September 11th, Yom Kippur, and the Heavenly Sea of Tears

Yom Kippur, September 11th, and the Heavenly Sea of Tears Rabbi Joel Seltzer/Jewish World Blogger There is a famous Hasidic Story which teaches us the power of friendship, human collectivity, and heavenly compassion. The story centers around two Hasidic Rabbis, vastly different in their approaches yet united in their spirit. The one, Rebbe Yitzhak Kalish, better known as the Vorker Rebbe, believed foremost in patience and peace, and he was known as a goodly and kindly teacher. The other, the Kotsker Rebbe, Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotsk, was most concerned with the pursuit of truth and he sought it out at the expense of all else. Though their paths were vastly different, they were nonetheless the closest of friends. So much so that even death would not keep them apart. So, when the Vorker Rebbe passed away, and a full month went by without his appearance in a vision or a dream, the Kotzker Rebbe decided to ascend to heaven in order to search for his friend in all the palaces of Torah study. At every place he stopped, they told him that his beloved friend, the Vorker, had been there but he had gone away. In growing despair The Kotzker Rebbe asked the angels, "Where is my dear friend Rebbe Yitzchak?" And the angels sent him in the direction of a dark, dark forest. It was the most fearsome and foreboding forest he had ever been to, but he pushed on, anxious to discover the whereabouts of his friend. As he travelled deeper into the forest he began to hear the sound of gentle waves lapping upon the shore. He reached the edge of the forest and before him laid a great and endless sea, stretching in every direction. But then the Kotzker Rebbe noticed a strange sound. Every wave as it swelled high would cry out a soft, but heart-breaking sob. The sound was terrifying and he turned to run away, but just then he saw, standing at the edge of this wailing sea, staring at its melancholy waters, was his holy friend Rebbe Yitzchak. "I've been looking for you,” said the Kotzker, “why have you not come back to visit me?" Instead of answering his friend, Rebbe Yitzchak asked him a question, "Do you know what sea this is?" The Kotsker replied that he did not, and so Rebbe Yitchak explained, "It is the sea of tears. It is the sea which collects all the tears of God's holy people," he said, "and when I saw it I swore in God's name that I would not leave its side until God dried up all these tears." I think of this story on two days every year: on this morning of September 11th, and on the holy day of Yom HaKippurim, The Day of Atonement. I think of it on September 11th, because I can still vividly and viscerally return to that seemingly bright and hope-filled morning 11 years ago; to those moments of horror when innocence was shattered and the world was forever changed. And I remember the tears. The aching sound of infinite tears which fell that day; tears for the men and women who were going to work, who were boarding a plane, who were responding to a cry for help. In many ways, 11 years later, those tears have not yet stopped. I also think of it on Yom Kippur. I think of it as I experience that moment at twilight, when in synagogues around the world the mournful tones of Kol Nidre elicit in each of us regretful memories of a year that was, a year when we could have done more, done better. And the tears begin to flow. On this 11th anniversary of the horrors of September 11th, and just days away from the holy solemnity of Yom Kippur, I think to Rebbe Yitzhak’s Heavenly Sea of Tears. Personally, and admittedly strangely, the image of the Heavenly Sea of Tears comforts me. After all, should not heaven have to contend with the cries and the tears of those down below? Is it not God’s job to listen to our prayers, process our petitions, hear our cries and yes, to collect our endless tears? It comforts me to know that Rebbe Yitzhak is there, watching over our tears, praying for them, and therefore for us. It comforts me because it tells me that there is a place where tears go when they dry; the tears of my infant, the tears of my toddler, the tears of my wife, the tears of my mother, my father, my sister, my friends, myself. These tears are precious things, and there can be no more appropriate destination for them than to collect themselves in the heavenly Sea of Tears. And this is the ultimate message of the story – our tears teach us about collectivity. Our tears, and indeed the experience of crying at all, are what make us human. It is when we cease being animals and become little less than angels. To cry is to live, and not merely to sleep through life; tears are not something we experience when we come into contact with death, but rather they are the very essence of our lives. And on days like today and on Yom Kippur, instead of running from them – I implore us to embrace our tears. For it is only through our brokenness that we can become whole. It is only through honesty that we can repent, and it is only through our tears that we will be redeemed. And in the words of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “if we discover that we cannot succeed, that we have no tears to shed – then let us yearn for them.” Rabbi Joel Seltzer is the Director of Camp Ramah in the Poconos, a Jewish Summer Camp experience under the educational auspices of The Jewish Theological Seminary of America.

A Pesach Pedagogy: Parashat Bo 5772

The moment of Exodus is about to begin. Locusts have devoured the crops of Egypt, a penetrating darkness, so thick you could touch it covered the entirety of the land for three days, and the terrible final plague, makkat b’chorot, the killing of the first born has been announced. It is in this anxious moment that Moses gathers the children of Israel to deliver an important message. For the first time, Moses, a prophet without equal is about to address the Children of Israel, sharing with them his first words as a leader. The crowd gathers in excited silence. ‘What will he say?’ They ask. ‘What will be the first words that Moshe Rabbeinu, Moses our teacher will share with us?’ ‘What piece of divine everlasting wisdom, what nugget of morality, what essential insight of God will he teach us?’

Moses rises to his feet; he opens his mouth with the words that God had given him:

החודש הזה לכם ראש חדשים, ראשון הוא לכם לחדשי השנה.

“This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.”

‘What?’ They said. ‘Is he talking about the calendar?’ ‘Well, let’s just wait and see where he goes with this one.’

Moses continued: Everyone needs to get a lamb, a lamb for each household, unless of course that household is too small, in which case you can share with a neighbor. A really nice lamb, a yearling, no blemishes whatsoever. And on the night of the 14th of the month you shall slaughter it, taking some of the blood and placing it on your doorposts, then roast it and eat it. Make sure you eat it all, roasted over the fire, with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. Oh, and as for dress code for this meal, make sure your belt is on tight, your sandals are on your feet and your staff is in your hand, because as soon as we are finished with this meal of ours, we are out of here. And just in case you are wondering, this isn’t a one-shot-deal either; this meal of ours, is going to happen every single year on this date, for all time. Seven days of unleavened bread, you got that? Make sure you have cleaned your house really well - no leaven at all - even under the couch in the living room, because if I catch any of you eating leavened bread, you are cut off! And this is going to be a sacred institution of ours for all time, for you and all your descendants. And when you enter the land that the Lord has promised to you, (by the way, I hear it’s only a short walk from here), when you enter that land, you shall observe this rite. And when your children ask you, מה העבודה הזאת לכם?
What does all this mean to you? You shall say, “It is the Pesach sacrifice to the Lord, because God passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt.”

“And the people then bowed low in homage. And the Israelites went and did so, just as the Lord had commanded.”

So that’s it. That is the account of the first speech that Moses ever gives the Jewish people. It is not about morality, it is not about complicated family dynamics, it is about halachah, Jewish law, and in particular it is about the pedagogic purposes of Pesach. It also marks the first time we as a Jewish people had a collective ‘freak-out’ about all the Passover cleaning we have left to do.

Now for while we modern Jews might think this is a strange way to start off your first day as the leader of the Jewish people, the traditional commentators think it is the perfect place to start, in fact, they wonder why the whole Torah doesn’t just start right here!
In fact, in his famous first words of commentary on the entire bible, the very opening comment that our teacher Rashi, Rabbeinu Shlomo ben Yitzhak offers us, quoting the midrash he asks:

לא היה צריך להתחיל את התורה אלא מ"החודש הזה לכם" שהיה מצוה ראשונה שנצטוו ישראל

“The Torah should not have started here with B’reishit, with Genesis, no, the Torah should have started with “HaHodesh HaZeh Lakhem,” This month shall be for you”; for after all, this is the first commandment which Israel received.”

Rashi and others like him have always wondered, if the Torah is meant to be a book of law, then why not start with the law? Why do we have to slog through 61 chapters of narrative spread out over a book and a half of the Torah just to get to the first time our nation is commanded about a d’var halakhah?

But Rashi does not stop by simply asking the question, of course he offers us an answer as well. He explains that the narrative is important. It forms the core of who we are as a people, who our ancestors were; what they valued, and what they rejected. It tells us how they built their relationships and covenants with God, and what God, in turn, promised us, their descendants. In other words nomos and narrative need each other to survive. Law and lore are necessary partners; the ‘how’ always needs an accompanying ‘why.’

And that is precisely what Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, chief rabbi of the United Kingdom, points out about the unique character of Moses’ first speech to the Children of Israel, he writes:

“About to gain their freedom, the Israelites were told that they had to become a nation of educators. That is what made Moses not just a great leader, but a unique one. . . . To defend a country you need an army. But to defend a free society you need schools. You need families and an educational system in which ideals are passed on from one generation to the next, and never lost, or despaired of, or obscured. There has never been a more profound understanding of freedom. It is not difficult, Moses was saying, to gain liberty, but to sustain it is the work of a hundred generations.”

What Rabbi Sacks is pointing out to us is that in each of us, in every last one of us, there is a duty to be an educator of the Jewish tradition. It is the very first commandment we ever received as a people. Before God uttered the first word of the Ten Commandments there was “And you shall observe this as an institution for all time, for you and for your descendants. . . and when your children ask you, “מה העבודה הזאת לכם?” What do you mean by this rite? You shall say, “This is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord.” We are teachers. It is our most sacred job.

Now this phrase from this morning’s parasha, מה העבודה הזאת
לכם?Is familiar to many of us. We recognize it as the question that the wicked son asks in our Haggadah. But the truth is, the authors of the Haggadah took it out of context, added their own emphasis and thus turned a question into a sarcastic attack: What is this rite to YOU? And our Haggadah famously suggests that we should set his teeth on edge and explain to him, “This is because of what the Lord did for me when I came forth from Egypt,” that is why I do this. For me and not for him; for had he been there, he would not have been redeemed.

As an educator, this passage has always greatly troubled me. What is so wrong with the question? מה העבודה הזאת לכם?
Even if we read it as a sarcastic challenge
I get asked this question ten times a day. Rabbi, why do you do this? Why this law, why that law? Why do you say this? In fact, my daughter Ayelet, now two and a half and profoundly aware of everything we say, is fond of asking – “Why Abba say dat?” when she hears something I didn’t mean for her to hear. The fact is, there is nothing wrong with the question, the trouble lies with the answer, not necessarily with its content, but rather, with its tone.

Instead of smacking him in the teeth, instead of responding with defensiveness, why not start by encouraging the question? After all, is not the question of the wicked child preferable to the silence of the child “Sh’eino Yodea Lishol?” The Child Who Does Not Know How to Ask? I, for one, will take heresy over indifference every day of the week.

And so, let us learn from this morning’s Torah portion about our role as Jewish educators. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks points out that “freedom needs three institutions: parenthood, education and memory.” To start with, we need parenthood. Our role as parents and grandparents is indispensable in keeping our Jewish traditions alive. Our children look to us to be role models, to be exemplars for their own religious identities. We must encourage their questions, entertain their suspicions, and support their desires to understand the ‘why’ and not simply the ‘how’. We must not set their teeth on edge when they disagree, but instead make sure they know that questions have always been a part of our pedagogic traditions; and then we must try to articulate what it is that we believe, why it matters to us, and why it matters to us that it matters to them. But, we must also recognize that every mixed-message, every equivocation, every bet that we hedge with regard to our own Judaism is seen and heard and internalized by our children. ‘Why Abba say dat?’ So be careful, make sure your actions correspond with your convictions.

And if we as parents lack the tools to be the primary Jewish educators of the home, then it is our duty, as it has always been to seek out help. To send our child to day school, and if day school is not an option, then religious school is a must - but it should be supplemented with educational programs like USY and with summers spent at immersive Jewish camps such as Ramah.

And finally, and most importantly, there is the memory. Chancellor Emeritus Ismar Schorsch once said “The power of a good story is irresistible.” And we have one. We have a story of degradation leading to glory. We have a story of an undying faith in One God, and the miracle of an eternal language being reborn in the land of our ancestors. We have a story of ethics and morality in the face of hardship and discrimination. And we have a story which encourages every doubt, lauds every question, and sees every single individual as a story-teller, an educator, and the most-important link in the never-ending chain of the Jewish people.
Now צא וללמד! Now go and teach.

Feeling with our Feet: Parashat Sh'mot 5772

Today I want to talk about a part of our bodies we tend to take for granted. Most of us go through life with these things, but we don’t spend a lot of time thinking about how it is that they work. In fact, since ancient times human beings have devised ways of taking these things, covering them up with several layers at all times, making sure they rarely see the light of day; unless of course sometimes, after a long day, we unwrap them from their dark confinement and reveal them to the world. I am talking about our feet of course, our lovely, brilliant and sometimes smelly feet.

The reason I have feet on the brain lately is two-fold – the first is that I have slowly, but surely become a runner, that is a person who enjoys running as a form of regular exercise.
And the second reason why I have been thinking about feet is because I recently read the book by travel-writer Christopher McDougall called Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Super Athletes, and the Greatest Race the World has Never Seen.

This very enjoyable book tells the story of the Tarahumara tribe in Mexico, a reclusive native Mexican tribe of super-athletes who, just for fun, get up in the morning and go for a jog in the Copper Canyons, and at around the 100 mile mark or so, they stop for dinner. This is a true story of a tribe whose favorite pastime is competing in super-marathons; distance races of over 50 miles at a time, and, what’s more, they do it all wearing thin sandals made of leather.

You see, one of the major points in this book is that the reason so many of us don’t like to run, is because we’re not doing it right. We put on thick cotton socks, we buy expensive, cushioned sneakers with pockets of air, or zig-zagging springs, and then we run exactly the way our feet never intended us to run – by slamming our heels into the ground, over and over and over again. No wonder I stop after two miles.

But as some modern running theories go, we would all run a lot better, a lot farther and with fewer injuries if we just took off our shoes and ran barefoot. This is why Nike, Reebok and Vibram have all recently come out with thinner shoes, lighter shoes, and even shoes that have individual spots for each of your toes, so that you would be more likely to run as though you were barefoot. Why make these kinds of shoes at all, you may ask, if going barefoot would be better – well, someone has to make a living, no?

The theory is simple: the more direct contact your feet have with the ground, every single nook and cranny of the earth, the more the twenty muscles in your foot grow stronger, more sensitive, more resilient, and dare I say, more sure-footed.

But all this barefoot theory is nothing new – no, quite to the contrary, in this morning’s Torah portion we read of the first time someone was advised to remove their shoes in order to be in touch with the ground more completely, the person who took off their shoes was Moses, and the advice-giver was God.

In this morning’s Parasha, Parashat Sh’mot, Moses encounters the Presence of God for the first, but certainly not the last time. While he is tending to his father-in-law’s flock, he stumbles upon Mt. Horev, and there he sees a miraculous vision.
וַיֵּרָא מַלְאַךְ יְהוָֹה אֵלָיו בְּלַבַּת-אֵשׁ מִתּוֹךְ הַסְּנֶה
וַיַּרְא וְהִנֵּה הַסְּנֶה בֹּעֵר בָּאֵשׁ וְהַסְּנֶה אֵינֶנּוּ אֻכָּל:

An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed.

This of course, is of one of the most famous moments of theophany, that is a visible manifestation of God, so famous it would become the logo of the Jewish Theological Seminary, and of course, it is what is depicted in the stained glass window above and behind me.

The text continues,
When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: "Moses! Moses!" He answered, "Here I am."

And God said:
אַל-תִּקְרַב הֲלֹם שַׁל-נְעָלֶיךָ מֵעַל רַגְלֶיךָ כִּי הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר אַתָּה עוֹמֵד עָלָיו אַדְמַת-קֹדֶשׁ הֽוּא:

"Do not come closer. Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground.”

This is the moment of Moses’ first encounter with the God of Israel. And God says; take off your shoes, for you are standing on holy ground. The commentators are a little taken aback. Why does Moses need to take of his shoes? Abraham Ibn Ezra seems to indicate that Moshe had reached a certain line in the sand, any closer and he would be in danger of coming into the very presence of the Lord. But this still does not explain why Moshe needed to take off his shoes, surely he could have kept them on, and still fulfilled God’s admonition to not come any closer.

Rabbi Yosef ben Issac, the French tosafist known as The Bekhor Shor, explains, ‘since the shoe treads everywhere, including unclean places, it is not proper to bring it into a sacred place.’
And this is all well and good, and indeed it might be the very p’shat of the verse, take off those filthy shoes because this is holy ground, but then historically it seems a bit odd that Judaism, unlike Islam, never banned shoes from the prayer experience. Before you enter any mosque, you take off your shoes and place them in a small cubby. But I would venture a guess that everyone sitting in the congregation today is proud to be protectively shoed.

Therefore, I went in search of another explanation, one which I found in the Hasidic commentary of the Ollalot Ephraim, where he explains:

The world beneath our feet is always filled with small stones and debris. When we wear shoes, we easily walk upon all sorts of small things which stand in out way; in fact we barely notice them. But, when we walk barefoot, we feel every single stone and pebble, every kotz v’dardar, every thorn and every thistle, every last rock hurts us. He continues: And this then is the hinted meaning of the text: To Moses, the preeminent leader of the people Israel, God said: “Shal na’alekha” “take off your shoes,” meaning, the leader of each and every generation needs to be aware of every barrier, every experience of suffering that is placed upon the way. A leader, says the Ollalot Ephraim, “Yichav et k’ev ha-am,’ must feel the pain of the people, and must be sensitive to their every suffering.

Tomorrow our nation once again celebrates the birth of a modern prophet, and the leader of a generation, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. And Dr. King knew what it meant to be sensitive to the sufferings of his people. He knew what it meant to walk barefoot through the world, to be painfully aware of every stumbling block, of every thorn which was set upon the way of the African-American people in our country. He did not ignore the pain; he did not seek more comfortable shoes which would afford him the luxury of ignoring each insult, of compartmentalizing prejudice. And Dr. King of course, was someone who was intimately aware of the power of walking.

On this weekend, and next Sunday, as we in the Temple Emanu-El community raise our voices in song with the Congdon St. Baptist Church in celebration of Dr. King, we recognize the Jewish people’s deep connection with the narrative of emerging from the depths of slavery into the warm light of redemption. We recall how our own Rabbi, Rabbi Eli Bohnen, Zichrono Livrakhah, sat on the dais of the Rabbinical Assembly Convention of 1968, With Dr. King seated to his left (just months before his assassination), and with Professor Abraham Joshua Heschel to his right. Rabbi Bohnen presided over this convention, a convention which famously serenaded Dr. King with the spiritual “We shall overcome,” sung in Hebrew.

And of course we remember and we cherish the iconic image of Dr. Heschel, whose Yahrtzeit was yesterday, marching arm in arm with Dr. King and other civil rights leaders as they marched from Selma to Montgomery in 1965. Heschel’s famous quotation about this march is engrained in our modern Jewish consciousness – ‘I felt my legs were praying.” He said.
This is the meaning of true leadership; it is an understanding of the power that comes when we walk barefoot through our lives. When instead of ignoring the pain and suffering of others that abounds, we make ourselves vulnerable to it. When instead of choosing a life of padding and cushion, we understand that we were meant to feel every rock and every pebble, every thorn and every thistle of the ground beneath our feet. On this weekend, the weekend that we remember the legacy of the illustrious Dr. King, on the very week when we observe the Yahrtzeit of our beloved teacher Dr. Heschel, on the morning when we read of Moses, the first barefoot leader of our people, let us remember another teaching of Heschel’s when speaking at the 1963 Conference of Religion and Race, he told the crowd, “The Exodus began, but is far from having been completed.”
Today, let us promise to complete it.

Shabbat Shalom.

Tim Tebow and Faith: Parashat VaYeishev 5772

Full disclosure before we begin. I am going to talk about two topics this morning that have become intertwined over the past several months, and one of the topics is popular and the other is not. I will start with the unpopular one. I am going to be talking about God this morning. Now, I know what you are thinking, how can God be unpopular, billions of people around the world and some in this very room offer there innermost thoughts and prayers to God on a daily basis, so surely God is the very definition of popular; and according to this logic you are most certainly correct. But the fact remains, that to openly and honestly discuss God in our society, to talk about our faith, what it means to us and how it helps to guide our lives, is at least polarizing and at worse alienating to many people; hence the reason why some of you are already squirming in your seats.

But don’t worry, that’s where the popular topic will come in and save your attention span! Football. That’s right, America’s obsession, the National Football League, and in particular its latest locus of popular attention (both positive and negative) the Denver Broncos’ Quarterback Tim Tebow. For those who may not pay as close attention as I do, Tim Tebow has become a phenomenon for two reasons. This first one is simple: despite the fact that he is generally considered a mediocre quarterback with none of the usually prerequisites for success at his position, he has orchestrated a fourth-quarter or overtime win for his team five out of the last eight weeks, and has led his them to victory in all but one of the games he has started this season. The second reason for his ascension to stardom is more complicated. You see Tim Tebow is an avowed Christian, an evangelical who not only wears his faith on his sleeve, but will often ‘wear his faith’ on his face, putting Biblical verses of inspiration on the eye-black he wears on game day. In another popular public display of his faith, while his teammates celebrate the moment of victory, he has taken to bowing on one knee giving thanks to his God, and what’s more, this iconic move now has its very own name: ‘Tebowing.’ After his last ‘miraculous’ victory one congregant texted me ‘How do I convert?’ (He was joking, of course….I think.) It is because of this second reason: his bold, prideful and public faith, that Tebow has become a lightning-rod for controversy, and not surprisingly there are those who love him for his deep religious commitments, and there are those who despise him for it.

Now let me be very clear. I have never liked him, I will never root for him, and I hope he loses every game he plays in for the rest of his career. But my passionate dislike for Tebow has absolutely nothing to do with his faith – it has everything to do with the fact that he went to and graduated from the University of Florida, my alma mater, Florida State University’s, sworn rival.

But seriously, there are those out there who do root against Tim Tebow, and at least partly, they do so in spite of his faith. And in my estimation, the attacks on his faithfulness stem from a complete misunderstanding of the role that God plays in all of our lives.

Which brings me to this morning’s parasha, Parashat VaYeisheiv. In our Torah portion this morning we begin the narrative of Joseph, a well-written biblical story which follows the varied ups and downs of the character Joseph from his life as a favored son of his father Jacob, to his near-death experience at the hands of his jealous brothers, his being sold into slavery in Egypt, his imprisonment, and ultimately his redemption. The tale of Joseph is all about faith. At each and every turn, just when you think Joseph is doomed, the Bible teaches us that God is watching and protecting Joseph, and to his credit, Joseph can feel that faith within him.

In one section of our parasha this morning, Joseph finds himself placed in prison, something we as readers are sure to assume is going to spell ruin for our Biblical forefather. But that is not the case. God again protects Joseph, and the chief jailor promotes Joseph to be in charge of the prison. The text tells us:
אֵין ׀ שׂר בֵּית-הַסּהַר רֹאֶה אֶֽת-כָּל-מְאוּמָה בְּיָדוֹ בַּאֲשׁר יְהוֹה אִתּוֹ, וַֽאֲשׁר הוּא עֹשֶׂה - יְהוָֹה מַצְלִֽיחַ

“The chief jailor did not supervise anything that was in Joseph’s charge, because the Lord was with him, and whatever Joseph did - the Lord made successful.”

This pasuk clearly indicates what turns out to be a repeating theme throughout the Joseph narrative, which is Hakol B’y’deai Shamayim – everything is in the hands of Heaven, that God is in control of the ups and the downs, the good and the bad in our lives.

For his own part Joseph seems to internalize this message of Divine intervention when he employs his skills as an interpreter of dreams. When he learns that Pharaoh’s chief cup-bearer and baker have had disturbing dreams, his response is telling:
הֲלוֹא לֵֽאלֹהִים פִּתְרֹנִים סַפְּרוּ-נָא לִֽי:
“Surely God has the interpretations! Tell me your dreams.”

Interesting. Joseph understands that while ultimately all interpretations find their source in the divine, Joseph sees himself as God’s earthly intercessor. ‘Tell me your dreams, and God will speak through my words.’

It seems that the underlying theme for the entire Joseph narrative is that God has a plan for Joseph’s life, and Joseph, for his part, trusts in that plan. It may require an act of brotherly violence, it may necessitate a failed seduction at the hands of Potiphar’s wife, it might call for a period of imprisonment, but ultimately Joseph’s life is in God’s hands, and everything will turn out for the best.

And if this is making your modernity a bit uncomfortable, then let me throw this one in the mix, the famous quotation of our rabbis in the Talmud, the one I alluded to earlier – the full text reads:
הכל בידי שמים - חוץ מיראת שמים
Everything is in the hands of heaven, except for fear of heaven.

This teaching seems to indicate that perhaps the only thing left to us in the entire world, the only thing that is not predetermined is our own predilection towards fear of heaven, that is our decision whether or not to have faith in God, that is our’s, and that alone.

And you want a cherry on top? Well the Ishbitzer Rebbe, Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner, in his famous work The Mei HaShiloah, alters the phrase further:
הכל בידי שמים - אפילו יראת שמים
Everything is in the hands of heaven – even fear of heaven.

That even our ‘choice’ to believe in God is illusory. In fact, says the Ishbitzer, God has already determined whether or not you will choose to believe.

Which brings us to the uncomfortable, and as we will see the dubious conclusion, that Jewish theology leads us to a kind of divine fatalism, a sense that everything is indeed pre-determined by God, who is constantly manipulating our universe, our world, and even the very minutia of our lives.

But ultimately this is a false conclusion, for Judaism and indeed for all modern religions. Surely there are streams of Judaism which lean towards the fatalistic – Ultra-Orthodox Hasidism, for example. But other streams, from the rabbis of our ancient Talmud, to the medieval Maimonides to the most famous thinkers and theologians of today, Kaplan, Heschel, Gillman; they all tend to lean towards a nuanced understanding of God’s influence upon our worldly events. Can God act in our world? We may believe so. Can we say that with certainty? Of course not. Do we know how God works? Certainly I do not.

Which brings me back to our friend Tim Tebow. I believe that what has stirred up so much controversy is our misunderstanding of what it means to have faith. After all, Tim Tebow himself has explained that he does not believe that God has a hand in the outcome of his games. If so, then are we to believe that God favors Tim Tebow’s Broncos but dislikes Marion Barber’s Chicago Bears? Is it possible that Tebow and the Broncos are more faithful, and therefore more successful on the gridiron? Does this mean that my Eagles are a bunch of heathens? And if athletes are fond of praising God after victories, does it mean that they should blame God for every fumble, every interception and every loss?

The answer, of course, to all of these straw-men questions is no. The truth is that by committing ourselves to lives of faith, no matter which religion we espouse, it does not mean that we must believe in strict fatalism. I reject the false dichotomy that is faith vs. reason. Believing does not mean giving up on our modernity, our rationalism, or perhaps most importantly, our sense of profound responsibility towards perfecting God’s world. And the better part of the last thousand years of our own Jewish tradition has been built around an understanding that God might very well have the power to act in our world, but Ain Som’chin al ha Neis – We are not permitted to sit around waiting for miracles. It is up to us as individuals and as a community to make the right choices, to act ethically, and to uphold God’s everlasting values in our world. And as Tim Tebow can no doubt teach us, this is hard work. This is countless hours spent improving ourselves and therefore our communities. This is what it means to have faith; and expressing this faith through prayer, through study, and yes, through sharing our beliefs with others should be lauded - not lamented.

And so, despite his mistakes in choosing a university, I am willing to give Tebow the benefit of the ‘faith.’ That is, to recognize that his faith, though no doubt different than my own, is a source of strength to him and to billions like him. And I hope that he would agree with my understanding of faith: that when we thank God, we are not thanking the Arbiter of good and bad, of blessings and curses. We are thanking the Source of our strength, we are praising the tenets of our tradition, and we are expressing gratitude for the sense of purpose which allows us to weather the losses, and yes, to gladly rejoice at the victories that life may bring.

Shabbat Shalom.

Can You Ever Go Home Again?

Can You Ever Go Home Again?
By Rabbi Joel Seltzer

The video starts with gentle strokes of the piano. A boy is coloring on a page, trying to get the attention of his dozing father. After several failed attempts to gain his father’s attention, the boy ceases calling him ‘daddy’ and resorts instead to a secret name, ‘abba’. The man’s eyes open immediately. “They will always be Israeli,” says the advertisement, “Their children will not be – help them to come home.”
You might not think that a thirty second video could start a firestorm in the Jewish world, but that is exactly what occurred this past week, with the result being the Ministry of Immigrant Absorption deciding to pull the ad campaign. (Though the videos are still available online at http://www.moia.gov.il/Moia_en/ReturningHomeProject/)
Why did these ads, three of them in total, stir up such intense emotions among the Jews living in the Diaspora, particularly among Americans? And why did they encourage others to make equally offensive ‘spoof’ videos playing on the stereotype of the pushy Israeli living abroad? The answer is: because, for the large part, both Israeli and American Jews do not understand one another.
For our part, American Jews are apt to underestimate two key elements of Israeli identity: one external, and one internal. Firstly, Americans in general, and American Jews among them, are simply not used to operating in terms of existentiality. That is, America has been good to the Jewish people. It has provided a life which offers financial security, freedom to practice our religion as we see fit, a general (and even increasing) level of tolerance, and that great gift of emancipation: upward mobility. With things this good, it is hard for American Jews to spend serious time pondering questions of existential crisis. Sure the intermarriage rate is high, but people are still choosing to live their lives as Jews no matter who they are married to, right? Sure Jewish history has proven that a country’s attitude and acceptance of its Jewish residents can change suddenly, but that would never happen in America, right? The truth is, we here in America are simply not used to thinking in terms of the stark dichotomy between continued existence and utter oblivion.

But unfortunately, Israel is accustomed to the reality of existential crises, and with that experience comes the understandable desire to welcome Jewish immigrants from all corners of the earth, to encourage those living in the Diaspora to consider Aliyah, and even to devise a campaign calling on those who have left Israel, to return home again.

Secondly, we Americans grossly underestimate the depth of meaning that comes from living as a Jew in the Jewish state. Many of us do not know the comfort that comes in living in a state, where the majority culture is Jewish culture and it seeps through all the seams of life. We cannot understand what it would be like to live in a country where Hanukkah is a holiday, and December 25th is just another Sunday. We do not know the joy of the 2 liter Coca-Cola bottle which wishes you a ‘Shanah Tovah’, a Happy New Year in September, and not in January. It’s no wonder that the Ministry of Immigrant Absorption would seek to remind Israelis (and American Jews for that matter!) of what they have to lose by choosing a life in the Diaspora.
But this partnership is a two way street. And though Americans often do not understand Israeli mentality, Israelis too, underestimate the depth of Jewish life that can be found in the Diaspora, both religiously and culturally.
When speaking about the Jewish religion, one need not question why American Jews, particularly non-orthodox Jews, enjoy their life in the Diaspora. Here we have a thriving religious environment; one which touts the values of inter-denominational partnership and community relations. How many Board of Rabbis meetings are there in Israel where Rabbis from four different denominations, Orthodox, Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist gather to respectfully discuss concerns of the greater Jewish community? How many women who have grown up in the vibrancy of Jewish America would feel uncomfortable praying at the Kotel, the holiest site in all of Jewish history, due to its unfamiliar Jewish aesthetic? And while we cannot whitewash the serious threats which the Jewish community in the Diaspora faces in the uncertain future (intermarriage, assimilation, and unaffiliation to name a few), we hope that Jews living in Israel can recognize that serious, thoughtful, traditional, and yes, liberal Judaism are being practiced here with great passion and enthusiasm.
Last night I attended a concert by the Jewish a cappella group from Yale University: Magevet (Yes that means towel, and you will have to ask them about it.) They sang for an hour and a half. Their wondrous voices soared together to bring the gift of Jewish music to a packed house here in Providence, Rhode Island. They sang in Hebrew, in Ladino, and in Luganda, the language of the Ugandan Abuyadaya Jews. They closed with a soul-stirring rendition of Naomi Shemer’s classic Yerushalayim Shel Zahav, Jerusalem of Gold. And then, they asked us to rise as they sang Hatikvah. As the tears gathered in my eyes, I thought to myself, that despite the struggles which face the Jewish people in the world, in the Diaspora and in Israel as well, nevertheless, Am Yisrael Chai, The Jewish People are indeed alive and well. The only question is, can we work together to ensure that it stays that way?

This article originally appeared on www.haaretz.com

Thanksgiving: Finding the Spiritual in the Secular

Just the mere mention of the holiday Thanksgiving is enough for most Americans to experience a Pavlovian response. Our mouths begin to water at the thought of the succulent turkey, the herbaceous stuffing and the comforting thought of an afternoon spent with family, friends and the National Football League. Truly, there aren’t too many days on the calendar which feel more ‘American’ than Thanksgiving.

For many Jews, particularly religious Jews, Thanksgiving is a chance to celebrate for another reason. It is a purely secular holiday, which allows us to relax and to enjoy a day off from work in an environment that is decidedly not Shabbat or Yom Tov. Although our responsibilities for daily prayer are still binding, the truth is that it is kind of nice to have a holiday that does not involve an extended service at the synagogue. In fact, since my father-in-law is also a congregational rabbi, it is the one ‘holiday’ of the year that we can actually spend together!

And then of course there are the overtones of Thanksgiving which walk in step with our Jewish traditions and ethos. On Thanksgiving, regardless of our religious background (or lack there of), we are supposed to pause and give thanks for the luxuries of food, family and shelter. Many of us volunteer in our community, donate food to the local food pantry, or make donations to charities which help to feed the hungry in our midst. These are decidedly Jewish values; values which are shared by this American holiday.

There is one difference worth pointing out however. In Judaism, every day is meant to be Thanksgiving. Before any bite of food, any sip of water, any taste of turkey, and on any day of the year, there is a b’rakha, a blessing to be recited. After every meal, despite a belly full of tryptophan, we are asked to articulate thanksgiving to God for the gifts which exist in our lives. “Praised are you God, who feeds all of humankind.”

And with our Jewish regimen of thanksgiving comes another theological realization; one that is at once daunting and comforting. It is best said by the words of our Shabbat liturgy:
“If our mouths were filled with song as the waters fill the sea…could our lips utter praise as limitless as the sky… it would still not be enough to offer praise to You, God, for one ten-thousandth of goodness you have granted to our ancestors and to us.” Herein we see a theology of thanksgiving. As Jews we are expected to articulate our thanks at every possible moment since we recognize that all of these blessings; food, clothing, love, companionship, health and happiness come from God who is HaTov v’HaMeitiv, The Source of Good, and the One who bestows goodness upon humankind.

So no matter where we are in the Jewish world; whether at a Thanksgiving table in America, or simply sitting at a dinner table on a Thursday night in Tel Aviv, in London, in Budapest, or in Bali, let it be a time of hodayah, of thanksgiving. But let it also be a time of reflection as to how much work there is left to do in order to perfect our societies. And know, that no matter how thankful we are, no matter how many times we pause to take note of the countless blessings that are offered to us with each breath and with every passing moment – it can never fully state our thanks to God, the Architect of our lives, and the compassionate Creator of our world and our ever-expanding universe.


This blog originally appeared on www.haaretz.com

Hayyei Sarah: Prayer vs. Wishing

The Prayer of Abraham’s Servant Gen. 24:12-15

And he said: “O Lord, God of my master Abraham, grant me good fortune this day, and deal graciously with my master Abraham: Here I stand by the spring as the daughters of the townsmen come out to draw water; let the maiden to whom I say, ‘Please lower your jar that I may drink,’ and who replies, ‘Drink and I will also water your camels’ - let her be the one whom You have decreed for your servant Isaac. Thereby shall I know that You have dealt graciously with my master.” He had scarcely finished speaking, when Rebekah, who was born to Bethuel, the son of Milcah the wife of Abraham’s brother Nahor, came out with a jar on her shoulder.



מדרש רבה בראשית פרשה ס סימן ד
ד ויהי הוא טרם כלה לדבר וגו', תני ר"ש בן יוחאי ג' הם נענו במענה פיהם אליעזר עבדו של אברהם, ומשה, ושלמה, אליעזר ויהי הוא טרם כלה לדבר והנה רבקה יוצאת, משה דכתיב (במדבר יז) ויהי ככלותו לדבר את כל הדברים האלה ותבקע האדמה וגו', שלמה דכתיב (ד"ה דברי הימים ב ז) וככלות שלמה להתפלל אל ה' והאש ירדה מן השמים וגו'.

Genesis Rabbah 60:4
Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai taught: There were three who were answered before they had finished speaking: Eliezer, servant of Abraham; Moses; and Solomon. Eliezer: “He had scarcely finished speaking, when Rebekah...came out” Moses, as it is written: “Scarcely had he finished speaking all these words when the ground under them burst asunder.” (Numbers 17:31) Solomon, as it is written: “When Solomon finished praying, fire descended from heaven,” (II Chronicles 7:1)

This midrash about immediate answers reminds me of an old joke:

Moishe is driving in Jerusalem. He's late for a meeting, he's looking
for a parking place, and can't find one.
In desperation, he turns towards heaven and says: "Lord, if you find
me a parking place, I promise that I'll eat only kosher, respect
Shabbos, and all the holidays."
Miraculously, a place opens up just in front of him. He turns his
face up to heaven and says, "Never mind, I just found one!"

This joke illustrates an revealing theological truth - we must recognize the difference between wishes and prayer. A wish is temporal by nature; it is the moment when we express a desire to God, usually for something specific to occur in the near future. Please God let me get a good grade on the test, please God let my child get into the college of their choice, please God let there be good news from the Doctor. These are certainly prayers don’t get me wrong, but they are also similar to wishes: specific questions which seek out specific results - usually that preferred result being God’s acquiescing to our personal desires.
And that is what the midrash is telling us - these three people; Abraham’s servant, Moses and Solomon all received immediate answers from God, immediate intervention, immediate action, even before they had finished uttering their very request. Nice work if you can get it.

But in actuality - when we talk about t’fillah, about prayer in judaism, this kind of temporal prayer is usually not what we mean. After all petition is only one third of Jewish prayer - there is Shevach, praise, Hodayah, thanksgiving, and there is petition, bakashah. Every one of our prayer services teaches us that there is so much more to our prayer life than simply asking for things.

We praise God for the little gifts we receive on a daily basis; sights, sounds, clothing, food, sunrise, sunsets.

We thank God for specific things we enjoy in life: wisdom, understanding, love, family, breathing.

And yes, sometimes we petition. We ask God for things.

But it is important to note that our prayer life needs to be so much more than just our friend Hayim in the joke that I just told. Building a prayer life is about hard work, dedication, practicing the art of making ourselves known to God, of revealing our character, our fears, our anxieties and yes our desires. But like any relationship in life - it takes a lot of work. It takes patience, dedication and respect for the institution of prayer itself. And of course, it takes the recognition that a truly successful prayer life is not born from the temporal things; no, a truly successful prayer life is one that is born from the eternal things.