I want to begin this morning with a segment I saw this past year on 60 minutes. The story was produced by Leslie Stahl, and as her opening words she wrote:
“It is often said that we are our memories - that web of experiences, relationships, thoughts, and feelings that make us who we are. We don't remember it all of course. That would be impossible.
Or would it?
There has been a discovery in the field of memory recently, so new you won't find it in any textbook. It's so hard to fathom, there are some who remain unconvinced.
For the moment, the scientists studying it are simply calling it "superior autobiographical memory." And unless you happen to know one of the handful of people discovered so far who have it, get ready to be amazed.”
The rest of the segment was truly remarkable to watch. The segment introduced us to a group of six or so people who have undergone rigorous testing which shows that they indeed posses a ‘superior autobiographical memory’, which means that they can recall every detail of every day of their lives, down to what time they got up in the morning, what they ate for lunch or which pair of socks they wore on any given day.
And I’m not talking about just the big moments in our lives which all of us tend to remember – no, they remembered the little ones as well. All those tiny little Tuesdays that you and I so easily forget are instead permanently etched in their minds, an intellectual imprint of a moment long disappeared.
So let us entertain for just a moment what life could be like if all of us had superior autobiographical memories. We would never forget a pleasant encounter with a stranger, a romantic dinner with our loved ones, a time spent rolling on the carpet with our child, or a hilarious joke told to us by a friend. If we are our memories, then we would no doubt be more complete human beings if we managed to remember everything.
But, let’s be honest. There would be a downside as well. We would remember every fight, every argument, every slight we ever felt – and therefore hold every grudge forever. We would be able to vividly recall every no, every rejection every time our heart was broken. And of course, there we would be, reliving every moment of tragedy in Technicolor detail, while others simply ate their lunch.
In fact, as the 60 Minutes report so fascinatingly stated – none of these gifted individuals could boast of another of life’s great gifts: a successful marriage. After all, would you want to be married to someone who remembered every time you made a mistake?
The truth is that God has endowed us as human beings with two equally powerful gifts – the gift of memory, which allows us to cherish, sanctify and learn from each experience; and the gift of forgetting, which enables us to live hopeful and productive lives, despite the tragedies and suffering we experience.
As we all know however, there are certain individual days in our collective history – rare indeed – when an entire nation can claim to possess superior autobiographical memory, and one of those days occurred ten years ago tomorrow.
We all remember where we were when we heard about the first plane striking the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46am. Many of us were on our way to work, or sitting at the breakfast table when the news first broke. ‘Strange,’ we thought to ourselves, ‘that a plane would be flying so low over southern Manhattan.’ And tragically, and by design of the monsters who planned and executed the attack, the entire world was already watching when the second plane struck the South Tower at 9:02am.
And this is where the superior autobiographical memory begins for all of us. I am certain that all of us can recall where we were, who we called, being glued to the television, staying home from school or work and the intensity of panic which spread throughout our great nation on that day. Some of us had family members, loved ones, friends and acquaintances in lower Manhattan that morning, or perhaps boarding a plane in Logan, or working in Washington DC. These memories are forever branded in our minds – because of pain, fear, sorrow, panic and adrenaline, our forgetful minds will simply not allow that Tuesday morning to fade into the sea of Tuesdays that make up our lives. That Tuesday was different. That Tuesday was tragic, and in its unspeakable tragedy, it becomes not just memory, but sacred memory.
However, despite our indelible recollections of that day; the truth is, that we human beings remain habitual forgetters. For example, how many of us watched as each of the names of the victims were read aloud at ground zero on September, 11th 2002. How many of us watched the following year as well as children of the lost read the names aloud?
But slowly, and with certainty, many of us who did not lose a loved one in the tragedy - also began to forget. We marked the passage of the years with compassion and sorrow, but ‘September 11ths’ slowly became a part of our lives. We paused, we watched for a few minutes the one or two networks that carried the recitation of the names live, we reflected on the day – but we also went to work, went to school, we tried to move on with our lives. We sought out the normalcy that forgetting so often affords us.
But here we stand. But one day from the ten year anniversary of the attacks of September 11th and something indescribable happens – we remember again. As I was driving in my car this week, listening to NPR, a personal reflection on 9/11 was on, one of many which were aired this week. It was by the editor of Scholastic Magazine and it so eloquently described her witnessing the attacks from a commuter ferry headed towards Manhattan that morning. The confusion which quickly turned to panic as she realized that her brother had recently started working at a financial firm in the World Trade Center. The hysterical phone calls to cell phones which no longer worked, and ultimately, days later the realization that her brother was dead – leaving behind his two small children, her niece and nephew. This passionate report ended with the revelation that one of her brother’s children, eight at the time of her father’s death, recently wrote about the experience of losing her father - as part of her college entrance essays. As I pulled into my parking space, tears were flowing down my cheeks. The tears felt as if they were ten years old, testimony to the power of both remembering and forgetting.
As is always the case, our Jewish tradition has a powerful lesson to bring to bear about the dichotomy of remembering and forgetting. In this morning’s Torah portion, parashat Ki Teitzei, we read a familiar and haunting text.
זָכוֹר אֵת אֲשׁר עָשׂה לְךָ עֲמָלֵק בּדּרֶךְ בְּצֵֽאתְכֶם מִמִּצְרָֽיִם: אֲשׁר קָֽרְךָ בּדּרֶךְ וַיְזַנּב בְּךָ כּל-הַנּחֱשׁלִים אַֽחֲרֶיךָ וְאַתּה עָיֵף וְיָגֵעַ וְלֹא יָרֵא אֱלֹהִֽים:
“Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt – how undeterred by fear for God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear.”
The text explains, that therefore once we enter the land the Lord our God is giving us, that we are to:
תִּמְחֶה אֶת-זֵכֶר עֲמָלֵק מִתַּחַת הַשָּׁמָיִם, לֹא תּשְׁכּח:
Wipe out the memory of Amalek from under heaven – Do not forget!
Much has been said about this dual mitzvah of wiping out the memory of Amalek while also not forgetting - but I think these verses, the rituals associated with them, and the context in which they are contained, have much to teach us as we commemorate the tenth anniversary of 9/11.
Firstly, these verses validate a very natural, if uncomfortable, human emotion – and that is anger in the face of evil. We were so angry after 9/11 – and in many ways we still are; and we have a right to be. It is impossible for us to understand how other human beings, purporting to be religious individuals would conceive of, plan and execute an attack on thousands of innocent men, women, children and heroic first-responders. Another NPR story I heard yesterday told me of a young couple from Attleboro and P’tucket, destined to be married, they left Logan airport for a trip to Hawaii before they started graduate school. Now, all one mother has to remind her of the physical presence of her daughter are her credit cards which were recovered in the rubble.
This makes me angry. I am incensed and enraged – and the Torah tells me that I am allowed to be. We are allowed to harbor anger towards those who would do this to us, and we are even permitted to seek out their destruction. Perhaps this is why I understood, even if I squirmed, while watching the impromptu, visceral reaction to the killing of Osama Bin Laden: USA, USA, USA.
But our rabbis in their wisdom taught us something else about this anger: It cannot be allowed to run rampant controlling our every action – instead it must be contained through the art of ritual – And so we read these verses twice a year – once in their regular cycle as part of parashat Ki Teitzei; and once as the musaf reading for Parashat Zakhor, the reading before the holiday of Purim. And we are given one day, just one day, each year to blot out the memory of Amalek, to shout at the top of our lungs and indeed to rejoice at his demise.
One day - and we call it Purim – and then we must move on with our lives.
Secondly, we as Jews have the obligation to understand these verses not as an island floating in the humash – but rather, as an intentional part of the larger parasha – parashat Ki Teitzei. And so therefore, we are allowed to be angry, we are allowed to seek revenge – but not out of the context of the other moral commandments found in this morning’s parasha:
You must return a person’s lost items – you cannot ignore them.
You must not abuse a needy laborer; you must pay his wages on the same day.
And, You shall not subvert the rights of the stranger or the fatherless – remember that you were once a slave in Egypt and that the Lord your God redeemed you from there – therefore do I enjoin you to observe this commandment.
The message of this morning’s parasha, as a whole, is clear. You are allowed to be angry, you are allowed to seek justice and retribution in the face of evil – but not if it means sacrificing the morality we seek in our everyday lives and in our interactions with our fellow human beings.
Finally, one last word about Parashat Zakhor. The commentators have long noted that this section of verses is unique in that it speaks in the second person singular. Remember what Amalek did to YOU (L’khah), not Lakhem. Therefore You (L’khah) must blot out his memory, You (singular) must not forget.
Rabbi Simhah Bunim of Pesischa understands this language as supremely important. He explains that in moments of tragedy, when we come under attack from the forces of evil – we become one, united in purpose and in principle. And when we are united as one people, Rabbi Simhah explains, Ein Amalek Sholeit Bahem – Amalek cannot even touch them.
Another part of our superior autobiographical memory that day was the Achdut – the unity we felt as a nation in the weeks and indeed in the year that followed the attacks. People were kinder to one another. People were more willing to see the humanity in the stranger, to reach out to help the widow and the orphan. We felt as though we were one, and we were stronger because of it.
Ten years later, the power of forgetting has overwhelmed us. We feel fractured as a nation, and we are. People seem to be overwhelmed by hatred, not just for the stranger, but for their fellow citizens as well. Civility is disappearing, anger has consumed us, in short, we have lost our moral context.
May it be God’s will that this year, this tenth year, be the year of our remembering – recalling that feeling of ahdut, of unity as a people; and may it be the year in which the words of a long-gone leader of our nation, delivered some 148 years ago finally ring true in our ears and in God’s world:
“That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.”
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
The Dangers of Interpretation: Shlach L'cha 5771
There is an ancient Chinese folktale which unfolds as follows:
There once was a man Sei Weng who owned a beautiful mare. She was the pride of his farm and all his neighbors considered her to be the finest horse in all of China. One day, the mare ran away, and people came from near and far to consol Sei Weng. When they comforted him, he responded simply by saying: That’s how it was meant to be.
A few days later the lost mare returned, this time bringing with her two beautiful wild stallions, each as magnificent as she. When his neighbors came to congratulate him on his good fortune, Sei Weng simply said: That’s how it was meant to be.
Some time later Sei Weng’s only son was riding one of these wild horses when he was thrown, breaking his leg and crippling him for life. His friends came to offer their deepest regrets but Sei Weng simply said: That’s how it was meant to be.
Soon thereafter a war broke out in the region and all the able-bodied men were drafted into battle where they all perished, except for Sei Weng’s son. What good luck to still have your son, they said, but Sei Weng simply replied: That’s how it was meant to be.
Clearly the message of the story is that life is filled with its ups and downs, its blessings and its curses; and we should not be so quick as to fancy ourselves as interpreters. The truth is that things which might be for good, we sometimes perceived as malicious; while things that are ultimately for bad can look to us as if they are heaven sent. Therefore, the wise Chinese farmer was right – rather than jump to conclusions, instead of trying to interpret the inscrutable signs of life, perhaps it is better to faithfully wait and see.
Such is the unfortunate case in this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Sh’lach L’cha. The famous story tells the tale of Moses sending 12 spies, a chieftain from each tribe, to scout out the land of Cannaan,
וּרְאִיתֶם אֶת-הָאָרֶץ מַה-הִוא, וְאֶת-הָעָם הַיֹּשֵׁב עָלֶיהָ הֶֽחָזָק הוּא הֲרָפֶה, הַֽמְעַט הוּא אִם-רָֽב:
“See what kind of country it is; are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many?”
The results of their journey are well documented. They scouted up and down the land for forty days and for forty nights. They reached the wadi of Eshkol where they cut down a single cluster of grapes so large that two of them had to carry it on a frame. Surely they exclaimed, this is indeed a land flowing with milk and date honey. But they also saw some scary things along the way. They witnessed that the land possessed Anakites, giants, b’nei n’filim, super-human creatures, and Amalakites as well, the dreaded enemy of the Israelites. Surely, they claimed:
הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר עָבַרְנוּ בָהּ לָתוּר אֹתָהּ, אֶרֶץ אֹכֶלֶת יֽוֹשְׁבֶיהָ הִוא
“The country that we traversed and scouted is surely one that devours its inhabitants.”
Of the twelve spies, only two, Yehoshua ben Nun and Kalev ben Yefuneh gave positive reports, proclaiming the land to be Tovah Me’od, exceedingly good, and that not only does it flow with milk and date honey, but the Lord will surely bring us into that land, so have no fear. Aloh Na’aleh, ‘Let us by all means go up.’
What is most interesting about these two divergent reports of the land is not how they differ, but what they share in common. Both reports represent the land to be abundant in both produce and settlers. There can be no doubt, especially with regard to the grapes, that this land is overflowing with resources and in this sense it is surely a land in which the Israelites can dwell and thrive. This is indeed an Eretz Zavat Halav u’D’vash, a land of flowing milk and honey; and so the differing reports reflect not a discrepancy of fact, but rather of opinion.
In one of my favorite midrashim, the rabbis seek to explain how it is that the ten spies would come back with such a negative report – especially in their calling the land an Eretz Ochelet Yosh’veha, a land which devours her inhabitants! In Masechet Sota (35a) Rava explains that God said; I was only trying to help, but they interpreted My help as an evil! I thought that while they were touring about the land I would cause the death of one of the most important natives. This way, all of the people living in the land would busy themselves with preparing for the funeral, and no one would have time to ask around about these twelve spies. Rashi, basing himself on this midrash, explains that everywhere the spies went throughout the land, they discovered groups of people who were going out to bury the dead – hordes and hordes of people in mourning. And so it should come as no surprise that some in the group would have jumped to the unfortunate conclusion that it was a vicious land, one which devoured its inhabitants; after all, the desire to interpret the signs we see in life- is only natural.
The sin of the spies therefore, was not in lying. In fact, they told the truth! They saw a land flowing with milk and honey – and they saw giants there. And according to the midrash, they used there eyes, they toured out the land, they saw the formidable signs and they made a conclusion – surely this is a land which devours its inhabitants. No, the sin of the spies was not in lying, it was in eliminating the possibility that something good could come from all this; it was the sin of misinterpretation, the sin of being slaves to their limited perception.
This tendency for human beings to misinterpret God’s ways is certainly not exclusive to the ancient world; it is alive and well in our time as well. I am reminded of something I once heard Rabbi Brad Artson, the Dean of the Zeigler Rabbinical School at the American Jewish University in Los Angeles, say. He explained that when he was a rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary he was always in awe of, and perhaps even jealous of, those students who came from rabbinic pedigree. What an advantage he thought, to have grown up in a home filled with Torah; think of all the knowledge he lost out on, not having studied Torah with his father each shabbas. Therefore, he resolved, if I have children of my own, I will study Torah with them, I will give them what I never had. Well, Rabbi Artson and his wife were blessed with children, twins in fact; a girl and a boy. But things were not exactly as he had planned. His daughter, he explained was a ba’alat hen, a true master of mercy and righteousness, quick to extend a helping hand to any and all who needed; but when it came to studying Torah, it just wasn’t her thing. And as for his son, well his son was born with a severe form of autism, seriously limiting his ability to speak. So, Rabbi Artson, with gratitude, and with a tinge of disappointment said to God, ‘ok, God, I made a prayer, and I guess that your answer is a ‘no.’’
That is until his son Jacob was about to become a bar mitzvah, when he communicated his desire that he wanted to study the writings of Abraham Joshua Heschel with his father, and learn the parasha together as well. So each Shabbas, Rabbi Artson and his son Jacob sit down to study Torah together; And though Jacob cannot speak, he writes, he communicates, and he dreams of being a writer and a teacher of Torah. Rabbi Artson, in his profound wisdom and honesty, when retelling this story added one more personal detail: an apology that he made to God. ‘God,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry; I misinterpreted Your yes, as a no; just because it wasn’t the yes I had imagined in my dreams.’
Rabbi Artson’s story is one we all can relate to. Life is a complicated series of signs and portents, wishes and dreams, prayers and petitions. Often we are blessed, and just as often we are not. We may feel that our prayers have not been answered, and perhaps they were not. We may interpret life’s twists and turns as hurdles and obstacles preventing us from an easy life, and perhaps they are. But there exists another possibility as well. That within the light dwells the darkness and within the darkness dwells the light. That God’s world is beyond our understanding, our conception and certainly our interpretations.
As the Psalmist says in his Song for Shabbat:
Ma Gad’lu Ma’asecha Adonai, Me’od Am’ku Makhshevotecha!
How great are Your works Adonai; how unfathomable are Your thoughts!
Ish Baar Lo Yedah, u’Chsil lo yavin et zoat,’
The thoughtless cannot comprehend; the foolish cannot understand this.
How many times in our lives have we heard, and indeed mourned over a ‘no’, only to discover it was in fact a ‘yes.’ How many times have we interpreted by means of the immediacy of our eyes instead by means of the discernment of our souls? How often have we acted like the ten, enslaving ourselves to first perceptions and eliminating even the possibility of the good?
And so instead let us learn a lesson from the story of the spies – a lesson about the inherent danger of interpretation. Let us look for the good that lies just beneath the surface, for the light which lives within the darkness
And when life gives us a sign, let us act not like the ten, but like the two: Caleb and Joshua, and find the faith within ourselves to utter the words:
Aloh Na’aleh, ‘Let us by all means go up.’
There once was a man Sei Weng who owned a beautiful mare. She was the pride of his farm and all his neighbors considered her to be the finest horse in all of China. One day, the mare ran away, and people came from near and far to consol Sei Weng. When they comforted him, he responded simply by saying: That’s how it was meant to be.
A few days later the lost mare returned, this time bringing with her two beautiful wild stallions, each as magnificent as she. When his neighbors came to congratulate him on his good fortune, Sei Weng simply said: That’s how it was meant to be.
Some time later Sei Weng’s only son was riding one of these wild horses when he was thrown, breaking his leg and crippling him for life. His friends came to offer their deepest regrets but Sei Weng simply said: That’s how it was meant to be.
Soon thereafter a war broke out in the region and all the able-bodied men were drafted into battle where they all perished, except for Sei Weng’s son. What good luck to still have your son, they said, but Sei Weng simply replied: That’s how it was meant to be.
Clearly the message of the story is that life is filled with its ups and downs, its blessings and its curses; and we should not be so quick as to fancy ourselves as interpreters. The truth is that things which might be for good, we sometimes perceived as malicious; while things that are ultimately for bad can look to us as if they are heaven sent. Therefore, the wise Chinese farmer was right – rather than jump to conclusions, instead of trying to interpret the inscrutable signs of life, perhaps it is better to faithfully wait and see.
Such is the unfortunate case in this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Sh’lach L’cha. The famous story tells the tale of Moses sending 12 spies, a chieftain from each tribe, to scout out the land of Cannaan,
וּרְאִיתֶם אֶת-הָאָרֶץ מַה-הִוא, וְאֶת-הָעָם הַיֹּשֵׁב עָלֶיהָ הֶֽחָזָק הוּא הֲרָפֶה, הַֽמְעַט הוּא אִם-רָֽב:
“See what kind of country it is; are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many?”
The results of their journey are well documented. They scouted up and down the land for forty days and for forty nights. They reached the wadi of Eshkol where they cut down a single cluster of grapes so large that two of them had to carry it on a frame. Surely they exclaimed, this is indeed a land flowing with milk and date honey. But they also saw some scary things along the way. They witnessed that the land possessed Anakites, giants, b’nei n’filim, super-human creatures, and Amalakites as well, the dreaded enemy of the Israelites. Surely, they claimed:
הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר עָבַרְנוּ בָהּ לָתוּר אֹתָהּ, אֶרֶץ אֹכֶלֶת יֽוֹשְׁבֶיהָ הִוא
“The country that we traversed and scouted is surely one that devours its inhabitants.”
Of the twelve spies, only two, Yehoshua ben Nun and Kalev ben Yefuneh gave positive reports, proclaiming the land to be Tovah Me’od, exceedingly good, and that not only does it flow with milk and date honey, but the Lord will surely bring us into that land, so have no fear. Aloh Na’aleh, ‘Let us by all means go up.’
What is most interesting about these two divergent reports of the land is not how they differ, but what they share in common. Both reports represent the land to be abundant in both produce and settlers. There can be no doubt, especially with regard to the grapes, that this land is overflowing with resources and in this sense it is surely a land in which the Israelites can dwell and thrive. This is indeed an Eretz Zavat Halav u’D’vash, a land of flowing milk and honey; and so the differing reports reflect not a discrepancy of fact, but rather of opinion.
In one of my favorite midrashim, the rabbis seek to explain how it is that the ten spies would come back with such a negative report – especially in their calling the land an Eretz Ochelet Yosh’veha, a land which devours her inhabitants! In Masechet Sota (35a) Rava explains that God said; I was only trying to help, but they interpreted My help as an evil! I thought that while they were touring about the land I would cause the death of one of the most important natives. This way, all of the people living in the land would busy themselves with preparing for the funeral, and no one would have time to ask around about these twelve spies. Rashi, basing himself on this midrash, explains that everywhere the spies went throughout the land, they discovered groups of people who were going out to bury the dead – hordes and hordes of people in mourning. And so it should come as no surprise that some in the group would have jumped to the unfortunate conclusion that it was a vicious land, one which devoured its inhabitants; after all, the desire to interpret the signs we see in life- is only natural.
The sin of the spies therefore, was not in lying. In fact, they told the truth! They saw a land flowing with milk and honey – and they saw giants there. And according to the midrash, they used there eyes, they toured out the land, they saw the formidable signs and they made a conclusion – surely this is a land which devours its inhabitants. No, the sin of the spies was not in lying, it was in eliminating the possibility that something good could come from all this; it was the sin of misinterpretation, the sin of being slaves to their limited perception.
This tendency for human beings to misinterpret God’s ways is certainly not exclusive to the ancient world; it is alive and well in our time as well. I am reminded of something I once heard Rabbi Brad Artson, the Dean of the Zeigler Rabbinical School at the American Jewish University in Los Angeles, say. He explained that when he was a rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary he was always in awe of, and perhaps even jealous of, those students who came from rabbinic pedigree. What an advantage he thought, to have grown up in a home filled with Torah; think of all the knowledge he lost out on, not having studied Torah with his father each shabbas. Therefore, he resolved, if I have children of my own, I will study Torah with them, I will give them what I never had. Well, Rabbi Artson and his wife were blessed with children, twins in fact; a girl and a boy. But things were not exactly as he had planned. His daughter, he explained was a ba’alat hen, a true master of mercy and righteousness, quick to extend a helping hand to any and all who needed; but when it came to studying Torah, it just wasn’t her thing. And as for his son, well his son was born with a severe form of autism, seriously limiting his ability to speak. So, Rabbi Artson, with gratitude, and with a tinge of disappointment said to God, ‘ok, God, I made a prayer, and I guess that your answer is a ‘no.’’
That is until his son Jacob was about to become a bar mitzvah, when he communicated his desire that he wanted to study the writings of Abraham Joshua Heschel with his father, and learn the parasha together as well. So each Shabbas, Rabbi Artson and his son Jacob sit down to study Torah together; And though Jacob cannot speak, he writes, he communicates, and he dreams of being a writer and a teacher of Torah. Rabbi Artson, in his profound wisdom and honesty, when retelling this story added one more personal detail: an apology that he made to God. ‘God,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry; I misinterpreted Your yes, as a no; just because it wasn’t the yes I had imagined in my dreams.’
Rabbi Artson’s story is one we all can relate to. Life is a complicated series of signs and portents, wishes and dreams, prayers and petitions. Often we are blessed, and just as often we are not. We may feel that our prayers have not been answered, and perhaps they were not. We may interpret life’s twists and turns as hurdles and obstacles preventing us from an easy life, and perhaps they are. But there exists another possibility as well. That within the light dwells the darkness and within the darkness dwells the light. That God’s world is beyond our understanding, our conception and certainly our interpretations.
As the Psalmist says in his Song for Shabbat:
Ma Gad’lu Ma’asecha Adonai, Me’od Am’ku Makhshevotecha!
How great are Your works Adonai; how unfathomable are Your thoughts!
Ish Baar Lo Yedah, u’Chsil lo yavin et zoat,’
The thoughtless cannot comprehend; the foolish cannot understand this.
How many times in our lives have we heard, and indeed mourned over a ‘no’, only to discover it was in fact a ‘yes.’ How many times have we interpreted by means of the immediacy of our eyes instead by means of the discernment of our souls? How often have we acted like the ten, enslaving ourselves to first perceptions and eliminating even the possibility of the good?
And so instead let us learn a lesson from the story of the spies – a lesson about the inherent danger of interpretation. Let us look for the good that lies just beneath the surface, for the light which lives within the darkness
And when life gives us a sign, let us act not like the ten, but like the two: Caleb and Joshua, and find the faith within ourselves to utter the words:
Aloh Na’aleh, ‘Let us by all means go up.’
Hachnasat Holim: The Welcoming of the Sick Tazria 5771
Giving the D’var Torah on Parashat Tazria is sort of like presenting at a dermatology convention. It’s late in the morning, people are getting hungry, and it is your job to show them a bunch of slides of differing skin diseases. So here goes:
Slide #1: S’eit: Our first skin disorder from this morning’s parasha is a localized swelling; a generic inflammation or growth, likely similar to our modern day boil or mole.
Slide #2 Please: Sapakhat: Sapakhat is often translated as a rash, which indicates a breaking-out of the skin, often spreading to other areas.
Slide #3: is Baheret. A discoloration, a white, shiny spot upon the skin, which can also spread around the body.
Slide #4: is the generalized Nega’ – literally meaning ‘touch’; in our parasha it connotes an affection of the epidermis, a generic term for a plague or a skin ailment.
Finally there is Slide #5: This one is particularly nasty. This is the ailment known in the Torah as Tzara’at; and often translated as leprosy. Scholars maintain that Tzara’at was not indeed leprosy, the laymen’s term for a condition known as Hanson’s disease, but it was certainly not pleasant. A scaly abrasion of the skin, highly contagious it seems, and even able to affect inanimate objects such as our clothing and our dwelling places.
Ready for lunch yet?
But there is one more slide to go:
As our parashah states:
וְהַצָּרוּעַ אֲשֶׁר-בּוֹ הַנֶּגַע, בְּגָדָיו יִהְיוּ פְרֻמִים, וְרֹאשׁוֹ יִהְיֶה פָרוּעַ, וְעַל-שָׂפָם יַעְטֶה; וְטָמֵא ׀ טָמֵא יִקְרָֽא:
This slide demonstrates to us the Biblically-prescribed course of treatment for the Tzaru’a’, the one affected with Tzara’at. This slide depicts a man recently diagnosed with tzara’at. Here he stands beginning his treatment – his clothes rent, his head shaved bare, his upper lip covered, shouting for all around him to hear “I am unclean, I am unclean!” And our parasha continues:
כָּל-יְמֵי אֲשֶׁר הַנֶּגַע בּוֹ, יִטְמָא טָמֵא הוּא; בָּדָד יֵשֵׁב מִחוּץ לַֽמַּֽחֲנֶה מֽוֹשָׁבֽוֹ:
We see him here, as he dejectedly walks out of the camp, into his quarantined quarters; until his ailment passes after an indeterminate period of time.
Here’s the part where I tell you how far we have come in diagnosing these ailments; and aren’t we glad. We live in a modern society which has developed fabulous talents at diagnosing specific skin rashes, catching them at an early stage, and curing them with a variety of prescription creams and other remedies. So we read a parashah like this one and say, ‘Wow, those Israelites sure did overreact about a little ‘ol rash!”
Also, looking down from the lofty perch of our modernity we can be quick to criticize the Torah’s methodology of recovery. The Torah’s mandatory quarantine of the Tzaru’a seems like a harsh over-reaction. A person breaks out in a rash and they are banished from their community and made to live in total isolation?
In fact, it seems that this particular treatment might indeed be worse than the malady itself!
Picking up on this theme the Talmud explains that “M’tzora chashuv ka’met!” (Nedarim 54a) “A person suffering from Tzara’at is thought of as though they are dead.” How can this be asked Rabbi Meir Simcha HaKohen of Dvinsk? How could the sages of the Talmud say that a person who is simply sent off from the community in order to heal is really considered as though they are dead? His answer:
כיוון שהוציאו אותו מחוץ למחנה ואין לו שיח ושיג עם הבריות, הרי חייו אינם חיים.
Since they sent him out of the camp, and since he has no opportunity to converse with or interact with another human being, then his life is not truly a life.
And ending with a famous quote from the G’marah, Rabbi Meir Simchah haKohen says:
או חברותא או מיתותא!
“Give me companionship or give me death!” (Ta’anit 23a)
In this light, the Biblically mandated quarantine for a person suffering from Tzara’at found in our portion today, is one which we as moderns must look at and say – ‘Boy I’m glad I don’t live in the ancient world!’
But, if we are really being honest with ourselves we must admit, that while our tools for diagnosis may have evolved – our style of treating of various diseases actually remains hauntingly the same.
I remember learning this lesson on my first day of chaplaincy training at Beth Israel Medical Center in New York. Our supervisor explained that there are only two places in modern society where you are admitted, given an identity bracelet, have your clothes taken away from you, are made to live on someone else’s time schedule, and you have to stay there until they tell you that you are free to go. The first is the hospital, the second is prison.
It’s true. Illness can be a lonely and isolating experience; leaving the affected with the sense that they are left apart from their family, their friends, their community. When we recognize this unavoidable element of our human condition, we come to understand that Parashat Tazria is simply reflecting that feeling isolated was a reality of ancient illness – a reality we still experience today in our modern world.
What do I mean?
Well let’s start with this slide depicting our dealing with the continuing global epidemic of AIDS: Here you can see an individual living with AIDS, one of an estimated 35 million people world-wide. Although modern medicines mean those diagnosed with AIDS can now live a relatively normal life; here at home and around the world, people with AIDS are still being shunned by their families, separated from their friends and ostracized by their communities.
This next slide depicts a person in our community battling cancer. In addition to the stunning fear which accompanies the diagnosis, there are the additional challenges of the treatment and the isolation it brings. The chemotherapy makes those fighting cancer weak, tired and nauseous. Just as the Tzaru’a in our parasha, their heads become bald as the drugs attack all of the body’s rapidly-reproducing cells – the bad ones and the good ones. And a low white-cell count means they are highly-susceptible to contracting infections, forcing them into further isolation from friends and community.
And I have a countless number of other slides depicting additional illnesses which cause one to be secluded from the embrace of community: both the diseases that you can see: physical handicaps or deformities; as well as those you cannot: such as mental illness.
So, the bad news is that despite thousands of years of progress in terms of our ability to properly diagnose and medically treat any number of diseases – loneliness, quarantine and isolation remain part and parcel of the experience of illness.
But the good news is that there is something we can do; both in our world at large, as well as within our own close-knit community.
The truth is that our world has become smaller and we can indeed find ways of helping those who are suffering from illness, even if we do not know them. Perhaps you might feel moved by the life’s work of the now-late Elizabeth Taylor, who dedicated her volunteer life to fighting for, and reaching out to those who suffer from AIDS around the world. One example of something we all can do here at Temple Emanu-El is participate in the AIDS Orphan Care Pesach Flower Arrangement Fundraiser, conceived of and run by our very own Kutenplon-Rayess family. Last year, simply by ordering beautiful flowers for your seder table, they raised $1400 for orphans in Lesotho, battling the disease of AIDS and the loneliness it causes.
And closer to home there is so much that we can do for those who are battling illness and disease; particularly the various forms of cancer which attack our bodies and threaten our lives and our peace of mind. The fact is that Judaism mandates that each of us is Hayyav, obligated to perform the Mitzvah of Bikkur Holim, of visiting the sick; and while this certainly means a physical visit, it can also mean a phone call to check in, a card in the mail, or a posting on a website like caring bridge; which all serve to let the one who is ill know how much love and support there is behind them. And of course, there is the very act of saying a prayer on their behalf – The Misheberach L’Cholim, the Prayer for Those in Need of Healing, we recited just minutes ago. Rabbi Franklin and I cannot tell you how often we are told by those who are sick how important it is for them to know that their name is being said at shul, by those who love them.
But this morning, I would like to add one final obligation to our role as a caring community, and in the process coin a new mitzvah: Hachnasat Cholim. That is; the welcoming of the cholim back into our community as they feel better and more comfortable. Let us be sure to tell them that we missed them. Let us make certain to give them a long hug, some much needed conversation and physical warmth. And let us succeed in making our society as a whole and our community here at Emanu-El one which understands that while loneliness and isolation are a part of the human condition that is illness; given the choice between mituta or hevruta, between a loneliness as frightening as death – and the embrace of companionship - Let us choose companionship every time.
Shabbat Shalom and Refuah Shleimah.
Slide #1: S’eit: Our first skin disorder from this morning’s parasha is a localized swelling; a generic inflammation or growth, likely similar to our modern day boil or mole.
Slide #2 Please: Sapakhat: Sapakhat is often translated as a rash, which indicates a breaking-out of the skin, often spreading to other areas.
Slide #3: is Baheret. A discoloration, a white, shiny spot upon the skin, which can also spread around the body.
Slide #4: is the generalized Nega’ – literally meaning ‘touch’; in our parasha it connotes an affection of the epidermis, a generic term for a plague or a skin ailment.
Finally there is Slide #5: This one is particularly nasty. This is the ailment known in the Torah as Tzara’at; and often translated as leprosy. Scholars maintain that Tzara’at was not indeed leprosy, the laymen’s term for a condition known as Hanson’s disease, but it was certainly not pleasant. A scaly abrasion of the skin, highly contagious it seems, and even able to affect inanimate objects such as our clothing and our dwelling places.
Ready for lunch yet?
But there is one more slide to go:
As our parashah states:
וְהַצָּרוּעַ אֲשֶׁר-בּוֹ הַנֶּגַע, בְּגָדָיו יִהְיוּ פְרֻמִים, וְרֹאשׁוֹ יִהְיֶה פָרוּעַ, וְעַל-שָׂפָם יַעְטֶה; וְטָמֵא ׀ טָמֵא יִקְרָֽא:
This slide demonstrates to us the Biblically-prescribed course of treatment for the Tzaru’a’, the one affected with Tzara’at. This slide depicts a man recently diagnosed with tzara’at. Here he stands beginning his treatment – his clothes rent, his head shaved bare, his upper lip covered, shouting for all around him to hear “I am unclean, I am unclean!” And our parasha continues:
כָּל-יְמֵי אֲשֶׁר הַנֶּגַע בּוֹ, יִטְמָא טָמֵא הוּא; בָּדָד יֵשֵׁב מִחוּץ לַֽמַּֽחֲנֶה מֽוֹשָׁבֽוֹ:
We see him here, as he dejectedly walks out of the camp, into his quarantined quarters; until his ailment passes after an indeterminate period of time.
Here’s the part where I tell you how far we have come in diagnosing these ailments; and aren’t we glad. We live in a modern society which has developed fabulous talents at diagnosing specific skin rashes, catching them at an early stage, and curing them with a variety of prescription creams and other remedies. So we read a parashah like this one and say, ‘Wow, those Israelites sure did overreact about a little ‘ol rash!”
Also, looking down from the lofty perch of our modernity we can be quick to criticize the Torah’s methodology of recovery. The Torah’s mandatory quarantine of the Tzaru’a seems like a harsh over-reaction. A person breaks out in a rash and they are banished from their community and made to live in total isolation?
In fact, it seems that this particular treatment might indeed be worse than the malady itself!
Picking up on this theme the Talmud explains that “M’tzora chashuv ka’met!” (Nedarim 54a) “A person suffering from Tzara’at is thought of as though they are dead.” How can this be asked Rabbi Meir Simcha HaKohen of Dvinsk? How could the sages of the Talmud say that a person who is simply sent off from the community in order to heal is really considered as though they are dead? His answer:
כיוון שהוציאו אותו מחוץ למחנה ואין לו שיח ושיג עם הבריות, הרי חייו אינם חיים.
Since they sent him out of the camp, and since he has no opportunity to converse with or interact with another human being, then his life is not truly a life.
And ending with a famous quote from the G’marah, Rabbi Meir Simchah haKohen says:
או חברותא או מיתותא!
“Give me companionship or give me death!” (Ta’anit 23a)
In this light, the Biblically mandated quarantine for a person suffering from Tzara’at found in our portion today, is one which we as moderns must look at and say – ‘Boy I’m glad I don’t live in the ancient world!’
But, if we are really being honest with ourselves we must admit, that while our tools for diagnosis may have evolved – our style of treating of various diseases actually remains hauntingly the same.
I remember learning this lesson on my first day of chaplaincy training at Beth Israel Medical Center in New York. Our supervisor explained that there are only two places in modern society where you are admitted, given an identity bracelet, have your clothes taken away from you, are made to live on someone else’s time schedule, and you have to stay there until they tell you that you are free to go. The first is the hospital, the second is prison.
It’s true. Illness can be a lonely and isolating experience; leaving the affected with the sense that they are left apart from their family, their friends, their community. When we recognize this unavoidable element of our human condition, we come to understand that Parashat Tazria is simply reflecting that feeling isolated was a reality of ancient illness – a reality we still experience today in our modern world.
What do I mean?
Well let’s start with this slide depicting our dealing with the continuing global epidemic of AIDS: Here you can see an individual living with AIDS, one of an estimated 35 million people world-wide. Although modern medicines mean those diagnosed with AIDS can now live a relatively normal life; here at home and around the world, people with AIDS are still being shunned by their families, separated from their friends and ostracized by their communities.
This next slide depicts a person in our community battling cancer. In addition to the stunning fear which accompanies the diagnosis, there are the additional challenges of the treatment and the isolation it brings. The chemotherapy makes those fighting cancer weak, tired and nauseous. Just as the Tzaru’a in our parasha, their heads become bald as the drugs attack all of the body’s rapidly-reproducing cells – the bad ones and the good ones. And a low white-cell count means they are highly-susceptible to contracting infections, forcing them into further isolation from friends and community.
And I have a countless number of other slides depicting additional illnesses which cause one to be secluded from the embrace of community: both the diseases that you can see: physical handicaps or deformities; as well as those you cannot: such as mental illness.
So, the bad news is that despite thousands of years of progress in terms of our ability to properly diagnose and medically treat any number of diseases – loneliness, quarantine and isolation remain part and parcel of the experience of illness.
But the good news is that there is something we can do; both in our world at large, as well as within our own close-knit community.
The truth is that our world has become smaller and we can indeed find ways of helping those who are suffering from illness, even if we do not know them. Perhaps you might feel moved by the life’s work of the now-late Elizabeth Taylor, who dedicated her volunteer life to fighting for, and reaching out to those who suffer from AIDS around the world. One example of something we all can do here at Temple Emanu-El is participate in the AIDS Orphan Care Pesach Flower Arrangement Fundraiser, conceived of and run by our very own Kutenplon-Rayess family. Last year, simply by ordering beautiful flowers for your seder table, they raised $1400 for orphans in Lesotho, battling the disease of AIDS and the loneliness it causes.
And closer to home there is so much that we can do for those who are battling illness and disease; particularly the various forms of cancer which attack our bodies and threaten our lives and our peace of mind. The fact is that Judaism mandates that each of us is Hayyav, obligated to perform the Mitzvah of Bikkur Holim, of visiting the sick; and while this certainly means a physical visit, it can also mean a phone call to check in, a card in the mail, or a posting on a website like caring bridge; which all serve to let the one who is ill know how much love and support there is behind them. And of course, there is the very act of saying a prayer on their behalf – The Misheberach L’Cholim, the Prayer for Those in Need of Healing, we recited just minutes ago. Rabbi Franklin and I cannot tell you how often we are told by those who are sick how important it is for them to know that their name is being said at shul, by those who love them.
But this morning, I would like to add one final obligation to our role as a caring community, and in the process coin a new mitzvah: Hachnasat Cholim. That is; the welcoming of the cholim back into our community as they feel better and more comfortable. Let us be sure to tell them that we missed them. Let us make certain to give them a long hug, some much needed conversation and physical warmth. And let us succeed in making our society as a whole and our community here at Emanu-El one which understands that while loneliness and isolation are a part of the human condition that is illness; given the choice between mituta or hevruta, between a loneliness as frightening as death – and the embrace of companionship - Let us choose companionship every time.
Shabbat Shalom and Refuah Shleimah.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
A Shul by Any Other Name: YaYakhel 5771
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.
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.
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
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