Shabbat Shalom and Hag Orim Sameach.
On Thursday afternoon, as the sun was setting, I headed down to Brown University for a special dinner and meet and greet with Peter Beinart in advance of his lecture at MacMillan Hall. As many of you know, Peter Beinart authored a article published this past June in the New York Review of Books entitled, “The Failure of the American Jewish Establishment”; in which he condemns institutionalized Judaism for their failures to teach liberal, democratic, Zionism to the past several generations of American Jews, and he warns that continuing this trend could lead to the collapse of Zionism, and indeed the collapse of the Liberal Jewish State.
As you might imagine, his article garnered a lot of attention.
The dinner and the event were sponsored by J-Street Rhode Island, and before we sat down to ask him some of our most pressing questions, we paused to light the Hanukkiah. In the glow of the flickering candlelight, we sat down to discuss one of the most pressing issues of our time – the relationship between American Jews and the Jewish State.
The first question was a simple one. “What can the American Jewish Establishment, which you believe has failed to attract our youth to the cause of Zionism, do to change its course?
Mr. Beinart’s answer was also simple, if not somewhat surprising. “At the risk of sounding timely,” he said, “I think the best answer is that we need to change the way we teach about Hanukkah.” He went on to explain, that Hanukkah is indeed a holiday that is precariously trapped between two opposing identities. On the one hand there is the narrative of the Maccabees and their military might, and on the other hand there are the Rabbis and their emphasis of the divine miracle of Hanukkah.
The history, we all know well, and is documented in the Apocryphal Books of the Maccabees as well as in the Jewish pre-historian Josephus’ The Wars of the Jews. In the Second century BCE, Mattitiyahu ben Yohanan, a Hasmonean, began a rebellion against King Antiochus IV, the leader of the Hellenized Seleucid Kingdom. Mattityahu’s son, Judah Maccabee led the revolt, culminating in the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem in the year 164 BCE. It is this rededication that we celebrate each Hanukkah.
But curiously absent from this version of the story are two important elements. The first is there is no mention at all of the well known, oft-quoted, seemingly ubiquitous legend of the miracle of one small vessel of oil, lasting for eight long nights. Secondly, we rarely mention what happened to the Maccabees, and indeed the Jewish people after this successful revolt and a return to Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel.
Let’s take the second point first: As Peter Beinart was quick to point out, the story does not end well. The Maccabees, were Hashmonaim, or Hasmoneans, a priestly family, though not traditionally of the ‘high priest’ caliber. Nonetheless, their victory led to a series of unfortunate events in Jewish history. The first was the combining of the political seat of leadership with the position of the High Priest – which despite having been separate since the time of Moshe and Aharon – now were controlled by one person, the Hasmonean King Alexander Yannai. There were forced conversions of gentiles, conflicts with the Pharisees, and an ultimately regrettable alliance with Rome, which led to the creation of a puppet State in Judea under the Roman King Herod, which eventually resulted in the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem. - Try teaching that to your kindergarten class.
In addition to this, Mr. Beinart’s first point is also important to explore – which is the true miracle, the military victory of the Maccabees or that famous tale of the bottomless jar of oil? In the Talmud, Massechet Shabbat 21b, the rabbis explain their version of the Hanukkah story:
“Mai Hanukkah? What is Hanukkah all about, they ask:
For our Rabbis taught: On the twenty-fifth of Kislev the days of Hanukkah begin…. For when the Greeks entered the Temple, they defiled all the oils therein, and when the Maccabees prevailed and defeated them, they made search and found only one small vessel of oil which showed the seal of the High Priest; but that vessel only contained sufficient oil for one day's lighting; yet a miracle happened there; and they lit the lamp, and the oil lasted for eight days. The following year these days were appointed a Festival with the recital of Hallel and thanksgiving.”
Now here’s a story that the kids can relate to! No evil King, no guerilla warfare, no complicated history of a monarchy gone awry – instead a simple, inspiring tale of a divine miracle which led to the establishment of a festival of warmth and of light in the middle of the winter.
However, noticeably absent is any mention of Mattitiyahu, Judah or Simon Maccabee or the Hasmonean dynasty at all. But let me assure you, this absence is intentional. The clear Rabbinic intention was to downplay the militaristic victory and instead raise up the cause of divine intervention. This led them to focus upon the miracle of the oil, and it also led them to choose this morning’s haftarah as a necessary antidote to the Book of Macabees.
In this morning’s Haftarah from the Prophet Zechariyah – we hear tale of Joshua the High Priest who stands in a Heavenly court accused of impurity. He is vindicated, cleaned of his filthy garments and given a crown and a charge – to keep all of God’s ways. The Haftarah ends with Zechariyah’s vision of a heavenly Menorah, a lampstand all of gold, with seven columns, and seven lamps, flanked on either side by olive trees. “What does it mean?” asks Zechariyah. And the angel responds:
לֹא בְחַיִל וְלֹא בְכֹחַ כִּי אִם-בְּרוּחִי אָמַר יְהֹוָה צְבָאֽוֹת:
“Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit alone – said the Lord of Hosts.”
“Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit alone – said the Lord of Hosts.”
Which brings me back to Peter Beinart. Mr. Beinart’s main thesis is that those who lead our top-tier Jewish institutions have a Zionism which was born from the fires preceding the Six Day War and the tumult of Yom Kippur, 1973. These are mostly liberal-minded Jews who saw Zionism as their form of Jewish expression and built institutions committed to the safety and the sanctity of the Jewish State. The only problem with this being – that they did not replace themselves. Newer generations of American Jews who lived through the Lebanon War, the First and Second Intifada, the increasing power of the settler movement and the ultra-Orthodox in Israel, do not have 1967 upon which they can build their monument to Liberal Zionism. And so we have generations of Jews who feel little to no connection to the narrative of the State of Israel; and most of those who do feel this connection, feel that it is born out of their religious convictions and tend to shy away from nuance and shades of fine moral distinction. To point out this trend, Beinart explains that in a recent poll, 79% of Orthodox Jews under forty self-identified as being ‘very close to Israel’; while among the non-Orthodox that number dropped to 16%.
Put succinctly, Beinart maintains that if we continue ‘to ask Jews to check their liberalism at Zionism’s door, we will find that many Jews will decide to check their Zionism instead.’
But, miraculously, Peter Beinart does not even give off a tinge of pessimism. Instead he maintains that Liberal Zionism is indeed alive and well – though it is not in power, neither here in America, nor in Israel. And so therefore this is his cause: to inspire a generation of young Jews on the campuses of our nation to take up the cause of Liberal Zionism; to help create and maintain a Modern Israel, or as he calls it – “A Jewish State which was worth waiting two thousand years for.”
I must admit – that I did not go to these events on Thursday evening planning on being inspired. I planned on being disappointed, disheartened, and made more cynical. But this was most certainly not the case. I left with the feeling that in Beinart there is a leader for the Jewish left – one who begins his journey with a deep and unshakable love of Israel, its people and its holy mission. One who chooses to use his words to build empathy and mutual respect between all human beings, to move towards peace with conviction, to talk openly and not stifle debate about the Jewish State.
And ultimately, on Thursday I encountered a deeper understanding of the miracle of the oil we celebrate this week of Hanukkah. The neis was not that one jar of oil lasted for eight nights. No the true miracle was in the creation of the light of God in the midst of stunning darkness; the establishment of warmth in place of chilling cold, and the championing of an ancient and holy purpose:
לֹא בְחַיִל וְלֹא בְכֹחַ כִּי אִם-בְּרוּחִי אָמַר יְהֹוָה צְבָאֽוֹת:
“Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit alone – said the Lord of Hosts.”
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
A Pyrrhic Victory with God: Parshat VaYishlach
This week a cable channel decided to dedicate each night of its prime-time programming to the re-airing of the classic movie franchise: Rocky. As a Philadelphian, one who as a child leapt and bound up the iconic stairs of the Philadelphia Art museum in my best imitation of the most famous fictional character in our city’s history, I was of course obliged to tune in and reconnect with my childhood hero. What I noticed this time was how basically each movie consists of an identical plot – with only slight variations on the theme – and yet still manages to be compelling in its cheesiness.
What is this time-honored and oft-repeated plot?
It’s simple really. Take Rocky, a down-on-his-luck, loveable underdog, match him up against an opponent who is bigger, scarier and a better fighter than him, have him train only half-heartedly until he has the sense knocked into him by his trainer, or his friend, or his wife, and with the ringing of a distant bell and the familiar musical tones of the theme, he bursts out of his funk, entering into an impressive video training montage, which leads to a fifteen round battle with his opponent, and after impossibly furious fighting, Rocky, our hero emerges bloodied, but victorious.
But if we were to look purely at the aftermath, that word victory might be a bit questionable. Swollen eyes, black and blue from the pounding, concussions and weeks spent in the hospital recovering – you call this a victory? His wife Adrianne certainly doesn’t think so.
No, the truth is, that each of Rocky’s triumphs would best be described as a Pyrrhic Victory – that is a victory which comes with a great price to the victor. This term come from Egyptian history, referring to King Pyrrhus of Egypt, who defeated the Roman Army in battles in 280 BCE, but suffered such losses, that he could never replenish his army. It is said that Pyrrhus remarked about his victories: “that one more will utterly undo me.”
And so it is with this morning’s parasha, Parshat VaYishlach. The parsha begins with Ya’akov anxiously anticipating a battle; one against the formidable clan of his estranged brother Esav. It seems that Ya’akov knows that he is about to pay the price for his trickery, for his theft of his father’s birthright all those years ago. Yes, a battle is most certainly coming, but as it turns out, it is not the battle he had anticipated.
After taking his wives and children across the river, Jacob is left by himself in the dark:
וַיִּוָּתֵר יַֽעֲקב לְבַדּוֹ וַיֵּֽאָבֵק אִישׁ עִמּוֹ עַד עֲלוֹת הַשָּֽׁחַר:
Jacob was left utterly alone, and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him. Then the man said:
שַׁלְּחֵנִי כִּי עָלָה הַשָּׁחַר
“Let me go, for dawn is breaking.”
But Jacob said:
לֹא אֲשַׁלֵּֽחֲךָ כִּי אִם-בֵּֽרַכְתָּֽנִי:
“I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”
It is at this point that the mysterious mans explains to Jacob that he shall no longer be called Ya’akov – but rather he shall now be known as Yisrael –
כִּֽי-שָׂרִיתָ עִם-אֱ-לֹהִים וְעִם-אֲנָשִׁים וַתּוּכָֽל:
“For you have struggled with beings divine and human, and you have prevailed.
Jacob attempts to learn the man’s name – though he refuses to answer.
And after the dust has settled, after the blessing is received, the battle scars remain. Walking away from this new place, this place Ya’Akov calls Peniel – the place he saw a divine being face to face, the Torah tells us that he walks away:
צֹלֵעַ עַל-יְרֵכֽוֹ:
Limping on his hip.
This fascinating story is ripe with unanswered questions. The first being, who is this man, and what was his mission in the first place – furthermore, why did he need to leave at the break of dawn? Secondly, what is the story meant to tell us about the character of Jacob – what does he learn from this encounter with struggle. And finally, what is the significance of his new name Yisrael, the name that all Jews would come to wear as our moniker?
With regards to the identity of our mysterious man, it seems pretty clear from both the p’shat – the plain, contextual meaning of the story, as well as in the annals of the midrash, that this mysterious man is divine in nature. After all, the meaning of Yisrael is explained as recognition that Ya’akov has struggled with beings divine and human – and prevailed. Also, there is a biblical tendency to describe divine beings, or angels, with the anonymous name “Ish” or man; such as the three angels who visit the tent of Abraham and Sarah, in Parshat Vayera. But assuming that this man of mystery is an angel of God, there are still questions as to his mission. The midrash seems to see the man as the personal guardian angel of Esav – bent on harming or killing Ya’akov once and for all. But the Rashbam explains that this man is a personal messenger from God, sent with the purpose of preventing Ya’akov from running away; forcing him to face his fear, to confront his past and to reconcile with his brother. This explanation would explain the Angel’s need to make an early exit, since he was due back in the Heavens to offer God the words of holy praise we echo in our Kedushah.
Now let us return to the question of the character of Jacob and what this struggle with the divine may have taught him. There can be no denying it, Jacob is a complicated character – easily categorized as a trickster. He twice cheats his brother out of the birthright, the second time by taking advantage of his blind father Yitzhak. He also is the victim of cheating, when he discovers that instead of marrying Rachel, as was his intention, Lavan has tricked him into marrying Leah first. - So one can imagine that Jacob was used to a life of struggle. But according to Rashi, this story is significant because of the personal struggle that Ya’akov undertakes with the angel. Whereas his previous blessing from his father was obtained through guile, this time he earns the b’racha for himself. In other words, through this act – the self-doubting trickster Jacob emerges Shalem, complete and at peace, as he is described later on in our parsha.
Finally, the question of the meaning of Yisrael. What does it mean that Jacob is now to be known as the one who struggles with God – and this question is of the utmost of importance to us, seeing as we are the People of Israel, and his name is ours. And this is where God comes into the picture.
This name of ours, Yisrael – is not meant to be taken lightly. It is not simply a happy coincidence that the children of Jacob took his name as their own; instead it should be our defining maxim. The goal of Judaism is not supreme obedience to the law – as it can be in Islam. The goal of Judaism is not simply to express unshakable faith and receive salvation as it can be in Christianity. No, the purpose of Judaism is to seek out and encounter God in the world – to struggle with the divine that is both within and without ourselves – to grab a hold of God and scream: “I simply will not let you go until you bless me, until you bless this world.” I cannot allow you to return to the Heavens without explanation, without confrontation, without embrace.” This is our purpose as Jews: to engage in the encounter, and yes, the struggle with God – in order to receive a blessing that we ourselves merit, not simply one that is passed down through the generations.
But like Jacob’s struggle with the angel – sometimes this encounter can be Pyrrhic in nature. It can hurt to struggle with God. There are moments of let-down, of confusion of loneliness; and even worse there are moments of anger and sorrow and breaking. But this too is God. Jacob would not have been left limping, had his encounter with the angel not have been real! So it is with us; when we seek and struggle, when we strive and yearn, when we reach and fail – that is the very definition of real.
So do not be afraid of the struggle, do not fear the encounter, do not dwell on the injurious moments – instead reach out, embrace God in your lives and in your souls and hold on with all of your strength as you say –
לֹא אֲשַׁלֵּֽחֲךָ כִּי אִם-בֵּֽרַכְתָּֽנִי:
“I will not let you go, until you have blessed me.”
Shabbat Shalom
What is this time-honored and oft-repeated plot?
It’s simple really. Take Rocky, a down-on-his-luck, loveable underdog, match him up against an opponent who is bigger, scarier and a better fighter than him, have him train only half-heartedly until he has the sense knocked into him by his trainer, or his friend, or his wife, and with the ringing of a distant bell and the familiar musical tones of the theme, he bursts out of his funk, entering into an impressive video training montage, which leads to a fifteen round battle with his opponent, and after impossibly furious fighting, Rocky, our hero emerges bloodied, but victorious.
But if we were to look purely at the aftermath, that word victory might be a bit questionable. Swollen eyes, black and blue from the pounding, concussions and weeks spent in the hospital recovering – you call this a victory? His wife Adrianne certainly doesn’t think so.
No, the truth is, that each of Rocky’s triumphs would best be described as a Pyrrhic Victory – that is a victory which comes with a great price to the victor. This term come from Egyptian history, referring to King Pyrrhus of Egypt, who defeated the Roman Army in battles in 280 BCE, but suffered such losses, that he could never replenish his army. It is said that Pyrrhus remarked about his victories: “that one more will utterly undo me.”
And so it is with this morning’s parasha, Parshat VaYishlach. The parsha begins with Ya’akov anxiously anticipating a battle; one against the formidable clan of his estranged brother Esav. It seems that Ya’akov knows that he is about to pay the price for his trickery, for his theft of his father’s birthright all those years ago. Yes, a battle is most certainly coming, but as it turns out, it is not the battle he had anticipated.
After taking his wives and children across the river, Jacob is left by himself in the dark:
וַיִּוָּתֵר יַֽעֲקב לְבַדּוֹ וַיֵּֽאָבֵק אִישׁ עִמּוֹ עַד עֲלוֹת הַשָּֽׁחַר:
Jacob was left utterly alone, and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him. Then the man said:
שַׁלְּחֵנִי כִּי עָלָה הַשָּׁחַר
“Let me go, for dawn is breaking.”
But Jacob said:
לֹא אֲשַׁלֵּֽחֲךָ כִּי אִם-בֵּֽרַכְתָּֽנִי:
“I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”
It is at this point that the mysterious mans explains to Jacob that he shall no longer be called Ya’akov – but rather he shall now be known as Yisrael –
כִּֽי-שָׂרִיתָ עִם-אֱ-לֹהִים וְעִם-אֲנָשִׁים וַתּוּכָֽל:
“For you have struggled with beings divine and human, and you have prevailed.
Jacob attempts to learn the man’s name – though he refuses to answer.
And after the dust has settled, after the blessing is received, the battle scars remain. Walking away from this new place, this place Ya’Akov calls Peniel – the place he saw a divine being face to face, the Torah tells us that he walks away:
צֹלֵעַ עַל-יְרֵכֽוֹ:
Limping on his hip.
This fascinating story is ripe with unanswered questions. The first being, who is this man, and what was his mission in the first place – furthermore, why did he need to leave at the break of dawn? Secondly, what is the story meant to tell us about the character of Jacob – what does he learn from this encounter with struggle. And finally, what is the significance of his new name Yisrael, the name that all Jews would come to wear as our moniker?
With regards to the identity of our mysterious man, it seems pretty clear from both the p’shat – the plain, contextual meaning of the story, as well as in the annals of the midrash, that this mysterious man is divine in nature. After all, the meaning of Yisrael is explained as recognition that Ya’akov has struggled with beings divine and human – and prevailed. Also, there is a biblical tendency to describe divine beings, or angels, with the anonymous name “Ish” or man; such as the three angels who visit the tent of Abraham and Sarah, in Parshat Vayera. But assuming that this man of mystery is an angel of God, there are still questions as to his mission. The midrash seems to see the man as the personal guardian angel of Esav – bent on harming or killing Ya’akov once and for all. But the Rashbam explains that this man is a personal messenger from God, sent with the purpose of preventing Ya’akov from running away; forcing him to face his fear, to confront his past and to reconcile with his brother. This explanation would explain the Angel’s need to make an early exit, since he was due back in the Heavens to offer God the words of holy praise we echo in our Kedushah.
Now let us return to the question of the character of Jacob and what this struggle with the divine may have taught him. There can be no denying it, Jacob is a complicated character – easily categorized as a trickster. He twice cheats his brother out of the birthright, the second time by taking advantage of his blind father Yitzhak. He also is the victim of cheating, when he discovers that instead of marrying Rachel, as was his intention, Lavan has tricked him into marrying Leah first. - So one can imagine that Jacob was used to a life of struggle. But according to Rashi, this story is significant because of the personal struggle that Ya’akov undertakes with the angel. Whereas his previous blessing from his father was obtained through guile, this time he earns the b’racha for himself. In other words, through this act – the self-doubting trickster Jacob emerges Shalem, complete and at peace, as he is described later on in our parsha.
Finally, the question of the meaning of Yisrael. What does it mean that Jacob is now to be known as the one who struggles with God – and this question is of the utmost of importance to us, seeing as we are the People of Israel, and his name is ours. And this is where God comes into the picture.
This name of ours, Yisrael – is not meant to be taken lightly. It is not simply a happy coincidence that the children of Jacob took his name as their own; instead it should be our defining maxim. The goal of Judaism is not supreme obedience to the law – as it can be in Islam. The goal of Judaism is not simply to express unshakable faith and receive salvation as it can be in Christianity. No, the purpose of Judaism is to seek out and encounter God in the world – to struggle with the divine that is both within and without ourselves – to grab a hold of God and scream: “I simply will not let you go until you bless me, until you bless this world.” I cannot allow you to return to the Heavens without explanation, without confrontation, without embrace.” This is our purpose as Jews: to engage in the encounter, and yes, the struggle with God – in order to receive a blessing that we ourselves merit, not simply one that is passed down through the generations.
But like Jacob’s struggle with the angel – sometimes this encounter can be Pyrrhic in nature. It can hurt to struggle with God. There are moments of let-down, of confusion of loneliness; and even worse there are moments of anger and sorrow and breaking. But this too is God. Jacob would not have been left limping, had his encounter with the angel not have been real! So it is with us; when we seek and struggle, when we strive and yearn, when we reach and fail – that is the very definition of real.
So do not be afraid of the struggle, do not fear the encounter, do not dwell on the injurious moments – instead reach out, embrace God in your lives and in your souls and hold on with all of your strength as you say –
לֹא אֲשַׁלֵּֽחֲךָ כִּי אִם-בֵּֽרַכְתָּֽנִי:
“I will not let you go, until you have blessed me.”
Shabbat Shalom
Shalom Haver: Parshat Tol'dot
Fifteen years ago Thursday, my father called me into the room with tears in his eyes. Speechless, he pointed to the television, fixated on a live broadcast of CNN. “They killed him,” he eventually said, “They killed Rabin.” Our first inclination was to pin the blame on the Palestinian radicals bent on using terror and murder to end the progress of the Oslo Peace Accords. But soon we discovered the unthinkable: Yitzhak Rabin, an early member of the Palmach, Chief of Staff of the Israeli Defense Forces during the Six Day War, the first Prime Minister to be born in Israel, and now a Nobel Peace Prize recipient had been murdered as he left a peace rally in Tel Aviv, shot in the back by a religious Jew named Yigal Amir. In his pocket, a blood-soaked song sheet proclaiming the famous words – Lachein Rak Shiru – Shir L’Shalom; Let us sing a song of peace.
The shock wave which radiated throughout the Jewish world was palpable – as were its consequences. How could this have happened? We asked. A religious Jew, one bound by the Torah’s preeminent command to honor and respect all life – now an assassin, a murderer in the name of a perverted path of Torah. And what will become of the Peace Process? We wondered. That tenuous handshake on the White House Lawn; that moment of cautious triumph when Rabin, long the hawk, turned into the dove of peace; what will become of his mission, now that the man is gone?
And this morning we gather in prayer – fifteen years later and we still do not have the peace that Yitzhak Rabin had imagined and ultimately given his life for. One of the indelible images of the aftermath of his assassination was the eulogy delivered by President Bill Clinton on Har Hertzel, on this very day, November 6th, 1995. His poignant words showed a deep love and respect for Prime Minister Rabin, but the eulogy also contained a charge:
“Your prime minister was a martyr for peace, but he was a victim of hate. Surely, we must learn from his martyrdom that if people cannot let go of the hatred of their enemies, they risk sowing the seeds of hatred among themselves. I ask you, the people of Israel, on behalf of my nation that knows its own long litany of loss, from Abraham Lincoln to President Kennedy to Martin Luther King, do not let that happen to you. In the Knesset, in your homes, in your places of worship, stay the righteous course. As Moses said to the children of Israel when he knew he would not cross over into the promised land, "Be strong and of good courage. Fear not, for God will go with you."
And he ended his hesped with the now-famous two word phrase:
Shalom Haver, Goodbye Friend.
President Clinton repeated this charge with a letter to the editor of this week’s New York Times. In it, Clinton affirms his opinion that if Rabin had lived – there would have been a comprehensive peace agreement between the Israelis and the Palestinians within three years. He also reminds us, that though Rabin is now gone, his plan remains very much in place – serving as the foundation for negotiations to this very day. And President Clinton charges us with the task of finishing Yitzhak Rabin’s work. As he says:
“Let us pray on this anniversary that his service and sacrifice will be redeemed in the Holy Land and that all of us, wherever we live, whatever our capacity, will do our part to build a world where cooperation triumphs over conflict. Rabin’s spirit continues to light the path, but we must all decide to take it.”
This morning’s Torah portion, Parshat Tol’dot begins with an image which very much describes the malaise that many of us feel fifteen years removed from those seeds of peace. After a barren Rivka Immeinu at last becomes pregnant, we learn that the pregnancy is not an easy one for her. Not only is she carrying multiples, but they seem to be fighting with one another from within her very womb. The Torah tells us:
וַיִּתְרֹֽצֲצוּ הַבָּנִים בְּקִרְבָּהּ, וַתֹּאמֶר אִם-כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי?
וַתֵּלֶךְ לִדְרשׁ אֶת-יְהוָֹֽה:
“But the children struggled in her womb, and she said: “If this is so, why do I even exist?” so she went to inquire of the Lord.”
Rashi asks, what were they struggling about? And he answers:
מתרוצצים זה עם זה ומריבים בנחלת שני עולמות
“They were struggling one with the other, because they were fighting over the inheritance of two worlds.”
In other words, according to Rashi, these two brothers were engaged in an existential battle over the inheritance of Olam HaZeh, of this world, and the promise of Olam HaBa, the World to Come. Not only were they fighting over who would receive their father’s blessing and therefore the covenant with the God of Abraham, but their struggle even extended to the very edge of eternity – a question of whose path was right and whose was wrong, who could make a claim to ‘Truth’ with a capital ‘T’.
For some sixty two years, the State of Israel has been engaged in the very same struggle – the fight for two worlds with the Palestinians. The first world, Olam HaZeh, is the more transparent struggle. It is clear what we are arguing about: There is one land with two peoples: you call this town Nablus, we call it Schem; you call it the Dome of the Rock, we call it Har HaBayyit.
When we hear of negotiations beginning once again between the Israelis and the Palestinians, we are referring to the conflict BaOlam HaZeh, of this world: a world of boundaries and borders, of negotiations and final status agreements. And I call upon the leaders of both sides to accomplish what Rabin set out to achieve – a comprehensive peace settlement, putting to rest all questions of conflict in this material world of ours.
But, the harder task is to achieve peace in the battle for the other world – Olam HaBa, the World to Come. This struggle is not tangible, it is ethereal; it is not political it is intellectual, and it cannot be solved by use of creatively-drawn maps or by means of political pressure from the State Department. Ultimately it is this struggle which threatens to haunt us and harm us again and again and again.
It is this struggle for the World to Come which is the cause of Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Hezbolah and the Mullahs of Iran – who celebrate murder and honor those who kill innocents in the name of a perverted path of Islam. It is their unshakable belief in their interpretations of the inscrutable will of God which leads them to see this conflict as not only inevitable, but ordained from on High.
And most unfortunately, they are not alone. It is the same struggle for Olam HaBa, which concerns the ultra-Orthodox and the religiously motivated settlers who see their actions towards preventing peace as completing God’s vision of a modern State of Israel with Biblical proportions. They too are obsessed with the possession of God’s unmitigated Truth – despite the fact that the result of their obsession is the abandonment of unforsakable values of the Jewish faith such as: Pikuach Nefesh, the preeminence of human life, K’vod HaB’riyot, the honoring of our fellow human beings, and Anavah, having humility before God.
So let ours be the voices which call for an end to the battle for both of these worlds. The time has come to finish the work of Yitzhak Rabin and make peace a reality. Fifteen years since we said “Shalom Haver” is too long to wait for peace – and so I pray that another Israeli leader will demonstrate his or her courageous commitment to the creation of Peace Ba Olam HaZeh, in this world, in a land loved by two people.
But, when it comes to the struggle for Olam HaBah, the world to come, let our voices be lent to the fight for tolerance, the championing of civility and to the modest understanding that God’s will is a thing that can only be sensed – never proven, intuited – but never confirmed; for our task as religious people it to define the indefinable, to give a name to the nameless, to try and touch the ineffable, and this task can only be accomplished with the humble understanding that God alone is the Possessor of Truth with a capital ‘T’.
Shalom Haver. I pray that we will see your dream of peace become a reality speedily in our days, in this world, as well as in the next.
Shabbat Shalom.
The shock wave which radiated throughout the Jewish world was palpable – as were its consequences. How could this have happened? We asked. A religious Jew, one bound by the Torah’s preeminent command to honor and respect all life – now an assassin, a murderer in the name of a perverted path of Torah. And what will become of the Peace Process? We wondered. That tenuous handshake on the White House Lawn; that moment of cautious triumph when Rabin, long the hawk, turned into the dove of peace; what will become of his mission, now that the man is gone?
And this morning we gather in prayer – fifteen years later and we still do not have the peace that Yitzhak Rabin had imagined and ultimately given his life for. One of the indelible images of the aftermath of his assassination was the eulogy delivered by President Bill Clinton on Har Hertzel, on this very day, November 6th, 1995. His poignant words showed a deep love and respect for Prime Minister Rabin, but the eulogy also contained a charge:
“Your prime minister was a martyr for peace, but he was a victim of hate. Surely, we must learn from his martyrdom that if people cannot let go of the hatred of their enemies, they risk sowing the seeds of hatred among themselves. I ask you, the people of Israel, on behalf of my nation that knows its own long litany of loss, from Abraham Lincoln to President Kennedy to Martin Luther King, do not let that happen to you. In the Knesset, in your homes, in your places of worship, stay the righteous course. As Moses said to the children of Israel when he knew he would not cross over into the promised land, "Be strong and of good courage. Fear not, for God will go with you."
And he ended his hesped with the now-famous two word phrase:
Shalom Haver, Goodbye Friend.
President Clinton repeated this charge with a letter to the editor of this week’s New York Times. In it, Clinton affirms his opinion that if Rabin had lived – there would have been a comprehensive peace agreement between the Israelis and the Palestinians within three years. He also reminds us, that though Rabin is now gone, his plan remains very much in place – serving as the foundation for negotiations to this very day. And President Clinton charges us with the task of finishing Yitzhak Rabin’s work. As he says:
“Let us pray on this anniversary that his service and sacrifice will be redeemed in the Holy Land and that all of us, wherever we live, whatever our capacity, will do our part to build a world where cooperation triumphs over conflict. Rabin’s spirit continues to light the path, but we must all decide to take it.”
This morning’s Torah portion, Parshat Tol’dot begins with an image which very much describes the malaise that many of us feel fifteen years removed from those seeds of peace. After a barren Rivka Immeinu at last becomes pregnant, we learn that the pregnancy is not an easy one for her. Not only is she carrying multiples, but they seem to be fighting with one another from within her very womb. The Torah tells us:
וַיִּתְרֹֽצֲצוּ הַבָּנִים בְּקִרְבָּהּ, וַתֹּאמֶר אִם-כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי?
וַתֵּלֶךְ לִדְרשׁ אֶת-יְהוָֹֽה:
“But the children struggled in her womb, and she said: “If this is so, why do I even exist?” so she went to inquire of the Lord.”
Rashi asks, what were they struggling about? And he answers:
מתרוצצים זה עם זה ומריבים בנחלת שני עולמות
“They were struggling one with the other, because they were fighting over the inheritance of two worlds.”
In other words, according to Rashi, these two brothers were engaged in an existential battle over the inheritance of Olam HaZeh, of this world, and the promise of Olam HaBa, the World to Come. Not only were they fighting over who would receive their father’s blessing and therefore the covenant with the God of Abraham, but their struggle even extended to the very edge of eternity – a question of whose path was right and whose was wrong, who could make a claim to ‘Truth’ with a capital ‘T’.
For some sixty two years, the State of Israel has been engaged in the very same struggle – the fight for two worlds with the Palestinians. The first world, Olam HaZeh, is the more transparent struggle. It is clear what we are arguing about: There is one land with two peoples: you call this town Nablus, we call it Schem; you call it the Dome of the Rock, we call it Har HaBayyit.
When we hear of negotiations beginning once again between the Israelis and the Palestinians, we are referring to the conflict BaOlam HaZeh, of this world: a world of boundaries and borders, of negotiations and final status agreements. And I call upon the leaders of both sides to accomplish what Rabin set out to achieve – a comprehensive peace settlement, putting to rest all questions of conflict in this material world of ours.
But, the harder task is to achieve peace in the battle for the other world – Olam HaBa, the World to Come. This struggle is not tangible, it is ethereal; it is not political it is intellectual, and it cannot be solved by use of creatively-drawn maps or by means of political pressure from the State Department. Ultimately it is this struggle which threatens to haunt us and harm us again and again and again.
It is this struggle for the World to Come which is the cause of Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Hezbolah and the Mullahs of Iran – who celebrate murder and honor those who kill innocents in the name of a perverted path of Islam. It is their unshakable belief in their interpretations of the inscrutable will of God which leads them to see this conflict as not only inevitable, but ordained from on High.
And most unfortunately, they are not alone. It is the same struggle for Olam HaBa, which concerns the ultra-Orthodox and the religiously motivated settlers who see their actions towards preventing peace as completing God’s vision of a modern State of Israel with Biblical proportions. They too are obsessed with the possession of God’s unmitigated Truth – despite the fact that the result of their obsession is the abandonment of unforsakable values of the Jewish faith such as: Pikuach Nefesh, the preeminence of human life, K’vod HaB’riyot, the honoring of our fellow human beings, and Anavah, having humility before God.
So let ours be the voices which call for an end to the battle for both of these worlds. The time has come to finish the work of Yitzhak Rabin and make peace a reality. Fifteen years since we said “Shalom Haver” is too long to wait for peace – and so I pray that another Israeli leader will demonstrate his or her courageous commitment to the creation of Peace Ba Olam HaZeh, in this world, in a land loved by two people.
But, when it comes to the struggle for Olam HaBah, the world to come, let our voices be lent to the fight for tolerance, the championing of civility and to the modest understanding that God’s will is a thing that can only be sensed – never proven, intuited – but never confirmed; for our task as religious people it to define the indefinable, to give a name to the nameless, to try and touch the ineffable, and this task can only be accomplished with the humble understanding that God alone is the Possessor of Truth with a capital ‘T’.
Shalom Haver. I pray that we will see your dream of peace become a reality speedily in our days, in this world, as well as in the next.
Shabbat Shalom.
The Dangers of "I was only Joking" Bullying and Parshat YaYera
בראשית כא:ט
וַתֵּ֨רֶא שָׂרָ֜ה אֶת־בֶּן־הָגָ֧ר הַמִּצְרִ֛ית אֲשֶׁר־יָֽלְדָ֥ה לְאַבְרָהָ֖ם מְצַחֵֽק:
Genesis 21:9
Sarah saw the son whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham playing.
בראשית כא:י
וַתֹּ֨אמֶר֙ לְאַבְרָהָ֔ם גָּרֵ֛שׁ הָֽאָמָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את וְאֶת־בְּנָ֑הּ כִּ֣י לֹ֤א יִירַשׁ֙ בֶּן־הָֽאָמָ֣ה הַזֹּ֔את עִם־בְּנִ֖י עִם־יִצְחָֽק:
Genesis 21:10
And she said to Abraham, cast out that slave woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.
מדרש רבה בראשית פרשה נג סימן יא
וַתֵּ֨רֶא שָׂרָ֜ה אֶת־בֶּן־הָגָ֧ר הַמִּצְרִ֛ית אֲשֶׁר־יָֽלְדָ֥ה לְאַבְרָהָ֖ם מְצַחֵֽק:
-רבי אלעזר בנו של רבי יוסי הגלילי אומר אין הלשון הזה צחוק אלא לשון שפיכות דמים, היך מה דאת אמר (שמואל ב ב) יקומו נא הנערים וישחקו לפנינו, רבי עזריה משום רבי לוי אמר,
אמר ליה ישמעאל ליצחק "נלך ונראה חלקינו בשדה." והיה ישמעאל נוטל קשת וחצים ומורה כלפי יצחק, ועושה עצמו כאילו מצחק, כן איש רמה את רעהו ואומר "הלא מצחק אני?"
Midrash Bereishit Rabbah 53:11
-Rabi Eliezer the son of Rabi Yosi the Galiliee said: This language of “playing” must mean murder. As it is written: “Let the young men come forward and fight to the death.” Rabi Azaria said in the name of Rabi Levi: Ishmael said to Isaac: “Let’s go out in the field and look at what will be our inheritance.” And Ishmael brought a bow and arrow and pointed them at Isaac, pretending that he was going to kill him. And so it is today, a person will trick their fellow and say, “What, I was only joking!“ and Sarah saw this and said: “cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac!”
This morning I want us to focus on the powerful last line of this rabbinic midrash which explains that Ishmael was threatening Isaac with physical harm, but passing it off as a joke. “And so it is today,” said the rabbis 1,500 years ago, a person will trick their fellow and say: “What, I was only joking.”
Unfortunately, this statement rings shockingly true in our modern society today in America. All around us, children are being abused, mistreated and harrassed, while our society tends to excuse this with the pathetic excuses, “What, they were only joking,” or “But it’s age-appropriate behavior,” or “Kids will be kids.” Today, a word which has always meant great pain to a child, is now becoming an epidemic in our מְצַחֵֽק society, a word that is a possible definition of the inscrutable
in this morning’s parasha. I am talking about bullying, and unfortunately we have heard this word a lot in recent months.
In a recent study, 77% of the students said they had been bullied at least once. And 14% of those who were bullied said they experienced severe (bad) reactions to the abuse.
23 per cent of elementary students reported being bullied one to three times in the last month school bullying statistics say.
Each day 160,000 students miss school for fear of being bullied; and it is estimated that 100,000 students bring a gun to school each day, in part due to bullying.
And then there are the tragic cases of individuals who recently took their life due to the pain of constant harassment.
Ryan Halligan, a fourteen year old boy, picked on by older boys who called him gay, tricked by girls into thinking that they liked him, only to reject him in public;
hanged himself in his room while his father was away on business.
Or the infamous case of Phoebe Prince, 16, from South Hadley, MA, who killed herself this past March after months of torment, consisting of physical and emotional bullying.
But not all bullying is committed in person, “Cyber-bullying” the idea that our children can be picked on and abused online, through email harassment and through their facebook profiles is quickly becoming the preferred mode of bullying in our society; since it can be hidden from the eyes of teachers and parents, but is nonetheless equally devastating.
As we all saw in the tragic suicide this past month of Tyler Clemente, a freshman at Rutgers University whose private sexual encounter was broadcast live to the web via his roommate’s webcam. Moments before his death, Tyler’s facebook profile read “Jumping of the GW Bridge, sorry.”
As Rabbi Franklin mentioned last week when we installed our new USY teen-board, all of us must work tirelessly to ensure that Temple Emanu-El is a safe space for every child, teen and adult. We must make certain that the tools of our religion are used for the power of tolerance, inclusion and camaraderie, rather than for hatred, harassment and exclusion.
We know it is not always easy, after all, kids will be kids, and adults will be adults, and human beings will be human beings, which means we will use our words to harm and hurt those around us. But it does not mean it always must be this way. Let ours be the first generation to educate and legislate bullying out of existence. Let us champion the mitzvah of וְאָֽהַבְתָּ לְרֵֽעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ Of loving your neighbor as you love yourself, and teach ourselves and our children that our God commands us to be better, to expect more from ourselves, and to live our lives seriously; and to never accept the frail excuse of: “What, I was only joking.”
וַתֵּ֨רֶא שָׂרָ֜ה אֶת־בֶּן־הָגָ֧ר הַמִּצְרִ֛ית אֲשֶׁר־יָֽלְדָ֥ה לְאַבְרָהָ֖ם מְצַחֵֽק:
Genesis 21:9
Sarah saw the son whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham playing.
בראשית כא:י
וַתֹּ֨אמֶר֙ לְאַבְרָהָ֔ם גָּרֵ֛שׁ הָֽאָמָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את וְאֶת־בְּנָ֑הּ כִּ֣י לֹ֤א יִירַשׁ֙ בֶּן־הָֽאָמָ֣ה הַזֹּ֔את עִם־בְּנִ֖י עִם־יִצְחָֽק:
Genesis 21:10
And she said to Abraham, cast out that slave woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.
מדרש רבה בראשית פרשה נג סימן יא
וַתֵּ֨רֶא שָׂרָ֜ה אֶת־בֶּן־הָגָ֧ר הַמִּצְרִ֛ית אֲשֶׁר־יָֽלְדָ֥ה לְאַבְרָהָ֖ם מְצַחֵֽק:
-רבי אלעזר בנו של רבי יוסי הגלילי אומר אין הלשון הזה צחוק אלא לשון שפיכות דמים, היך מה דאת אמר (שמואל ב ב) יקומו נא הנערים וישחקו לפנינו, רבי עזריה משום רבי לוי אמר,
אמר ליה ישמעאל ליצחק "נלך ונראה חלקינו בשדה." והיה ישמעאל נוטל קשת וחצים ומורה כלפי יצחק, ועושה עצמו כאילו מצחק, כן איש רמה את רעהו ואומר "הלא מצחק אני?"
Midrash Bereishit Rabbah 53:11
-Rabi Eliezer the son of Rabi Yosi the Galiliee said: This language of “playing” must mean murder. As it is written: “Let the young men come forward and fight to the death.” Rabi Azaria said in the name of Rabi Levi: Ishmael said to Isaac: “Let’s go out in the field and look at what will be our inheritance.” And Ishmael brought a bow and arrow and pointed them at Isaac, pretending that he was going to kill him. And so it is today, a person will trick their fellow and say, “What, I was only joking!“ and Sarah saw this and said: “cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac!”
This morning I want us to focus on the powerful last line of this rabbinic midrash which explains that Ishmael was threatening Isaac with physical harm, but passing it off as a joke. “And so it is today,” said the rabbis 1,500 years ago, a person will trick their fellow and say: “What, I was only joking.”
Unfortunately, this statement rings shockingly true in our modern society today in America. All around us, children are being abused, mistreated and harrassed, while our society tends to excuse this with the pathetic excuses, “What, they were only joking,” or “But it’s age-appropriate behavior,” or “Kids will be kids.” Today, a word which has always meant great pain to a child, is now becoming an epidemic in our מְצַחֵֽק society, a word that is a possible definition of the inscrutable
in this morning’s parasha. I am talking about bullying, and unfortunately we have heard this word a lot in recent months.
In a recent study, 77% of the students said they had been bullied at least once. And 14% of those who were bullied said they experienced severe (bad) reactions to the abuse.
23 per cent of elementary students reported being bullied one to three times in the last month school bullying statistics say.
Each day 160,000 students miss school for fear of being bullied; and it is estimated that 100,000 students bring a gun to school each day, in part due to bullying.
And then there are the tragic cases of individuals who recently took their life due to the pain of constant harassment.
Ryan Halligan, a fourteen year old boy, picked on by older boys who called him gay, tricked by girls into thinking that they liked him, only to reject him in public;
hanged himself in his room while his father was away on business.
Or the infamous case of Phoebe Prince, 16, from South Hadley, MA, who killed herself this past March after months of torment, consisting of physical and emotional bullying.
But not all bullying is committed in person, “Cyber-bullying” the idea that our children can be picked on and abused online, through email harassment and through their facebook profiles is quickly becoming the preferred mode of bullying in our society; since it can be hidden from the eyes of teachers and parents, but is nonetheless equally devastating.
As we all saw in the tragic suicide this past month of Tyler Clemente, a freshman at Rutgers University whose private sexual encounter was broadcast live to the web via his roommate’s webcam. Moments before his death, Tyler’s facebook profile read “Jumping of the GW Bridge, sorry.”
As Rabbi Franklin mentioned last week when we installed our new USY teen-board, all of us must work tirelessly to ensure that Temple Emanu-El is a safe space for every child, teen and adult. We must make certain that the tools of our religion are used for the power of tolerance, inclusion and camaraderie, rather than for hatred, harassment and exclusion.
We know it is not always easy, after all, kids will be kids, and adults will be adults, and human beings will be human beings, which means we will use our words to harm and hurt those around us. But it does not mean it always must be this way. Let ours be the first generation to educate and legislate bullying out of existence. Let us champion the mitzvah of וְאָֽהַבְתָּ לְרֵֽעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ Of loving your neighbor as you love yourself, and teach ourselves and our children that our God commands us to be better, to expect more from ourselves, and to live our lives seriously; and to never accept the frail excuse of: “What, I was only joking.”
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Song for the Brokenhearted YK:5771
By now you have begun to familiarize yourselves with our wonderful new Mahzor, the Mahzor Lev Shalem. This production, more than a decade in the making, represents a great leap forward in the realm of spiritual publications created by the Conservative movement and intended for modern Jewry as a whole. Not only is it replete with scholarly explanations, spiritual kavanot, traditional and modern poetry, and a new, refined translation; but it is also brutally honest.
What do I mean by that? Well, take notice of the name that was chosen for this Mahzor, Mahzor Lev Shalem, the Mahzor of a Complete Heart. What’s so special about the name you might ask; but take a moment to glance at what lies just behind this title, and I think you will understand what I mean. To speak of a Complete Heart is to recognize the existence of a broken heart. To speak of wholeness, is to give credence to the reality of brokenness. To make mention of the possibility of healing is to admit the existence of intolerable pain.
And ain’t that the truth.
We all come to Temple on Yom Kippur from different perspectives. Some of us are soaring on the wings of recent successes, new life in our families and auspicious new beginnings in our professional lives. We come here to reflect, to give thanks, and to praise God for the many blessings in our lives.
But others of us, many of us, come here with the burden of our broken hearts. We ache from the stings of our shortcomings, we painfully grieve over the loss of loved ones in the year that was; we are frightened of our failing health, cognizant of cancer, fearful of the specter of painful diagnoses. For those of us who feel this way, we are still here to try to give thanks, to praise God for the relative blessings in our lives; but we also come here to cry, to scream, to beat our chests as though they were an extension of God’s own presence. Our hearts are broken, and we worry that they may never be complete again.
And sometimes it feels as though it is not only our hearts which are broken, it is our world as well.
In January the earth split and shattered from beneath the people of Haiti; killing nearly a quarter of a million people, and leaving many more homeless, harmed and in danger of disease and despair.
During Pesach, our own community here in Rhode Island suffered epic flooding, destroying homes, wiping out retirement nest eggs, further crippling our already stagnant economy.
At the very same time a deep-water oil rig exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, killing eleven workers and beginning what would become the single largest ecological disaster in the history of our country, with the end result being an estimated 205 million gallons of oil released into the once blue waters of the gulf.
This summer unprecedented wildfires raged in Russia, while a deluge of biblical proportions left twenty percent of Pakistan underwater.
Yes sometimes it truly feels as though the very heart of our natural world is breaking in two.
And finally, it seems as though our great country is broken as well.
Our economy continues to teeter on the edge of the dreaded double-dip recession. Some two years after the stock market’s collapse and the outrageous sins of Mortgage companies, Wall Street and Bernie Madoff, many of us are still struggling to make ends meet. We work harder for less money, we pay more for less, and we worry about the soundness of our financial futures.
In our political realm, things seem more broken than ever before. Hatred and intolerance abound, threatening to permanently bury pious concepts such as statesmanship, discourse and respectfully agreeing to disagree.
And the numbers reflect this sense of brokenness. In a recent poll, some 61% of respondents believe this country is heading in the wrong direction. Only 11% will admit to having faith in Congress, only a third will state their trust in our public school system, and less than half of Americans feel confident about their religious institutions.
So, with the pain of loss and the burden of our worries, with trepidation about a broken world and a broken country we sit here together on Yom Kippur and we ask ourselves a timeless, universal question: What is the cure for a this sense of brokenness? How can we learn to feel whole again? How can we hope to once again reassemble the pieces of a shattered faith, a shaken confidence, a broken heart?
Well, I believe the first thing that must give us hope is the knowledge that we are not alone. Friends, tonight and tomorrow we sit in the world’s largest support group. Almost a thousand in this room alone, nearly two thousand in the entire building, 14 million world-wide will take the time over the next twenty-five hours to sense their brokenness and yearn for a time of wholeness and holiness for the entire world. You must remember this as we strain, and cry and allow ourselves to feel the grief, the loss, the worry of the year that was; you are not alone. We are here with you.
Secondly, and just as importantly, this holy Jewish tradition of ours feels your pain. It has the vocabulary and the conceptual power to speak these words of brokenness with you! It comes from the power of our Torah: as Rivka Imeinu, Rebecca our foremother cried out from amidst the pain of her family’s conflict:
אִם-כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי
“If this is how my life will be, then why do I even exist?”
It comes from the cries of the Prophet Jeremiah:
לָמָּה הָיָה כְאֵבִי נֶצַח וּמַכָּתִי אֲנוּשָׁה֙
“Why must my pain be endless, my wounds incurable?”
It comes from the poetry of our Psalmist:
וְאַתָּ֥ יְהֹוָה עַד-מָתָֽי:
“And You God, how long can you ignore my suffering!”
Yes, search your Bible and you will find the words which speak to your pain, which testify to the truth of the human condition: that we are not alone in our sufferings, no, our foremothers, our prophets and our poets know the song of the broken heart.
Now I suppose we could stop here and say; see you are not alone, not only does everyone in this room share your brokenness right now, but there are words from our sacred texts which also echo your pain, your suffering, your loss. But something tells me that still wouldn’t be enough.
You see no matter how many times we reach out to a friend and say, I know how you feel; no matter how often we are offered platitudes and canned responses to our pain, it does not bring us closer to the only answer which can ever hope to please us: God’s answer; God’s response to our own personal suffering and to the suffering that exists in our world.
For this answer we will need to search deeper.
There is a famous Hasidic story which tells of a conversation between an illiterate tailor and the renowned Master, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchiv.
The great Rebbe is curious as to what the tailor, who cannot read, does during the Yom Kippur services since he can not recite the prescribed prayers.
The tailor reluctantly replies: Each Yom Kippur I speak to God, and I tell God that the sins for which I am expected to repent are minor ones, they are relatively inconsequential: I may have kept leftover cloth instead of returning it to the patron, I may have over-charged from time to time, and certainly I am guilty of forgetting to say my prayers with regularity.
But You God, You have committed truly grave sins. You have removed mothers from their children and children from their mothers. You have let thousands starve, others be struck with debilitating illness, and you have let countless prayers go unanswered.
So let’s make a deal. If you pardon me, I am ready to pardon you as well.
Rebbe Levi Yitzhak paused for a moment as he contemplated the wisdom of the tailor’s teaching. But then his anger overtook him. “Indeed you are not only an illiterate but you are a fool as well! You were too lenient with God,” said the Rabbi, “You should have insisted that God immediately bring redemption to the entire world. For surely God would have been forced to oblige.”
This story is at once supposed to be heretical and theologically liberating; it is meant to be funny as well as enlightening. Here the tailor teaches us the ultimate lesson in the piety of hutzpah. The truth is that our sins are relatively minor in the grand scheme of things. Surely we should reflect upon them and try to do better in the year to come, but few if any among the sinners of the world are guilty of the egregious acts the tailor ascribes to God in this legend.
As audacious as this story might sound to us, it too speaks a truth to the human condition: Many of us can’t help but ask, and just where has God been through all of this? Where was God this year as our hearts were breaking due to the crumbling of our most sacred relationships or as we teetered on the edge of financial ruin? Where was God this year when the earth split and swallowed the people of Haiti? Where was God this year when a baby was made an orphan, or a mother was made childless due to cancer?
Well, I am here to offer up a deal to you on this Kol Nidre night. If we can find it in our hearts to learn to forgive: to forgive God for the imperfection of our world, to forgive our religion for its frailty, to forgive those around us for the harm that they have caused: then like Rebbe Levi Yitzhak before me I am willing to offer nothing less than salvation for the world.
So tonight, it is time for us to forgive God. We must forgive God for God’s silence in the face of our heartfelt prayers, and we must learn to recognize that silence does not always indicate absence. We must forgive God for our flawed world, the disasters which befall us without warning, the harshness of inexplicable disease and the sudden finality of death.
But we must not let ourselves entirely off the hook either. There is enough food in the world so that no one should go hungry, if only we could learn how to use it effectively, instead of feeding our insatiable need for luxury. We must recognize that natural disasters are happening with frightening frequency in part due to our own addiction to warming the atmosphere with greenhouse gasses. Let us remember that perfecting a world is a partnership between divinity and humanity and while we must learn to forgive God for not creating a flawless world we must also take responsibility for our own failures as stewards of this precious gift.
Also, tonight, as a cure for our broken-heartedness it is time to forgive our religion. It is time to let Judaism off the hook for its shortcomings.
For all the times it failed you in your moments of crisis. For the moments of disconnect you have felt when confronted by an anachronistic law, a chauvinist concept or a text which feels embarrassing in the rosy light of modernity: Forgive it. Recognize that Judaism, like any religion is by its nature a frustratingly flawed attempt at reifying and ritualizing a holy relationship with an ineffable God, but as Jews, it’s the one we’ve got. And in my opinion, and in the opinion of our generations, it represents the best attempts ever offered at defining the indefinable.
And since we are forgiving Judaism, why don’t we forgive the Synagogue as well. Forgive Temple Emanu-El, forgive us for the times we have not always met your needs, and forgive your rabbis and cantor too. Forgive us, for that time we didn’t call, or for not immediately remembering your name. Pardon us, for we are only human; and being human, we are limited, imperfect and prone to personal and interpersonal failings. Forgive these things tonight.
But you must not let yourselves off the hook so easily either. I hope that you will take the time to examine over this next day the amount of effort you have invested in learning about your religion, in experiencing the daily rhythms of your Temple, in calling your clergy and getting to know them, and allowing them to get to know you. Let this year be a year of forgiveness, but also a year of rededication as we work together to build newer, stronger relationships with our Jewish tradition.
Finally, if we really want to heal our broken hearts, and this is the hardest one, I know, we must forgive each other. The neighbor who wronged you somehow – forgive them. The old friend who disappeared in a time of need – forgive them. The family member who slighted you, who disappointed you, who broke your heart in the first place – forgive them. Because these things can never be replaced: a good neighbor, an old friend, and our own flesh and blood. The time for forgiveness has come.
There is a famous teaching by the Hasidic master the Kotzker Rebbe who said: That in this world, “There is nothing as whole as a broken-heart.” What I take this to mean is that from within brokenness comes the potential for wholeness, from amidst loneliness hides the potential for communion, within pain there is the possibility of healing once again.
Let this be the year when we mend our hearts through the power of forgiveness: Forgiving our God for the fragility of our world, forgiving our Judaism for its flaws, and forgiving our friends and our families for their imperfections.
And so I pray this year for a world of forgiveness. For a world of forgiveness is by definition a redeemed world. And like Rebbe Levi Yitzhak before me, I can guarantee you that the power of forgiveness is such that it will ascend to the very throne of heaven, God’s holy seat of judgment on this Yom HaDin, and it will ensure salvation for the Jewish people and the entire world.
The only question is, will we actually have the courage to do it?
What do I mean by that? Well, take notice of the name that was chosen for this Mahzor, Mahzor Lev Shalem, the Mahzor of a Complete Heart. What’s so special about the name you might ask; but take a moment to glance at what lies just behind this title, and I think you will understand what I mean. To speak of a Complete Heart is to recognize the existence of a broken heart. To speak of wholeness, is to give credence to the reality of brokenness. To make mention of the possibility of healing is to admit the existence of intolerable pain.
And ain’t that the truth.
We all come to Temple on Yom Kippur from different perspectives. Some of us are soaring on the wings of recent successes, new life in our families and auspicious new beginnings in our professional lives. We come here to reflect, to give thanks, and to praise God for the many blessings in our lives.
But others of us, many of us, come here with the burden of our broken hearts. We ache from the stings of our shortcomings, we painfully grieve over the loss of loved ones in the year that was; we are frightened of our failing health, cognizant of cancer, fearful of the specter of painful diagnoses. For those of us who feel this way, we are still here to try to give thanks, to praise God for the relative blessings in our lives; but we also come here to cry, to scream, to beat our chests as though they were an extension of God’s own presence. Our hearts are broken, and we worry that they may never be complete again.
And sometimes it feels as though it is not only our hearts which are broken, it is our world as well.
In January the earth split and shattered from beneath the people of Haiti; killing nearly a quarter of a million people, and leaving many more homeless, harmed and in danger of disease and despair.
During Pesach, our own community here in Rhode Island suffered epic flooding, destroying homes, wiping out retirement nest eggs, further crippling our already stagnant economy.
At the very same time a deep-water oil rig exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, killing eleven workers and beginning what would become the single largest ecological disaster in the history of our country, with the end result being an estimated 205 million gallons of oil released into the once blue waters of the gulf.
This summer unprecedented wildfires raged in Russia, while a deluge of biblical proportions left twenty percent of Pakistan underwater.
Yes sometimes it truly feels as though the very heart of our natural world is breaking in two.
And finally, it seems as though our great country is broken as well.
Our economy continues to teeter on the edge of the dreaded double-dip recession. Some two years after the stock market’s collapse and the outrageous sins of Mortgage companies, Wall Street and Bernie Madoff, many of us are still struggling to make ends meet. We work harder for less money, we pay more for less, and we worry about the soundness of our financial futures.
In our political realm, things seem more broken than ever before. Hatred and intolerance abound, threatening to permanently bury pious concepts such as statesmanship, discourse and respectfully agreeing to disagree.
And the numbers reflect this sense of brokenness. In a recent poll, some 61% of respondents believe this country is heading in the wrong direction. Only 11% will admit to having faith in Congress, only a third will state their trust in our public school system, and less than half of Americans feel confident about their religious institutions.
So, with the pain of loss and the burden of our worries, with trepidation about a broken world and a broken country we sit here together on Yom Kippur and we ask ourselves a timeless, universal question: What is the cure for a this sense of brokenness? How can we learn to feel whole again? How can we hope to once again reassemble the pieces of a shattered faith, a shaken confidence, a broken heart?
Well, I believe the first thing that must give us hope is the knowledge that we are not alone. Friends, tonight and tomorrow we sit in the world’s largest support group. Almost a thousand in this room alone, nearly two thousand in the entire building, 14 million world-wide will take the time over the next twenty-five hours to sense their brokenness and yearn for a time of wholeness and holiness for the entire world. You must remember this as we strain, and cry and allow ourselves to feel the grief, the loss, the worry of the year that was; you are not alone. We are here with you.
Secondly, and just as importantly, this holy Jewish tradition of ours feels your pain. It has the vocabulary and the conceptual power to speak these words of brokenness with you! It comes from the power of our Torah: as Rivka Imeinu, Rebecca our foremother cried out from amidst the pain of her family’s conflict:
אִם-כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי
“If this is how my life will be, then why do I even exist?”
It comes from the cries of the Prophet Jeremiah:
לָמָּה הָיָה כְאֵבִי נֶצַח וּמַכָּתִי אֲנוּשָׁה֙
“Why must my pain be endless, my wounds incurable?”
It comes from the poetry of our Psalmist:
וְאַתָּ֥ יְהֹוָה עַד-מָתָֽי:
“And You God, how long can you ignore my suffering!”
Yes, search your Bible and you will find the words which speak to your pain, which testify to the truth of the human condition: that we are not alone in our sufferings, no, our foremothers, our prophets and our poets know the song of the broken heart.
Now I suppose we could stop here and say; see you are not alone, not only does everyone in this room share your brokenness right now, but there are words from our sacred texts which also echo your pain, your suffering, your loss. But something tells me that still wouldn’t be enough.
You see no matter how many times we reach out to a friend and say, I know how you feel; no matter how often we are offered platitudes and canned responses to our pain, it does not bring us closer to the only answer which can ever hope to please us: God’s answer; God’s response to our own personal suffering and to the suffering that exists in our world.
For this answer we will need to search deeper.
There is a famous Hasidic story which tells of a conversation between an illiterate tailor and the renowned Master, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchiv.
The great Rebbe is curious as to what the tailor, who cannot read, does during the Yom Kippur services since he can not recite the prescribed prayers.
The tailor reluctantly replies: Each Yom Kippur I speak to God, and I tell God that the sins for which I am expected to repent are minor ones, they are relatively inconsequential: I may have kept leftover cloth instead of returning it to the patron, I may have over-charged from time to time, and certainly I am guilty of forgetting to say my prayers with regularity.
But You God, You have committed truly grave sins. You have removed mothers from their children and children from their mothers. You have let thousands starve, others be struck with debilitating illness, and you have let countless prayers go unanswered.
So let’s make a deal. If you pardon me, I am ready to pardon you as well.
Rebbe Levi Yitzhak paused for a moment as he contemplated the wisdom of the tailor’s teaching. But then his anger overtook him. “Indeed you are not only an illiterate but you are a fool as well! You were too lenient with God,” said the Rabbi, “You should have insisted that God immediately bring redemption to the entire world. For surely God would have been forced to oblige.”
This story is at once supposed to be heretical and theologically liberating; it is meant to be funny as well as enlightening. Here the tailor teaches us the ultimate lesson in the piety of hutzpah. The truth is that our sins are relatively minor in the grand scheme of things. Surely we should reflect upon them and try to do better in the year to come, but few if any among the sinners of the world are guilty of the egregious acts the tailor ascribes to God in this legend.
As audacious as this story might sound to us, it too speaks a truth to the human condition: Many of us can’t help but ask, and just where has God been through all of this? Where was God this year as our hearts were breaking due to the crumbling of our most sacred relationships or as we teetered on the edge of financial ruin? Where was God this year when the earth split and swallowed the people of Haiti? Where was God this year when a baby was made an orphan, or a mother was made childless due to cancer?
Well, I am here to offer up a deal to you on this Kol Nidre night. If we can find it in our hearts to learn to forgive: to forgive God for the imperfection of our world, to forgive our religion for its frailty, to forgive those around us for the harm that they have caused: then like Rebbe Levi Yitzhak before me I am willing to offer nothing less than salvation for the world.
So tonight, it is time for us to forgive God. We must forgive God for God’s silence in the face of our heartfelt prayers, and we must learn to recognize that silence does not always indicate absence. We must forgive God for our flawed world, the disasters which befall us without warning, the harshness of inexplicable disease and the sudden finality of death.
But we must not let ourselves entirely off the hook either. There is enough food in the world so that no one should go hungry, if only we could learn how to use it effectively, instead of feeding our insatiable need for luxury. We must recognize that natural disasters are happening with frightening frequency in part due to our own addiction to warming the atmosphere with greenhouse gasses. Let us remember that perfecting a world is a partnership between divinity and humanity and while we must learn to forgive God for not creating a flawless world we must also take responsibility for our own failures as stewards of this precious gift.
Also, tonight, as a cure for our broken-heartedness it is time to forgive our religion. It is time to let Judaism off the hook for its shortcomings.
For all the times it failed you in your moments of crisis. For the moments of disconnect you have felt when confronted by an anachronistic law, a chauvinist concept or a text which feels embarrassing in the rosy light of modernity: Forgive it. Recognize that Judaism, like any religion is by its nature a frustratingly flawed attempt at reifying and ritualizing a holy relationship with an ineffable God, but as Jews, it’s the one we’ve got. And in my opinion, and in the opinion of our generations, it represents the best attempts ever offered at defining the indefinable.
And since we are forgiving Judaism, why don’t we forgive the Synagogue as well. Forgive Temple Emanu-El, forgive us for the times we have not always met your needs, and forgive your rabbis and cantor too. Forgive us, for that time we didn’t call, or for not immediately remembering your name. Pardon us, for we are only human; and being human, we are limited, imperfect and prone to personal and interpersonal failings. Forgive these things tonight.
But you must not let yourselves off the hook so easily either. I hope that you will take the time to examine over this next day the amount of effort you have invested in learning about your religion, in experiencing the daily rhythms of your Temple, in calling your clergy and getting to know them, and allowing them to get to know you. Let this year be a year of forgiveness, but also a year of rededication as we work together to build newer, stronger relationships with our Jewish tradition.
Finally, if we really want to heal our broken hearts, and this is the hardest one, I know, we must forgive each other. The neighbor who wronged you somehow – forgive them. The old friend who disappeared in a time of need – forgive them. The family member who slighted you, who disappointed you, who broke your heart in the first place – forgive them. Because these things can never be replaced: a good neighbor, an old friend, and our own flesh and blood. The time for forgiveness has come.
There is a famous teaching by the Hasidic master the Kotzker Rebbe who said: That in this world, “There is nothing as whole as a broken-heart.” What I take this to mean is that from within brokenness comes the potential for wholeness, from amidst loneliness hides the potential for communion, within pain there is the possibility of healing once again.
Let this be the year when we mend our hearts through the power of forgiveness: Forgiving our God for the fragility of our world, forgiving our Judaism for its flaws, and forgiving our friends and our families for their imperfections.
And so I pray this year for a world of forgiveness. For a world of forgiveness is by definition a redeemed world. And like Rebbe Levi Yitzhak before me, I can guarantee you that the power of forgiveness is such that it will ascend to the very throne of heaven, God’s holy seat of judgment on this Yom HaDin, and it will ensure salvation for the Jewish people and the entire world.
The only question is, will we actually have the courage to do it?
Towards a Religious Zionism RH2: 5771
Allow me to begin this morning with a quote taken from an article I was reading just the other day:
“There is a story told of a German Jew of the older generation that when his friends came to him . . . and asked what he thought of the new attacks on the Jews, he looked rather astonished, and said, “They are not new; they are the [same] as the old ones.”
The author of this article then continues:
“I must say with equal justice that the attacks on Zionism which have come lately from press and pulpit are not new. They have been refuted ever so many times, and have been as often repeated. Lest, however, my ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that I have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents, I will state here clearly the reasons for my allegiance to Zionism.”
He makes a good point you know. These arguments which attempt to impinge the legitimacy of the Modern State of Israel, the manifestation of the Zionist endeavor are not new. Indeed they have been around for quite some time. In fact, the article I just quoted was written by one Solomon Schechter, that’s right the Solomon Schechter, in a piece entitled Zionism: A Statement, published in 1906.
Yet, here we stand 104 years later and it is as if his words were ripped from this morning’s newspaper, Time Magazine to be precise, whose cover this week outrageously and irresponsibly claimed to answer: “Why Israelis Don’t Care About Peace.” But these are not the new attacks; they are the same as the old ones.
Let’s be honest, the year 5770, was not an easy one for Israel. With last October came the release of the Goldstone Report, the United Nations sponsored document which levied allegations of war crimes against both the terrorist organization Hamas and the Israeli Army during the Gaza War of 2009.
Then, in March of this past year Vice President Joe Biden arrived in Israel, and was greeted with the announcement of new construction underway in a disputed neighborhood beyond the Green Line in East Jerusalem. Vice President Biden and the Obama administration made their insult extremely plain, prompting several commentators to wonder if we had reached an unprecedented nadir point in Israeli-American relations.
Then of course there were the events of May 31st of this past year, in an incident which has become known to many of us by one infamous word: Flotilla. A Turkish ship bound for the shores of the Gaza Strip in an effort to break Israel’s naval blockade ended in deadly violence, as nine passengers were killed when activists on the ship attacked Israeli combat troops.
In the political realm there was the ill-conceived Conversion bill put forth by Member of Kenneset David Rotem. Not only would this bill have officially handed over conversions to the ultra-orthodox rabbinate, making it nearly impossible for some 300,00 Russian immigrants to convert; it also would have estranged non-Orthodox converts living in the Diaspora, thus imperiling the tenuous bond of Klal Yisrael, the notion that all Jews are part of the same family.
Oh, and all this while Iran, a country whose population seems held hostage by a theocracy of radical extremists, builds a nuclear bomb aimed directly at Tel Aviv.
Like I said, the year 5770 was not an easy one for Israel.
Now many would call me crazy for even talking about Israeli politics from the pulpit given the current climate. Usually it’s a lose-lose situation: you are bound to offend someone no matter what you say.
Well you’re right, so I will not be talking about politics on this Rosh HaShanah. Because one of the most important lessons you can learn in life is to always know who you are, and who you aren’t: so let me start by telling you who I am not.
I am not a political scientist. I am not a politician. I am not a diplomat. I am not an Israeli. And perhaps most importantly I am not a miracle worker, so I will not be able to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict before Musaf.
And simply because I am committed to Israel, have been there numerous times, lived there for a year, studied its history, and I keep the Israeli newspaper HaAretz as my internet homepage, doesn’t mean I am any greater of an expert in the intricacies of the modern social and political landscape of the State of Israel as anyone else in this room.
But let me tell you who I am. I am a Jew and I am a rabbi. This is something I take very seriously, a commitment to inspiring my community to consider their Jewish tradition as an integral and meaningful part of their lives, directing them through the modern thicket of life. I am in the business of doing mitzvot, perfecting the world through the observance of God’s commandments, and I am interested in having you join me on this journey. The time has come to re-affirm our support of the State of Israel, regardless of our political perspective; a support that should be born from our religious commitments. So, as I stand here today, 104 years after Solomon Schechter first penned his words, allow me an attempt at delivering my own statement: a statement on my religious commitment to Zionism.
For me it is a simple equation; my connection to the modern political State of Israel is born from my spiritual attachment to the Jewish religion and its teachings. In short: I am a Zionist because I am a Jew, I am commanded to love Israel, because I am commanded to love my fellow human being, and certainly those who share the destiny of the Jewish people. But now the salient question to explore, is from where exactly in our rich tradition flows our commitment to a specific land, to a specific city, to a specific mountain?
For me the answer is clear: It does not come from our Bible. Yes, you heard me correctly. I believe that our truest attachment to the Holy Land must not be derived from the text of our Torah, or the visions of our Prophets, or the writings found in our scrolls. For certain, there are a myriad of references in our Tanakh, to the Holy Land, the Promised Land, the Land of Canaan, the Judean hills, the Holy City of Jerusalem, or in this morning’s Torah reading: the peak of Mt. Moriah, the bedrock of the Beit HaMikdash. Sure, thumb through the pages of your Bible and the references are all there. But nonetheless it is important for us to recognize that the Bible is not a land deed. You cannot present the text, no matter how sacred, and claim that it contains sufficient historicity to justify modern facts on the ground.
Moreover I believe to read the Bible this way as a modern Conservative Jew is intellectually inconsistent. I was trained very well by my Seminary, the cornerstone of the Conservative movement, that the Bible is not meant to be read literally. And lest you think me a radical, I will remind you that the rabbis of the Mishnah and the Talmud, Hazal, Hachamim Zichronam Livracha also choose the path away from literalism towards a refined interpretation of our Holy Torah. To read the Torah literally is to be a Karaite, a heretic according to the Rabbis; but to read it through the lens of midrashic, interpretive understanding is to be a dutiful Jew.
Finally, the last danger we encounter when we use the Torah as a land deed for the State of Israel is we open the door to the dangers of Bible thumping. You know what I mean, I quote Genesis 15 when God promises the Land to Abram and his ancestors, and you may return fire with Isaiah 1, God’s promise to lay waste to the Holy Land and to exile her children to the corners of the earth. In other words, of course my Torah matters to me, and of course I am inspired by thoughts of our biblical forefathers and mothers roaming the very same hills I have come to know and love in the Land of Israel, but I do not want to bring my Tanakh with me into peace negotiations. For, as Baruch Spinoza once warned:
Every heretic has his prooftext.
No, for me my religious connection to the modern experiment of Zionism does not stem from my reading of the Bible; but it most certainly is born between the pages of my siddur. Next time you are in shul, count the number of times our prayer books mention the words Yerushalayim, (a dozen in Shacharit alone), Tzion, (seventeen times), or Yisrael (I lost count). In the Western Hemisphere, when we pray, and when the sanctuary space allows for it, we face east towards Jerusalem; in the East they face west, directing the entirety of our national prayers towards Eretz Yisrael, Yerushalayim Ir HaKodesh.
The truth is that the Bible is not a historical document but the siddur is. It reflects the poetic history of a people yearning for a return to their homeland. It demonstrates how the land has always been in our thoughts and our prayers, indeed, for generations it has brought tangibility to the ethereal act of prayer itself.
Allow me to tell you a story which illustrates this connection between our kevah, the consistency of our daily prayers, and the kavanah the connection to the land which lies behind them.
Shortly after Eliana and I were married in May of 2005, we decided to go on a year long honeymoon. A week in Montreal, followed by two months at Camp Ramah, capped off with ten heavenly months living in a sun-blessed apartment in Jerusalem. Eliana was studying at Pardes, with classes beginning in early September, but I was studying at the Schechter Institute, whose semester did not begin until after the Jewish holidays, which in that year meant the end of October. Not bad huh? So I spent much of our first two months in Israel, reading stories by S.Y. Agnon, going to the local florist to by herbs and flowers for our garden and exploring the streets of Jerusalem. It also meant that I got to sleep in each morning.
One such morning, excited by the possibility of getting a luxuriously late start on the day, my blissful dreams were interrupted by the obnoxious sounds of Shiputzim, of construction on the Apartment next door. There must have been a thousand workers simultaneously pulling up tile, hammering in nails and using sledgehammers on the opposite wall of our bedroom. Needless to say, I awoke in an ornery mood, put up a pot of coffee and grabbed my tallis and tefillin for what was bound to be a spiritually heartless davening.
I was praying by rote, eyes barely open, mind wandering to far-away places. That is until I reached a certain paragraph of the Amidah, the central prayer of the morning service:
וְלִירוּשָׁלַֽיִם עִירְךָ בְּרַחֲמִים תָּשׁוּב,
In Your mercy God, return to Your city, Jerusalem.
וְתִשְׁכּוֹן בְּתוֹכָהּ כַּאֲשֶׁר דִּבַּֽרְתָּ,
And dwell there as You have promised,
וּבְנֵה אוֹתָהּ בְּקָרוֹב בְּיָמֵֽינוּ בִּנְיַן עוֹלָם,
Rebuild it permanently, speedily, in our day,
וְכִסֵּא דָוִד מְהֵרָה לְתוֹכָהּ תָּכִין.
And establish the throne of David in its midst.
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, בּוֹנֵה יְרוּשָׁלָֽיִם.
Praised are You Adonai, who rebuilds Jerusalem.
In that singular moment, cradled by the cool Jerusalem stones, prayer became real for me.
This is my definition of Religious Zionism. The recognition that my Judaism is so many things: it is a religion, an ethical standard, a way of thinking, a culture and a passion, but in each of its definitions there is a solid, unshakable core: the poetic love between a people and a land.
So now, as a rabbi, it is my duty to explain what this mitzvah of experiencing the love for the State of Israel means in our day, how can we learn to embrace the religious aspects of our Zionism despite the political maelstrom which roars around us.
Firstly, we must go to Israel. If you have not ever been, I want you to seriously explore the possibility that this is the year for you to experience Israel first hand, see its beauty, taste its complexity and make your prayers reality in her embrace. If you have been to Israel before, I want you to go back. I want to go back. It has been far too long since that honeymoon and I want to make excuses no more. Let this be the year we go back to Israel. And most importantly, if you have the ability to send your child on a trip to Israel this year, I urge you to do so. I have seen it with my own eyes: our fabulous teenagers who go to Israel on programs like Ramah Seminar, Alexander Muss High School in Israel, or The March of the Living; they return as changed people. Their maturity strengthened, the connection to Judaism strengthened and their commitment to the Land of our prayers is deepened. There is no greater expression of your willingness to fulfill the mitzvah of v’shinnantam l’vanecha, of teaching your children, then by giving them an Israel experience in their youth.
Secondly, if we want to fulfill our religious obligation of loving Israel, we must commit ourselves to loving its language. We must embrace Hebrew as the national language of the Jewish people, as a link in the chain of the generations and not simply the language of the Bar Mitzvah, or the arcane sounds of the siddur. Ours are the luckiest Jewish generation in history, seeing as we have the ability not only to study our ancient texts, but also to read a newspaper, to write poetry, to philosophize, to invent cures for diseases in a modern Hebrew which is thriving and vibrant. This is precisely why we have added a Modern Hebrew requirement to our religious school at Temple Emanu-El, to instill the love of our national language in each of our wonderful students. Furthermore, I think that when our children go off to college, we should encourage them to study Hebrew, knowing that to learn Mandarin, or Arabic are worthy endeavors for certain, but studying Hebrew and connecting to our fellow Jews who speak it, this is our religious obligation.
Lastly, to love Israel does not mean that we must agree with her every political move. It must not mean that we are to be silent with our critique, uttering not a word of concern. No, this too is love. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in his masterpiece Israel: An Echo of Eternity, “In this world there is no gem which is not in need of refinement, no wheat without chaff, no vineyard without weeds, no roses without thorns. Light and shadow are mingled. There is need of refining, rethinking.” Indeed loving Israel means believing that she loves us in return. That like America, Israel is in need of our love, our support, and yes, our thoughtful challenges as well.
And so I close this statement on my religious commitment to Zionism with one final plea. The time to re-affirm our religious commitment to Israel is now, lest as Schecther said ‘our ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that we have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents,’
We should feel free to argue about the details: the value of settlers vs. pioneers, AIPAC or JStreet, Likkud or Labor, or how many states our solution ought to have. But let us not argue with the larger picture which reveals to us that this land and our people are inexorably linked throughout generations of thoughts and prayer, and the Jewish people, the Hebrew Language and the love of the land are our religious heritage, a legacy we now, more than ever, must see ourselves as obligated to maintain.
Shanah Tovah, and B’Shanah HaBa’ah Biy’rushalayim
“There is a story told of a German Jew of the older generation that when his friends came to him . . . and asked what he thought of the new attacks on the Jews, he looked rather astonished, and said, “They are not new; they are the [same] as the old ones.”
The author of this article then continues:
“I must say with equal justice that the attacks on Zionism which have come lately from press and pulpit are not new. They have been refuted ever so many times, and have been as often repeated. Lest, however, my ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that I have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents, I will state here clearly the reasons for my allegiance to Zionism.”
He makes a good point you know. These arguments which attempt to impinge the legitimacy of the Modern State of Israel, the manifestation of the Zionist endeavor are not new. Indeed they have been around for quite some time. In fact, the article I just quoted was written by one Solomon Schechter, that’s right the Solomon Schechter, in a piece entitled Zionism: A Statement, published in 1906.
Yet, here we stand 104 years later and it is as if his words were ripped from this morning’s newspaper, Time Magazine to be precise, whose cover this week outrageously and irresponsibly claimed to answer: “Why Israelis Don’t Care About Peace.” But these are not the new attacks; they are the same as the old ones.
Let’s be honest, the year 5770, was not an easy one for Israel. With last October came the release of the Goldstone Report, the United Nations sponsored document which levied allegations of war crimes against both the terrorist organization Hamas and the Israeli Army during the Gaza War of 2009.
Then, in March of this past year Vice President Joe Biden arrived in Israel, and was greeted with the announcement of new construction underway in a disputed neighborhood beyond the Green Line in East Jerusalem. Vice President Biden and the Obama administration made their insult extremely plain, prompting several commentators to wonder if we had reached an unprecedented nadir point in Israeli-American relations.
Then of course there were the events of May 31st of this past year, in an incident which has become known to many of us by one infamous word: Flotilla. A Turkish ship bound for the shores of the Gaza Strip in an effort to break Israel’s naval blockade ended in deadly violence, as nine passengers were killed when activists on the ship attacked Israeli combat troops.
In the political realm there was the ill-conceived Conversion bill put forth by Member of Kenneset David Rotem. Not only would this bill have officially handed over conversions to the ultra-orthodox rabbinate, making it nearly impossible for some 300,00 Russian immigrants to convert; it also would have estranged non-Orthodox converts living in the Diaspora, thus imperiling the tenuous bond of Klal Yisrael, the notion that all Jews are part of the same family.
Oh, and all this while Iran, a country whose population seems held hostage by a theocracy of radical extremists, builds a nuclear bomb aimed directly at Tel Aviv.
Like I said, the year 5770 was not an easy one for Israel.
Now many would call me crazy for even talking about Israeli politics from the pulpit given the current climate. Usually it’s a lose-lose situation: you are bound to offend someone no matter what you say.
Well you’re right, so I will not be talking about politics on this Rosh HaShanah. Because one of the most important lessons you can learn in life is to always know who you are, and who you aren’t: so let me start by telling you who I am not.
I am not a political scientist. I am not a politician. I am not a diplomat. I am not an Israeli. And perhaps most importantly I am not a miracle worker, so I will not be able to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict before Musaf.
And simply because I am committed to Israel, have been there numerous times, lived there for a year, studied its history, and I keep the Israeli newspaper HaAretz as my internet homepage, doesn’t mean I am any greater of an expert in the intricacies of the modern social and political landscape of the State of Israel as anyone else in this room.
But let me tell you who I am. I am a Jew and I am a rabbi. This is something I take very seriously, a commitment to inspiring my community to consider their Jewish tradition as an integral and meaningful part of their lives, directing them through the modern thicket of life. I am in the business of doing mitzvot, perfecting the world through the observance of God’s commandments, and I am interested in having you join me on this journey. The time has come to re-affirm our support of the State of Israel, regardless of our political perspective; a support that should be born from our religious commitments. So, as I stand here today, 104 years after Solomon Schechter first penned his words, allow me an attempt at delivering my own statement: a statement on my religious commitment to Zionism.
For me it is a simple equation; my connection to the modern political State of Israel is born from my spiritual attachment to the Jewish religion and its teachings. In short: I am a Zionist because I am a Jew, I am commanded to love Israel, because I am commanded to love my fellow human being, and certainly those who share the destiny of the Jewish people. But now the salient question to explore, is from where exactly in our rich tradition flows our commitment to a specific land, to a specific city, to a specific mountain?
For me the answer is clear: It does not come from our Bible. Yes, you heard me correctly. I believe that our truest attachment to the Holy Land must not be derived from the text of our Torah, or the visions of our Prophets, or the writings found in our scrolls. For certain, there are a myriad of references in our Tanakh, to the Holy Land, the Promised Land, the Land of Canaan, the Judean hills, the Holy City of Jerusalem, or in this morning’s Torah reading: the peak of Mt. Moriah, the bedrock of the Beit HaMikdash. Sure, thumb through the pages of your Bible and the references are all there. But nonetheless it is important for us to recognize that the Bible is not a land deed. You cannot present the text, no matter how sacred, and claim that it contains sufficient historicity to justify modern facts on the ground.
Moreover I believe to read the Bible this way as a modern Conservative Jew is intellectually inconsistent. I was trained very well by my Seminary, the cornerstone of the Conservative movement, that the Bible is not meant to be read literally. And lest you think me a radical, I will remind you that the rabbis of the Mishnah and the Talmud, Hazal, Hachamim Zichronam Livracha also choose the path away from literalism towards a refined interpretation of our Holy Torah. To read the Torah literally is to be a Karaite, a heretic according to the Rabbis; but to read it through the lens of midrashic, interpretive understanding is to be a dutiful Jew.
Finally, the last danger we encounter when we use the Torah as a land deed for the State of Israel is we open the door to the dangers of Bible thumping. You know what I mean, I quote Genesis 15 when God promises the Land to Abram and his ancestors, and you may return fire with Isaiah 1, God’s promise to lay waste to the Holy Land and to exile her children to the corners of the earth. In other words, of course my Torah matters to me, and of course I am inspired by thoughts of our biblical forefathers and mothers roaming the very same hills I have come to know and love in the Land of Israel, but I do not want to bring my Tanakh with me into peace negotiations. For, as Baruch Spinoza once warned:
Every heretic has his prooftext.
No, for me my religious connection to the modern experiment of Zionism does not stem from my reading of the Bible; but it most certainly is born between the pages of my siddur. Next time you are in shul, count the number of times our prayer books mention the words Yerushalayim, (a dozen in Shacharit alone), Tzion, (seventeen times), or Yisrael (I lost count). In the Western Hemisphere, when we pray, and when the sanctuary space allows for it, we face east towards Jerusalem; in the East they face west, directing the entirety of our national prayers towards Eretz Yisrael, Yerushalayim Ir HaKodesh.
The truth is that the Bible is not a historical document but the siddur is. It reflects the poetic history of a people yearning for a return to their homeland. It demonstrates how the land has always been in our thoughts and our prayers, indeed, for generations it has brought tangibility to the ethereal act of prayer itself.
Allow me to tell you a story which illustrates this connection between our kevah, the consistency of our daily prayers, and the kavanah the connection to the land which lies behind them.
Shortly after Eliana and I were married in May of 2005, we decided to go on a year long honeymoon. A week in Montreal, followed by two months at Camp Ramah, capped off with ten heavenly months living in a sun-blessed apartment in Jerusalem. Eliana was studying at Pardes, with classes beginning in early September, but I was studying at the Schechter Institute, whose semester did not begin until after the Jewish holidays, which in that year meant the end of October. Not bad huh? So I spent much of our first two months in Israel, reading stories by S.Y. Agnon, going to the local florist to by herbs and flowers for our garden and exploring the streets of Jerusalem. It also meant that I got to sleep in each morning.
One such morning, excited by the possibility of getting a luxuriously late start on the day, my blissful dreams were interrupted by the obnoxious sounds of Shiputzim, of construction on the Apartment next door. There must have been a thousand workers simultaneously pulling up tile, hammering in nails and using sledgehammers on the opposite wall of our bedroom. Needless to say, I awoke in an ornery mood, put up a pot of coffee and grabbed my tallis and tefillin for what was bound to be a spiritually heartless davening.
I was praying by rote, eyes barely open, mind wandering to far-away places. That is until I reached a certain paragraph of the Amidah, the central prayer of the morning service:
וְלִירוּשָׁלַֽיִם עִירְךָ בְּרַחֲמִים תָּשׁוּב,
In Your mercy God, return to Your city, Jerusalem.
וְתִשְׁכּוֹן בְּתוֹכָהּ כַּאֲשֶׁר דִּבַּֽרְתָּ,
And dwell there as You have promised,
וּבְנֵה אוֹתָהּ בְּקָרוֹב בְּיָמֵֽינוּ בִּנְיַן עוֹלָם,
Rebuild it permanently, speedily, in our day,
וְכִסֵּא דָוִד מְהֵרָה לְתוֹכָהּ תָּכִין.
And establish the throne of David in its midst.
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, בּוֹנֵה יְרוּשָׁלָֽיִם.
Praised are You Adonai, who rebuilds Jerusalem.
In that singular moment, cradled by the cool Jerusalem stones, prayer became real for me.
This is my definition of Religious Zionism. The recognition that my Judaism is so many things: it is a religion, an ethical standard, a way of thinking, a culture and a passion, but in each of its definitions there is a solid, unshakable core: the poetic love between a people and a land.
So now, as a rabbi, it is my duty to explain what this mitzvah of experiencing the love for the State of Israel means in our day, how can we learn to embrace the religious aspects of our Zionism despite the political maelstrom which roars around us.
Firstly, we must go to Israel. If you have not ever been, I want you to seriously explore the possibility that this is the year for you to experience Israel first hand, see its beauty, taste its complexity and make your prayers reality in her embrace. If you have been to Israel before, I want you to go back. I want to go back. It has been far too long since that honeymoon and I want to make excuses no more. Let this be the year we go back to Israel. And most importantly, if you have the ability to send your child on a trip to Israel this year, I urge you to do so. I have seen it with my own eyes: our fabulous teenagers who go to Israel on programs like Ramah Seminar, Alexander Muss High School in Israel, or The March of the Living; they return as changed people. Their maturity strengthened, the connection to Judaism strengthened and their commitment to the Land of our prayers is deepened. There is no greater expression of your willingness to fulfill the mitzvah of v’shinnantam l’vanecha, of teaching your children, then by giving them an Israel experience in their youth.
Secondly, if we want to fulfill our religious obligation of loving Israel, we must commit ourselves to loving its language. We must embrace Hebrew as the national language of the Jewish people, as a link in the chain of the generations and not simply the language of the Bar Mitzvah, or the arcane sounds of the siddur. Ours are the luckiest Jewish generation in history, seeing as we have the ability not only to study our ancient texts, but also to read a newspaper, to write poetry, to philosophize, to invent cures for diseases in a modern Hebrew which is thriving and vibrant. This is precisely why we have added a Modern Hebrew requirement to our religious school at Temple Emanu-El, to instill the love of our national language in each of our wonderful students. Furthermore, I think that when our children go off to college, we should encourage them to study Hebrew, knowing that to learn Mandarin, or Arabic are worthy endeavors for certain, but studying Hebrew and connecting to our fellow Jews who speak it, this is our religious obligation.
Lastly, to love Israel does not mean that we must agree with her every political move. It must not mean that we are to be silent with our critique, uttering not a word of concern. No, this too is love. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote in his masterpiece Israel: An Echo of Eternity, “In this world there is no gem which is not in need of refinement, no wheat without chaff, no vineyard without weeds, no roses without thorns. Light and shadow are mingled. There is need of refining, rethinking.” Indeed loving Israel means believing that she loves us in return. That like America, Israel is in need of our love, our support, and yes, our thoughtful challenges as well.
And so I close this statement on my religious commitment to Zionism with one final plea. The time to re-affirm our religious commitment to Israel is now, lest as Schecther said ‘our ignoring direct challenges . . . be taken as proof that we have at last become converted by the arguments of our opponents,’
We should feel free to argue about the details: the value of settlers vs. pioneers, AIPAC or JStreet, Likkud or Labor, or how many states our solution ought to have. But let us not argue with the larger picture which reveals to us that this land and our people are inexorably linked throughout generations of thoughts and prayer, and the Jewish people, the Hebrew Language and the love of the land are our religious heritage, a legacy we now, more than ever, must see ourselves as obligated to maintain.
Shanah Tovah, and B’Shanah HaBa’ah Biy’rushalayim
The Year of the Hallelujah RH1: 5771
Sometimes I find myself flipping through the channels at night, and I will stumble upon a Christian television preacher. Now maybe it is out of a sense of curiosity for the other, or perhaps it is due to a feeling of shared purpose, or maybe it is just an attempt to pick up some tips of the trade, but often I will tune in for a while. No matter how often I watch, I am always surprised by a few things which impress me. First off, I notice the sets. Elaborately constructed sets, with a giant rotating globe in the background, a handsome lectern adorned with the brand of a particular preacher of the logo of a particular church, a robed choir perched on risers, waiting to raise their voices in praise. But more than anything, I notice the crowd. The awesome crowd of tens of thousands who come to hear the power of Scripture, whose hearts are open to the possibility of being moved, who have no qualms about shouting the famous refrain: Hallelujah!
Now don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not jealous. I don’t crave an elaborate set to frame the experience of our prayer; and I learned long ago that it is not the lectern that matters, but rather the words which emanate from the lecturer. And as I look out this morning on this soaring crowd of nearly a thousand, I do not envy those who must try to connect personally with their congregants across miles of rows, or through the stale space of the television broadcast.
But since the Jewish New Year is the time for honesty, allow me to share with you what does make me envious of these Christian preachers. I am jealous of that singular word, so often ringing from the lips of their congregants, that word which for millennia has given voice to the indescribable song of the soul: Hallelujah.
I know, some of you might cringe when you hear this word…and I understand why. Too often the word is seen as a cliché call and response to a preacher’s rhythmic rant. For many of us, this word Hallelujah feels a bit like the calling card of the hyper-faithful; those who attend tent revivals and are prone to speaking in tongues. In other words, this Hallelujah doesn’t feel rational, it doesn’t feel authentic, and it certainly doesn’t feel Jewish.
But the truth is, this couldn’t be farther from the truth. I must admit that I have a bit of fun when I ask our children here at Emanu-El, what is the Hebrew word for Hallelujah? And I watch as their brains begin to work overtime. It doesn’t even occur to them, and perhaps not to many of us that this word Hallelujah, the word which has become so ubiquitous among our Christian friends, is truly a Hebrew word, and what’s more, it is an authentically Jewish concept.
Yes, that’s right, the word Hallelujah is ours, and it always has been.
And today, on this New Year’s Day, it is time for us to take it back!
First let us begin with some important facts. The word Hallelujah is a hybrid, containing the Hebrew root, Hey Lamed Lamed, Halal, meaning to praise with the word Yah, the yud and the hey borrowed from the Divine name of Yud Hey Vav Hey, which we now pronounce as Adonai. Put together, Hallelujah simply means: Praise God! In fact, the Hebrew word Hallelujah appears 24 times in the Book of Psalms, especially in a series of Psalms we use as part of our davening each morning.
These poems, Psalms 146-150, are the final five poems found in the Book of Psalms, and they each begin and end with the word Hallelujah. And if you come to our morning minyan some time, you will discover one of the greatest sounds in the world: the sonorous tones of one Louie Yosinoff, age 92, as he articulates for the entire chapel to hear: Hallelujah! Praise the Lord.
So just what are we trying to express when we invoke the power of the Hallelujah? Let’s take a look at one of those Psalms we read each morning to lend us its guidance. Do me a favor, please turn to page 62 in your Mahzorim. Here at the bottom we find Psalm 148, a poem which creates for us a litany of praise. First we begin by exalting the architect of our universe, the heavenly Creator who designed the sun and the moon, commanded the stars to shine in the night sky. Next, however, the Psalmist changes direction, heaping praise unto God for the wonderful diversity of experience which exists in our word. Fire and hail, snow and smoke, mountains and hills, wild and tame beasts, creeping creatures and winged birds, men and women, young and old, Let all praise the glory of Adonai: Hallelujah!
So the first thing we are trying to achieve through the power of the Hallelujah, is a sense of holiness and a sense of wholeness, a recognition of the Godliness that can be found in our world, when we only take the time to notice it. Think to those moments in life when you have been overwhelmed with a sense of the world’s perfection: on that cruise to Alaska with your loved one, hiking through the forests of Yellowstone with your wide-eyed child, counting the countless stars in the sky as you sat alone near a Bedouin tent in the Negev, sitting beneath a wide-branched willow with a father who has long since passed away, or looking out on the blue waters of Block Island Sound from atop your bicycle as your daughter’s sleeping head bobs on your back. Have you ever had moments like these? If you have, then right now I encourage you to close your eyes, take yourself back there for just a moment and allow yourselves to speak the holy word: Hallelujah.
And now, like Psalm 148, let us pause to take notice of the profound diversity which lends life its balance. Because life is not simply about living in neutral, but rather it is about experiencing the poles, recognizing that our world is made whole by appreciating the opposites. What can we say to God for the comfort of the warm sun on our faces in July; as well as the soft licking of a New England snowflake in December? What should be our response to the spider’s web and the eagle’s soaring? How do we give thanks for the calm of the seas or the raging of the thunderstorm? How can we ever annunciate our praise for the difference of the sexes, for the nervous excitement of the first date and for the comfortable ease of finishing each other’s sentences? How should we give thanks for the vigor of youth and the wisdom of old age? For the potential of new life, and the comfort that comes with a life well-lived? There is only one word which dares cross our lips as an answer to the perfection of God’s dichotomous designs: say it with me now: Hallelujah.
Now if you would be so kind as to do me another favor, please turn to page 63 in your mahzorim as we read responsively in the English of Psalm 150, the final poem in the Book of Psalms:
Halleluyah! Praise God in the sanctuary, praise God in the powerful heavens.
Praise God for the mighty deeds, praise God for infinite greatness.
Praise God with the shofar call, praise God with harp and lyre.
Praise God with drum and dance, praise God with flute and strings.
Praise God with crashing cymbals, praise God with resounding cymbals.
Let every breath of life praise ADONAI, Halleluyah!
This famous Psalm is not only recited as part of our daily liturgy, it will also make an appearance during our Rosh HaShanah Musaf, as part of the Shof’rot service.
In his beautiful commentary to the Book of Psalms, entitled Our Haven Our Strength, my colleague Rabbi Martin S. Cohen beautifully explains the theological import of Psalm 150, when he writes:
The great goal of human existence, the poet implies, is to praise God by becoming lost in a web of exultation . . . For most of us, language will fail miserably as a vehicle for conveying the deepest of our spiritual feelings even to ourselves, let alone to God. The poet suggests, therefore, that we abandon the notion that human speech is the sole acceptable vehicle for prater and praise and we should instead seek to communicate our most profound thoughts outside the realm of language: with blasts of the shofar and with the gentle music of the lyre.”
Rabbi Cohen points out an important lesson for us. This Psalm teaches us that the true meaning of the word Hallelujah is that we are placed here on earth with the simple task of giving praise to our Creator, and yet we do not have the verbal tools to succeed in this task. Our words and our actions fall painfully short: Or as the siddur say it best:
Were our mouths to fill with song as the sea,
Our tongues to sing endlessly like waves,
Our lips offer praise like the limitless sky . . .
We would still be unable to express our gratitude to You, Adonai our God and God of our ancestors or to praise Your name for even one of the myriad moments of kindness with which You have blessed us.
What Psalm 150 has to teach us, is that despite the shortcomings of our language, the overwhelming power of the Hallelujah can nonetheless be found in one of our earthly tools; through the unshakable power of music.
Music allows us to transcend our mortal limitations and stretch onward and skyward with our gratitude for the gift of life. Whether it is Mozart’s inspiring horn concertos, a Puccini aria, or the Beatles’ White Album, music reminds us that there is so much more to life than our jobs, our portfolios and our to-do-lists. Listening to a great piece of music shows us that there is majesty in this world, there is meaning, there is reason to live at all. In a word, music is the ultimate: Hallelujah.
For me personally, no popular song demonstrates the spiritual power of music more than Leonard Cohen’s masterpiece entitled: Hallelujah. Now, Leonard Cohen is certainly no Pavorati, and although his version of the song should be valued for its originality and its authenticity, I am nonetheless grateful that other artists have leant their voices to this song, such as Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright, KD Lang and Brandi Carlisle. Of course, the younger people in attendance this morning will best recognize the Rufus Wainwright version from the movie Shrek.
But no matter who sings it, the results are viscerally the same.
And the last verse perhaps puts it best:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah; Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
And although the verses are each inspiring, borrowing from Biblical allusions to King David and Samson, the true power of the song comes in its one word chorus: Hallelujah.
Simply singing this word, combining the emotion of our souls with the power of music magically transports us. Can you feel it? That serendipitous moment when you first met your love? Hallelujah. That time of overwhelming joy as you first held your newborn child? Hallelujah. The peace that comes with the recognition that life is too short to be burdened with worry or complaint? Hallelujah. The stunning realization that we are but a collection of complex carbon, and yet we can see, we can sing, we can think? Hallelujah.
Which brings me to the last line of Psalm 150, the closing line for the entire Book of Psalms and one I want to encourage us to take with us as a mantra for the coming year:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
In these modern times it is too easy to live our lives in a uninspiring rush. We are numb to moments of meaning. We hurry past our children as they grow old before our eyes. We take for granted the support of a spouse, the devotion of a friend. We rarely take the time to notice the nature which surrounds us, even as it disappears from our lives. We are living in a state of spiritual narcolepsy, choosing to sleep though days, which turn into weeks, which turn into lives.
This year I want us to take seriously the challenge of the Hallelujah. I want us to reclaim this word, break it free from the cliché of the call and response, and incorporate it into our lives as a pathway towards meaning. And let me tell you how.
As I wrote this sermon I received an email from a congregant who was on a vacation visiting the majesty of Arcadia Park in Maine. “I am sorry I won’t be able to attend the meeting on Monday night she said, but please fill me in when I get back.” I replied to her email using five simple words: Say a Hallelujah for me.
So this year I am challenging you to make a change, one that will help to bring purpose, praise and peace into your lives: I implore you to practice saying Hallelujah.
When you see beauty in the natural world, with the changing of the leaves, the first snow of winter or the courage of the crocus: say it: Hallelujah.
When you take pride in your children, watching their first steps, celebrating their ascension into maturity, or rejoicing at their becoming parents themselves: say it: Hallelujah.
When you feel loved in your life, the warm grip of your partner, the supportive hug of your friends, the embrace of your community: say it: Hallelujah.
And finally, when you notice God’s fingerprints in this world of ours, the sun on your face and the stars in the sky, when you slow down to notice the rhythm of your beating heart, the strength of your muscles, the song of your soul; and when you pause to reflect upon the countless sea of breaths in our lives: then take the time to stop, dedicating that one breath to the singular purpose of praise and say:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
Now don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not jealous. I don’t crave an elaborate set to frame the experience of our prayer; and I learned long ago that it is not the lectern that matters, but rather the words which emanate from the lecturer. And as I look out this morning on this soaring crowd of nearly a thousand, I do not envy those who must try to connect personally with their congregants across miles of rows, or through the stale space of the television broadcast.
But since the Jewish New Year is the time for honesty, allow me to share with you what does make me envious of these Christian preachers. I am jealous of that singular word, so often ringing from the lips of their congregants, that word which for millennia has given voice to the indescribable song of the soul: Hallelujah.
I know, some of you might cringe when you hear this word…and I understand why. Too often the word is seen as a cliché call and response to a preacher’s rhythmic rant. For many of us, this word Hallelujah feels a bit like the calling card of the hyper-faithful; those who attend tent revivals and are prone to speaking in tongues. In other words, this Hallelujah doesn’t feel rational, it doesn’t feel authentic, and it certainly doesn’t feel Jewish.
But the truth is, this couldn’t be farther from the truth. I must admit that I have a bit of fun when I ask our children here at Emanu-El, what is the Hebrew word for Hallelujah? And I watch as their brains begin to work overtime. It doesn’t even occur to them, and perhaps not to many of us that this word Hallelujah, the word which has become so ubiquitous among our Christian friends, is truly a Hebrew word, and what’s more, it is an authentically Jewish concept.
Yes, that’s right, the word Hallelujah is ours, and it always has been.
And today, on this New Year’s Day, it is time for us to take it back!
First let us begin with some important facts. The word Hallelujah is a hybrid, containing the Hebrew root, Hey Lamed Lamed, Halal, meaning to praise with the word Yah, the yud and the hey borrowed from the Divine name of Yud Hey Vav Hey, which we now pronounce as Adonai. Put together, Hallelujah simply means: Praise God! In fact, the Hebrew word Hallelujah appears 24 times in the Book of Psalms, especially in a series of Psalms we use as part of our davening each morning.
These poems, Psalms 146-150, are the final five poems found in the Book of Psalms, and they each begin and end with the word Hallelujah. And if you come to our morning minyan some time, you will discover one of the greatest sounds in the world: the sonorous tones of one Louie Yosinoff, age 92, as he articulates for the entire chapel to hear: Hallelujah! Praise the Lord.
So just what are we trying to express when we invoke the power of the Hallelujah? Let’s take a look at one of those Psalms we read each morning to lend us its guidance. Do me a favor, please turn to page 62 in your Mahzorim. Here at the bottom we find Psalm 148, a poem which creates for us a litany of praise. First we begin by exalting the architect of our universe, the heavenly Creator who designed the sun and the moon, commanded the stars to shine in the night sky. Next, however, the Psalmist changes direction, heaping praise unto God for the wonderful diversity of experience which exists in our word. Fire and hail, snow and smoke, mountains and hills, wild and tame beasts, creeping creatures and winged birds, men and women, young and old, Let all praise the glory of Adonai: Hallelujah!
So the first thing we are trying to achieve through the power of the Hallelujah, is a sense of holiness and a sense of wholeness, a recognition of the Godliness that can be found in our world, when we only take the time to notice it. Think to those moments in life when you have been overwhelmed with a sense of the world’s perfection: on that cruise to Alaska with your loved one, hiking through the forests of Yellowstone with your wide-eyed child, counting the countless stars in the sky as you sat alone near a Bedouin tent in the Negev, sitting beneath a wide-branched willow with a father who has long since passed away, or looking out on the blue waters of Block Island Sound from atop your bicycle as your daughter’s sleeping head bobs on your back. Have you ever had moments like these? If you have, then right now I encourage you to close your eyes, take yourself back there for just a moment and allow yourselves to speak the holy word: Hallelujah.
And now, like Psalm 148, let us pause to take notice of the profound diversity which lends life its balance. Because life is not simply about living in neutral, but rather it is about experiencing the poles, recognizing that our world is made whole by appreciating the opposites. What can we say to God for the comfort of the warm sun on our faces in July; as well as the soft licking of a New England snowflake in December? What should be our response to the spider’s web and the eagle’s soaring? How do we give thanks for the calm of the seas or the raging of the thunderstorm? How can we ever annunciate our praise for the difference of the sexes, for the nervous excitement of the first date and for the comfortable ease of finishing each other’s sentences? How should we give thanks for the vigor of youth and the wisdom of old age? For the potential of new life, and the comfort that comes with a life well-lived? There is only one word which dares cross our lips as an answer to the perfection of God’s dichotomous designs: say it with me now: Hallelujah.
Now if you would be so kind as to do me another favor, please turn to page 63 in your mahzorim as we read responsively in the English of Psalm 150, the final poem in the Book of Psalms:
Halleluyah! Praise God in the sanctuary, praise God in the powerful heavens.
Praise God for the mighty deeds, praise God for infinite greatness.
Praise God with the shofar call, praise God with harp and lyre.
Praise God with drum and dance, praise God with flute and strings.
Praise God with crashing cymbals, praise God with resounding cymbals.
Let every breath of life praise ADONAI, Halleluyah!
This famous Psalm is not only recited as part of our daily liturgy, it will also make an appearance during our Rosh HaShanah Musaf, as part of the Shof’rot service.
In his beautiful commentary to the Book of Psalms, entitled Our Haven Our Strength, my colleague Rabbi Martin S. Cohen beautifully explains the theological import of Psalm 150, when he writes:
The great goal of human existence, the poet implies, is to praise God by becoming lost in a web of exultation . . . For most of us, language will fail miserably as a vehicle for conveying the deepest of our spiritual feelings even to ourselves, let alone to God. The poet suggests, therefore, that we abandon the notion that human speech is the sole acceptable vehicle for prater and praise and we should instead seek to communicate our most profound thoughts outside the realm of language: with blasts of the shofar and with the gentle music of the lyre.”
Rabbi Cohen points out an important lesson for us. This Psalm teaches us that the true meaning of the word Hallelujah is that we are placed here on earth with the simple task of giving praise to our Creator, and yet we do not have the verbal tools to succeed in this task. Our words and our actions fall painfully short: Or as the siddur say it best:
Were our mouths to fill with song as the sea,
Our tongues to sing endlessly like waves,
Our lips offer praise like the limitless sky . . .
We would still be unable to express our gratitude to You, Adonai our God and God of our ancestors or to praise Your name for even one of the myriad moments of kindness with which You have blessed us.
What Psalm 150 has to teach us, is that despite the shortcomings of our language, the overwhelming power of the Hallelujah can nonetheless be found in one of our earthly tools; through the unshakable power of music.
Music allows us to transcend our mortal limitations and stretch onward and skyward with our gratitude for the gift of life. Whether it is Mozart’s inspiring horn concertos, a Puccini aria, or the Beatles’ White Album, music reminds us that there is so much more to life than our jobs, our portfolios and our to-do-lists. Listening to a great piece of music shows us that there is majesty in this world, there is meaning, there is reason to live at all. In a word, music is the ultimate: Hallelujah.
For me personally, no popular song demonstrates the spiritual power of music more than Leonard Cohen’s masterpiece entitled: Hallelujah. Now, Leonard Cohen is certainly no Pavorati, and although his version of the song should be valued for its originality and its authenticity, I am nonetheless grateful that other artists have leant their voices to this song, such as Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright, KD Lang and Brandi Carlisle. Of course, the younger people in attendance this morning will best recognize the Rufus Wainwright version from the movie Shrek.
But no matter who sings it, the results are viscerally the same.
And the last verse perhaps puts it best:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah; Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
And although the verses are each inspiring, borrowing from Biblical allusions to King David and Samson, the true power of the song comes in its one word chorus: Hallelujah.
Simply singing this word, combining the emotion of our souls with the power of music magically transports us. Can you feel it? That serendipitous moment when you first met your love? Hallelujah. That time of overwhelming joy as you first held your newborn child? Hallelujah. The peace that comes with the recognition that life is too short to be burdened with worry or complaint? Hallelujah. The stunning realization that we are but a collection of complex carbon, and yet we can see, we can sing, we can think? Hallelujah.
Which brings me to the last line of Psalm 150, the closing line for the entire Book of Psalms and one I want to encourage us to take with us as a mantra for the coming year:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
In these modern times it is too easy to live our lives in a uninspiring rush. We are numb to moments of meaning. We hurry past our children as they grow old before our eyes. We take for granted the support of a spouse, the devotion of a friend. We rarely take the time to notice the nature which surrounds us, even as it disappears from our lives. We are living in a state of spiritual narcolepsy, choosing to sleep though days, which turn into weeks, which turn into lives.
This year I want us to take seriously the challenge of the Hallelujah. I want us to reclaim this word, break it free from the cliché of the call and response, and incorporate it into our lives as a pathway towards meaning. And let me tell you how.
As I wrote this sermon I received an email from a congregant who was on a vacation visiting the majesty of Arcadia Park in Maine. “I am sorry I won’t be able to attend the meeting on Monday night she said, but please fill me in when I get back.” I replied to her email using five simple words: Say a Hallelujah for me.
So this year I am challenging you to make a change, one that will help to bring purpose, praise and peace into your lives: I implore you to practice saying Hallelujah.
When you see beauty in the natural world, with the changing of the leaves, the first snow of winter or the courage of the crocus: say it: Hallelujah.
When you take pride in your children, watching their first steps, celebrating their ascension into maturity, or rejoicing at their becoming parents themselves: say it: Hallelujah.
When you feel loved in your life, the warm grip of your partner, the supportive hug of your friends, the embrace of your community: say it: Hallelujah.
And finally, when you notice God’s fingerprints in this world of ours, the sun on your face and the stars in the sky, when you slow down to notice the rhythm of your beating heart, the strength of your muscles, the song of your soul; and when you pause to reflect upon the countless sea of breaths in our lives: then take the time to stop, dedicating that one breath to the singular purpose of praise and say:
כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָהּ הַֽלְלוּיָֽהּ:
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
Let every breath of life praise Adonai, Hallelujah.
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