Well it’s official. Ayelet has begun to talk and the words are coming out in droves. First it was Abba, then it was Abe her puppy, now it’s Ima, milk, cheese; you name it, there is a recognizable one syllable sound slightly reminiscent of a word. And now, we’ve even moved on to sentences – if that’s what you want to call them; basically an ‘I’ added on to any of those mono-syllabic words of hers.
But of all of Ayelet’s words, there is one that is truly near and dear to my heart. One word, and now one sentence that makes me pause and recognize the truly important things in life: and that word is shul.
Shul. She started saying it several months ago. Where is Aba going? we would ask. ‘Shul!’ she would say with delight. Why are you putting on that dress? ‘Shul!’ Where do we go on Shabbas? ‘Shul!’ And now comes the sentence: she sees me putting on my coat – ‘I shul! I shul,’ and she wants to come too! And the truth is she means it – she loves it here. She is just the newest in a long line of Jews who feel the same way.
Shul, is a Yiddish word which originally meant ‘school’ but quickly became synonymous with the synagogue. After all, the synagogue is the place where learning takes place, for adults and for children, and what are we really if we are not a school?
But the truth is that the word shul is much more evocative than merely ‘school.’ It is ripe with nostalgia of days gone by. It is the word our parents and our grandparents used as they put on their coats and walked out the door. It is a word that has echoed through the Jewish home for centuries – Where are we going? We are going to shul.
And so, shul is a very powerful word for me. Much more powerful, I must admit, than the word Temple. Rabbi Ismar Schorsch, Chancellor Emeritus of the Jewish Theological Seminary, agrees. In an article called “A Synagogue is Not a Temple”, he explains that early 19th century German reformers re-cast the synagogue and the worship service in the language of the Temple; denoting a place where Schorsch says, “one came to listen – not to daven.”
But while Chancellor Schorsch certainly preferrs the word synagogue to temple, we nonetheless should examine what that word represents in terms of its development and its connotation. Synagogue is a Greek word meaning an assembly of people who come together to learn. It derives from the Hellenistic period and is likely a Greek translation of the Hebrew word K’neset, or assembly.
But why would we choose to call ourselves by a Greek translation? Why not use the original Hebrew, as they do in Israel and call ourselves a Beit K’nesset, a house of assembly. After all, that is what we do, we come together, to pray, to learn, to eat, to kibbitz, to commune.
And among the many other descriptive names for this place that are floating around out there – there is one more, one that you may have heard about recently, especially if you read through the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism’s Strategic Draft – and that is the word kehillah.
As the USCJ explains in their Strategic Plan:
“The change in language from “synagogue” or “congregation” to “kehilla”[SIC] is more than semantic. It reflects two concepts: first, it focuses on the raison d’être of a congregation or synagogue, i.e., that it is a sacred community. Second, it signals a welcome to those
who resonate with the ideas of Conservative Judaism . . ., but who do not necessarily belong to official Conservative congregations or feel comfortable with the “Conservative movement” label.”
Now it is important to point out that the concept of a Kehillah as an appropriate name for a Synagogue is not a new one by any means. The word Kehillah appears once in the Torah, in Smichut, that is in construct with another word in the famous pasuk:
תּוֹרָה צִוָּה-לָנוּ מֹשֶׁה, מֽוֹרָשָׁה קְהִלַּת יַֽעֲקֹֽב:
“Moses charged us with the Torah, the inheritance of the community of Jacob.” (Deut. 33:4)
Also, many famous synagogues around the world have inscribed on their cornerstones the letters kuf, kuf: standing for the Hebrew words Kehillah Kedosha – a holy community.
And of course the root word for Kehillah, Kuf, Hey, Lamed, appears most famously in its verb form as the name of this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat VaYakhel.
Our parasha begins this morning with the verse:
וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה אֶֽת-כָּל-עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם,
אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרים אֲשֶׁר-צִוָּה יְהוָֹה לַֽעֲשׂת אֹתָֽם:
“Then Moses assembled the entire Israelite community and said to them: These are the things that the LORD has commanded you to do.”
This first word of our Parasha, VaYakhel is the key. The commentators explain that you cannot read this word without understanding the context which preceded it. On the heels of Heyt HaEgel, the Sin of the Golden Calf, the Jewish people had been brought to the brink of destruction. Through Moses’ intervention with God they were saved; and as Rashi explains, the day of their salvation was on Yom Kippur. Thus our parasha this morning begins the very next day. As Rabbi Shaul Yisraeli explains in his sefer Eretz Hemdah: When the children of Israel received the Torah they were united as one; but when they sinned with the Golden Calf they separated and warred with one another, but here the work of the Tabernacle was meant to atone for the Heyt HaEgel,
לכן השתדל משה להקהילם למען יחזרו למצבם שבו היו
במעמד הר סיני
So Moses tried to gather them all together in order that they return to their former state of unity that they felt at Mt. Sinai.
So which is it? What are we to be in this, the twenty-first century? How will we respond to the needs of a changing clientele, a Judaism that is utterly free from the fetters of convention? Are we to respond in English, in Greek, in Yiddish or in Hebrew? Are we to be a Temple, a Synagogue, a Shul or a Kehillah.
The truest answer is: it doesn’t matter. No matter what, it is simply a question of semantics. And despite USCJ’s best efforts, a name change will not serve as a panacea for all ills. A Shul by any other name will still struggle to bring in a new and increasingly distant generation of Jews. A Synagogue by any other moniker will still evoke the past. And a homogenous alternative minyan by any title will still fall short of being the kehillah that it so desperately trying to be. No, the truth is that the name does not matter – but the content most certainly does.
So what, I ask, is the essence of a kehillah? I believe the first answer is: it must be multi-generational. Ramban, in his comment to the first verse of our portion states “Moses then assembled the whole Israelite community;” this included men, women and children. We cannot be a community unless we recognize that our lives are bettered by the presence of others. This means giving rides to the elderly when they wish to come to a program, this may mean connecting to a havurah of other empty-nesters, this means welcoming back a college kid with a hug, celebrating our teens as they advance in USY, and it means supporting our religious school and our day school here in our community.
Secondly, in order to succeed a kehillah must have warmth. Not physical warmth (in this way we can sometimes be too warm!), but in emotional warmth. In other words a kehillah must try to be the antithesis of modern secular society – which has become a collection of ‘good fences’ which indeed make for poor neighbors. We must fight the urge to shut ourselves in – instead making efforts to reach out to those who are new, to those who are in need and to those who are lonely.
Finally, a kehillah must strive to be a place of spirituality, a place where we yearn for a closer connection to God and to our tradition. Sometimes this can be the most difficult part. But a kehillah must be about Judaism. It must be saturated with its values, its principles, its words, its shabbat and its God. A Kehillah without God, will never merit the all important adjective – kedoshah, holy.
So now, one final word of muted regret: Alas, I recognize that I am preaching to the proverbial choir. Your very presence here this shabbas attests to your connection to this kehillah, this temple, this shul, this synagogue. You know the power of community.
But what I am also confident in, is the fact that while there are many Jews out there who are not familiar with the word kehillah, who do not wax nostalgic about the word shul, who are not drawn in by traditional denominational notions of synagogues or temples, nonetheless, I am certain they are cognizant that they are missing something.
In a world that is global they are craving proximity. In a life that is isolating they are longing for connection. And in a time that can feel so desperate, they look for the light of God in their life. So no matter what our name; our job is to reach out, to bring them in and to show them how goodly life can be in this, our kehillah kedoshah.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Afraid of the Dark: Bo 5771
So there I stood, in one of the cool and moist underground caves which typify the Dixie Caverns outside of Roanoke, Virginia; trying to make sure that the forty Camp Ramah teenagers I was in charge of did not cause too much trouble, when suddenly my Rosh Edah, Rabbi Avi Katz Orlow says to the group, ‘Ok, everyone stand shoulder-to-shoulder up against the wall of the cave.’ Slowly, the kids began to move, and ultimately they stood in a tight line in relative silence. ‘Face the wall,’ Avi shouted, and when they did he shined his heavy-duty flashlight toward their backs, casting their shadows against the wall. ‘Read,’ Avi said, as he handed me a small book. So I read.
The book he handed me was Plato’s The Republic, and the particular section was the famous Allegory of the Cave. In it Plato imagines a group of human beings who are made to sit in a dark cave, chained so that they may only look straight ahead of them, staring at the wall. Behind them is a fire, and men are walking, speaking and carrying objects in front of this fire – casting their shadows upon the opposite wall. In this situation, Plato explains, a person who was forced to watch these shadows on the wall, and therefore knew of no other reality, would surely come to the conclusion that these dark images were actual beings, with real voices, carrying real objects, and that this world of mere passing shadow was indeed the very epitome of reality.
But then, Plato (through the character of Aristotle) asks us to imagine that one such person was freed from their chains and forced to look around at his true situation; would he not be overwhelmed by such a revelation: the existence of the fire, the reality of the players and the actuality of the objects they were carrying? Furthermore, if that person were then taken up a rugged ascent and brought out of the cave into the sunlight, would not their understanding of the world be irreparably shattered? Surely the light of the sun would pain them and, until their eyes adjusted, they would certainly be unable to even look at another human being and see their bodily image as it truly is. Thus, Plato proves, perception truly is reality.
I’m not sure that group of forty teenagers would remember a single detail of this story – but I remember it well. Not only because it was the first time I had read the work of Plato, and not only because it typifies the unique approach to education that Camp Ramah offers its children, but ultimately I remember this incident because of its unfortunate truth. That we human beings are sadly chained to our limited perceptions; we stare ahead at the wall, never daring to turn and see the world as it truly is. We take both darkness and shadow as givens in this world of ours, and over time, we have allowed our eyes to adjust to this unnatural lack of light.
Which brings me to this morning’s Parasha, Parashat Bo, which continues the narrative of the Exodus of B’nei Yisrael out of the slavery and degradation of Mitzrayim. In Parashat Bo, God delivers the final three plagues upon the hardened-heart of Pharaoh, the Egyptian people, and their gods; the plagues of Locusts, Darkness, and the Killing of the First-Born. While the final plague Makkat B’chorot, the Killing of the First-Born, is no doubt the most devastating, the penultimate plague, hoshekh, or darkness, must have been the most terrifying.
The Torah tells us that the Lord said to Moses
וַיֹּאמֶר ה' אֶל-מֹשֶׁה נְטֵה יָֽדְךָ עַל-הַשָּׁמַיִם, וִיהִי חֹשֶׁךְ עַל-אֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם, וְיָמֵשׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ:
“Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.” (Exodus 10:21)
This final phrase of this verse “v’yameish hoshekh”, “a darkness that can be touched,” has puzzled commentators for centuries.
The 16th century commentator Rabbi Ovadiah ben Ya’akov S’forno remarks that this darkness was not like the darkness we experience at night. That ‘natural’ darkness of night, S’forno explains, is simply air that is ready at any moment to take on the light; whereas the ninth plague of hoshekh is an ‘unnatural darkness’ – and even if you shined light upon it, all would remain in shadow. S’forno’s explanation is indeed terrifying. Imagine a darkness so thick that it actually repelled light; reminiscent of modern physics’ understanding of a black hole, not simply darkness, but actually the very antithesis of light itself.
A much more modern rabbi, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, offers a more scientific explanation. He understands the Torah’s words “v’yameish hoshekh”, as suggesting that the plague was actually “a khamsin, a sandstorm of a kind not unfamiliar in Egypt, which can last for several days, producing sand- and dust-filled air that obliterates the light of the sun.” This kind of hoshekh, Rabbi Sacks explains, is the kind that could indeed be touched.
But ultimately, I prefer the explanation of the Hasidic master Rabbi Yitzhak Meir Alter, better known as the Gerrer Rebbe. Basing his comment on the verse which reads:
לֹֽא-רָאוּ אִישׁ אֶת-אָחִיו, וְלֹא-קָמוּ אִישׁ מִתַּחְתָּיו שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים, וּֽלְכָל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמֽוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם:
“People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was, but the Children of Israel had light in their dwellings.” (Exodus 10:23)
The Gerrer Rebbe, explains that the inability to see one another was in fact both the cause as well the consequence of this plague. He says that the greatest darkness of all is when a person cannot see the other, when they can not feel the pain of their fellow; and this leads to the terrible result that “no one could get up from where he was,” meaning no one arose to the alleviate the pain of their friend.
This, explains the Gerrer Rebbe, was the true sin of the Egyptians, their inability to see the suffering of the other. They failed to see the sorrows of their neighbors as the suffered through the first eight plagues; and worse still, they failed to see the humanity of the Israelites who cried out to them bitterly from the hardship of their enslavement. Thus hoshekh, the darkness, became both the cause and the consequence of these failures.
The truth is that in our modern world, sometimes it feels as though we are sitting in the overwhelming darkness of Plato’s cave. We stare ahead thinking that the animus, the pessimism and the mistrust that abounds is indeed the very epitome of our reality. We gaze at these ‘mere shadows’ of our world and we perceive them as though they were truth.
Worse still is that we are in danger of falling into the apathetic trap of the Egyptians. We teeter on the edge of constant complacency, not only do we not see the struggles of our neighbors, but even when we do see them, even when we recognize their pain, we too often shrug our shoulders and proclaim, ‘what can I do?’
What we can do is remember the end of that verse:
וּֽלְכָל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמֽוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם:
“But the Children of Israel had light in their dwellings.”
Why did the Israelites in Egypt experience light, amidst the terrifying darkness? Perhaps it is because they recognized that the hoshekh was only a trick of their limited perception; it was only a passing shadow on the wall of a cave. They were able to fight the darkness, withstand the temptation towards apathy, and despite their being chained, turn towards one another to see the light of God reflected in the face of their neighbor. And thus, they were redeemed.
I believe strongly that we must deny the false reality of this world of shadows. We must arise to the aid of our fellow human beings. When there are people without homes, without food, without clothing, we must be there. When there is terror, devastation and darkness, we must try to bring light into our world; this is the very nature of our commandedness.
Yes, the truth is that the light of God, and therefore our true reality, lies outside the cave of our cynicism. It lies in our ability to look at and truly experience the divine spark which exists in the other; this is the truest example of how to shine light upon the hoshekh of our world. It is the task of the Jew, and of every human being, to seek out this light, to allow our eyes to adjust to the true, Godly reality of our world, and to let this light shine through – even in the most unnatural of darkness.
The book he handed me was Plato’s The Republic, and the particular section was the famous Allegory of the Cave. In it Plato imagines a group of human beings who are made to sit in a dark cave, chained so that they may only look straight ahead of them, staring at the wall. Behind them is a fire, and men are walking, speaking and carrying objects in front of this fire – casting their shadows upon the opposite wall. In this situation, Plato explains, a person who was forced to watch these shadows on the wall, and therefore knew of no other reality, would surely come to the conclusion that these dark images were actual beings, with real voices, carrying real objects, and that this world of mere passing shadow was indeed the very epitome of reality.
But then, Plato (through the character of Aristotle) asks us to imagine that one such person was freed from their chains and forced to look around at his true situation; would he not be overwhelmed by such a revelation: the existence of the fire, the reality of the players and the actuality of the objects they were carrying? Furthermore, if that person were then taken up a rugged ascent and brought out of the cave into the sunlight, would not their understanding of the world be irreparably shattered? Surely the light of the sun would pain them and, until their eyes adjusted, they would certainly be unable to even look at another human being and see their bodily image as it truly is. Thus, Plato proves, perception truly is reality.
I’m not sure that group of forty teenagers would remember a single detail of this story – but I remember it well. Not only because it was the first time I had read the work of Plato, and not only because it typifies the unique approach to education that Camp Ramah offers its children, but ultimately I remember this incident because of its unfortunate truth. That we human beings are sadly chained to our limited perceptions; we stare ahead at the wall, never daring to turn and see the world as it truly is. We take both darkness and shadow as givens in this world of ours, and over time, we have allowed our eyes to adjust to this unnatural lack of light.
Which brings me to this morning’s Parasha, Parashat Bo, which continues the narrative of the Exodus of B’nei Yisrael out of the slavery and degradation of Mitzrayim. In Parashat Bo, God delivers the final three plagues upon the hardened-heart of Pharaoh, the Egyptian people, and their gods; the plagues of Locusts, Darkness, and the Killing of the First-Born. While the final plague Makkat B’chorot, the Killing of the First-Born, is no doubt the most devastating, the penultimate plague, hoshekh, or darkness, must have been the most terrifying.
The Torah tells us that the Lord said to Moses
וַיֹּאמֶר ה' אֶל-מֹשֶׁה נְטֵה יָֽדְךָ עַל-הַשָּׁמַיִם, וִיהִי חֹשֶׁךְ עַל-אֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם, וְיָמֵשׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ:
“Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.” (Exodus 10:21)
This final phrase of this verse “v’yameish hoshekh”, “a darkness that can be touched,” has puzzled commentators for centuries.
The 16th century commentator Rabbi Ovadiah ben Ya’akov S’forno remarks that this darkness was not like the darkness we experience at night. That ‘natural’ darkness of night, S’forno explains, is simply air that is ready at any moment to take on the light; whereas the ninth plague of hoshekh is an ‘unnatural darkness’ – and even if you shined light upon it, all would remain in shadow. S’forno’s explanation is indeed terrifying. Imagine a darkness so thick that it actually repelled light; reminiscent of modern physics’ understanding of a black hole, not simply darkness, but actually the very antithesis of light itself.
A much more modern rabbi, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, offers a more scientific explanation. He understands the Torah’s words “v’yameish hoshekh”, as suggesting that the plague was actually “a khamsin, a sandstorm of a kind not unfamiliar in Egypt, which can last for several days, producing sand- and dust-filled air that obliterates the light of the sun.” This kind of hoshekh, Rabbi Sacks explains, is the kind that could indeed be touched.
But ultimately, I prefer the explanation of the Hasidic master Rabbi Yitzhak Meir Alter, better known as the Gerrer Rebbe. Basing his comment on the verse which reads:
לֹֽא-רָאוּ אִישׁ אֶת-אָחִיו, וְלֹא-קָמוּ אִישׁ מִתַּחְתָּיו שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים, וּֽלְכָל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמֽוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם:
“People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was, but the Children of Israel had light in their dwellings.” (Exodus 10:23)
The Gerrer Rebbe, explains that the inability to see one another was in fact both the cause as well the consequence of this plague. He says that the greatest darkness of all is when a person cannot see the other, when they can not feel the pain of their fellow; and this leads to the terrible result that “no one could get up from where he was,” meaning no one arose to the alleviate the pain of their friend.
This, explains the Gerrer Rebbe, was the true sin of the Egyptians, their inability to see the suffering of the other. They failed to see the sorrows of their neighbors as the suffered through the first eight plagues; and worse still, they failed to see the humanity of the Israelites who cried out to them bitterly from the hardship of their enslavement. Thus hoshekh, the darkness, became both the cause and the consequence of these failures.
The truth is that in our modern world, sometimes it feels as though we are sitting in the overwhelming darkness of Plato’s cave. We stare ahead thinking that the animus, the pessimism and the mistrust that abounds is indeed the very epitome of our reality. We gaze at these ‘mere shadows’ of our world and we perceive them as though they were truth.
Worse still is that we are in danger of falling into the apathetic trap of the Egyptians. We teeter on the edge of constant complacency, not only do we not see the struggles of our neighbors, but even when we do see them, even when we recognize their pain, we too often shrug our shoulders and proclaim, ‘what can I do?’
What we can do is remember the end of that verse:
וּֽלְכָל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמֽוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם:
“But the Children of Israel had light in their dwellings.”
Why did the Israelites in Egypt experience light, amidst the terrifying darkness? Perhaps it is because they recognized that the hoshekh was only a trick of their limited perception; it was only a passing shadow on the wall of a cave. They were able to fight the darkness, withstand the temptation towards apathy, and despite their being chained, turn towards one another to see the light of God reflected in the face of their neighbor. And thus, they were redeemed.
I believe strongly that we must deny the false reality of this world of shadows. We must arise to the aid of our fellow human beings. When there are people without homes, without food, without clothing, we must be there. When there is terror, devastation and darkness, we must try to bring light into our world; this is the very nature of our commandedness.
Yes, the truth is that the light of God, and therefore our true reality, lies outside the cave of our cynicism. It lies in our ability to look at and truly experience the divine spark which exists in the other; this is the truest example of how to shine light upon the hoshekh of our world. It is the task of the Jew, and of every human being, to seek out this light, to allow our eyes to adjust to the true, Godly reality of our world, and to let this light shine through – even in the most unnatural of darkness.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Not by Might, Nor by Power: Miketz Shabbat Hanukkah
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.”
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, 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?
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