkah can’t—if you’ll excuse the expression—hold a candle!” I grew up hearing this message about Hanukkah, that it’s a nice, pretty holiday, but it’s not that important. And implied in this is the rather guilt-provoking message: You know, Jews of America, if you were more serious about your commitment to observance, you’d know that Hanukkah is getting more press than it deserves. And more than this, the secret that we Jews have to acknowledge is that the only reason Hanukkah gets all the attention it does is because of Christmas. All the Jewish kids who were jealous of their Christian friends getting presents resulted in the mass marketing of Hanukkah right alongside Christmas. So we Jews get to feel guilty, not only because we’re not observant enough, but also because we’re just copying Christians. We can all feel guilty because, ironically, Hanukkah, the holiday that is all about resisting assimilation, has become the purest expression of American assimilation.

We have to acknowledge that there’s some truth in all of this. But it’s only partial truth. As time goes by, I see a deeper message in the American Jewish experience of Hanukkah. Hanukkah really is a beautiful holiday about miracles, about victory against all odds, about the triumph of the spirit, about lighting up the darkness. But for so many Jews today, Hanukkah has more nuances and layers of meaning. In more and more houses, you see Hanukkah menorahs proudly displayed next to Christmas trees. And I mean proudly. Hanukkah, more and more, is evolving a message that it didn’t have in generations past: it’s a way of affirming the meaning of Jewish identity in the uniquely accepting multiculturalism of 21st-century America.

Generations ago, in the old country, our ancestors proudly placed menorahs in their windows as an act of defiance and courage. The outside world, symbolized by the darkness of this time of year, was an unsafe and rejecting place of anti-Semitic violence and betrayal. The message was clear: We stood up for who we are, and despite the hatred of the surrounding nations, despite their overwhelming strength and numbers, we prevailed. But it’s different now, here in America. The menorah now isn’t so much shining out into the dark night as it is illuminating the home within. More and more Jews aren’t observant. They might not believe in God. And yet, they will light that menorah. They will sing the dreidel songs with their children, they’ll make the latkes. Why? Because being Jewish matters to most American Jews. It’s something we’re proud of. Even if Kashrut and Shabbat haven’t found a way into the family’s home observances, Hanukkah works! It is accessible, powerful, and beautiful. Its message can be seen clearly in both its particularist and universalist dimensions. Both conventional and intermarried families can fully access this wonderful way to celebrate Jewishness.

We’re witnessing the evolution of Jewish observance in America. What’s happening before our eyes, frankly, is what has happened with all Jewish holidays over the centuries: they evolve. They take on new dimensions of meaning depending on the social and cultural conditions within which the Jews find themselves. And the new, American-Jewish dimension of Hanukkah is truly magnificent. Its message is: Here we are! We have made it in America! We’re really an accepted, successful, beloved people in this wonderful blessing of a society that is America.Our lives are multifaceted. Our choices for who to be and how to be are infinitely more complex than those of our ancestors. We are Jewish, yes, but we are also secular in many ways. We have access to multiple belief systems that we hold in the cognitive dissonance of our identities. We’re more and more intermarried. And yet, despite it all, the light of who we are as Jews has not gone out. To the contrary, it burns stronger and stronger. Our Jewish heritage, while so different now from what it was for our grandparents, is something we will proudly pass to our children.

In this day and age, in 2010—5771—Hanukkah truly is one of the most important holidays on the Jewish calendar. It is a cause for wild celebration. It is the shining light that reminds us that, despite dire predictions a generation ago, assimilation and intermarriage are not the death knell of the Jewish people. We are alive and well and proud to be who we are. It’s just that who we are is different now from what we were before. And this evolution of our people is good. It is a miracle. So this year, enjoy Hanukkah. Celebrate the light no matter who you are, whether observant, or secular, or not even Jewish. And while you’re celebrating, remember its message: that the spirit of this remarkable people is a light that burns brighter all the time, promising to be an ever-evolving blessing for generations to come.

The Spirit of Israel

2010-11-21T13:22:00.000-08:00

It’s very difficult to open the newspaper these days and not feel depressed and overwhelmed. I recently read how the national economy is inexorably careening toward ruin. By the year 2020, he writes, the United States will need to pay one trillion dollars a year just to keep up with interest on the national debt. The national leadership here in Washington looks forward to years of partisan politics and struggle over basic issues of taxation and healthcare. There seems to be no end in sight for on-going struggles in Israel and the Middle East. What are we supposed do to do when we come up against news like this—on a daily basis? We understand that each of us has a responsibility to do something to help our country, our society, our planet. But in this fast-paced, globalizing world, it’s all coming at us so fast. It’s hard to resist the reaction of simply going numb, into denial rather than face the onslaught of unthinkably frightening prospects for us and for the world. How can we, indeed, respond to the news of so much fear and decline in our society and our world? And, more basically, how can we possibly have hope, and find the strength to face life in any kind of positive way? Is there, in fact, any glimmer of hope at all in such a seemingly depressing world? The answer I want to share is today is, yes: indeed, there is reason for extraordinary hope and even optimism. When we learn and live by the spiritual messages handed down to us by our Jewish tradition, hope truly becomes our birthright.

In this week’s parashah, we read the extraordinary story of Jacob’s homecoming to the land of Canaan. He has spent the past decades living in exile in Haran, having run away years before from his brother Esau’s murderous wrath after Jacob stole Esau’s blessing of the first born from their father, Isaac. As Jacob arrives back home, he is filled with an overwhelming sense of dread and doom, as he approaches his destiny. Finally, Jacob must confront what he has feared his whole life—his brother, who likely will kill him for his past sins. And indeed, he learns that Esau is to meet him with a hundred armed men with him the next day. This is it. “Vayira Ya’akov me’od,” Jacob was filled with dread for what tomorrow is likely to bring. He sends his whole family and all his possessions across the river Yavok, and there, in the darkness of night, Jacob is left all alone, seething with anxiety. And there, he wrestles all night with a mysterious angel. And yet, despite the darkness and dread, Jacob doesn’t give up on this mysterious fight. He is profoundly wounded right in the groin, and still he doesn’t give up. Finally, as dawn is breaking on what might be the day of Jacob’s death, Jacob still won’t let the angel go, until the angel blesses him. And the angel finally blesses him, and says his name will now be Yisrael, for he has striven with beings divine and human, and has prevailed. And this mysterious story ends in an odd way: it says that because of Jacob’s wound in his groin, to this day, the children of Israel do not eat the gid hanashe, the tendon that is right on the thigh muscle in remembrance of Jacob’s wound. And this is why, by the way, the cut of ‘fillet mignon’ beef is not kosher down to this very day.

It’s a dark and mysterious story about dread and fear and doom and wounds that we never forget. And that strange reference to the gid hanashe—fillet mignon. Why is it important for us to remember this moment in this particular way? Our ancient rabbinic sages put forth many different theories about the meaning of that command not to eat the thigh muscle. The Tosafot, medieval commentators on the Talmud, point out that this command is important because Jacob’s thigh wound is obviously a symbol of future offspring of Jacob’s loins, born of wounds and conflicts: we must always remember the struggles and wounds that are our very essence as Jacob’s descendants—that we must never forget our ancient wounds even as we strive to transcend them. Other commentators, however, notice another level of meaning in that command not to eat the thigh muscle. Abarbanel, a medieval commentator, points out that, yes, Jacob was wounded, but let’s also notice that he overcame his wound and lived on despite all his fears! The S’forno similarly writes that we refrain from eating the thigh muscle because indeed, Jacob healed. Ultimately, he won the battle!

There’s an ancient tradition among the Jewish people: ma’aseh avot, siman lebanim: the deeds of the ancestors, the forefathers, are a sign-post of what will be for their descendants. This story of Jacob’s homecoming is a story about fear and almost certain doom, and yet—unexpectedly, miraculously--it is, when it is all said and done, a story about a spiritual victory. After that dark night, the Torah reads: “Vayizrach lo hashemesh ka’asher avar et p’nu’el v’hu solea al y’reicho,” “The sun rose upon [Jacob] as he passed Penu’el (the sight of the wrestling-match), limping on his hip.” Jacob came through the darkness and the dread and the struggle—yes limping, but alive. The sun rose and shone for him in the new dawn. The rising sun is an eternal symbol of new hope, of redemption and renewal, for him, and for all future offspring of Jacobs—despite all evidence to the contrary, despite all darkness, there was the sun, and he would yet live after all! He went forward, he limped on. He met with his brother, and his brother didn’t kill him. Somehow, he went on, however wounded he was along the way.

With this insight, some of our greatest rabbinic commentaries see a message of hope for all future generations. The Shem Mishmu’el, for example, teaches that Jacob’s wound stands as a sign-post for all future times of darkness and despair for the children of Israel: it doesn’t matter how profoundly we will be wounded. The sun will yet shine on us again and we will go forward. Rabbi Samson Rapha’el Hirsch, a great 19^th century rabbi, further taught that we don’t eat the gid haneshe as an eternal reminder: despite the wound, despite the pain, Jacob kept struggling! He kept fighting. He kept going forward. He didn’t give up. And so we, the Jewish people, must live this profound message: no matter what the pain, the wound, no matter what the physical limitation, we have within us a spirit to prevail, so long as we remember never to stop struggling toward life and life’s potential for blessing and goodness itself.

Our very namesake, Yisrael, the name conferred on Jacob at this moment, means that he struggled with beings divine and human, and prevailed. Our namesake, our spiritual message to all the world is the very message that we need today in this world of so many overwhelming and depressing headlines: never give up the struggle toward life, toward the sunlight, toward blessing and goodness and justice. Never. You never know: the sun may yet arise, and life will greet us, despite all the evidence to the contrary. This spirit of survival, this very wound on Jacob’s goin, is the spirit that has sustained us and allowed us to survive through century upon century of so much pain and adversity. It is a great light that we, the Jewish people, can bring to this nation and to the world. The newspaper headlines tell us that we may yet face adversity that may even wound us. But we go on. Limping all the way perhaps, we move on toward the sunlight. When we persevere, darkness gives way to blessing. This is how the world truly works. It doesn’t matter what the darkness: be it the economy or politics or war. It doesn’t matter how much we suffer, or how much we fear we may suffer. There is a blessing for us in the future. Struggle for it. Never let go of that faith. May we bring this message, the root spirit of the Jewish people, to be a blessing not just to us, but to all the peoples of this nation, and the world. And may we find the light of blessing in this world speedily and in good time.

The Blessing of the Forbidden Fruit

2010-10-02T17:01:00.000-07:00

There is something eternally fascinating about the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. We are endlessly amazed by Adam and Eve’s foolhardy giving-in to temptation and eating of the forbidden fruit. In many ways, it’s the perfect story. Every time we circle back to it, there’s some part of us that wants to shout out to Eve—‘don’t do it!’ It’s an eternally relevant story because we know that we’re just like Adam and Eve. Somehow, just like them, we eat of that Tree too, despite our better judgment: we mess up, we stumble over ourselves, we fail—just missing the perfection we almost had. It’s also a perfect story because it allows us to get angry at God: what was God thinking? Why put that tree right there in the Garden and then forbid it? It’s the perfect set-up! It’s the proverbial placing-of-the-cookie-jar right in front of innocent hands and eyes, after all. And yet, despite the maddening frustration of this story, it is the perfect typology for our human condition. Plumb the depths of the Tree of Knowledge, and you unlock the key to what it means to be human.

In the Talmud in Sanhedrin (38a), there’s a story told of how God created various groups of ministering angels just as God was about to create humankind. To the first group of angels, he asked, “Na’aseh et ha’adam betzalmenu?” “Shall we make humankind in our image?” “What will be his deeds?” the angels ask. “Well,” said God, “he’ll do this and that [this good deed, and that sin], etc.” Indignantly, the angels said ‘What is man that Thou are mindful of him” (Psalm 8:5) [In other words, why bother to create such a fallible, sinning creature in your image, O God!]. What did God do? God stretched out his little finger and consumed all those angels with fire. The same scenario happened all over again when God created a second chorus of ministering angels. Finally, a third group of angels said, “The whole world is Yours, and whatever You wish to do therein, do it.” When God came to the generation of the flood and to the generation of the dispersion of mankind, whose deeds were so corrupt, the angels said: ‘Lord of the universe, did not the first [company of angels] speak justly [when they said, ‘don’t bother creating humankind?] God retorted “Ad ziknah…ad seivah ani esbol…” “Until old age…until gray hair I will put up [with humankind].(Isaiah 46:4)”

This wonderful and important midrash says it all: God has absolutely no patience even for his ministering angels who would talk good sense to God: why create human beings so very fallible, so prone to temptation, to sin, even to evil itself?! Even to the point of wiping out the world and starting over again, God here remains steadfast to one thing, to humankind just as we are, in all our fallible glory. If we put this midrash together with the Garden of Eden story of the Torah, we see that our destiny was never to stay in that Garden of perfection. The poignant irony of our humanity is that somewhere, way back in our primordial psyche, we know that we once had a taste of perfection, but perfection was never our destiny. Banishment from the Garden is our destiny. Imperfection is our destiny. Loss and separation is our destiny. And yet, somehow, that Garden, despite its flaming swords blocking our re-entry, always beckons for us to yearn to come home once again someday…

The Tanzer rebbe used to tell a story about himself: “In my youth, when I was fired with the love of God, I thought I would convert the whole world to God. But soon, I discovered it would be quite enough to convert the people who lived in my town, and I tried for a long time, but I did not succeed. Then I realized that my program was still much too ambitious, and I concentrated on the persons in my own household. But I could not convert them either. Finally, it dawned on me: I must work upon myself, so that I may give true service to God... But I did not accomplish even this.”[1]

Oy! What’s brilliant about this story, like so many great Hasidic stories, is that it builds you up, and then defies expectation. We would all like to think that the Tanzer rebbe finally figured out the great path of wisdom: mend your own soul, find your own happiness, your own inner perfection. But no: we get no satisfaction from this story. Even this great Tzadik couldn’t quite manage it. It looks like there’s nothing but utter failure for him, and for all of us—or is there indeed? Not quite. What the Tanzer rebbe doesn’t say is ever-more profound than what he does say. There’s an unspoken insight in this story that the rebbe knows, that each of us must discover for ourselves, and that insight begins when we probe the story of the Tree of Knowledge itself.

When we investigate Kabbalah, the treasure-trove of Jewish mystical insights, we learn something astonishing. R. Ezra ben Solomon of Gerona wrote a Midieval kabbalistic text known as Sod Etz HaDa’at (The Secret of the Tree of Knowledge). In this text, Ezra ben Solomon reminds us that there are not one, but two forbidden trees in the Garden: the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and the Tree of Life. And yet, while these trees appear as two separate trees in the story, they are actually one entity. They represent the two polarities of human nature itself: the Tree of Life represents what we call our Yetzer HaTov, our Inclination to goodness and altruism and compassion. The Tree of Knowledge on the other hand, represents what we call our Yetzer HaRa, our propensity to selfishness, to arrogance, to evil. Gershom Scholem, a great scholar of Jewish mysticism explains: “[The two Trees] grow from a common root, in which masculine and feminine, the giving and the receiving, the creative and the reflective, are one. Life and knowledge are not to be torn asunder form one another: they must be seen and realized in their unity.”[2]

But of course, what did Adam and Eve do? What do we all do? We can’t resist the urge to eat of the tree that’s all about temptation. We throw that harmony, that unity, out of balance. But it can’t be any other way. It’s the nature of our Yetzer HaRa, our ‘Evil Urge.’ It’s the part of us that seeks disharmony, that is tantalized by what’s just beyond our reach. But remember, this so-called Evil Urge, isn’t ultimately “evil.” It’s ultimately not separate from our so-called Good Urge. It’s the part of us that always seeks and strives. It’s the part of us that always endeavors to understand, to probe, to move beyond the apparent limits of our experience. It is the source of our lusts and desires and addictions, yes, but also of our very creativity, our drive to overcome and to transcend. It is part of what makes our humanity so noble, so much more than other creatures of this world. Adam and Eve ate of the fruit, and they woke up to the condition of the human mind, a mind that experiences a world of separations and dualities: male and female, giving and receiving, good and evil. The fruit of that tree is what makes us essentially human, as beings with a mind and heart that experience such heights of spirit and insight, as well as depths of despair and travail.

This brings us back to the Tanzer rebbe. He realized, finally, that even the striving to perfect himself was a failure. Is this a depressing story? Is this a story meant to leave us in despair? No. It’s just the opposite. He realized, once and for all, that the very desire to perfect—whether it’s the world, his town, or himself—is all the same desire: it’s the Yetzer HaRa. It’s all Adam and Eve eating the fruit of the Tree over and over again. He realized that his human condition is defined by that yearning and striving, and never quite making it. The Tanzer rebbe’s fallibility is all of our fallibility. We are all limited by our very humanity that makes life worth living in the first place. We are all defined by our magnificent minds that weave our endless stories about our striving to overcome the dualities of me verses you, good verses evil, separation verses homecoming. The story of Adam and Eve and the Tree is the first such story of duality and separation and yearning. Every other story of every other human being since then is just another version of the same Adam and Eve story. The story of your life is also a story of separation and the yearning for a return.

But the final, unspoken irony of the Adam and Eve story; the final unspoken irony in the Tanzer rebbe’s story of all our stories, is that when we eat of that tree and slip into the drama of separation and loss and yearning—in Truth, that tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and that Tree of Life, and that whole Garden, is still there, still in its natural, simple, harmonious perfection. It still lives within you. It’s just that now, you have eaten the fruit, so you can’t perceive the simple harmony and perfection so easily anymore. But that Garden never went away. It’s still there. It’s still ‘in here.’ It never left you. The deepest, most poignant message of Adam and Eve and the Garden, is that you really are okay. Despite your mistakes, despite your limits, despite your worst failures—God will stay with you ‘ad ziknah, ad seivah,’ ‘until old age, until gray hair,’—your very fallibility is your purpose. Enter deeply into that fallibility, accept it with all your heart, and the Tree of Life, and the Garden itself, once again becomes your birthright. May we all merit this great insight into our humanity. May each of us finally come to the wisdom that our eating of that fruit is our greatest blessing.

[1] Buber, Late Masters, p. 214.

[2] Scholem, On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead, p. 70.

Seeing the Good

2010-09-19T06:09:00.000-07:00

There’s a true story told by Jacques Lusseyran, a member of the French Resistance during World War II who was arrested by the Gestapo and sent to Buchenwald. While there, he was put in Prison block 57, a building meant to hold no more than 400 men, but which housed over a thousand men, literally pressed together with no room even to lie down. It was, of course, a living nightmare—daily beatings, brutal slave labor, and no place even to sleep with decency. Even so, explains Lusseyran, there was one old man in block 57 who managed to move around—all the men instinctively gave him a tiny bit of space, in some kind of gesture of reverence. The old man’s name was Jeremy, but his nickname was ‘Socrates,’ because somehow whenever he opened his mouth, the simplest most beautiful words and stories of wisdom emerged. Unlike all the other men, who often screamed and fought and cried out in anguish, this Jeremy, this ‘Socrates’ was always peaceful. Lusseyran writes, “He observed things of the spirit with his eyes, as doctors observe microbes through their microscopes. He made no distinction.” In other words, matters of spirit were patently obvious for him. He was not a remarkable man, a simple welder from a small village in France. But there was something about his simple wisdom, “Each time he appeared, “ wrote Lusseyran, “the air became breathable.” What made Jeremy so remarkable was that he could walk about the camp, and see all the misery that everyone else beheld, and somehow Jeremy did not blink. When all the other men were stricken with horror and terror and wanted to shut their eyes, Jeremy was not afraid to see.

Lusseyran relates one teaching in particular of Jeremy’s that struck him: “For one who knows how to see,” Jeremy said, “things [here] are just as they always are.” “At first I did not understand,” wrote Lusseyran, “I even felt something quite close to indignation. What? Buchenwald like ordinary life? Impossible. All of these crazed, hideous men, the howling menace of death, these enemies everywhere, among the S.S., among the prisoners themselves, this wedge of hill pushed up against the sky, thick with smoke…the electric fences, all of this was just as usual! I remember that I could not accept this. It had to be worse…Until finally Jeremy enabled me to see…”[i]

The Torah tells us the famous story of the Akeidah, the binding of Isaac. God calls to Abraham and says ‘Take your son, your only son, the one whom you love, Isaac, and offer him up on one of the mountains that I will show you.’ Abraham rises early in the morning, takes his wood and knife and fire and his son on a three-day’s journey, climbs the mountain, lifts the knife, and almost sacrifices his son were it not for a heavenly voice that calls out to forbid him from harming the child. We have long wondered about the brutal betrayal that this story seems to pose to us: how could Abraham even think to heed God’s command—even if it is a test—and show any kind of willingness to slay his own child? What kind of a God, we wonder, would demand this kind of willingness as a test of faith and loyalty?

This story is truly a horrifying one. In fact, it’s there, in the Torah, to horrify us, to shake us to our core, to question our fundamental beliefs about life, about God. We’re supposed to struggle so profoundly with this story until finally we come to realize the nature of the test: it’s not Abraham alone who is tested, it is each of us who are tested! And here’s the test: like Jeremy, like those inmates at Buchenwald, can we look at our worst possible nightmare and not blink? Can we find the peace within ourselves so deeply that we are not afraid to see?...

On the first day of Rosh HaShanah, before we read the Binding of Isaac, we read the story of Hagar, Sarah’s maidservant, and her son Yishma’el (Abraham’s first-born son). The story goes that when Isaac was born, Sarah demanded that Hagar and Yishmael be banished from their household. With great trepidation, and yet with God’s directive, Abraham sends Hagar away with her son in to the desert. After wandering for days in the desert, mother and child run out of water and out of hope. Hagar lays her parched child down to die, and she goes off and weeps in utter despair. But then, a heavenly voice calls out to Hagar, “Mah Lach Hagar?” “What’s with you Hagar?” God has heard the cry of the child. Lift him, for he will be a great nation. And God ‘unclosed [Hagar’s] eyes’ and behold there was a well right there, and she hadn’t even noticed it before! Isn’t that amazing? She was so despairing, she didn’t even notice, as she placed her child down to die of thirst, that a well was right there in front of them! Despair closed her eyes. Despair can do that to all of us—it can close our eyes and utterly blind us to the life-giving waters that we need.

It was with this insight in mind, that Rashi and the Bekhor Shor, two great medieval commentators, pointed out something brilliant in that story of the Binding of Isaac. If you look carefully at the Hebrew of God’s command to Abraham about his son, it says “v’Ha’aleyhu Le’olah,” which literally means, “bring him up there for an elevating.” In other words, God never literally says ‘slaughter him,’ God just says ‘bring him up for the offering.’ But the expression was vague enough to be totally unclear to Abraham. Trapped in the uncertainty of God’s command, he sets out with his son and the accoutrements for the unthinkable—for child sacrifice—but look what Abraham says to Isaac when Isaac innocently asks him, “Father, I see the fire and the wood, but where is the ram for the offering?’ Abraham says “Elokim Yir’eh lo haSeh le’olah, bni.” “God will show us the ram for the offering, my son.” In other words, ‘we will see a ram, my son, mark my words.’ Abraham knew all along that God would not kill his child. Unlike Hagar, who closed her eyes in despair, Abraham never closed his eyes. He never blinked. As much as it looked like the unthinkable, the death of his child, was becoming imminent, Abraham was not afraid to see…

Reb Meir was a Hasid of Reb Mordechai of Lechovitch. He was also the occasional business partner of Reb Gershon, who was a devout Misnaged—he hated the Hasidim and their radical teachings. Reb Meir was always inviting his misnaged friend to join him on his many visits to his rebbe, but Reb Gershon’s hatred of Hasidism was so strong that he could never consent to visiting his partners rebbe. Not wishing to hurt the feelings of his friend, he would find many reasons to explain why travel to Lechovitch was out of the question. It once happened, however, that separate business matters brought both men to Lechovitch on the same day. Discovering that his friend would be in town at the same time as himself, Reb Meir once again invited Reb Gershon to visit his rebbe. Seeing no way out that would not be offensive to Reb Meir, Reb Gershon agreed.

When the two men arrived at Reb Mordechai’s house, they were ushered into the rebbe’s dining room, where he was just beginning to eat his dinner. Reb Meir urged his friend to speak to the rebbe, to ask a question, to say something, but Reb Gershon—the cranky Hasid-hater-- was suddenly in a state of pure ecstasy, and he couldn’t even speak as he stared at the rebbe. After a few minutes, they left the rebbe’s house. Reb Meir said to his friend, “What just happened to you in there?” Reb Gershon said, “I saw the rebbe eating with the holiness of the Kohen Gadol [the ancient High Priest of all Israel]!” Shocked, Reb Meir turned from his friend and ran back into the house to his rebbe. When he arrived he said, “Rebbe, here I come to see you as often as I can, and never have I seen the way you serve the Holy One, Blessed Be He. And yet my misnaged friend comes for a minute, under duress, and he sees the miracle of your eating. Is this fair?”

The rebbe said, “It is not about fairness, my friend. Your friend is a misnaged; he has to see the Truth with his own eyes. You, on the other hand, are a Hasid; you have to trust even what you cannot see with your eyes.”

I bring all these stories today: the story of Jeremy in Buchenwald, the story of the Binding of Isaac, the story of Hagar, the story of Reb Meir—because they all have one thing in common: they’re all about seeing. They’re about what we see, and what we cannot see. They’re all about trusting, and not being afraid—that even when we can’t see it, this world, this Reality of ours, as nightmarish as it appears, is ultimately good. Some of us, sometimes like Reb Gershon the misnaged, can see that good directly. Most of us are like Hagar, and we despair of ever ultimately seeing the good. But Reb Meir, and each of us, is called upon to see with Jeremy’s eyes, and with Abraham’s eyes—to see beyond the nightmare.

Two psychologists named Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons recently wrote a book called “The Invisible Gorilla.” In it, they describe numerous experiments that seem to prove that the way we perceive reality is not as absolute as we think it is. The most amusing experiment involved asking subjects to view a short film where a group of people are passing basketballs back and forth between each other. The subjects’ assignment is simply to count the number of basketball passes and report what they counted. At the end of the experiment, they are asked, ‘Did you notice anything unusual while watching the film?’ Fifty percent of the subjects said no. That’s pretty amazing because if you watch the film again, right as the people are passing the basketball around, someone in a gorilla suit ambles right into the middle of the room. The gorilla pounds its chest a couple of times, and then slowly ambles out of the room. The fifty percent who didn’t see the gorilla were usually incredulous. And yet, they just missed it because they didn’t expect to see it. Our minds often don’t see at all what we don’t expect to see. Fifty percent of the time, any of us are like Hagar. We’re blinded by expectations, by our fears, by our despair itself.

But what’s amazing is that Abraham while was walking up that mountainside with his son, he, too, couldn’t see—visually—any sign of hope yet for his son. And yet, there was something in him that kept his eyes open in search of that ram. Something in him, as Reb Mordechai showed us, trusted even what you or I might not see with the naked eye…

Back to the story of Jeremy in Buchenwald: our author, Jacques Lusseyran, could not imagine why Jeremy would say “For one who knows how to see, things [here in Buchenwald] are just as they always are,” until finally Jeremy enabled Jacques to see. Lusseyran writes, “It was not a revelation, a flashing discovery of the truth. I don’t think there was even an exchange of words. But one day it became obvious, palpable to me in the flesh that Jeremy the welder had lent me his eyes…With those eyes, I saw that Buchenwald was not unique, not even privileged to be one of the places of greatest human suffering. I also saw that our camp was not in Germany, as we thought…in this precise place and no other. Jeremy taught me, with his eyes, that Buchenwald was in each one of us, baked and rebaked, tended incessantly, nurtured in a horrible way. And that, consequently we could vanquish it, if we desired to with enough force. Jeremy had always seen people living in fear…It was always, it was here [too], the same spectacle. Simply, the conditions [here in the camp] had been completely fulfilled…a masterpiece, a perfect sickness and misery: a concentration camp.”

What indeed did Jacques Lusseyran see when he looked at Buchenwald with Jeremy’s eyes? Yes, he saw Buchenwald. He saw the starvation, the suffering, the brutality, the death everywhere. He saw the same nightmare that everyone else could see. But he could also see something that only a very few—Jeremy, Abraham, Moses, King David, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luthor King Jr.—could see. He could see that the nightmare of Buchenwald, or the nightmare of Abraham’s world of child sacrifice, was not the final nightmare of this world that God has created. Lusseyran looked at Buchenwald and saw that it was not just one particular place. He saw that there are people—the Hagars of the world—who create and recreate Buchenwald everywhere they go. Everywhere they see enemies closing in, they have eyes only for the darkness, for the suffering, for the reasons not to trust. And even though God is giving us wells flowing with life-giving water everywhere, in every moment, we’re blind to them. We can’t even see the gorilla in the room because we have so conditioned ourselves never to expect to see beyond our own projected nightmares and despairing beliefs about the world, about life, about God.

It seems so difficult to believe or even hold onto this message of hope—that this world of ours is indeed good. No matter how we read it, the story of the Binding of Isaac disturbs us to our core, as does every aspect of the Holocaust; as does every story of misery we tell ourselves. The story of Jeremy ends simply and tragically. One day, Jeremy came to Lusseyran and told him that this would be the last time they would see each other. That was it. Several days passed, and someone told Lusseyran that Jeremy had died there in the camp, in Buchenwald. That’s what it was like in the camps. People died every day. That’s how it is for us here in our world too. Is this a reason to despair, to close our eyes to this world? Certainly not. For Lusseyran, Jeremy showed him a profound vision of the Truth: “the discovery that God is there, in each person, to the same degree, completely in each moment, and that a return can be made to Him.”

Jeremy and Abraham and Reb Mordechai, and all the great spiritual teachers of the world share with us this message that each of our souls thirst for like those life-giving waters that saved Yishmael: that the nature of this world—in each and every moment—is so vastly more amazing and beautiful and extraordinary than anything that our little eyes can see. Our minds are structured only to see, to perceive, that which we have been conditioned to perceive. For most of us, that conditioning is all about fear and mistrust. But look deeper! Right now, there are countless blessings that are keeping you alive, sustaining you, bringing you from moment to moment! Yes, there are enemies and threats and problems and injustices that we must work against in this world, but keep looking more deeply. In this moment, this life of ours, is nothing but miracles unfolding for us. If you don’t see what I’m talking about, keep your eyes and your heart open, keep looking till you find the miracles that are all about you, all within you, within each of us.

We must never shut our eyes. We must never be afraid to look. What’s really there is, believe it or not, is kind. What’s really there is the potential for justice. What’s always really there is the potential for infinite goodness. What’s really there, beyond what we see merely with our eyes—is God! When that Divine voice called to Abraham to put down his knife, he lifted up his eyes, and behold, there was a ram with its horn stuck in the thicket. Abraham had told his son the Truth. He had trusted the goodness that even his eyes could not yet see—God would really provide a ram to be seen! When Abraham left that fateful spot there on the time of Mount Moriah, he named the place after his experience: ‘Adonai Yir’eh,’ which literally means: God will appear. God will be seen. May we all learn this, the deepest wisdom of this story, of our tradition. It is the light that we, the Jewish people, must bring to the nations of the world itself: that despite all apparent proof to the contrary, we must always look. We must always see. We must never give up—even when there is violence, betrayal, and death. We must keep our eyes open and never despair, for indeed, Adonai Yir’eh—God will be seen. The goodness, the kindness is really there, even more deeply and truly than the apparent nightmare that we may behold. That goodness is always right here. Right now. In this year, may each of us truly look and behold this Truth, and may we, like Abraham, be a blessing to the world.

[i] Jacques Lusseyran, “Le Monde Commence Aujour-d’hui,” translated by Noelle Oxenhandler . Appearing in Parabola Volume XI, No. 2., p. 25.

Sacred Pluralism

2010-09-11T17:18:00.001-07:00

There is a Hasidic story told of a great master named Reb Zusya, who lived two centuries ago. Once Rabbi Zusya came to an inn, and when he saw the innkeeper, he looked right into the innkeeper’s soul and saw long years of sin. For a while Zusya neither spoke nor moved as he sensed all the terrible things that this innkeeper had done in his life. But when he was alone in his room which had been assigned to him, the shudder of vicarious experience overcame Zusya in the midst of singing psalms and Zusya cried aloud: “Zusya, Zusya, you wicked man! What have you done! There is no lie that failed to tempt you, and no crime you have not committed. Zusya, foolish, erring man , what will be the end of this?’ Then he enumerated the sins of the innkeeper, giving the time and place of each, as his own, and sobbed. The innkeeper had quietly followed this strange man. He stood at the door and heard him. First he was seized with dull dismay, but then penitence and grace were lit within him, and the innkeeper woke to God.

It’s quite a story. There’s a lot to unpack here. Zusya is typically a larger than life figure who reveals astonishing truths through his outrageously selfless behaviors. In this instance, he sees all the innkeepers sins and depravities as his own. He becomes the ultimate exemplar of the famous commandment ‘Ve’Ahavta Lere’echa Kamocha,’ You shall love your neighbor as yourself—literally, as yourself in this instance. Why would he do this? It’s not that he was pretending. Zusya was so lofty in his connection to Heaven that he couldn’t help but see the innkeeper’s heart as his own. No matter how depraved the sins of that innkeeper, Zusya looked into his soul and found only himself.

Reb Yaakov Yitzhak of P’zhysha, also known as the Yehudi, “The Jew,” was another master rebbe of the late eighteenth century. He taught the following: “Everything can be tested in some particular way to discover whether it is any good. And what is the test for the man of Israel? It is Ahavat Yisrael—the Love of the People Israel. When he sees the love of Israel growing in his soul day after day, he knows that he is ascending in the service of God.”[1] In other words, the Yehudi wants us to know that each of us, the Jewish people, are tested by God in this life. And the test is this: can we love our Jewish people, even as they disagree with us? Can we love them even as they live their lives in a way that is totally anathema to what we believe is right? The Yehudi teaches that until we can do this, we are not passing the test! To love the Jewish people is to live with an attitude so courageously open-hearted, so tolerant of other perspectives that, like the ancient sage Hillel, we are willing to teach our students the view of our opponents even before we teach our own positions. To pass this test, we must live, as our highest value, the dictum, “Kol Yisrael Aravim Zeh baZeh,” “All Israel, all Jewish people are responsible, interconnected with one another.”

In May of this year, a young Israeli woman named Noa Raz was attacked by an ultra-Orthodox man at a bus stop. Noa is a Conservative Jew. That morning, while davening, or praying at home, Noa donned her Tefilin, her leather phylacteries, and the straps made a tell-tale mark on her arm. The Orthodox man questioned if she had indeed donned the tefilin. At first, she tried to evade his question. When he pressed her, she answered ‘yes.’ Immediately, he physically attacked her, kicking her and screaming words like ‘women are an abomination,’ and ‘desecration.’ Thank God, Noa escaped without any physical harm. Later, she commented on the experience: “This is not a story about a man attacking someone at a bus station,” she said. “It’s not even a story about violence against women. It’s a story about religious violence…. The problem does not only lie with that man, the attacker. It lies with those who educated him, with his leaders who shamelessly and violently talk out against any religious practice that is not Haredi [ultra-Orthodox]…”

Indeed, Noa Raz is not mistaken. Somehow in that ultra-Orthodox man’s background and education, the wisdom of Reb Zusya and the Yehudi, the wisdom of Ahavat Yisrael, of all Jews interconnected with one another, has failed to penetrate a wall of anger and fear and even violence. By now, most of us have seen the constant attacks on the Women of the Wall, the group of women who seek only to daven at the Western Wall in the way that they wish—as egalitarian-minded women who wear kipot and tallitot. Perhaps we have seen the images of the Orthodox Jewish men hurling chairs over the divider at the women; or we have read how Anat Hoffman, a leader of the Women of the Wall, was arrested by Israeli police for simply carrying a sefer Torah from the Wall to the official “Conservative” section of the wall at Robinson’s Arch. And it’s not just about women. This summer, legislation was put forward in the Knesset that would place all authority for conversion anywhere in the world solely in the hands of the ultra-Orthodox, effectively disqualifying and nullifying the validity of any stream of Judaism that is not ultra-Orthodox. What is happening in Israel? Where is Zusya’s wisdom of seeing every Jew as ourselves?

These experiences of such frustrating and disappointing news are just another in a series of such reports that lays bare a profoundly disturbing reality: that Jews in Israel, and around the world, are growing apart: Jews attacking other Jews because of religious beliefs; Jews rejecting other Jews because of their lifestyles, or because they are intermarried; Jews attacking other Jews over political squabbles about Israel, or issues here at home. And saddest of all: Jews giving up on their own people and heritage and Jewish future, because they have simply had it with bitter squabbling, corruption, judgment, and nasty politics – yet we are all Am Yisrael, and like it or not, we are aravim zeh bazeh, our souls are interconnected with one another.

The Talmud (Yoma 9b) famously asks about why God destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem in the year 70 of the Common Era. “Why was the Second Temple destroyed? …Because during the time it stood, ‘sinat chinam,’--baseless hatred--prevailed. This is to teach you that sinat chinam-baseless hatred is deemed as grave as all three [greatest] sins of idolatry, immorality, and bloodshed, combined!” If we look deeply into the current reality of the Jewish people in Israel and at home, it would seem that the greatest sin of all, hatred: Jew-against-Jew, the sin that brings on the destruction of the Jewish people itself—is rearing its head once again.

Of course, we Jews have always argued with each other. It’s probably what we do best. Ask two Jews a question, get three opinions! Argument, disagreement, makes us who we are. The Mishnah radically claims, however, that it is how we argue that can be the very salvation of the Jewish people and the world. Argue LeShem Shamayim, ‘for the sake of Heaven,’ says the Mishnah, and we become a Light to the Nations. Argue and attack one another for petty rivalries and power-grabs and hatreds, and our greatest blessing, our capacity to embrace disagreement, can become our very downfall: our Light turns to darkness. To be a Jew is a great test: can we lift up one light, one heart, one Torah--through multiple voices and multiple experiences?

Here’s another way to explain the test: to be a Jew means my ability to say this: See that Jew throwing a chair at another Jew? Yes, it’s disgusting. Not only because it’s an act of violence. It’s disgusting also because he’s throwing that chair at me! But it goes even deeper than that: That man throwing that chair is also a Jew! He’s connected to me, a part of me! In what ways am I responsible for his throwing that chair? And even deeper: In what ways do I attack, and do my own version of throwing chairs at other Jews, or at any other human beings? That woman victim of violent intolerance--her heart is my heart. But much more disturbingly, that chair-thrower, his heart too is my heart! This is Ahavat Yisrael, the love of the Jewish people! Think you can do that so easily? Can we indeed see each other through the eyes that Zusya saw the innkeeper? To be a Jew is, indeed, a radical test!

But we must also remember that this radical spiritual test is ultimately the root of the great radical experiment of democracy itself. It is the spiritual core of what makes pluralism not just a useful value, but a sacred value—a profoundly ancient and Jewish value! The claim of Judaism is that when the Jews master the art of Ahavat Yisrael with one another, then they can be a Light to the Nations of the world, for how to practice Ahavat Olam, pluralist love of all peoples of the world. It is the essential teaching that no one among our people deserves to be abandoned. No matter what they believe, no matter how they choose to live their lives. To be a Jew means that we see all our people as our family.

But our times are complex. Family doesn’t mean what it used to mean. Ultra-Orthodox Jews see women davening with tefilin and carrying the Torah, and praying right beside men, and they see in this the dissolution of everything they believe “the family” stands for. Over here, we can clearly see the error of the ultra-Orthodox view: these women and egalitarian men—people just like you and me--we are renewing and growing together with Judaism, as we find wonderful ways to make the tradition speak the language of a new world! If anything, we are saving the Jewish people! But many of our ultra-Orthodox brothers and sisters can only see us through the eyes of fear! And guess what: as soon as we look at our own people through the eyes of fear instead of love, we are failing that tricky test!

What is true in Israel is equally true for us here in America. During these difficult times for our community here, we must ask ourselves a tough question: are we really practicing Ahavat Yisrael here? Are we seeing our fellow Jews with whom we disagree with eyes of love or eyes of fear as well? Are we willing to strive for empathy even with those who disagree with us about intermarriage, Israeli politics, homosexuality, the role of women? Perhaps we feel the urge to metaphorically throw chairs at our own people because we fear that if their opinions are received by the world, this will be a betrayal of “the family?” If indeed, our aim is to silence dissent and an honest voicing of opinion within our own community on any of these issues, then we too are failing the test of Ahavat Yisrael. We’re failing because we are looking at our own people not through the eyes of love, but through the eyes of fear. If, indeed, we want to see an end to the intolerance we despise in Israel, then we had better begin by ridding ourselves of our intolerance within our own hearts and minds as well!

Intolerance is so insidious because it begins in such subtle ways. It begins when we surround ourselves only with people with whom we agree—on anything: politics or religion or culture. It begins with all the little condescending and judgmental remarks we make with a smile on our face with our friends at dinner parties and at the office—about those ‘idiots’ on the other side of the political spectrum, or those ‘maniacs’ with their barbaric or insane views on religion. Have you ever done that? And because we have the smiles and approval of those around us, we feel empowered to reject and disapprove of them even more. And some of us will go so far as to dehumanize ‘them,’ and deem them worthy of abandonment and even violence. This familiar scenario is sad enough when it occurs among any groups of humanity. It is beyond tragic as it rears its head more and more among and within Bnai Yisrael, the Jewish people! There’s only one way to break the chain of intolerance and fear among the Jewish people and in the world, and it begins with each of us.

There’s a Hasidic story told of a reb Mottel of Kalshin, a businessman who spoke fluent Polish , who was asked to go before an anti-Semitic Polish government official and to ask him to repeal a law that was threatening the Jews of Poland. Reb Mottel was terrified. He thought it was certain death to ask such a thing of this anti-Semitic Polish official. Reb Mottel’s Rebbe, Reb Yitzhak of Vorki summoned Mottel and told him a story: “When Moses went to Pharaoh to demand that he free the slaves,” the rebbe said, “do you think Moses was unafraid?” “No,” Reb Mottel said. “Of course he was afraid, how could he not be?” “Exactly,” the rebbe said. “He was afraid that Pharaoh would kill him. It was for this reason that, in the Torah, God says ‘Bo El Par’o,’ ‘Come to Pharaoh.’ It says ‘come’ and not ‘go’ to Pharaoh. Why? Because what God meant to say was ‘Come with me to Pharaoh: I, God, will always come with you when you plead the cause of your people. Reb Mottel lost his fear with this story. He went before the Polish official, and the evil decree was repealed.[2]

The message of this story is not that God will magically be with the Jewish people and prevent despots ever from hurting us. The point is that when we shift our perspective from ‘going’ to our adversary, to ‘coming to’ our adversary—when we let go of our fear inside ourselves—then, and only then, is all Redemption of the Jewish people, and the world, possible! The great test that we are all being called to in this New Year is: can we ‘come to’ all of our people no matter what they say, or who they are, or what choices they have made? Can we strive to see how all those with different perspectives on God, on Judaism, on Israel, on politics, are all ‘coming with God,’ no matter how much they challenge us? Can we find the strength inside to understand that even those Jewish people who live differently than we, and who are proud to speak out and argue for their beliefs are, in fact, arguing LeShem Shamayim—for the sake of Heaven, for the Love of God, or for the Love of the people Israel—can we ‘come to them’ even if we fear that their position is a foolish one? Of course, there are limits to our pluralism as well--Jews who try to convert Jews to other religions, or Jews who give money directly to anit-Israel terrorist organizations, such Jews are not working toward a future of the Jewish people. But short of these extremes, all other Jews deserve our love, support, and commitment. On this day, if we want a future for our children and their children as Jews, we must be willing to make the effort to come together. The Jewish people of the State of Israel have to figure out how to make this work. And we can help them do it—right here in this synagogue. You see here in America, a synagogue like this one is the only place where Jews of all walks and stripes can come together, despite differences, and call themselves ONE community! Adas Israel is one of the few congregations in the world where pluralism is lived. We can see this in our multiple services of different styles every Shabbat. Right here, every week, every day, we practice a kind of multi-faceted Jewish life that can be an inspiration to Jews everywhere. A synagogue like ours is not just a place of prayer and life-cycle celebrations. It’s a place of Jewish people coming together to do nothing less than change the world—by facing even those who are different from us within our own people, and eventually inspire other people—beyond the Jewish community--to live by the same pluralism.

This is why, in the coming year, you will see new kinds of experiences at Adas Israel. You will see special “Three Pillar conference weekends” where the whole community is invited, with all our different perspectives and backgrounds, to study together, to join together to effect Tikkun Olam, or Social Justice, and also to explore and strengthen, our connection to Israel, as well as our potential to take action for Israel’s sake, together as one community, with many faces. We will sometimes disagree, but we will really hear one another, and speak not from fear, but from love of our people. When our purpose is grounded in Sacred Pluralism, then we can teach each other, the Jews of Israel, and the whole world what it means to come together celebrating difference rather than trying to erase difference.

In this year, 5771, may we take this leap of faith, this leap of courage, this leap of trust and of love for the sake of our People of Israel. May we pass this great test of our people, overcome sinat chinam, baseless hatred, and seek to heal the fractures and rifts that have been tearing us apart. May we stand together to combat intolerance and injustice in the land of Israel—and may we accomplish this not through fear or hatred, but through Ahavat Yisrael—through our deepest knowledge that their destiny is our destiny. May we overcome our fear of one another here at home, so that we may shine as a Light to our brothers and sisters in Israel. And together, may all of us, the people of Israel, finally serve as a Light to the Nations.

[1] Buber, Tales of the Hasidim, vol. 2 p. 232.

[2] Adapted from Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales, p. 51-53.

The Soul Never Repeats

2010-05-16T19:12:00.001-07:00

We Jews have a funny relationship to counting and numbering ourselves. If you have ever been to a daily minyan, or any service, and it’s not clear if there are ten Jews present (the minimum number of Jews to have a communal service), some people count by NOT counting: they’ll go around the room and number people as ‘not one, not two, not three.’ Why this strange “un-counting?” It seems that we Jews have a kind of superstition about numbering our people. We believe that it will bring on bad consequences for the Jewish people if we directly number ourselves. And this belief is not without good justification: in the book of 1 Chronicles (Chapter 20), we read the story of how King David ordered his troops numbered with a census, and this incurred Divine wrath, and God punished the Israelites for this brazen counting. There are all kinds of theories as to why God was angry that we counted, but the fact remains: counting our people is something that we deem to be highly problematic and dangerous. Is it pretty silly that we’re still afraid to count? Is it just a bunch of superstition?

Not entirely. There’ s a powerful message in our reluctance to count and number our Jewish people. There is, indeed, something horrifying, dehumanizing, about reducing a human being to a number in any way, at any time. We need only remember the tattooed numbers on the arms of the Auschwitz inmates to remember the painful truth in this. And yet, with all of this insight and history, there is a notable exception to the no-counting rule, and that’s in this week’s Parashah, Bamidbar. It’s no accident that the English name of this book, the book of Numbers, takes its name from an official census, a counting of the Jews, ordered by none other than God! Here in this reading, we have the exception that proves the rule: Jews can’t count each other, but God can order us to count--but only in a specific way. We are to number each Jewish male by clans of ancestral houses, listing each one’s names, “Kol zachar l’gulgelotam,” every male head by head (Numbers 1:2). The Hebrew ‘gulgelotam’ literally means ‘by their skulls.’ The commentary Sfat Emet notices this interesting choice of word to connote every Israelite male—by head, by skull. He immediately likens this word to a famous line from Psalm 140: “Litvunato ain mispar,” “There is no enumerating/counting God’s wisdom.” (Psalm 140:7) In other words, the very act of numbering each Israelite male skull by skull—that literal (and disturbing!)image of skulls provides a visceral reminder that there are things about life and humanity, divine things, that defy ever numbering at all.

Every human being, every skull itself, is breathtakingly unique in infinite ways. The Mishnah in Sanhedrin famously teaches, “Kulam nitb’u b’chotmo shel Adam haRishon,” “Each human being is stamped with the visage of Adam, the original human being, “v’ain partzufeihen domin zeh lazeh,” “and yet, no two faces are alike in the world.”(Sanhedren 4:5) And Reb Pinchas of Korzec picks up on this idea in explaining an ancient Midrash: “Just as there are no two faces alike in the world, so too, there are no two minds alike in the world, and each human being functions in his own unique way, and this what the Psalm means when it says, ‘litvunato ain mispar’—there is no enumerating/counting God’s wisdom.”(Bimidbar Rabbah 21:2). God ordered us to count ourselves skull by skull to remind us, for all time to come, that what makes us ultimately human is something that goes beyond our skull, beyond the uniqueness of our face, to the depths of our very minds, hearts, and souls. Indeed, such profound uniqueness is what makes us so completely human, and also, paradoxically, so very much the image of God, beyond all concepts and numbers.

The Baal Shem Tov taught us something very interesting: when we begin our prayers in the ‘Amidah, we start with a recognition that God is “Elohei Avraham, Elohei Yitzhak, v’Elohei Yaakov,” The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. It could have easily just said that God is the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob without being so repetitious, but we are careful to connect each Patriarch individually with God. Why? Because, says the Baal Shem Tov, “Isaac and Jacob did not base their work on the searching and service of Abraham; they themselves searched for the unity of their Maker and His service.”[i]Each of our ancestors, and each of us, are on an utterly unique journey, a totally distinct experience of life and the Divine that no one else can fully know or grasp. It is this unique relationship to God that is our very individual humanity. Our journey with God is, in the end, the only thing that truly makes us ourselves as distinct from any other in this world.

Rabbi Pinchas often cited these words: “A man’s soul will teach him,” and explained these words: “There is no man that is not being taught incessantly by his soul.” One of his disciples asked: “If this is so, why don’t men obey their souls?” “The soul teaches incessantly,” Rabbi Pinchas explained, “but it never repeats.” [ii] This is quite a profound teaching, and it needs some unpacking: each of us goes through life with an intuitive sense of our uniqueness in the world. That’s the part of us that can never be ‘counted.’ Think about it: we all have a sense of “I am,” that is ineffable, beyond anything that we could ever fully put into words. This felt sense of “I am” is our Neshamah, our very soul. Rabbi Pinchas wants us to understand that this Neshamah, this unique ‘I am’ goes very deep, deeper than we can fathom. Our Neshama is, in fact, nothing other than an extension of God itself! And, because it is a part of God, it is connected to Infinite Wisdom. In essence, Rabbi Pinchas is teaching us that God indeed talks to us, incessantly in fact—not in burning bushes, not from mountain-tops, but from within—from the place of Ultimate uniqueness that animates each and every one of us in every moment! In other words, there is an awesome Divinity revealing itself to you, unfolding through your very life, so pay attention—Shema Yisrael!—and don’t miss a moment! And furthermore, if you can recognize the Divinity in your own soul, it will express amazing wisdom to guide you in life. It will be a source of amazing wisdom that you, and only you, can give to the world!

Reb Yissachar Dov of Radoshitz traveled to see his rebbe, Reb Yaakov Yitzchak, the Chozeh of Lublin. Arriving at his rebbe’s study, he said “Show me one general way that all of us might serve God.” “One way?” the Seer said. “What makes you think there is one way? Are people all the same that a single practice would suit them all?” “Then how am I to teach people to find God?” Rebbe YIssachar Dov asked.

“It is impossible to tell people how they should serve. For one, the way is the way of study; for another the way is the way of prayer; for another, the way is the way of fasting or feasting ; for another, the way is the way of service to one’s neighbor.” “Then what shall I tell those who ask me for guidance in this area?”

“Tell him this,” the Chozeh said. “Carefully observe the way of your own heart, see what stirs your passion for God and godliness, and then do that with all your heart and all your strength.” [iii]

Like all Hasidic stories, this one is deceptively simple. On the surface, this is a story about following your heart and your passions. But it’s actually a radical undermining of expectations. Consider what you might predict about traditional Judaism: that it’s a system of laws, of Halakhah, with proscriptions for what to do and how to act from morning till night. Judaism appears to be a religion that provides the answers to life’s questions about proper behavior and about God. Reb Yissachor Dov wants the simple answers about how Judaism tells us to serve. But the Chozeh of Lublin gives him no such simple formula. The Chozeh tells him, and us all, if you really want to know what God is all about, you’ll have to go on a wild ride—on a spectacular journey inside. It’s only by going within, that you’re going to find not only the Presence of God in there, speaking incessantly to you in your soul, but you’ll also find the answers about what to do in your life! Yes, there’s Halakhah in Judaism, and lots of laws and rules—but these laws and rules, while critically important unto themselves, are also metaphors, collective behaviors that remind us that there is indeed a Voice within, speaking to us, telling us our path to follow in life. Implicit in the Chozeh of Lublin’s teaching is the radical message that you have everything, the whole message that Judaism gives to the world, already within your own heart and soul. All the Wisdom in the whole world lives ‘in here’ if you know how to go in and find it and listen for it. And what’s more: there’s a unique version of Wisdom and insight that only you can give to the world through your experience—and that’s the very thing you’re here in this world to give over and to do!

Commenting on this very idea, the Sfat Emet tells us that every human being has their own knowledge and special understanding of God’s greatness ”k’fum darga d’yaheiv leih yadei,” “according to the rung/the spiritual level that is given to him.” In other words, we’re each on our own uniquely important rung of knowledge and action. You don’t have to know the prayers thoroughly in Hebrew, or all the laws of Judaism to find God and to transform the world—you count more than anyone can imagine; you can do that from right here, right now, right as you are in this moment! If your heart of hearts leads you to study, then study! If it leads you to prayer, then pray! If it leads you to fasting, then fast! If to feasting, then feast! If you path is to become deeply observant, then by all means, become deeply observant. If your path is social justice, then by all means march! If you heart leads you to skepticism and scientific, purely rational paths, then by all means, give over your Neshamah through science and skepticism. Do you see how this works? If we can find the courage to live according to our deepest Truth, then we live out of our Divinity, our utter uniqueness—and this, indeed, is how we truly ‘count’ in the world, by expressing our version of Lit’vunato ain mispar—the Divine Wisdom that is our humanity that is beyond any numbering and counting. All of the wisdom you need to find God, to find happiness, to be a source of joy and service to God and to others, it’s all ‘in here,’ and it’s more than anyone can ever count in a lifetime. Just keep listening to your heart of hearts and soul of souls, and remember to listen carefully, because our soul, indeed, never repeats!

[i] Newman, L.I., and Spitz, S. (1944) The Hasidic Anthology. New York: Bloch. p. 152

[ii] Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: The Early Masters. New York. Schocken Books, 1947. p. 121.

[iii] Adapted from Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales. Woodstock, VT.Skylight Illuminations, 2004. p. 179.

Recognizing the Miracle

2010-05-09T13:07:00.000-07:00

We all love stories about miracles--not just the parting-of-the-Red-Sea kind of miracles. We love the modern-day miracle stories: the mother who miraculously finds the strength to lift the car to free her child. The miracle cures to seemingly incurable diseases. We love stories of miraculous human perseverance and survival against all odds; the Jewish modern-day miracle in the creation and survival of the State of Israel. Each story gives us pause in the midst of our busy, distracted lives to remember that there may indeed be a dimension of something beyond our ken at work in the world. If I were to go around the room right now, almost every one of us could recount a story of a miracle that we personally experienced in our lives. We might have our doubts, but there’s something tantalizing and renewing in these stories that is irresistible. But, of course, there is also the skeptic in each of us who then notices that there are plenty of times in history and in our lives where a miracle would have been nice, but it never came. What about those people who never got their miracles? How could Judaism be a religion that affirms miracles when, in our daily experience, miracles seem to be the exception, rather than the rule?

There’s a story told about Reb Shalom of Belz, who lived in the early 19^th century. A woman came to him who was in a desperate situation, in dire need of help. “I have done all I can do in this matter, Rebbe,” she said, “If I am to succeed and survive, it will be only because of God’s aid, and I can only get that with your aid. Please, Rebbe, pray to God on my behalf!” The rebbe refused, saying, “The essential thing, good woman, is to have faith.” The woman was shocked. She was a good and decent person and one in true need. There could be no good reason for the rebbe to turn down her plea for help. Taking a deep breath, the woman said, “Far be it from me to argue with my rebbe…”

“But you will do so anyway?” Reb Shalom barked. “Do you think you know this situation better than I?” “I am not a learned woman,” she replied evenly, “but I do know a bit of Torah. When our ancestors were about to be slaughtered by Pharaoh’s army at the shores of the Red Sea, Torah first says that God ‘saved’ them and only later said that they believed in God. Their salvation preceded their faith. I am no different. If God would save me now in this situation, I will without doubt have faith as well.” “What is this?!” Reb Shalom yelled. “An illiterate woman seeks to teach me Torah? No one has ever bested me in Torah study!” The woman stood and waited, neither arguing her point not turning to leave. Suddenly the rebbe’s face broke into a great smile. He laughed loudly and said “No one, that is, until now!” No one, that is , but you” The rebbe prayed for the woman’s welfare, and God granted all she needed. [i]

It’s an interesting little story about faith and miracles, where the Rebbe is reminded that we need miracles, however infrequently, to help us to have faith. What’s interesting about this story is, why didn’t the rebbe realize that at first? What did he mean when he first told the woman to have faith? There’s an implicit and shocking message hidden in this story—that if only that woman had real faith, the rebbe wouldn’t need to order up a miracle for her in the first place! That somehow, the miracle would come by force of her faith!

Another story: Reb Meir was a Hasid of Reb Mordechai of Lechovitch. He was also the occasional business partner of Reb Gershon, who was a devout Misnaged—he hated the Hasidim and their radical teachings. Reb Meir was always inviting his misnaged friend to join him on his many visits to his rebbe, but Reb Gershon’s hatred of Hasidism was so strong that he could never consent to visiting his partners rebbe. Not wishing to hurt the feelings of his friend, he would find many reasons to explain why travel to Levhovitch was out of the question. It once happened, however, that separate business matters brought both men to Lechovitch on the same day. Discovering that his friend would be in town at the same time as himself, Reb Meir once again invited Reb Gershon to visit his rebbe. Seeing no way out that would not be offensive to Reb Meir, Reb Gershon agreed.

The rebbe said, “It is not about fairness, my friend. Your friend is a misnaged; he has to see the Truth with his own eyes. You, on the other hand, are a Hasid; you have to trust.”[ii]

Most of us in this room right now are like that misnaged—that doubter. Most of us live our lives doubting and not seeing miracles happening around us. But every once in a while, we just may see something that knocks us for a loop—something that hits us over the head and reminds us that there’s something more to life than meets the eye. And we call that a ‘miracle.’ But the rebbe reminded his Hasid that he is called to something higher—to something we call ‘bitachon,’ ‘Trust:” to trusting every day and every moment of life that the miraculous is there even if we can’t see it!

There’s a strange line in Parashat Behar in the Torah. God commands that the seventh year be a “shvi’it” year: a year where we give the land a rest and let our fields in the Land of Israel lie fallow. And the Israelites should live without working the soil at all. “But if you should ask,” says the Torah, “What are we to eat in the seventh year, if we may neither sow nor gather our crops? V’tziviti et birkati—And I shall command my blessing,”[iii] so that your yield of crops in the sixth year will be triple its regular amount, so you’ll have the miracle of plenty of food to carry you through the sabbatical year. The Sfat Emet comments that it’s a seemingly strange question for the Israelites to ask: “What shall we eat?” Shouldn’t they have faith in God without having to ask God for the miracle? Well, explains the Sfat Emet, it’s not that they didn’t trust God--not at all. In fact, the Israelites of that generation were so close to God that it seemed perfectly natural for them to ask, and to expect what we would call a miracle of God’s extra blessing of food. Indeed, he explains, for the Israelites, their faith in God was so strong “Haya shaveh lahem hatevah vehanisim,”[iv] “That nature and miracles were the same [for them],” In other words, they trusted so deeply that everything in nature around them was a miracle, that even the experience of the so-called miraculous and supernatural was for them just another part of daily lived life.

This is the same message the rebbe was communicating to his Hasid: there’s a level of living life where the whole idea of miracles as separate and apart from daily life breaks down. There’s a way of living life where you don’t need to see a miracle to have faith. There’s a way of living life where there are no more individual miracles, because life itself—moment to moment—is nothing but miraculous! There’s a way of living life where you need only ask for the miraculous as easily and effortlessly as you expect the mundane, and notice that the miracle is right here, right now arising before you!

But how do we get to that level of living life?...

In the Talmud, Rav Yosef tells us a story: Once, there were two men who started out on a journey together to engage in business dealings. At one point in the journey, one of the men got an injury and he was prevented from accompanying his fellow on a boat to reach their destination. Naturally, the man with the injury cried out in anguish and was enraged at God for this terrible misfortune. But then, what happened? Sometime later, word got back to the injured man that the boat with his friend on it had sunk at sea, and all onboard were killed. All at once, the injured man was eternally grateful to God for the miracle of his injury! From this story, Rav Yosef teaches, “Afilu ba’al haNes aino maker b’niso,” “Even the one who has a miracle happen to him does not recognize his own miracle.”[v]

That injured business traveler, that desperate woman, that cranky misnaged, and you and I—we’re all the people who don’t recognize our own miracles. We go through life, and sometimes amazing experiences give us faith, but as soon as misfortune and illness and injury befall us, we curse God, we doubt, we lose faith itself in life, in goodness, in God. We gather up all of life’s misfortunes as our litany of proof that the miraculous experiences of life are few and far between. But there are those few amazing teachers—the Hasidic rebbes, the Talmudic rabbis—who call on us to ask ourselves the question: Isn’t Life itself—all of it--miraculous, after all? Look deeply at every loss you have known in your life: would you really do it differently if it meant losing the blessings, the goodness, the love that you have here and now? The message of Torah is that this Reality that you and I find ourselves in here and now is the best possible reality, and therefore, everything, even our misfortunes needed to have been just the way they were, and couldn’t have been different—and therefore, all of it—the good and the bad—it’s all part of the miracle itself. This is the deepest kind of faith there is in Judaism: bitachon, Trust that everything is a miracle, even when we can’t see it, even when we can’t feel, even when the whole world feels like it’s crashing down on us and betraying us—we are called on, as the Jewish people, to Trust, to find that deepest and often most hidden place of peace in our heart of hearts that knows—that miraculously KNOWS—that even this is a miracle! May we find that Trust within ourselves. May that this place of Trust within us IS our deepest Truth—and may the miracle of our lives transform our hearts, and transform the world.

[i] Adapted from Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales. Woodstock, VT.Skylight Illuminations, 2004. p. 57.

[ii] Ibid, p. 77.

[iii] Leviticus 25:20

[iv] Sfat Emet 3:190

[v] Talmud Bavli, Nidah 31a

If We Would Only Listen for the Voice...

2010-05-02T19:34:00.000-07:00

In the Talmud in Sanhedrin, there is a story of a rabbi named Yehoshua ben Levi who lived in the Land of Israel 2,000 years ago. He went to Meron in the Gallilee, to a cave where the great Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai was buried and had spent 13 years of his life a generation before. In that cave, bar Yochai purportedly delved into deep and esoteric mysteries of God and creation. And so Yehoshua ben Levi went to that very cave years later to find his own deep insights to the ultimate question: he wanted to know when the Messiah would finally come to redeem the Jewish people and the whole world. The story goes that when Yehoshua ben Levi got the cave, he encountered none other than Elijah the Prophet himself. Now, we all know that that Elijah is the one who will herald the coming of the Messiah. So Yehoshua ben Levi asked Elijah to please tell him when the Messiah would come. Elijah said to him: why don’t you go ask him yourself! Where is he, Yehoshua ben Levi asked? He sits among the Lepers outside the gate of Rome, Elijah replied. Time and space rarely pose a problem in the midrashic stories, so suddenly, Yehoshua ben Levi is whisked to the gate of Rome. He very quickly spots the Messiah, who is disguised as a leper, but ben Levi sees through the disguise. Greetings to you, Messiah, said Yehoshua ben Levi. Greetings to you rabbi, said the Messiah. When will you come, ask Yehoshua ben Levi? Hayom! Today! Replied the Messiah. And so, joyfully, Yehoshua ben Levi goes back to the land of Israel, ready for the Messiah to come. But of course, ‘today’ comes and goes, and the Jewish people are not redeemed. Angrily, Yehoshua ben Levi goes back to the cave in Meron and finds Elijah. The Messiah lied, said Yehoshua ben Levi. Why, what did he say, asked Elijah. He said he would come Hayom, today, and he did not! Ah, replied Elijah, he did not lie at all. Elijah explained: the Messiah will come, as it says in Psalm 95, Hayom, today, Im b’kolo tishm’u: today, if you would only listen for his voice.

Tonight, we begin an auspicious date on the Jewish calendar: Lag B’Omer, the 33^rd day of the counting of the Omer. Tonight, thousands of Jews will convene at that same cave in Meron in the Gallilee, and light bonfires in honor of the great Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who achieved esoteric knowledge there, and insights on how and when the Messiah will come. In the ancient days of those rabbis, Israel was devastated by wars and struggles against the might of the Roman Empire. Some sources also talk of a great plague that devastated Israel, wiping out 24,000 students of Torah, but on Lag B’Omer, the plague lifted, and so Lag B’Omer is a celebration of respite in the midst of dark times, a glimmer of hope in a world of suffering that longs for redemption.

If there was ever a people in the world who had a reason to doubt the goodness of life, the reasons to hope, it would be the Jews. How many centuries of wars, plagues, the destruction of the Temples, exiles, persecutions, Crusades, pogroms, the Holocaust, and terrorism—how many memories and traumas do we collectively share that should overwhelm us and turn us to bitterness? But what is amazing about the Jewish people is that none of our suffering has managed to break our collective spirit: we still continue to yearn and hope, and to affirm simkhat chayim, the joy of life despite it all. We are all collectively like that Messiah at the gate of Rome seated among the lepers, the suffering of the world and life all around us, and yet always ready for redemption Hayom, today – Im b’kolo tishm’u: if only we and the whole world could hear that subtle voice of God calling us to that redemption each and every day.

This whole time of year is known as Sfirat Ha’Omer, the counting of the Omer. Each day between Passover and Shavuot, we count the day, 49 days in all. Each day we count using the same word the Messiah used: Hayom: Today: Hayom yom echad La’Omer, Today is the first day of the Omer, the 2^nd day, Hayom shloshim yamim La’Omer, the 32^nd day in the counting of the Omer. Hayom, over and over we repeat that word. Our sages teach us that counting, saying Hayom each day, links up the redemption that we tasted on Passover to our ability to receive the wisdom of Torah, which we will celebrate on Shavuot. For thousands of years, our people have known that Torah contains the answers to everything: how do we bring about justice and end all the suffering and violence of this world: hafoch bah v’hafoch bah, as ben Bag Bag taught in the Mishnah: keep turning the Torah again and again, look deeper and deeper into the Torah, ki hakol yesh bah: because the answers to all our burning questions are somewhere in Torah. And at this time of year, the Omer, Lag B’Omer, we also remember the words of the Messiah himself: that the greatest Torah of all comes when we know how to listen, to pay attention to Hayom, to this day, each day, and the lessons of Torah that life itself teaches each of us.

When we learn to count each day of life as the great blessing that it is, we learn that everything we need is already here! Redemption itself is ready to come Hayom, even today! There is great Torah awaiting us in our own life experiences that we can receive when we number our days. We’re counting as a way, as Psalm 90 says, to lilmnot yameinu, to number our days: to pay attention to the present moment v’navi lev chochmah: and bring about a heart of wisdom, of Torah. As each day passes, no matter what’s happening in it, good, bad, pleasure, suffering: each day counts, each day IS Torah itself. Torah is found everywhere, in everything, in every experience of life.

The great Hassidic master Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger taught this: he said,“she’tzarich ish Yisrael leha’amin shehakol Torah; Everyone of Israel must believe that Everything is Torah: vkoach ha’asarah ma’amarot shehem b’toch hatevah g’nuzim.”and the power of the 10 commandments can be found hidden in nature itself!

The Sfat Emet, goes on to explain: precious metals like silver can be found in the soil, and must be beaten out with great effort until you have refined silver: but the fact remains, even in the filthy soil, the purest silver can be found! This is the Messiah among the lepers, the real Torah of life.

If we survive a difficult life experience, we can learn the Torah of our own inner strength to survive difficulties, the Torah of human resilience; when we suffer an injustice, we can learn the Torah of pursuing Justice at all costs; when we suffer the loss of a loved one, we can learn the Torah of cherishing the life of our surviving loved ones while we have them, as well as learning how to be compassionate to others who suffer loss. When a time comes when we must ask for help from others in the community, we learn how important it is to be a part of a community that we can all count on.

There are many great teachers of Torah all around us, many who can listen for God’s voice in their own life experiences Hayom, today. There is Shmuel Greenbaum, whose pregnant wife was killed in the infamous suicide bomber attack on the Sbarro’s pizza restaurant in 2001 in Jerusalem. Instead retreating into bitterness, Shmuel decided to create a new organization called a Tradition of Kindness that seeks to respond to all tragedy and violence in the world by promoting acts of Chesed, or lovingkindness of people reaching out to people. He’s bringing Torah into action Hayom, today: and creating a world that doesn’t meet violence with more violence, but that meets violence with deeper love and compassion.

There is Jill and Craig Levine, a Long Island couple whose son Robbie mysteriously collapsed and died playing little league baseball. In one shocking moment of running for a homerun, little Robbie had heart failure and his life suddenly ended. After months of grief and agony, Jill and Craig came to understand strength and compassion Hayom, today, and now organize yearly 5K runs, and have already raised more than 35,000 dollars to ensure that there are defibrillators in every little league field in their area.

There is Ismail Khatib, a Palestinian man whose own son was shot and killed by an Israeli soldier, but who decided to donate his son’s organs to save the lives of three Israelis who were desperately in need of organ transplants. Mr. Khatib, of course, is not Jewish. But he learned this Torah of kindness b/c another one of his own sons was once in desperate need of a liver transplant, and he learned how our ability to help one another Hayom, today, transcends religious, ethnic, and political boundaries.

Each and every day, Hayom, today, we all can learn such lessons of Torah, when we number our days. The Torah says that when we Count the Omer, we recall how we brought the the ancient grain offerings to Jerusalem, v’heveitem et Omer Reishit k’tzirchem,” bring an Omer-measure of your first harvesting” the book of Exodus says. The expression Reishit K’zirchem means the very first fruits, the first of the summer harvest.

The rabbis of the Midrash explain that the Hebrew word “reishit” or “first,” also means Torah. Each day of the Omer, we count Hayom. Each day we bring the Reishit, we find Torah as we count. For us, Torah is not just the text of the Torah. Torah is the continuing revelation of truth that transforms our daily experiences into wisdom, compassion, and justice.

With each passing day of our lives, when we live with hearts open fully to whatever arises, then life itself will be reishit kzirchem, will be the Wisdom of Torah for each of us to harvest.

The Mashiach really is ready to come Hayom! All of the strength, insight, and wisdom that we need to transform not only our lives, but the whole world is right here, right now Hayom im b’kolo Tishm’u, Today, if we but learn to listen to the Voice of God teaching us Torah through our own life experiences.

Bending the Truth Toward Peace

2010-04-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

It is amazing how the Torah manages to find the strangest, and yet somehow the most powerful means of healing and transforming humanity. In the Torah this week, we learn of the strange, leprosy-like disease called Tzara’at, and the rituals for its healing and purification. We learn about the rituals for the final purification of one who has recovered from Tzara’at: the priest takes two birds. One bird is sacrificed, the other bird is set free. The whole affair seems so very strange and mysterious. Why so much attention to the disease of Tzara’at? And why are these birds used to purify people from this disease?

In order to begin to unpack this ritual, we must remember how our ancient sages taught us to understand the disease of Tzara’at: that it was an affliction that represented evil speech. Through slander, gossip, through any kind of words that brought ill-will and violence against others, one became afflicted with this disease. Our skin, our clothes, even our houses would erupt in a snow-white rash that reflected Divine displeasure because of our hurtful words. Probably the most famous victim of Tzara’at is Miriam, the sister of Moses who, in the book of Numbers, speaks out publicly against her brother Moses because he married a Cushite woman. Her public slander of her brother’s marriage immediately brings on Divine retribution, and she is suddenly covered in this white and scaly disease.

Very strange indeed! And then there is the matter of this healing ritual with the two birds. Why is one slaughtered and the other set free? Rashi, the great medieval commentator, explains that birds are the perfect choice in this ritual because they are “mfatfetin tamid b’tzifzuf kol,” they are “chattering constantly in their chirping voices.” Birds, in their way, never stop talking! The Sfat Emet, a more recent commentary, explains the meaning of this ritual exactly: one bird is slaughtered because that bird represents the idle prattling that has led to the hateful and hurtful words in the first place. The second bird is set free, however “lehachin hapeh v’lashon l’hotzi bahem divrei Torah,” “to prepare the mouth and the tongue to bring forth words of Torah [only].”[i] In other words, there are two kinds of speech: there is our mindless prattle that we use day to day that often leads to gossip and slander; and then there is the kind of speech that we rarely see—words used for the sake of the holy, words used to build up others, words used to heal the world itself rather than to destroy it.

There is a story told of how Rabbi Simcha Bunem of Peshischa, was ordered by his teacher, Reb Yaakov Yitzhak, the Yid HaKodesh, to make a journey to a distant and unremarkable village. When Simcha Bunem asked his master why he was being ordered to this little town in the middle of nowhere, his teacher remained silent.

So, Reb Simcha Bunem set out, accompanied by several of his own Hasidim, on the long journey to the little town. The sky had already turned to dusk by the time they arrived at their destination. Because the town had no inn, Reb Simchah Bunem ordered his coachmen to stop at the first cottage they saw. He knocked at the door and was invited in along with his students. When they asked whether they could join their host for dinner, the man replied “Of course you are welcome. I just need to let you know that I am not serving a milchig, or dairy meal this evening. Tonight, I am serving a fleishig, or meat meal.”

Instantly, the Hasidim bombarded the man with questions about his level of Kashrut. Who was the shochet (the butcher) in town, they demanded to know. Was the meat “glatt,” or free of even the smallest blemish, and was the meat salted sufficiently to draw out all traces of blood, as was required by Halakhah, Jewish law? The interrogation would have continued had not a commanding voice from the back of the cottage called out to them.

They turned their attention from the owner of the home to a man dressed as a beggar sitting near the hearth smoking a pipe. “My dear Hasidim,” the beggar said. “With regard to what goes into your mouths, I see you are scrupulous. Yet, regarding what comes out of your mouths, you make no inquiries at all.”

When Reb Simcha Bunem heard these words, he knew the reason for his journey. He nodded respectfully to the beggar, thanked the householder for his concern, and returned to the wagon , saying to his students, “Come, we are now ready to return home to Peshischa.” [ii]

So what, indeed, was it that Reb Simcha Bunem understood through that beggar’s chastising words? After all, what, in fact, was wrong with the questions the Hasidim were asking to the householder? Is it not proper for Jews to be concerned that their food is kosher? Is it not a sign of their impassioned love of Torah and serving God properly that one Jew should ask another Jew about the meat so that no one transgresses--God forbid!—any of God’s laws?

As a matter of fact, we can wonder the very same thing about Miriam when she spoke against Moses’ marriage to the Cushite woman. Miriam was a great woman, a leader of the people. The Torah doesn’t present us with specifics, but we can surmise that she had her good reasons to be angry at Moses’ choice of wife. Clearly, she passionately believed that he had done wrong by taking that particular woman as a wife, and something needed to be done about it and, as a woman of influence, she spoke what she believed to be right!

And yet, God struck her down, and she became riddled with disease. And similarly, those Hasidim, with all their bombarding questions, were whisked away from that home, eternally chastised because of their careless words. In both instances, despite their good intentions, these people were speaking with impure speech. Despite their desire only to speak words of Torah they, in fact, desecrated everything that the Torah stands for through their words! So if that is the case, how can we ever know if our words truly are the good kind of speech or the evil kind of speech?!

Earlier in the Torah, we learn that when someone sees an outbreak of Tzara’at on their body, “V’huva el Aharon HaKohein o el echad mibanav hakohanim.” “They must be brought to Aharon, the High Priest, or to one of his sons, the priests.” It’s rather a strange instruction. We know that all priests were trained in how to recognize Tzara’at. So why does the Torah make a point of saying that the afflicted person had to be brought specifically to Aharon or to his sons? We know, of course, that Aharon was a very special figure in the Torah. Aharon, first and foremost, was a beloved man. All the Israelites simply loved him. When Aharaon died, they mourned him longer than Moses himself. We also know that Aharon was a peacemaker: he was “Ohev Shalom v’rodef Shalom,” “He loved peace and pursued peace,” “Ohev et habriot umekarvan leTorah,” “He loved all of God’s creatures and brought them close to Torah.”

Finally, we also know that Aharon was a man who understood everything about proper speech. It was Aharon who spoke on behalf of Moses before Pharaoh, after all. Almost always, Aharon knew when to speak and when to remain silent. And when he did open his mouth, his intention was always to spread love of God, of Torah, and of peace between human beings. It seems that he was constitutionally incapable of idle prattling. Of course someone stricken down because of their evil speech should go before Aharon, to be in the presence of one who knows all how to use our speech properly!

Most significantly, Aaron knew how to use his speech to create peace among human beings. The Midrash Avot deRabbi Natan tells us: “How did Aaron love and pursue peace? When he saw two men engaged in a quarrel, he would go and sit down with one of them and say to him: "Consider what your friend is saying! He is broken hearted; he rends his clothes and cries out: 'Woe unto me! How shall I face my friend? I am ashamed, for it is I who wronged and sinned against him!"' Aaron would sit with this man until he had removed all ill feelings from his heart. Then Aaron would go and sit with the other man and say exactly the same thing to him until he expelled the enmity from his heart, too. When the two quarreling men eventually met, they would embrace and kiss one another.”

In this teaching, we see why Aharon is central in our understanding the nature of right speech verses wrong speech. When Aharon sat down with the each man, was he, in fact, telling the Truth about his fellow? Was the other party rending his clothes in guilt over wronging his fellow? No! It’s not what happened! It’s a white lie, it’s an untruth in the service of a higher Truth! And herein is the secret to right speech: When it comes to using our words, our speech, the ways of peace take precedence over the ways of Truth. To put it another way, we must always bend the truth toward the ways of peace, and away from the ways of discord.

Just open the newspapers on any day if you want to see how much we’re not understanding this teaching: Just look at the Americans who refer to the president as ‘Barack Hussein Obama.’ Yes, it’s true: that’s his full name. But that choice of words is diseased, it’s Tzara’at, because it bends the Truth toward the ways of quarrel and ill-will. That simple insertion of a middle name slanders a human being by connecting him up with Muslim extremists in popular conscousness.

Look also at how people approach the debate over healthcare in this country. There are opponents of healthcare who feel so strongly about their cause that they say that the healthcare bill is the end of our cherished American value of Freedom! Whatever your politics on this issue, it’s clear that this kind of rhetoric is about making use of words for the sake of what some people believe—at the expense of those who disagree with them! Again, speech is being used to bend Truth in the direction of discord and incivility instead of bending in the direction of peace and finding common ground to solve national problems.

Tragically, the disease of Tzara’at is rearing its head all too often within the American Jewish community, as we struggle over the future of Israel. With the rise of the J-Street vs. Aipac phenomenon, we see Jews on both sides speaking such derogatory and condemning words about the other side when, in fact, we’re all Jews! We’re all seeking peace in our homeland! It’s the same thing over and over: we all mean well. We all use our Divine power of speech in the service of what we feel to be right. All any of us want is a world of peace, and yet, in our confusion, we don’t understand that all peace in the world begins with how we use our words with respect to our enemies and adversaries.

People often ask why God just doesn’t strike down people with a white scaly infection anymore in response to our words. The answer is that that infection has crawled way past our skin, way past our clothes, and way past our homes—it now infects the very foundations of our society. Every one of us, and everything in our society is white and scaly with the scourge of tongues that have bent the truth to be used in the service of violence and ill-will and slander. We’re all guilty and diseased by now.

But the lesson of Aharon and his wise and loving use of words still remain. That other bird, the bird of words used wisely, still flies free in the world for us to discover. The world each of us longs for begins with our tongues, with each word we choose. The power of our speech is the power to use the Truth in any way we choose. The Torah is not asking us not to speak our Truth, but instead to use it with the greatest of care and awe and wisdom and love. The Torah wants us to understand that none of us can ever know the Absolute Truth, so we will always only perceive an imperfect or ‘bent’ aspect of the Truth. The Truth can always bend in either direction of any argument, so let us bend it wisely! Next time we are impassioned about our cause, let us pause before the words come out of our mouths, before the cameras and the newspapers record our words, before our speech falls on the ears of those who will use our words as incitement to hate and fear and do violence. Let us instead bend the Truth in the service of Peace, and use our words to “ohev shalom v’rodef shalom,” to love peace and to pursue peace, “ohev et habriot umekarvan laTorah,” to bring love to our fellow human beings, and to bring them to Torah, to wisdom, and to peace.

[i] Sfat Emet 3:143

[ii] Adapted from Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales. Woodstock, VT.Skylight Illuminations, 2004. p. 27.

Healthy Shame

2010-04-10T19:48:00.001-07:00

There’s a very poignant moment right at the beginning of Parashat Shmini in the Torah. Moses calls to his brother Aharon to take his place officially as the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest of Israel. And Moses says “Krav el hamizbe’ach,” “Come forward to the altar.” Rashi, the great medieval commentator, explains that Aharon himself wouldn’t come forward. He was bashful—“Hayah Aharon boosh v’yareh lageshet,” Aharan was ashamed and afraid to approach to take his place—not until Moses verbally proded him—“Come forward!”—“Lamah atah boosh?” Why are you ashamed, Aharon? For this [for this priesthood] were you chosen! So why was Aharon so ashamed and bashful? We get lots of theories from our rabbinic commentators. The M’norat HaMa’or explains that Aharon felt ashamed to take such an exalted position after having assisted the Israelites with the sin of the Golden Calf. That in fact, it was because he felt such shame and remorse for his past sinful actions that he was chosen to become the High Priest in the first place. That’s a good explanation.

The S’fat Emet has another understanding. A brilliant insight: He said that, instead of understanding Aharon as having been chosen because he felt ashamed, read it “aderaba,” read it just the opposite way : that the goal of having been chosen to be High Priest was “lizchut lavo l’y’dei booshah,” “so that he could merit feeling shame!” What?! Why would shame ever be something to be merited? Why would anyone or anything set as a goal--as a reward--to have the experience of shame?! But, indeed, says the Sfat Emet, shame is the reward! And it’s not just Aharon who deserves the reward of shame—it’s all of Israel: As the Talmud (Nedarim 20a) says, “Mi she’ain lo boshet,” “He who has no shame,” “b’yadua shelo amdu raglei avoteinu al har Sinai,” “then it is certain that our ancestors did NOT stand at Mount Sinai.” And, explains the Sfat Emet, Aharon’s sense of shame was so deep—this is the token of his true perfection! And so, for the Sfat Emet and for the rabbis of the Talmud, shame is good!

Gevalt ! we might say to such an idea! If there’s anything we have come to understand in our modern idiom, it’s that shame is a pernicious and destructive feeling. We know that guilt is neurotic enough, but shame is of an altogether deeper order of suffering. Shame is the feeling of “I am loathsome! I am disgusting! I deserve only the worst.” Shame is what survivors of abuse must struggle with on a daily basis. Shame is the horrific stumbling block that fuels the fire of all kinds of addictions and substance abuse. Shame is what obliterates a human being’s sense of self esteem and joy, and it can destroy a person’s ability to live a full and loving life. If there’s anything we all know, it’s that shame is NOT good! …Aderaba--quite the contrary--says the Sfat Emet. Shame really CAN BE good….!

There’s a story told of how once, Reb Yisrael of Ruzhin listened to a Hasid of Reb Moshe Zvi of Savran extol the virtues of his teacher. “My teacher, Reb Moshe, “ said the Hasid “is a man of deep humility. Even the slightest sign of honor given to him would make him question his own worth. He never thinks he is worthy!” Then the Hasid paused. He was expecting Reb Yisrael marvel at the humility of his master. But Reb Yisrael said nothing. So, the Hasid went on: “Indeed, there is one town so taken with my rebbe that whenever he visits, the whole town turns out to honor him.” “And this troubles him?” Reb Yisrael asked the Hasid. “Oh yes! Troubles him indeed! First, he would say it was the carriage that they honored, noting its fine construction. Then he would hope it was the horses they honored, marveling at their strength. But in the end he knew it was him they honored. He would worry over the vanity of humankind to the point of making himself sick. He would actually vomit from all the fuss made over him!”

“Oy, nebbich!” Reb Yisrael exclaimed. “This poor fellow! Could he not find a better way to deal with honor than to vomit?! There is a simple method: to receive all honor and yet to be attached to none of it. It wasn’t the honor that caused our dear brother to vomit; it was his own obsession with honor![i]

This story points us in the direction of understanding why and how our sages could possibly make the claim that shame itself is good. In our story, it seems to the Hasid that Reb Moshe is such a great man because he behaves with such humility. ‘Oh, it’s not little old me that you honor—it’s the carriage, the horses!’ Reb Yisrael is right in saying that what’s actually sickening is that he only seems humble, but he’s not. Reb Moshe is actually self-obsessed! What is sickening is to act humbly, but within our heart of hearts to lack True Shame!...

One more story: Reb Aharon of Karlin visted his rebbe, the Maggid of Mezritch, as often as he could. Returning home from one such visit, Reb Aharon was besieged by a great crowd of friends and fellow Hasidim. “Tell us what you have learned, Reb Aharon,” they cried. “Tell us what you have learned!” When the crowd great quiet, that all might hear what Reb Ahraon would impart to them, he said “I learned nothing.” Not sure they understood him, his friends asked again, “What did you learn from the great Maggid?” Again, Reb Aharon waited for silence. Again he said, “Nothing.” Certain that Reb Aharon was denying them some great teaching, his friends said sarcastically, “So you bother to make these many trips to Mezritch so that you can learn nothing?” “Exactly,” said Reb Aharon. “I gained the knowledge that I am nothing.”[ii]

And that’s it: when the Sfat Emet teaches that the great reward of the Priesthood is shame, he means this very message: the knowledge that “I am nothing!” From a Jewish perspective, there is actually such a thing as ‘healthy shame.’ Unhealthy shame is the shame that you and I hate: it’s self-loathing, it’s living with a message that “I am bad.” Healthy shame, however, is the experience of true humility, experienced from the inside-out: it’s living with the message of “I am nothing at all.” The “self” that I cherish, that I’m obsessed with, ultimately, in the face of the Other, is nothing at all! It’s the deepest possible kind of insight and knowledge--that there is, in fact, no barrier between me and you. So in actuality, when the rabbis talk of ‘booshah’ or a healthy kind of shame, they don’t really mean ‘shame’ in the way we use the term. What they really mean is the experience of living with True Selflessness.

In the Mishnah, our ancient sages teach us, “Al t’hiyu ka’avadim ham’shamshim et haRav al m’nat lekabel p’ras,” “Be not like servants who serve their Master in order to receive a reward.” “Elah, havu ka’avadim ham’shamshim et haRav shelo al m’nat lekabel p’ras,” “Rather, be like servants who serve their Master NOT in order to receive a reward.” (Avot 1:3). It’s a teaching all about unconditional service, of course. The Sfat Emet, however, points out that the teaching could have simply said: “Do not serve in order to receive a reward.” But instead, it says don’t serve the Master in order to receive a reward. Why? It’s in order to emphasize the fact that even the act of service itself is NEVER about you! It’s all about the Master, about God, about the One you’re serving—you are nothing in that equation, you are simply the agent of the service itself.

What does this really mean? It’s the difference between the commonly accepted notion of “charity” and the Jewish concept of “Tzedakah.” You are walking down the street. A homeless person asks you if you can spare any change. It’s an act of charity if you decide to act out of the goodness of ‘your’ heart, if you ‘take pity’ on the homeless person and give them alms. And then, once you have given, you feel a sense of self-congratulatory satisfaction because you have done a good deed. That’s a good thing to do, of course! Tzedakah, on the other hand, is altogether deeper. Tzedakah flows from that feeling of True Selflessness: a homeless person asks for money. God has seen fit to open the whole universe before you in that moment—as a moment of righting a wrong, of fixing a tear in the fabric of Creation itself by moving the change in my pocket, into my hand, and then moving my hand toward the hand of one who truly needs that change: who am I to stand in the way of God’s infinite compassion acting through me in that instant! This is Tzedakah, and this is True Selflessness!

This Selflessness is also the difference between conventional notions of ‘forgiveness’ and the Jewish idea of T’shuvah: In an act of forgiveness “I” am the one who is forgiving you. In my kind-heartedness, I am deciding to extend to you my pardon despite what I feel you have done to me. Forgiveness is a wonderful thing to do. But in all of that, we are still self-absorbed. There is no true ‘Selflessness.’ But in T’shuvah, I have Returned from my self-obsession, back to the realization that I am Nothing in the face of the Other. And so, I stand in your presence, not even separate from you. I stand in Your Presence as one not defined by past angers and hurts and judgments—only as one prepared to do right by you Now; to show you compassion Now just exactly as you are, without any story from my past projected onto your life.

At that poignant moment, when Moses sees that his brother Aharon is too ashamed to come forward, Moses says “Zeh hadavar asher tzivah Adonay ta’asu v’yera Aleichem k’vod Adonay,” Aharon: “This is the thing that God has commanded you to do that the Glory of God may appear to you.” In a sense, Moses is saying: You have merited this knowledge that you are Nothing before the people, and because of this, the Glory of God can now appear to us all! Remember what the Sfat Emet said: Aharon was chosen for the priesthood that he might be rewarded with shame. Don’t serve the Master to receive a reward, rather serve the Master NOT to receive a reward—say the ancient sages. So the great irony of life is that, when we give up seeking to take the reward for ourselves, when we embrace that Selflessness—that Knowledge that I am Nothing—that “Shame” becomes the greatest Reward there can ever be. It is only when we come to live knowing that we are here ONLY to serve—that all Honor, all Glory, all the Majesty of this miraculous universe can finally flow through us. Like Aharon the High Priest before us, we can, once and for all become Nothing but a vessel for Holiness: for compassion and justice and Love moving out through our hand, through our actions, through every fiber of our Being, flowing out to all those who need our Presence, our Service, our Love. May we indeed come to merit the blessing of True Selflessness, and through us, may we bring about the Glory of a healed world.

[i] Adapted from Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales. Woodstock, VT.Skylight Illuminations, 2004. p. 43.

[ii] Ibid, p. 61.

Pour Out Your Love

2010-03-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

Every year at the very end of the Passover Seder, something shocking happens. We have come through a whole evening of telling the story of our miraculous redemption from slavery in Egypt. We have eaten the bread of humility, tasted the bitterness of slavery, and sung out in joy at our liberation as a people. We have shared a meal together and there is an incredible sense of gratitude and satisfaction. And then, just as it’s all about to end, we recite words of burning rage and anger: “Shfoch Chamatcha el hagoyim asher Lo Yeda’ucha,” “Pour out your Wrath against the nations who do not know you.” Pour out your wrath and destroy all the evil nations of this world! Why such anger? Why such bitterness? These words, of course, are recited as we come to “Elijah’s cup” in the seder. We open the door to let Elijah into our homes, and then we recite these words as Elijah comes to partake of the wine we have poured for him. And it is then that we experience such anger at the world. Why?

It is, in fact, the very joy of the seder, the very fact that we have gone on a journey from the lowliness of slavery and then tasted the sweetness of freedom that we find ourselves so angry when the seder is about to come to its conclusion. In our homes, around the seder table, there is so much light and warmth and joy. And then we open the door and we peer outside into the dark night, into the world ‘out there’ that is still so filled with oppressions and slaveries and injustices and anti-Semitism, and we are slapped in the face by reality. And in the darkness of that night, we usher in none other than Elijah the Prophet himself, the one who will herald the coming of the Messiah, who will, once and for all, bring an end to a world of so much hatred and injustice. No wonder we say ‘Pour out your wrath!’ It’s a moment of national catharsis, --of saying ‘bring on the Mashiach already!-- as the magical spell of the seder is broken, and we remember that we must return to this very imperfect world that is still in need of so much “tikkun Olam,” so much healing and repair.

There’s a beautiful message there of social justice for the world. But we must remember that, as the Haggadah tell us, this is a world where the Jewish people know enemies in every generation. In the modern State of Israel, conflicts with enemies still define the daily reality of the modern Jewish state. Many people today, particularly in this country, express discomfort with those words—pour out your wrath on the nations that do not know you—because anger is dangerous! It’s a very powerful and destructive emotion. Anger is always liable to lead toward more violence and more hatred. Lord knows, there are so many extremists on both sides of the Arab-Israeli conflict who pray for God’s wrath to pour out on their enemy. Indeed, there are so many who believe that to be good Israelis or good Palestinians, you must feel anger and pray for God to act against the other side. Isn’t that what our seder is asking us to do, after all? …Not necessarily!…

A couple of centuries ago, there was a radical new group of upstarts in the Eastern European Jewish community known as the Hasidim. They were radical because they departed from the dry and sober world of the Yeshiva, and took the passionate message of Judaism to the masses. The foundational message of Hasidism was that not only the elite Yeshiva Buchers, or students of Torah, had access to the deepest understandings of Godliness, but that anyone could find God, because God’s presence is everywhere. In fact, the Hasidim went so far as to say that even an illiterate peasant could rise up to the highest rungs of spirit just by pouring out his heart in prayer and in song and in joy before the Creator in Heaven. Such populist teachings were downright heresy to the extremely hierarchical and entrenched polity of the Jewish establishment of those days! And so arose the great conflicts between the Hasidim and the Mitnagdim, or The Opponents, as the establishment Jews were called.

There is a story told of Rabbi Moshe Teitelbaum, who, in his youth, had been a real Mitnaged, a real enemy of the Hasidic upstarts. Once, Teitelbaum was staying with his friend Rabbi Joseph Asher, another anti-Hasidic Rabbi. Right at this time, a new siddur, or prayerbook appeared—hot off the press—that contained many teachings and insights of the Hasidim. When Rabbi Teitelbaum got his hands on that prayerbook, he snatched the heavy tome from the messenger, and he threw it on the floor! Now, anyone familiar with Jewish attitudes toward siddurim, or any Holy book containing the name of God, knows that this is an act of . In fact, whenever we accidently drop a holy book, we know that we must kiss the book to show that we mean no sacrilege. But Rabbi Teitelbaum willfully took that siddur and slammed it onto the floor, because it was the prayerbook of his enemy, the Hasidim! Upon seeing this shocking act, Rabbi Joseph Asher picked it up and said “After all, it is a prayerbook, and we must not treat it disrespectfully!” When the Seer of Lublin, a great Hasidic master, was told of this incident, he said: “Rabbi Moshe Teitelbaum will himself become a Hasid; Rabbi Joseph Asher [who picked up the prayerbook] will remain an opponent of the Hasidic way. For he who can burn with enmity can also burn with love for God, but he who is coldly hostile will always find the way closed. And so it was: Rabbi Teitelbaum, who once cast that Hasidic prayerbook on the gound, would himself one day become a devoted and passionate Hassid![i]

So what is the moral of the story? That of course anger can indeed be destructive and lead to the very desecration of the Divine Name. On the other hand, if we pay very close attention to our anger, if we even let our anger and our hatreds and our angry impulses be our teachers, they can lead us to surprising places, to shocking places—maybe even to Love itself!

In this week’s Torah reading, Parashat Tzav, we learn about the instructions for the sacrificial fires of our ancient Israelite ancestors: “Esh tamid tukad al hamizbe’ach, lo tichbeh,” “A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, it may not go out.” (Lev. 6:6) The Sfat Emet, a great commentary published at the turn of the 20^th century, explains this line by comparing it with a famous line in the Song of Songs: “Mayim rabim lo yuchlo lechabot et Ha’Ahavah,” “Many waters cannot drown out love,” (Cant. 8:7) They can’t douse the fire of love. The Sfat Emet explains that the fire on the sacrificial altar represented a raging fire of love that must always burn in the heart of every Jew. And like the ancient Priests, we must constantly tend and keep that fire burning every moment of our lives. And, just as the ancient priests placed the sacrificial animals upon that ever-burning flame, so too, must we allow every distracting thought, every evil and hateful impulse that arises within us, to burn upon that inner flame in our hearts, to be purified and to return back to its Source in God.

What does the Sfat Emet mean by this teaching? It means that as Jews, as human beings, we look out into the world, and we see that we are still faced with real enemies. We look out into that dark night, and we see our innocent ones suffering at the hands of those who would destroy us all. And our hearts burn with anger and rage. But, says the Sfat Emet, look deeply into that anger and rage, look as deeply as you can into its essence, its Source. What is that rage? It’s certainly a fire burning in our heart. But what is it that burns? It is, in fact, Love! Love thwarted. Love wounded by injustice and oppression and murder and violence. But all anger is, in its deepest essence, Love itself! Love, says the Sfat Emet is the only fire that burns so fiercely in our souls. But like all fire, Love itself can be dangerous when we don’t understand its power. If we use its power to fuel our most hateful and vengeful thoughts, it can be used as an instrument of violence and murder. If, however, we come to understand that the essence of anger, of the fire, is Love itself, then we offer our hateful and vengeful thoughts to the fire, and allow the fire to burn up the thoughts, and transmute the anger into love itself.

This is what is happening that night of the seder when we look outside and say those words, Shfoch Chamatcha, Pour out Your Anger! The Sfat Emet goes on to explain, that the Torah says over and over that the flames of the sacrifices were to be kept burning “Kol Halilah ad haboker,” “all night until morning.” (Lev. 6:2) Every Jew, explains the Sfat Emet, must struggle with the night, with the darkness in his very own heart, until he brings on the morning in his own soul.

Do you look out onto the world and see the darkness? Do you see the enemy? Do you see the terrible things the enemy is doing? What is happening in your heart and soul as you look upon that darkness? Don’t push away the anger! Don’t repress it! Pour it out! Let every passionate and vengeful thought and feeling be there! But here’s the trick: notice where you are when you think those hateful and violent thoughts: you’re in the darkness yourself! You’re a part of that dark and cruel night when you let that hatred define you. So offer that hatred to the fire itself within. Let it burn up so brightly that the very darkness of the night itself is cast away.

When we’re getting it right, that angry hatred of Shfoch Chamatcha transforms itself and gives way to a deeper state of being—not violence, not vengeance, but a deep and abiding yearning--when there is only a longing, a thirsting for the light of morning itself to dawn on this world. When we’re getting it right, we’re motivated not by hatred or by anger, but by Love itself to take action for the sake of Justice.

As we look out on our world on this eve of Passover, there is still so much violence in this world, and no True peace yet in the Land of Israel. Each side still preaches its partial Truths, and flames mutual hatreds on all sides. This year, may we learn this deepest lesson of those cathartic lines of Shfoch Chamatcha. May we learn that the struggle to overcome the dark night itself within our own hearts contains the solution to our modern struggles with our enemies. May we come to see that only when we and our enemies share the same yearning in place of anger, only then can there be real peace. May there be ‘next year in Jerusalem’ a true celebration of peace once and for all.

[i] Adapted from Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: The Late Masters. New York, Schocken Books. 1948. p. 189.

What is the Face of God?

2010-03-06T18:51:00.001-08:00

If there’s anything that everyone in our tradition agrees on, it’s the greatness of Moses. He literally ascended higher, and came closer to the Divine than any other Jew in memory. And yet even Moses himself, says the Torah, longed to be closer to God. Even Moses, it seems, couldn’t bridge a gulf between his very humanity and God. In Parashat Ki Tissa, Moses goes before God on Mount Sinai after the Israelites commit the sin of the golden calf, and he utters the words “Har’eini na et k’vodecha,” “O, let me behold Your Glory, [God]!” Even there, at the heights of Sinai, Moses has the same basic longing and yearning for God that any of us might have. And God gives Moses a famous answer to his longing. God says, ‘Moses, I can make all my Goodness pass by you…”v’lo tuchal lir’ot et panai,” “[but] you cannot see my face, for man may not see my face and live. “ See, says God, there is a place near me. Station yourself on the rock, and as I pass by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and shield you with my hand until I have passed by, then I will take my hand away and you will see my back, “ufanai lo yera’u,” “but my face must not be seen.”[i]

It’s a fascinating moment. What does it mean? Why can’t Moses, or any of us, ever see God? Why is it that we can’t see that Face and live? At first glance, God seems to be something very anthropomorphic in this story: God moves, God has a hand, God has a back. But the deeper we look into this astonishing moment, the more we realize that it is not just Moses in the cleft of that rock, peeking at God’s back just after God has passed by. It is each of us who can never quite see the Face of God, only God’s back.

There’s an old Jewish story: The Rav once asked his disciple, “[My son], what do we mean when we say ‘God?’ The disciple was silent. The Rav asked him a second time and a third time, and then inquired, “Why are you silent?” “Because I don’t know,” answered the disciple. “Do you think I know?” said the Rav. “All I can say is that God is definitely there, and except for God nothing is definitely there—and this [nothing], too, is God!”[ii]

The Rav in this story is saying something very interesting. He is saying, first, that everything is God. But even more profoundly, he is also saying that nothing—literally ‘nothing’—is God! Try for a moment to think about what the word ‘nothing’ actually means. Go ahead. Try it…You may think of empty space, a vacuum, a dark void. But none of those things are actually ‘nothing!’ They’re just images and concepts of places where things aren’t. True ‘nothingness’ is the absence of any reference point to any kind of “thing-ness” at all. Try to conceive of that! It can make your brain hurt.

The Magid of Mezeritch came close to capturing ‘nothingness’ when he taught: “[There is not a thing in this] world [that] can change from one reality into another, unless it first turns into nothing…the moment when the egg is no more and the chick is not yet is nothingness.” Similarly, a seed in the earth must cease to be a seed and become ‘nothing’ before it is a plant. This rung of ‘nothing,’ says the Magid, is the essence of all Reality just before the moment of Creation. It is also the rung from which all Wisdom springs.[iii]

Notice that when the Magid talks about nothingness, he isn’t talking about nothingness in space. He’s talking about nothingness in development, in becoming one thing transforming into another. He’s talking about nothingness in time. Nothingness is a moment when there is no egg and no chick, no seed and no plant. Nothingness is a fleeting instant, a wisp of time so infinitesimally small, that we can’t perceive it. When we understand nothingness in time, then we can begin to grasp why man cannot see the Face of God and live.

The Hatam Sofer, a rabbi of the early 19th century, explains that God’s “back” in our biblical story is a metaphor for the past. If you want to find God, look back at your life, at the past, at all the goodness God has done, and you’ll find that God has acted in your life. It’s a beautiful teaching, and it’s true, of course. But the story goes even deeper than that. The Ultimate Truth is that the Face of God is actually looking right at you, right now. Literally! It’s just that you can’t perceive that Face at all. That Face of God has another name. It’s called The Present Moment. Let’s try an experiment: what do you see right now in the Present Moment? You see this room. You see me. You might see the objects or people directly in front of you. But none of that is actually the Present Moment. You can try to be as absolutely present as you can be, and still none of that is the Present Moment. Actually, the best you can possibly do is perceive a split second ago—in the past! And we can’t help it: our brains are amazing organs that process sensory input in the flash of an instant—at the speed of electrical signals transmitting from our sense organs to our neurons. And yet, for all the speed of our mental processes, by the time we create a coherent picture of the present moment, the moment itself has passed! So when we perceive the Present Moment, we’re actually looking at a split second ago! In every moment, we’re looking at the past! To put it another way, all we ever see is God’s back!

And what is, then, the actual Present Moment? No one ultimately knows! Not a single human being, not even Moses himself, has ever seen that ever-present moment between the chicken and the egg, that Face of God, and lived. It is ‘nothing’ that we can ever see in its raw, emerging, Reality. It’s ineffable. It’s time-less. It is of God, and beyond us! But remember what the Torah says: we might not ever be able to see it and live, but it’s good! In fact, it’s Tov Me’od, it’s very good. The Kotzker rebbe taught: “Everyting puzzling and confused that people see is called ‘God’s back.’ But no man can see God’s face, where everything is in harmony.” [iv]

There’s a story told of the Baal Shem Tov, the great founder of Hasidism. He was so great, that he would regularly visit and converse with none other than Elijah the Prophet. His disciples begged him to show them what it was like to visit with Elijah. But the Baal Shem Tov always seemed reluctant. One day, the Baal Shem Tov was walking with his disciples down the road. As they walked, the Baal Shem Tov said, “I would like to smoke a pipe, but I forgot to bring mine. Do any of you have one that I can borrow?” None of the disciples had a pipe. Just then, a Polish squire was walking toward them on the road. The Baal Shem Tov bid his disciples to go and ask the squire if he wouldn’t mind lending him his pipe. Now, it wasn’t the custom for non-Jews to have much of anything to do with Jews, but as it turned out, this was a pleasant Polish fellow, and he agreed to share his pipe. He even offered to go over to the great Rebbe and light the pipe for him. As the Besht smoked, he struck up a conversation with the squire. He made small talk: asking how the harvest was going, and whether the threshing houses were yielding much grain. The disciples grew bored and impatient and wandered away while the Best schmoozed and smoked. When the disciples returned, the squire had left. “There,” said the Best, “You finally got your wish. That squire was Elijah the Prophet.” “What?!” said his disciples. “And you didn’t tell us?!” “And if you hadn’t ignored him,” the Besht continued, “you would have understood the two questions I asked him. When I inquired about the year’s harvest, I was asking if the people had finally turned their souls to heaven. When I asked about the yield of grain, I was asking if the depth of our prayers were succeeding in bringing down God’s blessings.” “So, nu?” asked his disciples, “What did Elijah say?!” “He said what he said,” was the Baal Shem Tov’s only response.[v]

It’s so frustrating, isn’t it? We can’t all be the Baal Shem Tov. We can’t notice the miracle even as it’s standing right in front of us. We can’t all take in the Divine wisdom that is always here, now for us. We always seem just to miss it—just as the disciples missed Elijah standing right there before them. It seems that the best most of us can hope for us to look at God’s back. But that’s not the end of the story in the Torah. When God does pass by Moses on Mount Sinai, and Moses sees God’s back, something extraordinary is revealed to Moses. And that revelation is so beautiful and powerful, that it is enshrined in our liturgy in all our festivals: “Adonai Adonai El Rachum v’Chanun, Erech Apayim, v’Rav Chesed v’Emet,” “Adonai, Adonai, God of Mercy and Graciousness, Slow to Anger, and abounding in Kindness and Truth.” These are the ‘Shalosh Esrei Midot,’ the Thirteen Divine Attributes of God that Moses could find by seeing God passing by. Remember: Moses could come closer to that ineffable moment than any other human being, and what he heard was God’s goodness, God’s infinite compassion and kindness and Truth. Not even Moses could see or fully grasp that fleeting Present Moment as it passed, but he saw enough to know that whatever it is, it is Good! It is the greatest Good, the greatest Kindness and Love we can ever know. And so, when he looked and saw God’s back, when he saw his past, and the past story of the Jewish people, through the years of slavery and Redemption up to that moment: all he could see was a succession of ineffable, magnificent Present Moments, all giving infinite goodness and compassion and kindness to enable all things to be and to become.

And this is why the Baal Shem Tov couldn’t say what Elijah told him. All he could say was that Elijah “said what he said.” It’s like what God said to Moses at the burning bush: “Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh,” I am that I am. You can’t take the Present Moment, that is such joy, such kindness, such goodness, and put it into any kind of words. Just look deeply into what you can see of your life: look beyond all your fears and doubts and hurts and pain—look past all your ‘puzzlement and confusion,’ as the Kotzker said: look into this moment that has already slipped away even as you notice it: look how beautiful it is. Many of us look back on the moments of our lives and string together a narrative of hurt and victimization. We never even notice that behind each moment of our perception, there was an infinitely deep well-spring of lovingkindness and caring giving us our world, our relationships, our sustenance, our very life-breath itself. Most of us look at our world, and back at our lives, and we can only see our own faces, our own interpretation of our experiences. Most of us can’t see past our own faces, and seek out the Face of God. But that Face is always there, loving us between the hidden wisps of time, in the transient blink of an eye, in the inchoate moment as one breath gives way to another, in the instant between life ending and life beginning—in the moment that doubt gives way to Faith. May we indeed find the Faith within that God’s Face is always here in this miraculous life that is being renewed for us in each instant. May we feel the warm Light of God’s face shining on us even if we don’t directly see it, and indeed may that Light, that Wisdom, that Compassion grant us all Peace.

[i] Exodus 33:18-23

[ii] Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: The Early Masters. New York. Schocken Books, 1947. p. 269.

[iii] Ibid, p. 104

[iv] Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: The Late Masters. New York, Schocken Books. 1948. p. 275.

[v] Adapted from Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales. Woodstock, VT. Skylight Illuminations, 2004. p. 87.

You are the End of Evil

2010-02-20T15:38:00.001-08:00

We all know that in Judaism, there’s a blessing for everything: blessings for when we wake up, blessings for when we go to sleep. Blessings for when we eat and blessings for simchas. Our ancient sages teach us that just as we bless for the good, so too, we bless even when bad things befall us. When tragedy strikes, we say ‘Baruch Dayan ha’Emet,’ blessed is God, Judge of Truth—the undeniable truth is that when tragedy strikes, we say ‘so be it,’ blessed be God. I would like us to take a moment to contemplate the implications of this notion: we bless not only the good, but we bless evil as well! When you think about it that way, it seems almost impossible to believe. We’re the Jewish people, the people of Justice! We’re all about taking action in the world to fight against all oppression and injustice! How could we possibly bless evil in any way? We have lived through centuries of persecution, of Nazis, of terrorists. We live in a world filled with violence and abuse and rape and murder and oppression of all kinds. Bless the evil?! Aren’t we supposed to stamp it out and only uphold the good?!

In this week’s Parashah, Trumah, we receive instructions for how to build the Mishkan, the sacred tent, or Tabernacle, of God’s presence in the wilderness. The parashah goes into extraordinary detail about every last stitch that goes into that Mishkan. Why so much detail? Our sages teach us that every element of that Mishkan can be seen as allegory into our very humanity—even into the mysteries of good and evil. So, for example, the Torah says “Va’asita et hak’rashim lamishkan atzei shitim omdim,” “You shall make [wooden] planks for the Tabernacle of acacia wood, upright.” The eighteenth century commentary, the Degel Machaneh Ephraim explains[1] that according to Jewish tradition, those wooden planks actually symbolize the human being. Those wooden planks are called ‘K’rashim,’ which is very close to the Hebrew word ‘K’sharim,’ which means ‘connections.’ So the hidden meaning in this text is that we human beings are the ‘kesher,’ or the connection between Heaven and earth! So every time we see those planks in the Tabernacle, we are reminded that we are to be the connection between the Divine and the earthly, between spirit and the corporeal, and most importantly—we are the Kesher, the link between good and evil! It all hinges on us, and our choices and actions, says the Degel Machaneh Ephraim! Our job in this life is to stay “mekusharim,” connected to Heaven. Don’t get caught up in ‘sheker,’ in falsehood, in lies, in evil—instead see and reconnect everything, even the evil we experience with its Source of goodness in Heaven. In other words, says the Degel, our job is “la’sot mera shebahem tov,” “to make the evil good!” In teaching about those wooden planks in the Mishkan, the Degel makes an astonishing claim, that “even the quality of evil, at its deepest source, is good!”

There is a fanciful legend told of the Baal Shem Tov, the great founder of Hasidism. Before I tell the story, a word of caveat: Hasidic stories can sometimes be wildly surreal, bringing in elements from the Jewish tradition, and also from the surrounding folk culture as well, but the message is entirely Jewish. This is one such legend: When the Baal Shem Tov was only a boy of ten, he was so gifted and so mekushar, so connected to the beauty and wonder of God’s world, that each morning on their way to school, all the children would follow the young Baal Shem Tov into the woods and into the fields to pick garlands, to sing joyful songs, and to listen in silence to the music of the earth. So perfect was their love of God’s world, that Satan decided to confound this perfection. (Yes, Satan, is a real and time-honored character in Jewish literature as well as Christianity. Unlike Christianity, however, Satan is NOT the devil in Judaism. He is merely an agent of God whose role is to get us to confront the reality of evil.) It happened that in those very woods, there lived a werewolf. By day, he was a lone woodsman. By night, he would sprout fangs and fur and howl at the moon, and collapse in exhaustion at dawn, returned to the form of a man. Satan came upon this woodsman, took out his heart, and replaced it with Satan’s own heart of evil. As soon as this happened, the woodsman became the most terrifying beast imaginable. So in the morning, when the children came to rejoice in God’s world in the field, the monster appeared at the edge of the forest, now with shoulders stretching from horizon to horizon, with fire coming from its nostrils along with smoke blotting out the very light of the sun. The children screamed in mortal panic, all except one, the young Baal Shem Tov, who calmly, gently walked up to the beast. He approached the monster closer and closer, till he merged with the monster’s very being. Once there, he lovingly reached in and grasped its heart of evil in the palm of his hand. There, he and the children beheld the heart, quivering like a bird with a broken wing. They saw that in the darkness of that heart, there was only fear and self-loathing. And the Baal Shem Tov gently placed that heart onto the ground, which opened wide and allowed that heart to sink deep into the forgiving earth. With that, monster was vanquished, and the light of the sun returned.[2]

What is this story telling us? The same astonishing notion that the Degel was teaching: that even evil itself is nothing to fear when we look deeply into it. In the Mishnah, in Pirkei Avot, the rabbis famously ask, “Who is wise? He who learns from all human beings.” (Avot 4:1) In every human being being there is the yetzer hatov, the inclination to do good, and there is also the yetzer hara, the inclination to do evil. “B’chol derachecha da’ehu,” “Know God in all your ways,” says the book of Proverbs (3:6). Even the evil ways of our heart, says the Degel, are our teacher. When we come to know and understand our impulse to act out of evil, then we can transform it to the good.

Rabbi Mikhal taught his disciples that the inner desire of the Yetzer HaRa, the evil urge, is, in fact, to become good! The yetzer hara “wants to become good by driving man to overcome it and to make it good. And that is Satan’s secret request to the man he is trying to [frighten or] seduce: ‘Let us leave this disgraceful state and [return to God], so that I too may [rise up in holiness with you], although I seem to oppose, to disturb and hinder you.”[3] Our line from parashat Trumah teaches this very same truth, says the Degel Machane Ephraim. Those wooden planks are made of “atzei shitim omdim,” ”upright acacia wood.” ‘Atzei shitim,’ says the degel, is allegorical code for the aytzah, the ‘advice’ of Satan,’ –even the urging of Satan can be upright when we know how to approach it!

Hillel Zeitlin was a brilliant Hasidic master teacher who lived in the first part of the 20^th century. He was an expert in multiple fields—from Kabbalah to the philosophy of Nietzsche. Zeitlin himself was murdered by the Nazi’s on his way to Treblinka, even as he was garbed in his Tallit and Tefilin. Zeitlin explains this deepest Jewish understanding of evil, that in truth, there is nothing but the light of God. As the light descends from its Source in the Divine, down to ever-more material and corporeal realms, that light becomes heavier and ever more clouded and dark and hidden. And when God’s light is hidden, we call it ‘evil,’ and those who cleave to materiality we call ‘evil,’ or ‘sinners.’ However, when a person “begins to see the divinity that is present in this material world, he repairs and elevates the evil [to its original divine source]. In other words, he elevates the divinity that is hidden in the heavy fog of corporeality, and thus returns the Godly light to its source [to goodness!].”

What does all of this mean? On the simplest level, it’s an instruction to look at your own yetzer hara, your own selfish impulses in life. Look at eating and drinking for example: eating and drinking can be gluttonous, binging, destructive behaviors, or they can become a sacred meal shared with family and community to celebrate our highest values. Look at sex. Sex can be abusive and cruel and victimizing, or it can be the most sacred expression of love, respect, and holiness. Eating and sexuality are, in their essence, good! They are about preserving and continuing and rejoicing in life itself. But in our own confusion we can either turn these to evil, or liberate these actions to the goodness that they truly are. This teaching that I bring today is not only about transforming our impulses. It extends to any and every experience of evil in the world!...

A Hasid asked the Seer of Lublin: The Mishnah says, “Man should thank God for evil and praise God,” and the Talmud adds, “with joy and a tranquil heart.” How could that be?!

The tzadik could hear that the question sprang from a troubled heart. “You do not understand the Talmud,” he said. “And I do not understand even the Mishnah. For is there really any evil in the world?”[4]

What could the great Seer of Lublin possibly mean by this cryptic answering a question with another question? Is he really denying the existence of evil?! Of course not! It’s not that this great tzadik would ignore Nazis and abusers and murderers. What he’s doing is throwing this deepest question of life back to the student, and to us all. Yes, Baruch Dayan Emet, blessed is this awesome, terrible world where we experience death and evil! Don’t deny the evil! Not at all—quite the opposite! Look at the evil. Look deeply into every experience of evil you may, God forbid, come to know! Reach deeply into that heart of evil, hold it gently in the palm of your hand, and plumb its darkness. What do you see? Do you see a world where bad things happen to good people? Do you see a world that allowed a Holocaust to happen? Where terrorists still strike down the innocent? Keep looking at it! Do you see the heart of fear and confusion and self-loathing that brings that evil about? Do you see that same fear in your own heart?

Before you point the finger of blame at God for creating such a world, remember who YOU are! You are the Kesher, the link between God and this imperfect world, between good and evil! YOU ARE the very way that God ends evil in this world. The deepest question of life is NOT ‘why did God create evil?’ but rather, ‘How could we just give up because there is evil?’ The point of life itself is not to become dark and embittered because there is evil in the world, but to ask, ‘What must I do now?’ What can I do to end persecution, murder, abuse, injustice in this world, and in my own heart? This is what it means to be a Jew, a Light to the Nations, an ‘Am Kadosh—a people who bring holiness to the world by transforming the evil in our hearts into its truest essence, which was always goodness. May we indeed transform our hearts to this goodness, and therefore transform the world.

[1] Sefer Degel Machaneh Ephraim, Parashat Trumah, Dibur HaMatchil, “Va’Asita”

[3] Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: The Early Masters. Vol 1. New York, Schocken Books, 1947. P. 145.

[4] Ibid, p. 318

Peace is the Presence of Justice

2010-02-13T16:09:00.000-08:00

There is an ancient tradition among our people that our name, Yisrael contains within it a vision of our role among all the nations of the world. When God bestowed that name, Yisrael, onto Jacob, it was because his descendants were to be the people of “Yashar El.” The Hebrew ‘yashar’ means ‘straight.’ We are the people of ‘godly straightness.’ This world is filled with crookedness, jealousy, and hatred, and we are to be the ones to ‘straighten’ it all out.

In Parashat Mishpatim, the Torah reveals an extraordinary series of laws that lay the foundations for building a society of justice, where the stranger, the widow, and the orphan are never forgotten. It provides a framework for thinking about an ideal society where none are oppressed, where the powerful never again victimize the dispossessed. Mishpatim begins with the words “V’eleh hamishpatim asher tasim lifneihem, “And these are the laws that you shall place before them” (Exodus 21:1). The commentary, the Sfat Emet, asks the question: why does this chapter begin with the word “and?” It should just say, “These are the laws.” The Sfat Emet explains: Think what has just come before in the Torah. It was none other than the Ten Commandments that God gave on Mount Sinai before the Israelites. “V’eleh hamishpatim,” “And these are the laws,” that you must now uphold, now that you have received the Ten Commandments. The Sfat Emet goes on to explain: The Ten Commandments represent the laws that refer to humankind’s relationship to God. The Mishpatim, the special laws and statutes that follow here in our parashah, refer to laws that must be upheld between person and person. In the Ten Commandments, we learn how to be holy before God. In the Mishpatim that follow, we learn how to build a society where we act out that holiness between one another, and straighten out this world.

Psalm 29 contains the famous words: ‘Adonai Oz L’Amo yitein,’ “God will give strength to God’s people,” ‘Adonai yevarech et Amo baShalom,” God will bless God’s people with Shalom, peace. The ancient rabbis of the midrash explain that the Hebrew word ‘oz,’ ‘strength’ also means Torah. Building on this teaching, the Sfat Emet explains that we only Truly receive Torah, when we adhere to these mishpatim, these laws, that are there to build Shalom, peace between one another. To put it another way, we are not really fulfilling the commandments of the Torah if we are not putting peace among the people of Israel as our highest goal.

We begin our work of being a light to the nations, of straightening out the world, by living the mishpatim, by enacting the Torah’s vision of being a people at peace with one another. Put another way, Shalom, peace, can only come to the world when Israel learns and models how to live in peace with themselves, free of injustice and oppression within the ranks of our own people. It’s a beautiful vision of the deepest meaning of peace itself—and what it means to be Yisrael.

But we all know that peace, and straightening ourselves out, is no easy task. We have learned in our American society through countless struggles for rights and freedoms and civil liberties, peace is not just the strength to end fighting, but the courage to live in harmony with difference. Martin Luther King said it beautifully: “True peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice.”

Last month, Anat Hoffman, chairwoman of a group called Women of the Wall, was called into a Jerusalem police station for questioning about her groups ongoing prayer services at the Kotel haMa’aravi, or the Western Wall. She was interrogated, fingerprinted and told that her case was being referred to the Israeli attorney-general for prosecution. Hoffman later said that the meeting was clearly meant as an intimidation. Hoffman’s questioning comes only two months after a different Women of the Wall member, Nofrat Frenkel, was arrested after she and other women stood at the Wall, garbed in tallitot, read from a sefer Torah on Rosh Chodesh, the New Month. Yes, you heard correctly: the very practice of egalitarian Judaism that we practice right here in our congregation every Shabbat, could get you arrested at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. In response to these developments, the Conservative Movement, under the leadership of the United Synagogue for Conservative Judaism, called on Israel’s Ambassador, Michael Oren, to take action against this injustice. The Israeli embassy responded that Israel is committed to upholding its democratic and pluralistic values. And, if egalitarian Jews want to pray, they can move several yards down along the wall to a section known Robinson’s Arch, which was designated to host egalitarian services.

The embassy is referring in this letter to an area of archaeological excavation adjoining the Western retaining wall of the Temple mount. The area normally charges admission to view the excavation, but after a 2003 Israeli Supreme Court ruling, it is open for egalitarian prayer services until 10:30 in the morning. Voices for Conservative and Reform Judaism are quick to point out that, while indeed this site does exist for egalitarian services, the Robinson’s Arch area (as this excavation is known) is only available in the morning, as opposed to the Kotel, which is open 24 hours a day for prayer. Furthermore, it lacks prayer equipment like arks and Torah-reading tables (which worshipers have to bring in for themselves), and it has no indoor facilities. Rabbi Andy Sacks, director of the Conservative Rabbinical Assembly in Israel, rejects Oren’s letter because it suggests that Robinson’s arch is a perfectly suitable alternative to the Kotel. It’s not, says Rabbi Sacks. It’s a severely restricted space for religious use. Rabbi Eric Yoffie, President of the Union of Reform Judaism added, “The wall as it’s been understood by the Jewish people does not mean Robinson’s Arch. It just doesn’t.”

Israel is a country beset by problems and threats to its very existence from the Palestinians, Iran, and world-wide anti-Semitism. It is all too easy to ignore a problem like this one, when existential concerns rightfully must be addressed first. And yet, we can’t afford to ignore the problem of pluralism in the Jewish state. There are many who have argued that pluralism is a nice value, but hardly critical at this moment in Israel’s reality; that the Women of the Wall and Conservative and Reform Judaism are a small minority in Israel, and that their values are an American import into Israel and therefore not relevant or even legitimate in the discourse of Israeli society. I couldn’t disagree more with this assertion. I would argue that the cause of pluralism and freedom of religious expression are not only critical to the ideal of a Jewish state, but are, in fact, essential to the very survival of the Jewish people in Israel and around the world.

So long as there is no viable and just place for all legitimate religious expression of the Jewish people in the Jewish State, then there is no peace, no Torah, no light to the nations. Pluralism is not an American import onto Israeli society. Pluralism is an essential need of the human spirit to thrive and to grow in this world. We all should care very deeply about the status of pluralism in the Jewish state, if indeed we love our Jewish people, our state of Israel, and our Jewish heritage—if indeed, we think we should be Yisrael, a people who can straighten out this world.

We all know well that pluralism is not an easy road. The Women of the Wall have stated categorically that they want the right to pray in the women’s section at the Kotel and not in some other designated site along the Wall. That’s a tough stance, one that they and we all need to be willing to question. The fact of women reading Torah and wearing tallitot goes against Orthodox interpretations of our tradition. If indeed we uphold pluralism, we will need to ask ourselves: is it pluralist on our part to deny Orthodox Jews the right to separate genders at the Kotel? We all know that peace involves compromise. If we strive for peace, perhaps we should, instead of demanding full egalitarianism at the Kotel, demand that the Israeli government make Robinson’s arch a fully accessible egalitarian site for prayer 24 hours a day? As much as we fight against the Orthodox strangle-hold on Israeli society, we must be hyper-vigilant about advocating for a non-Orthodox strangle-hold on Jewish life in Israel as well. Let’s envision a Jewish state where not only Orthodox congregations can thrive, but all denominations and expressions of Judaism receive equal and fair support from the Israeli government, where the status of Jews converted, married, or buried any Jewish denomination has a place in Israeli society, where Jews of any background or walk of life can find a full expression of their Yiddishkeit and Jewish identity. Where the inherent value of Orthodoxy, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, post-movement, and secular humanist Judaism have a place, a role, a function to enrich the life and peace among all of our people, in Israel and around the world.

True peace, true Shalom, involves learning to fulfill the Jewish value of Ahavat Yisrael, love of all Jewish people. It’s a vision where all can uphold the Mishpatim, the laws that make for a just society, one that recognizes—with love--all of our differences, including our different interpretations and ways of fulfilling Torah. Let’s do everything we can to support Masorti Judaism and pluralism in Israel, and let’s also do everything we can to uphold everything that is sacred to Orthodox and secular Jews in Israel while we’re at it. Let’s see if we, the Conservative Jews, instead of fighting against our own people, can provide a vision for how all Jewish people can live in peace with one another. Adonai Oz lamo yitein, may God grant us the strength, the Torah, the wisdom to achieve this vision; Adonai yevarech et Amo baShalom, and may God therefore grant us peace.

2010-01-27T12:43:00.001-08:00

I gave the opening prayer in Congress this morning. See also Congressman Waxman's remarks after the pledge of allegiance...

http://adasisrael.org/congress_opening_prayer.htm