My Senior Sermon - Vayigash

Each 4th year Rabbinic student at the Hebrew Union College gives a sermon. Mine was today: 

It was an ordinary day for Peter Smith. He got dressed, ate his usual breakfast, got into his car, and headed for work. Arriving a little early, Smith logged on to his facebook account. As he began moving through the site a strange ad on the side of the page caught his eye: “Hey Peter – Hot Single Ladies are Waiting For you!” Below the words was a picture of a young, attractive women with smokey eyes who happened to be…his wife!

After some investigating, Peter figured out what had happened. His wife, Cheryl, loved to play online video games and gave the video game company access to her Facebook profile, a usual practice in gaming circles. However, without her permission the video game company sold the information to a third party who in turn sold it to the dating service. The dating service took one look at her Facebook picture and began using her face to sell their product. It was a one-in-a-million chance that Peter would ever see the picture, however as luck would have it was the first thing he saw that morning.

As an aside, all parties involved were removed from Facebook for sharing and selling Cheryl’s information.

Today, because of Facebook, Twitter, blogging, and Google sharing information is easier than ever. We are better able connect with friends, and acknowledge their successes and losses. But every so often, we hear a story like Peter and Cheryl’s and remember just how hard it is to control our information. For anyone who has embraced the internet age, issues around privacy are a constant negotiation. On the one hand, the expectation today is to share, to give snapshots of our personal life: what are you thinking, feeling, eating? On the other hand, we know that as soon as we put something out there, it’s in the public domain. Who sees it, who uses it, is suddenly out of our hands.

For some of us, the answer is to avoid technology; don’t sign up for Facebook, cancel your Twitter account. But for most of us in this room who see the merits of this technology, it’s about accepting that if we make privacy a central battle today, we will often fail. Therefore, coming to terms with the world we live in means changing our focus. We need to reframe the conversation from one that values privacy to one that values intimacy.

Reframing notions of privacy is not easy, in part because the conversation has gone on for a long time. In fact, we have a number of beautiful sources that speak directly to the challenge of privacy. We all know the story of Balaam, how he stood on top of Mount Peor, ready to curse the Israelites. When he saw our tents in the valley he instead blessed us, “Ma Tovu Ohalechah Yaakov.” However, what we may not know is the Midrash that explains why he chose to bless our tents. It turns out that the ancient Israelites were extraordinary urban planners and because of their careful planning no tent door was opposite another. No one could stand at their door and look into another’s dwelling. At its core, according to this Midrash, Ma Tovu is a blessing in celebration of privacy.

In addition, we have a Midrash that teaches that when God commanded Moses to take a census of Israel at the start of the book of Numbers, Moses began to worry. What if I see something I shouldn’t? What if I walk into a tent and a women is nursing her child? God therefore commanded him to walk outside each tent and pause. After stopping for a second God’s voice would come to Moses and announce the number of people in each household. Accurate counts were important but the people’s privacy was paramount.

In both of these cases we see a tent as the prevailing metaphor for privacy. For the Rabbis, privacy was about limiting those who might see into the tent.

For centuries, privacy remained an important Jewish issue. However, it was not until the end of the 19th century that issues of personal information (in Jewish terms, Lashon Hara or Rechilut) were used in the larger privacy conversation. And predictably the first person to do this was Jewish, Louis Brandeis, writing about the subject in his Harvard Law Review article, “The Right to Privacy,” co-authored with Samuel D. Warren. Faced with a new media culture of newspapers and photography, the two took on the task of defining privacy as the right to control information about oneself. After Brandies, privacy would no longer just be who could see into your tent, but who could know what was going on inside as well.

Today we are still working off Brandeis’s model. We fear that too much of our information will get out. We put up necessary safeguards, but try as we might there is a lot of information floating around in cyberspace about each us. We may have made mistakes in the past. We may have shared too much and regretted it. However, the web means coming to terms with the fact that that all information is accessible, not just the stuff we like. In the words of Jeffrey Rosen in an oft cited article in the NY Times, “The web means the end of forgetting.”

Therefore, we need to frame a new conversation. We need to move away from fearing issues of privacy and move toward embracing issues of intimacy. It’s no longer about who can see into our tent, or who knows what’s going on, it’s about the person we invite inside of our tent and who is privy to the full picture of us.

This week’s Torah portion can be very instructive for us. In it, Joseph is ready to reveal himself to his brothers. Joseph takes measures to ensure his privacy only to fail. We read that when Joseph was ready to reveal himself to his brothers, he sends everyone away, crying out:

Hotziu kol ish me’alai
Have everyone withdraw from me

Alone with his brothers, Joseph begins to cry. However, no sooner do we hear about Joseph’s reaction than we learn that all of Egypt, including Pharoah, heard Joseph’s sobs. Even though Joseph speaks only to his brothers, others became privy to the conversation. As soon as Joseph was willing to share, his information was open to all those who were listening.

The commentators have a lot to say about why Joseph chose to send everyone out before revealing himself to his brothers. Some, like Rashi, claim it is to keep his brothers safe from embarrassment. Others like Rashbam, suggest it is because as a ruler he didn’t want others to see him at his emotional peak. However, Ramban’s interpretation is the most helpful. He writes that everyone, brothers and servants alike felt for Benjamin and pleaded with Joseph to let the boy go. Faced with this pressure, he tells all but his brothers to leave. However, his servants now have a stake in the outcome of the story. Will he release Benjamin or not? To find out, the servants walk slowly outside of the room and are standing in the courtyard when Joseph begins to cry. Joseph may have felt that he was alone with his brothers, but because he had given an indication that he had something important to say, his servants positioned themselves to find out the news. Privacy was impossible to achieve. His secret was out.

However, Joseph could achieve intimacy with his brothers. Today, we hear all sorts of private and hurtful information through the grapevine. Status updates tell us of breakups, Facebook tagging of pictures shows us the wonderful party that we weren’t invited to. Joseph’s brothers, however, didn’t learn about him indirectly. Joseph told them in person and stayed with them until he had, over the course of the conversation, made them feel at ease.

As soon as Joseph tells his brothers of his identity they are astounded. The Hebrew for this is “ki nivhalu m’panav,” they were “dumbfounded on account of him.” However if we imagine Joseph standing in front of his brothers bleary eyed and shaking we can read the text in another light. Read midrashically, “ki nivhalu m’panav” can mean, they were dumbfounded because of his face. In revealing himself to his brothers, Joseph allows himself to stand raw before his brothers, letting them see all the fear and sadness that he bottled up inside him all these years, which now was written on his brow.

But Joseph didn’t stop there. Rashi tells us that he knew how embarrassed his brothers must have felt, so before saying anything else, he asked them to take a step forward. Standing close, Joseph could smell his brothers and they him. The tears on his cheeks were more visible now, his labored breath more detectable. After telling his brothers about his past and his plans for them, he reached out and fell on Benjamin’s neck. Seeing the two of them weep together, the brothers finally got over their guilt and shock. Rashi tells us that seeing Joseph so open and raw was the proof they needed to know that their brother was “wholeheartedly with them.” It was only then that they felt comfortable speaking with him. Had the brothers only learned about Joseph from others, they might have never have gotten the courage to stand beside him. It was this intimacy that brought the brothers close.

For Joseph, as it is for us, the challenge we all face is knowing when to open ourselves up to those who are closest to us. It is scary, being responsive to other’s fears, concerns, and needs, and sharing our own. This is the price of intimacy. For Joseph, it took a number of false starts before he was ready to do so, but in the end, his reward was a love and closeness that would pervade the rest of the narrative.

The story of Joseph and his brothers teaches us that, while we can’t always ensure that our information remains private, we can always focus on something more important. We can choose with whom to share our innermost feelings. We can invite them into our tent and stand face to face. We can allow them to truly see us, not just hear or read about us on Google.

What does this look like for us? Today 80% of all children under two have at least one picture on Facebook. We might try to keep our children’s image offline, but that would be a losing battle. What we can choose is who holds our baby, who hears our baby laugh, and for those who are the most intimate, who can tell a hungry cry from a fussy one.

For my class, and I’m sure for many others, Facebook was an important way to get to know one another before moving to Israel. Before leaving, I was nervous, so naturally I studied up. I knew where many of my classmates lived, who they were dating and who our mutual friends were. However, I didn’t know how one classmate dealt with loss until I sat Shiva with him in Jerusalem. I didn’t know the face another made when he was deep in thought until we were in class together.

I learned a lot about these classmates before I even met them, probably more than they wanted me to know. That’s the age we live in. But the important things, the intimate details of their lives were not to be found in cyberspace. And it’s those things that I cherish and that really move a friendship forward.

As hard as it is to admit, we do live in a different world. Our tent is wide open for all to see. But as we have learned from Joseph, who we bring in to our tent and how we share is what’s important. You can learn a lot about others from a few clicks of the mouse. However, it’s intimacy that really turns other into brother.

A Odd Status (Avodah Zarah 71b)

I learned something very interesting about theivery from the notes to the daf a few days ago.

When someone wants to acquire an item they can't just pay money for it. Instead they must do an act that shows that they are acquiring it. This goes for all moveable items (keys, chickens, wine etc). There are many ways to do this, each with their own name. Kinyan Meshicha means I pull an item toward me. Kinyan Mesirah means someone hands the item to me. Kinyan Hagbah means I lift the object off the ground.  Kinyan Chatzer means I pay for an item while it is in my courtyard and that simple fact allows the courtyard to in effect "swallow it up" so that that I now own it.  Although these technical terms may be complicated they all share one simple feature. We need to do some act in order to fully acquire something.

Now, here's where this system gets complicated. If I steal someone's chicken, no matter what I do, I can't acquire it. As much as I want it to be mine, the chicken will remain the property of the original owner. I may steal it and take it into my domain, however, the chicken will never be mine. This rule is fair. It keeps people from snatching other people's things and using them with a full and clean conscience.

However, here's the tricky part. Assuming that a thief steals a chicken and brings it to another place, all we can really say about the thief is that they moved the chicken without the permission of the owner. That is because, as I have explained, thieves don't acquire their stolen goods.

For this reason the rabbis came in and created a new kind of acquisition, kinyan g'nivah. This deals with the thief's odd status. A kinyan g'nivah means that if I do any normal act of acquisition (lifting, pulling, being handed the object), I acquire the object enough to consider it stolen (I'm not just moving it from place to place), but not enough to take it out of the possession and control of it's original owner. It is still his, and I have an obligation to return it and make amends for my mistake.

Regular Water Doesn't Cut it (Avodah Zarah 42b)

It was a problem in Jumanji and the Mask. Just because you throw something in the water doesn't mean it disappears.



Well the Mishnah has an answer. When one finds an object that may have been used in idol worship and you are afraid a Jew might find it and worship it himself, throw it in the dead sea:

If one finds utensils and on them is a figure of the sun or a figure of the moon or the figure of a dragon, he should take them to the dead sea [and cast them into the waters]

With this act, the item will decay and it doesn't matter who finds it. If only those trying to dispose of the Jumanji and the Mask knew this advice!

More substantive posts to come, I promise.

 

Brooklyn Jews in the News

Not an article about text but a great piece non-the-less about some exciting stuff going on with Congregation Beth Elohim and Brooklyn Jews.

Enjoy!

A Lesson for Chabad

I taught a class today on the idea of arevut (communal responsibility) at Congregation Beth Elohim.

Here's a lesson to all those who wonder what all those Chabad teens are doing on the street with their shofars and why they want us to hear it.

According to a Mishnah in Tractate Rosh Hashanah only those who are obligated to hear the sound of the shofar can be Motzi (the person who blows the shofar and helps other fulfill their obligation). That's why although it's nice to see a 6 year old blow shofar, it doesn't really serve any legal purpose.

Now with this in mind, one would think then that once someone has heard the sound of the Shofar they are not longer able to be Motzi; because they no longer need to fulfill their obligation, they can no longer help others fulfill theirs.

However, there is a teaching on Rosh Hashanah 29a that seeks to counteract this assumption.

"Ahabah the son of R. Zera learnt: Any blessing which one has already recited on behalf of himself, he can recite again on behalf of others (af al pi she-yatsa, motsi)" 

In context this teaching also applies to the blowing of the Shofar.

So what is special about blessings and shofars that allow one who has already fulfilled their obligation to be Motzi?

The Ran (Rabbeinu Nissim Gerondi, 14th C Spain) has a wonderful comment to this Talmudic teaching:

The principle of communal responsibility means that if your fellow Jew has to do a mitzvah which he has not done, it is as if you yourself have not fulfilled your own obligation. Therefore you have an obligation to say the blessing and to do the mitzvah so that the other person can fulfill his obligation.

This teaching is one reason why Chabad is so vigilant about getting Jews to blow the Shofar. As long as their are Jews in Park Slope (my home) that have not heard the Shofar, it is as if no Jew has heard the Shofar.

I went for a run today and stopped halfway through to teach this text to a group of Chabad teens. I wish I had a camera for their face when a sweaty guy, running without a Kippah and with headphones on Chag pulled that one out.

Happy New Year!

Thought I would share my High Holy Day sermon before I preach it at 7PM at the Prospect Park Picnic House:

“All happy families are alike, each unhappy family is unique in it’s unhappiness”

Considered one of the most famous opening lines of any novel ever written, these words from Tolstoy’s, Anna Karenena speak to a bias inherent in all of western literature: being happy is boring, unhappiness is interesting.

However, this is not a sermon about Anna Karenena. Rather it is a sermon about an issue raised in Rachel Kadish’s contemporary novel, Tolstoy Lied. Published a few years ago, Kadish tells the story of Tracy Farber, an English professor, who spends much of the book challenging the idea that you have to suffer to be interesting. Why, Farber asks, does Western literature (and Western culture) pay so much attention to those that suffer and ignore those that are happy?

One doesn’t need to look far to see our bias. Anna Karenina ends when Anna throws herself in front of a train. Crime and Punishment ends with Raskelnikov rotting in jail. At the end of Great Expectations, Pip returns home after eleven relatively unsuccessful years, forlorn and with little to show.

The interesting thing about all of these novels is that they have other strong characters who end up happy. Some because of love, others because of hard work. However, few remember them. They are all alike. They are just not that interesting.

The message of these books (and pretty much all of western culture) is that being happy is not enough. One must strive for complication. One must seek out anxiety. To live in love and peace is to be like everyone else.

“All happy families are alike, each unhappy family is unique in it’s unhappiness”

Our bias against happiness is real. Our lives are filled with anxiety, pain, disappointment, and fear. For many these emotions are important. They are normal when we lose a loved one or are forced to make an unsettling change. But often, people make a conscious choice to avoid happiness. Maybe we have a co-worker who chooses to be martyr for work. Perhaps we have a friend who jumps from relationship to relationship, because constantly breaking up and finding someone new is far more exciting than contentment and commitment. Or maybe we have a family member who feels that the world is always out to get them, and makes their complaints into a self-fulfilling prophesy.

There’s a famous joke that sums up this thinking.

Finkelstein, so the story goes, suffers severe pains in the chest and is rushed to the finest hospital in America, Massachusetts General. For seven days he receives treatment there. Then, without explanation, he checks out and has himself transferred to a small, rundown, Jewish hospital in New York’s Lower East Side.

The doctor on the ward is intrigued by his decision. “What was wrong with Massachusetts General? Was it the doctors? Didn’t they find out what was wrong with you?”

“The doctors,” replied Finkelstein, “were outstanding. Geniuses! I can’t complain.”

“Was it the nurses? Weren’t they attentive enough? Were they distant, cold?”

“The nurses were angels. No, I can’t complain.”

“So was it the food? Too little? Too boring? It must have been the food, yes?”

“The meals were wonderful. They tasted of paradise. About the food, I can’t complain.”

“So tell me, Mr. Finkelstein, why did you leave one of the greatest hospitals in the world to come here?”

Finkelstein gives a big smile and says, “Because here—here I can complain!”

Although we might know people like Finkelstein, it turns out that our tradition does not celebrate this attitude. Tolstoy may think that happiness is boring, but Judasim does not. In fact, happiness is a commandment.

A few weeks ago we read in our Torah portion, Ki Tavo, about a relatively dated ritual. In that portion, we were commanded to take the first fruits of our yearly harvest to the Temple as a thanksgiving offering to God. During the brief description of this ritual we received one of the most powerful commandments in the Torah: “You shall be happy with all the good that Adonai, your G-d, gave you and your household” (Dt. 26:11). This command is very different than Tolstoy’s observation. We are not to dismiss happiness but to seek it out. Happiness is a central precept in our tradition. We aren’t commanded to yearn for more. We shouldn’t agonize over what we don’t have. We are to rejoice and be thankful. Yes, there are those who don’t have much in life and have much to be upset about, and for those people we should be there to help them in their time of need. However, even they should push themselves to find something in their lot to be happy about.

Alone, this commandment would be enough. However, the authors of our Torah ingeniously return to the concept of happiness at the end of the portion. After commanding us to bring our first fruits, the Torah includes a litany of blessings and curses that might befall the Jewish people. At the end of the section of curses, Moses interjects with an explanation for why Israel might be deserving this punishment:

“And all these curses shall come upon you, and shall pursue you, and overtake you, till you be destroyed…because you did not serve the Adonai your God with joyfulness, and with gladness of heart, because of the abundance around you” (Dt. 28:45-47)

What is downfall according to this text? It is failing to pursue happiness. It is avoiding joy when there is reason to celebrate. It is this stain of thought found both at the start and the end of our portion that led Rabbi Nachman of Bretzlav in the late 18th Century to write his famous phrase "Mitzvah Gedolah Le'hiyot Besimcha Tamid," it is a great commandment to always be in a state of happiness. It is also the impetus for the chilling teaching in the Jerusalem Talmud “Every man must render an account before God of all good things he beheld and did not enjoy" (Jer. Talmud, Kiddushin, end).

Besides the fact that happiness is a commandment there are of course other reasons why we should be happy.

I don’t need to tell you that happiness comes with a number of benefits. Look in the New York Times Archives over the past few years and you’ll see countless articles showing that happy people live longer, are more productive, have lower blood pressure, and maintain stronger and more intimate relationships.

However, there are also a number of religious or spiritual reasons to pursue happiness. I’ll touch briefly on one.

Contrary to what you might think seeking happiness is actually the ultimate form of humility. Maimonides, Judaism’s most famous legal thinker was the first person to say this directly. Maimonides explains that if we look around us there is so much to be happy about. We might find love. We might find connection. Maybe security. Maybe piece of mind. Each one of these is a blessing. Each one of these comes from another source. For Maimonides this source was God. To ignore God’s blessings and be miserable is to say that you can be a better God than God. Misery leads to an inflated sense of self. Happiness, on the other hand, means that you understand that you live in an imperfect world, but are willing to make the effort to find the beauty and wonder in that world.

However, we don’t need to stop with God. To be miserable about your friendships might mean that you think that you are a better friend than all of your friends. To be miserable about your family means that you feel you could be a better mother, father, sister, or husband than they are. Only when we realize that people are not perfect are we open enough to see the blessings they bring to ours life and to rejoice in them.

If we think of humility in terms of size the metaphor takes on a whole new meaning. We all know people whose personalities are so big that they don’t leave space for others in the room. Most of those people I know are big because of the negative energy they bring with them. The air is saturated with something thick and depressing when they are near. If being miserable makes you big, then being happy (and humble) makes you smaller. And as we become happier and smaller we create a vacuum. And what gets pulled inside? When we are happy, the blessings of our friends, family, and community, fill the empty space of our misery. By noticing the blessings around us and making ourselves smaller, we are in a position to encounter and notice other blessings in our lives. It is a cycle that leads to good. Happiness brings more happiness into our lives.

This idea also works with our relationship with God, however you envision that relationship. If we can become smaller in our happiness, it leaves us with enough space to find God amid the tumult of our lives. This might be why the Jerusalem Talmud teaches, “God’s holy spirit only infuses those that are happy” (Suk 5:1). Only those who are willing to shrink themselves down through happiness have the space and freedom to recognize the God moments in our lives.

Happiness then is a life where we recognize blessing and have the space to encounter God and others on a deeper and more powerful level. How could Tolstoy have ever call this boring!

I want to conclude with an image of what a life of happiness looks like in practice. Each day during the month of Elul and the High Holy Days we are supposed to sing Psalm 27. Its key line includes an image of a life fulfilled, a life to strive for. What is that image?

Achat Shaalti meit adonai: Only one thing I ask from God

Shivti B’veit Adonai Kol Yamei Chayi: Just to sit, in simple happiness, and gaze upon the face of God.

Our Psalm doesn’t ask for complicated romances, extra work, praise from our distant bosses, or the thrill of gambling with one’s emotions. It asks for one simple thing: to sit in joy and humility and find the beauty in God’s house and God’s face.

So I invite you now to join with us for the second time tonight as we ask God, not for Tolstoy’s uniqueness of misery, but for the magnificence of joy and the intricacies of life.

Achat Shaalit, pg. 5…

Mezzuzot and landlords (Avodah Zarah 21a)

Today's Daf speaks about an interesting issue. If you are the landlord of a property and you rent it to someone who is not Jewish, do you still need a Mezzuzah on your doorpost.

Looking at the plain meaning of the text, one might think the answer is yes. In the Torah (Dt. 11:20) we read the phrase:

על מזוזות ביתך
On the doorposts of your house


According to the plain meaning of the verse all Jewish houses need a Mezzuzah, even those that are rented by others. However, the Rabbis read this commandment differently. Rashi points out that the rabbis read this commandment with an extra letter:

על מזוזות ביאתך
On the doorposts of your coming in 

According to this interpretation, Jews only need a Mezzuzah on the house where they reside (literally where they are accustomed to coming in and out of). Therefore, if one is a landlord of a non-Jewish tenant, there is no reason to ask them to put a Mezzuzah on their door.

(For more on this see Yoma 11b)

Heresy may be many things but it's not boring (Avodah Zarah 17a)

Why does our daf today tell us to stay away from heresy?

According to the Marharsha we are warned to stay away from heresy because engaging with it is "intellectually pleasing" and therefore we might be drawn into wrestling with its ideas.

I want to state openly that I both read and enjoy many of the things traditional Judaism calls heresy. And I'm not the only one. Read thinkers like Rabbi Sacks and you will see that there are traditional Jews who do the same (it's not just the liberals).  I'm studying Spinoza in a small group and it might be one the most fulfilling things I learn. Part the reason I love it is because it is so intellectually stimulating. His arguments are clear, his attack on those who disagree with him is biting.

It's interesting to see that the Maharsha comes to the same conclusion about these types of ideas, but chooses to condemn this practice of study.

Change is slow (Avodah Zarah 16a)

Change is hard. Change takes time. You move too slow and people vote with their feet. You move to fast and people complain and you may lose your credibility. While there is a place for fast paced change, for the most part increment change is the safest bet.

In today's Daf we get a great model of this incremental change. Faced with a choice of selling a fattened ox to an idolatrous king on his festival day (something forbidden by law) or making the king angry with his failure to give his usual gift (of a fattened ox), Rebbi took the middle ground.

On the first year, Rebbi bribed the king 40,000 coins so that he could break with tradition and bring the cow on the day after the festival. After the king was ok with this, Rebbi decided to change even more the next year. On the second year he bribed the king the same amount so that he might be able to slaughter the cow before bringing it. Finally on the last year the bribed the king so that he didn't need to bring an ox at all.

If Rebbi had changed too quickly, deciding not the bring the cow at all on the first year he would have certainly gotten into trouble. Had the failed to act he would have been going against his morals.

Rebbi is a great teacher. Change is hard, but slow change is often the safest and most effective route.

A good friend (Avodah Zarah 15b)

When are you allowed to tell a friend not to do something and when should you keep your mouth shut?

Here's an example. If your best friend is overweight and goes on a diet are you allowed to remind them of this when they eat a giant burger? What if they don't go on a diet but you are worried about their weight?

This question is at the heart of today's daf. Here is the example we find today. Quoting from Mishnah Sheviit 5:6 we learn:

These are the tools that a person is not allowed to sell during the seventh year (the shmitah year when all land must lie fallow): The plow and all its accessories, the yoke, the shovel, and the hoe.

All of these tools are used to tend to the earth. We worry that someone who is known to violate the laws of shimatah wants these tools and therefore, we must not give them to him because we will be aiding him in sinning (working land that should be fallow).

The reason why we must not give him the tools is because we would be violating the prohibition from Lev 19 "Do not put a stumbling block before the blind." Our tradition teaches that all who sin are blind. We can think of it like they don't see the "light" of Torah. If we do anything to help them sin further (like selling them a plow) we are essentially puting a stumbling block before them.

To return to our question: are we allowed to say anything to our friend? I would guess so. We are reminded to rebuke our fellow in the same section of Torah as the precept not to put a stumbling block in front the the blind. And a person's health is a worthy cause to take up. However, our tradition is unequivocal that we must not serve our overweight friend a huge hamburger. That would be wrong and like putting a stumbling block before the blind.

(A note: Blind is sometimes an apt term for my eating. I eat mindlessly and often will sit down to eat a meal only to learn a few minutes later that I have eaten it without either tasting it or enjoying it).

An Interesting Trend (Avodah Zarah 7b)

For the past few days the Talmud has focused on one question: are we allowed to do business with idol worshipers on the days surrounding a pagan holiday. According to the predominant view of the Mishnah we are not allowed to buy, sell, loan, lend, and borrow from pagans three days before and three days after their holiday (called eid).

However, this law was written at a time when Jews had the flexibility to avoid business with non-Jews around their holidays. As time went on and Jews and non-Jews did more business this flexibility would fade.

On our daf (page) today we have the first notion that things are changing. Shmuel (who lives in Babylonia) limited the rather stringent ruling from the Mishnah to communities who live in Israel. For those who live in the Diaspora (his home) is only forbidden to do business on the festival itself.

Later scholars, living in places like the Rhineland and Provance will take this a step further.  Some will explain that due to fear and livelihood this law no longer applies (see Rashi). Others like the Meiri and Rabbeinu Tam will prove that Christian Europe is a wholly different thing than pagan Israel or Babylonia and trading with Christians near their festivals should be allow even a priori.

All this shows that the halachah is a fluid process, moving and changing (albeit with a lot of intention and respect to tradition) throughout time.

An angel get's it's wings (Avodah Zarah 4b)

Yesterday, a colleague of mine joked that the Talmud tells us that each time we do a good deed an angel get’s its wings. Another colleague looked at him astonished, “Really! It says that in the Talmud?”

“No” laughed my first colleague, “I was actually just quoting Peter Pan.”

What was funny about his comment was that in a way he was actually right about the Talmud. Leaving Peter Pan (or any other source for a similar quote) we learn from today’s Talmud page that each time that someone does a mitzvah (lighting candles, feeding the poor, etc.) that mitzvah becomes manifest as a spirit of sorts. The Talmud goes on to explain that when one is judged in future ages, these living mitzvoth come to court and testify on his behalf to help get him into the world to come.

I tell this story not for the content but because it illustrates a point. Rabbi Ben Bag Bag famously stated that we should turn the Torah again and again because all is in it. I believe strongly in the truth of the statement. We can learn law, ethics, standards, love and a host of other important things, if we have an eye to read the text in the right light at the right moment. The texts can offer us what we need if we approach them with openness.

And now we add one more to the list of things in our Torah: a humorous way to root pop culture (an idiom that often speaks very strongly to Jews in America) in our tradition.

How To Spend a Day (Avodah Zarah 3b)

I really like the way God spent his day before the destruction of the Temple. Here's the breakdown (of a 12 hour day):

First three hours: God studies Torah
Second three hours: God judges the world
Third three hours: God provides nourishment for the entire world
Final three hours: God plays fetch with his pet (the Leviathan)

If only I had the discipline to model this in schedule in my everyday life!

Imagine beginning the day with spiritual nourishment. I imagine a regimen of study would give me insight, energy, and passion to continue throughout the whole day. Then after gaining inspiration, I would get to work. God judges the world, I answer e-mails, field phone calls, and do the "tasks" and are expected of me. Once I finish with my work, I turn to volunteering. God gives food and nourishment to the whole world. I would work at a soup kitchen or help out at an afterschool program. Finally, I end with possibly the most important part of my day, recreation and time with my loved ones. God plays with his pet. I go out to dinner with my fiancé or go out with friends.

The wonderful thing about God's schedule is that it is diverse. Knowing how to diversify one's life is the easiest way to avoid burnout.

There's a great text in the Talmud (Sotah 14a) which tells us to emulate God's deeds. God clothes the naked. So should we. God visits the sick. So should we.

Here we learn that God balances learning, work, loving acts, and play. Even if not everyday, even if not equally, why can't we experience all of these in a given week?

Orthodox By Design

I just bought Jeremy Stolow's new book, Orthodox By Design: Judaism, Print Politics, and the ArtScroll Revolution.

I'm looking forward to reading it. Beside finding the topic interesting, it might better help me understand the methodology and ideology behind the Schottenstein Talmud, the translation that I use for Daf Yomi.

Here is a wonderful review of the book by Shaul Magid that appeared in Zeek.

The product description from Amazon follows:

Orthodox by Design, a groundbreaking exploration of religion and media, examines ArtScroll, the world's largest Orthodox Jewish publishing house, purveyor of handsomely designed editions of sacred texts and a major cultural force in contemporary Jewish public life. In the first in-depth study of the ArtScroll revolution, Jeremy Stolow traces the ubiquity of ArtScroll books in local retail markets, synagogues, libraries, and the lives of ordinary users. Synthesizing field research conducted in three local Jewish scenes where ArtScroll books have had an impact--Toronto, London, and New York--along with close readings of key ArtScroll texts, promotional materials, and the Jewish blogosphere, he shows how the use of these books reflects a broader cultural shift in the authority and public influence of Orthodox Judaism. Playing with the concept of design, Stolow's study also outlines a fresh theoretical approach to print culture and illuminates how evolving technologies, material forms, and styles of mediated communication contribute to new patterns of religious identification, practice, and power.

Outdated Law (Shev 46a)

I've noticed a number of themes that keep reappearing in the past few days of study. One such theme is the protection against the shoddy memory of a householder who hires a worker.

We know that the rabbis are in the business of creating laws to protect individuals from flaws in the system. Because a householder is often busy and often has many workers, the rabbis made laws that aimed to avoid problems that might arise from a certain householder's flaw; perhaps he hire a worker and forget the wage that he promised him.

Therefore, the rabbis changed a number of laws to avoid this problem. When there is a dispute between a householder and a worker over wages, for example, Jewish law would usually permit the householder to swear that he is correct. However, because the householder may be remembering wrong--he may have been thinking of a conversation with someone else--it reversed the oath and gave it to the worker. There are other examples as well and you can find them in and around today's Talmud page.

In post-Talmudic legal literature there is one word that appears over and over again, ha'idana, meaning today or currently. When you see this word it usually means that the rabbis are looking at a ruling in the Talmud and explaining why it doesn't work in this day and age.

With this in mind, I have a question about this ruling for today, ha'idana. The rabbis I'm sure never dreamed that many people would have e-mail. And furthermore that most e-mail (like g-mail) would be able to store thousands of documents in a searchable database. Today, it doesn't matter whether the householder has a good memory or a bad memory. Since most agreements are done over e-mail, any dispute can be settled with a click of a mouse.

I wonder then, if many of these rulings are based on a system of hiring that is outdated. If one lives though this halachic (Jewish legal) system of oaths, when do we accept that maybe the rulings aimed at protecting against the householder's shoddy memory may not be needed?

Interesting Article

I recently came across an interesting blog post where the author argues that daf yomi cannot make one into a real scholar.

I would tend to agree with Tzvi. I don't retain nearly enough to feel like I have a command of the tradition. Nevertheless, I find it meaningful for other reasons.

The Importance of Returning Lost Items (Shev 42)

A quick thought of Talmud for the day.

Imagine that you find a wallet. If you can find the owner, would you return it?

Most would. 

Now what if I told you that the wallet you found has $50, but once had $100. Before you found it someone had taken half of the money. Would you still return it?

What if I told you that the owner of the wallet would berate you for taking the $50 and would continue to believe that you stole the money. I'm not sure if anyone has done this particular study on this scenario but I imagine the number of honest citizens would be much lower than our original wallet scenario.

During the rabbinic era, this wallet conundrum was posed, but to make matters more complicated the rabbis had to deal with a ruling that stated that if someone accuses someone of something and they admit to part of the claim, they must swear (using God's name) that they do not owe the other part (the oath is called a shevua modeh b'mikzat). In practical terms, if I return the wallet with $50 and am told that the original amount in the wallet was $100, I have to swear that I didn't take the other $50.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, swearing is serious. In fact, we find on pg 39 of our tractate that the whole world quaked when God commanded that we should not make vain / false oaths (the wording depends on whether one is reading the Ten Commandments in Exodus or Deuteronomy). So if one knows that they might have to swear about the amount in a wallet, they might not return it in the first place.

Knowing this, the rabbis made a special exemption for the shevua modeh b'mikzat: if you are returning a lost item, no one can force you to swear that you did not take a part of it. The reason is simple. Returning lost articles is of the upmost importance and nothing should stand in it's way.

Remember that next time you find a wallet on the street.

Prayer and Patience (Parshat Re'eh)

Here is the sermon that I gave at Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn last night. It deals with a legal issue that came up during the daf yomi cycle a few months ago:


Every once and a while, you meet a student who makes you question everything you thought you knew. Mine came during the summer between my junior and senior year in college.

It had been my tenth summer at the URJ Eisner Camp in the Berkshires. During this summer, my job was to act both as counselor to a group of ten graders and to coordinate and lead t’fillah and song sessions for them.

One night, our group watched scenes from the movie Dogma and met afterward to discuss the theological questions that came up from the movie. You know the basic stuff that friends chat about over a drink: free will, theodicy (why bad things happen), and the existence of God. During this talk, one student emphatically stated that she got nothing out of prayer. Turning to me she asked accusingly, “do you ever actually feel anything when you lead prayer?”

I froze because I knew the answer that I had to give. Not really. I made some excuse about how when I lead prayers, I had to worry about keys and guitar chords and that took away from my experience, but the truth was I had sat through plenty of services where I felt nothing. In fact, I could only count a handful of times when I had really ever felt something.

For the rest of the summer, I questioned myself every time I left services untransformed. I might be doing something wrong. Why spend so much time in prayer when so much of it feels rote? Why don’t I walk away a different person for having prayed?

In fact, it was wrestling with these questions that kept from applying to Rabbinical school in my senior year in college.

It’s taken me many years to realize that there was nothing wrong with me or my connection to Judaism. I simply wasn’t willing to give the tradition the time that it needed. I was impatient and wanted to have a transformative experience every time I opened my mouth in prayer, every time studied a little Torah, and every time I drank the Shabbat wine. I failed to see that these expectations were unrealistic. In fact, these expectations were antithetical to a lot of what the rabbis teach us about Jewish practice. Judaism is a religion only experienced through patience.

I want to give one example of the centrality of patience that appears in this week’s Torah portion, but to do so I have to make a short diversion. In this week’s portion we have a description of the Ir Hanididachat (the apostate city). The law of this city is simple. If as all the inhabitants of a city renounce God and begin to practice idolatry, their city should be destroyed. The Torah explains that one should make a bon fire in the middle of town and the whole city should go up in flames like Sodom and Gemorah.

Hundreds of years later, the Rabbis looked at this passage with the same discomfort that I imagine we are feeling today. However, the Rabbis were not willing to throw out the law. Instead, they re-imagined it. The rabbis understood that the only way a city could be considered an ir hanidachat is if it was first a practicing Jewish city that turned to idolatry. What does it mean to be a practicing Jewish city? That it has Torah scroll, Mezuzot, and prayerbooks.

Turning their attention to the line in the Torah that tells us to build a bon fire and burn everything, the rabbis ask: are we really allowed to burn everything in the city? Even the Torahs? Even the Mezuzot?

Therefore, the Rabbis made a rule: as long as there is at least one Mezuzah in the city we can’t fulfill the commandment to burn everything in the city (because we may not burn a mezuzah). A city with at least one mezuzah cannot be called an ir hanidachat and must be saved.

And since the Rabbis can’t imagine a practicing Jewish city without at least one Mezuzah they are forced to say: never has there been and never will there be an ir hanidachat.

Here we have ingenious solution to a troubling passage. However, there is one problem: if the idea of the ir hanidachat is irrelevant, why bother studying it? Why should we spend time studying anything that has no practical significance for us? Shouldn’t we walk away from every study session with some insight that will make us better Jews, better friends, better people?

The Rabbis have one answer, I have another. The Rabbis explain that one should study it because study itself it a mitzvoth (a commandment) and doing commandments, no matter their practicality) earn one a place in the world to come.

I want to add may own thoughts to this discussion. The reason we study about the ir hanidachat is because it helps teach us patience. Growing up, I had a neighbor whose hobby it was to make Nantucket baskets, those finely woven wicker baskets that sell for way too much in New England. This neighbor used to spend hours and hours, patiently weaving one strip of material in and out of another. If she thought that each moment was going to be an enlightening experience, she would have been very disappointed. The work was tedious. However, she knew that at some undetermined point she would be finished and her basket would be complete.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains that Jewish practices (like prayer and study) function in the same way to my neighbor’s baskets. Each time we pray, each time we study, each time we choose to eat Kosher food, we patiently weave under and over each stave of our basket. And when we are finished (and it might take day, months, or even years) we have made ourselves into a vessel, a container. Sacks goes on to explain that when God wants to give us blessings, God doesn’t put them on a platter in front of us, rather God throws them into the wind and allows us to gather them ourselves. Only with a basket can we catch God’s blessings. And only by prayer, study and other Jewish practices can we make this vessel.

Just as Nantucket baskets don’t last forever, so too our vessels don’t last forever. That’s because we has humans are always changing. And when we do, we must go through the patient process of weaving another basket.

Prayer isn’t supposed to connect us to God. Study shouldn’t make us enlightened. Rather each time we study, we move one step closer to creating our vessel, and basket in hand, begin to connect to God and begin to reach enlightenment. That’s why we study impractical sections like the laws of the ir handichat. These laws are just as good as any other for patiently weaving our basket.

Religion, like most things in life takes patience, and sometimes we might question why we do certain things. However, if it’s done with care, love, and foresight we walk away from our encounter just a little different, having woven one more piece of our baskets. Like water on a rock often this change cannot be seen immediately. But trusting that it will, is the essence of faith.

Avoiding army service: a precedent (Shev 35b)

First of all, I didn't realize it but last post was our 100th post!

I don't want to get into the politics behind allowing the ultra-orthodox community in Israel to avoid army service. The issue deserves a better post than I can give it now. Until then check out this interesting article about the issue in the Jerusalem Post this past spring.

Leaving aside the issues on the ground, I was blown away by a Midrash on today's daf that seems to give precedent for allowing a subset of Yeshivah boys an exemption from the army.

According to the Talmud text, the line in Song of Songs, "My vineyard is before me. One thousand are for you, Shlomo (King Solomon), and two hundred are for those who guard [the vinyard's] fruits." (Song of Songs 8:12) actually deals with conscription in the army. The Talmud text goes on to elaborate on the meaning of this line. Taking Rashi's commentary, as well as a few lines from the 16th centurty commentator the Maharsha (Samuel Eidels), one can make the argument that the text is referring to the ratio of conscription: for every 1000 men that Solomon could enlist in his army, he had to leave 1/5th (200 men) behind to study Torah. Eidels's argument hangs on the idea that the Jewish people are referred as God's vineyard in Isaiah (5:7). Therefore, when the text says that one should "guard the vineyard" they mean they should look out for the welfare of the Jewish people. As it was rabbis who were writing this text, it makea sense that they believe that the highest form of protect of the Jewish people is the protection of the ideas and ideals that have sustained the Jewish people since Sinai (i.e. the Torah).

I was blown away by this text and spent some time looking on Google to find out of this text was ever used in defense of the huge numbers of ultra-Jews avoiding army service. I didn't find anything.

If anyone can help me, I'd be very interested to know if this text ever entered the public debate on topic and if so who brought it out?

The Special Place of the Rabbinate: Something to Wrestle With (Shev 31b)

There's been a lot of talk about the power of the rabbinate, especially around the latest conversion bill. Although it's tabled for the short term it will probably come up again soon.

So why do we care? One reason comes from yesterday's daf. In it we find that if I ask someone to testify on my behalf outside of a courtroom and they lie, saying that they don't have relevant testimony, they are exempt from any penalty. However, if I ask the same question to someone in court, they are liable for having lied.

This is just one example of the special place of the rabbinate and rabbinical courts throughout Jewish tradition. Although we may not like it, there has always been something different, something special about testifying in court, before the rabbis.  While its been contested just how much power the rabbis had during the time of the Mishnah (when our daf text was written), we know that over time, the rabbinate has grow in traditional communities have have a lot of power.

One of the things that's missing from the debate about the place of the rabbinate for Jews today is the nod at the texts that give the rabbinate power. While many will plainly say that they don't want the rabbinate running their lives without considering this history (which is an important position to have), there needs to be other liberal Jews who are loudly wrestling with these traditional texts. How can we as modern Jews feel bound by these texts when they do give the rabbinic court power and might invalidate our standing as Jews? How can I fight for what I believe in (the place of liberal judaism in America and Israel) but not forget that we have a two thousand year tradition behind us (and in front of us)?

Of course, sometimes you just have to look at what's going on and shake your head. Why is the rabbinate telling me that I can't sing under the chuppah at my wedding?

Youtube and the Talmud (Shev 28b)

There's been a lot of buzz around the recent court case of Google/YouTube vs. Viacom over what copywritten material may or may not appear on YouTube. Although its a complicated suit one major issue revolves around when one must take copy written content down from its website. Is it enough that Viacom asks preemptively that no clips of the Daily Show end up on YouTube or do they need to ask each time for this content to be taken down?

This debate parallels one in our daily Talmud page. Here we find a dispute between Rabbi Yochanan and Reish Lakish. According to Yochanan, if someone is warned that their actions are illegal, they are liable for lashes if their wishes are violated. This includes instances where the person asking is unsure about whether their wish will be violated at all. This ruling would accord with those who say that Viacom can ask preemptively that none of their content appear on YouTube.

Reish Lakish on the other hand does not hold like Yochanan. He believes that one must have a definite warning to warrant lashes. Therefore, asking YouTube to ban Viacom content is only viable when they are sure the content will be on the site. Because YouTube can't police people's living rooms to be sure that they will be putting the content up, it means that they are only liable after it appears on the website.

In out time Google/YouTube won this battle. However Jewish tradition doesn't agree with this settlement. In an 11th century ruling RAMBAM explained:

The following laws apply when a person transgresses a negative commandment that can be corrected by a positive commandment. Before the transgressor violates the negative commandment, witnesses must administer a warning, telling him: 'Do not perform this activity. If you perform it and do not fulfill the positive commandment associated with it, you will receive lashes.' If, after receiving such a warning, the transgressor violates the commandment and does not fulfill the positive commandment, he receives lashes. Although the warning involved uncertainty, - for if he fulfills the positive commandment, he will be released unpunished - an uncertain warning is considered as a warning. (MT Sanhedrin 16:4)

So take your pick, RAMBAM or American law, who do you think is right?

Eat Food (Shev. 22b)

Michael Pollin has a famous motto:

Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

Although Pollin wasn't the first person to deny that Mcdonalds and similar restaurants fail to serve real "food," he popularized this idea. In essence, Pollin draws a line between what he sees as "food" and what he sees as everything else. Food is natural, real, and you know where it comes from. Mcdonalds is processed, fatty, and sugary. Although these menu items make you feel full and taste like food, they are not food. The best one can say is that they are "like" food.

Like Pollin, the Rabbi Shimon has made this distinction between real "food" and other items that are "like food." For the him the thing that separates food from non-food is whether it is kosher. Therefore, if someone were to make an oath not to eat anything and they ate pig, frog, bugs, or sick animals, R. Shimon exempts him. This is because pig, frogs and the like are not food (food is what we are allowed to eat from the time of Sinai). Therefore, if one eats these things they are liable for eating non-kosher food but they are not liable for breaking their oath.

On the other hand, we read a little later in the Mishnah that if one says "my wife will receive no benefit from me if I have eaten today" and earlier that day  he had eaten his wife becomes prohibited to him. This is true even if what he ate was pig, frog, bugs, or sick animals. Rashi explain that reason for this is because even though these foods are prohibited, they are nonetheless edible and explains that Rabbi Shimon would agree with this ruling. Rashi makes a distinction here between the act of eating and the idea of "food." Pigs may not be "food" per say according the rabbis, but one definitely eats them.

This brings us back to Pollin. While we are told to eat food we are also reminded "not too much." No matter whether we eat "food" or not, eating has implications of its own. Eating food is a subcategory of just plain eating, and eating too much of anything, even "food" can be harmful.

It's not just about eating the right stuff, it's about eating the stuff right.

A notable difference (Shev. 20)

I always thought Kol Nidre was like the Kaddish, a bunch of indistinguishable synonyms. As much as we try, there's not a notable difference between works like l'hitpaar, l'hitnasei, l'hithadar, and l'hitallel. They are all word to that essentially mean to praise. That's why translations of the Kaddish often come out as weird sounding.

I always thought that Kol Nidre was doing the same thing. In it we declare that all vows that we have made during the previous year should be annulled. However, in the prayer we find a lot of words for vow. The Hebrew of the first line is:

Kol Nidrei, Ve'esarei, Ush'vuei, Vacharamei, Vekonamei, Vekinusei, Vechinuyei. D'indarna, Ud'ishtabana, Ud'acharimna, Ud'assarna Al nafshatana

Oddly, most translations won't translate every word. A neder is usually translated as an vow, a shevuah is usually translated as an oath, an isur is usually translated as a prohibition. I never used to worry about which was which because I thought this prayer was like the Kaddish, just synonyms for the same idea, promises one makes to God.

I wasn't wrong to think this. In fact, all of these words are indeed promises. But each matters! Yesterday I learned one of example of how these differ. According to tradition a neder (vow) is made when one changes the status of an object. He says "I vow that this bread is forbidden to me." In essence, the bread changes status--it is now forbidden--however the speaker is no different for having made this vow. A shevuah (oath) on the other hand is the opposite. The speaker changes. Therefore, when he makes an oath "I will not eat this bread" he is the one who has changed, not the bread.

The reason it is important to have these two synonyms in the text is very different than the Kaddish's reason for its synonyms. It is not so that one can get lost in the rhythm of the many words for oath (as some have argued is the case for the many words for praise) or to show just how many kinds of oaths there are. Rather it is to cover one's bases. Disavowing an oath does nothing for a vow and visa versa. Practically if I make the vow "I vow that this bread is forbidden to me" and then say that all oaths are nullified I have made sure that my status resorts back to it proper place, but I have done nothing to the status of the bread; it is still forbidden to me.

Therefore, the Kol Nidre prayer, on top of annulling our vows, oaths, and other carefully chosen legal terms, also reminds us of an important theme in the High Holy Day season: that one should be careful with each and every word he uses and see the power in the difference between one word and the next.

 

A view of Jerusalem: Haftarah Devarim

Isaiah 1:1-27

Leave it to Isaiah to know exactly what to say on a week like this. Not just because we are only days away from Tisha B’Av, and not just because the Palestinian conflict rages, but because Jerusalem, I feel has been lost in some way to me this week.

Alas, She Has become a harlot,
The faithful city
That was filled with justice,
Where righteousness dwelt…”(verse 21)

…Where I dwelt for a year because my love for my people and my love of my homeland, the land of my birth and of my people drew me to a profession staked and steeped in its preservation. The city whose problems I knew going in, and whose tenuous relationship to modernity I embraced and came to appreciate, has left me weeping remembering her.

The news from Jerusalem this week, both the arrest of Anat Hoffman for carrying a Torah scroll at the Western Wall, and the preliminary passage of a bill ceding control of conversion to the Haredi Rabbinate in Israel, caused me two very distinct reactions. One, a cringe that the version of Israel that I had in my mind was not really there. A version of Israel that was truly a homeland to all Jews. There was apparently now, a Jerusalem of the heavens, a Jerusalem of the earth and a Jerusalem of my mind. Unfortunately, never the three shall meet, it appears.

The second reaction was a form of resolve. It became important to sign a petition and write a letter, and pass the word along. And I have a sense that I was not the only one with this reaction, judging by the Facebook status updates and postings to articles about either or both of these tragic events.

The similarity between these events is not just that it is a question of Tradition vs. Modernity. It is not simply Reform vs. Ultra-Orthodox. The conversion bill was introduced by a Nationalist Party MK. It is a question of who belongs. It is a question of identity and who has the right and authority to tell anyone else what they can do, where they can do it, who they can do it with, and how they should be doing it. It is the assumption that there is a right way based on a notion of tradition that understands only rigidity and the narrowest conception of what God wants.

That you come to appear before Me —
Who asked that of you?
Trample My courts
no more;
Bringing oblations is futile,
Incense is offensive to Me.
New moon and sabbath,
Proclaiming of solemnities,
Assemblies with iniquity,
I cannot abide. (12-13)

What good is all this religion, if it is accompanied by behavior devoid of ethics?

Alas, Jerusalem, this week, mourns her destruction. Will we open our ears to her cry? Will we allow her to pray? I weep with her this week, yet I hope. I hope that the resolve and the response elicited by this week’s events causes her to be renewed. That the notion that Jerusalem and all it stands for is not only for one idea and one way. That Judaism rightly exists in more than one iteration. That through respect, mutual and truthful, acceptance, fully of differences and similarities, and openness, to what is known and what is unknown we can turn back to what Jerusalem is supposed to be: the city of wholeness for the whole of the Jewish people, the city of peace. Then we will be on the right track, and Isaiah will have been right again:

Zion [will have been] saved in the judgment;
Her repentant ones, in the retribution. (27)

Shabbat Shalom.

Rabbis paying dues (Shev 13b)

Should rabbis pay dues to their synagogue? It’s a tough question. On the one hand, rabbis are employed by their community. Therefore, paying dues might be viewed as a formality; paying a rabbi less will accomplish the same thing financially for a community. However, for some, rabbinical dues is a goodwill gesture. It show that they see themselves as part of the community and thus are willing to sacrifice something of theirs in order to see the community thrive.

I know I may change my mind when I get out of rabbinical school, but for now I see myself siding with this later view. The ideal rabbi should feel a part of their community. I’ve seen too many rabbis who view their rabbinate as simply a job. I don’t see it that way. Being a rabbi means having an intimate knowledge and connection to a community. It’s intense and therefore one must give up a part of themselves to succeed. Like time, energy, and space, a healthy abdication of some financial resources is an important gesture toward the community and shows the scope of a rabbi’s connection.

Reading the daf a few days ago, I found a great model for this. The high priest (modeled after Aaron) spends their life serving the Jewish community. They spend their time worrying about sacrifices and purity. They also receive their food from the offerings of those in their community. However, the Torah still mandates that when the Kohen Gadol brings their individual sacrifice on Yom Kippur it must come from them, meaning, they must purchase the bull with every penny of their own money. In doing this, the Kohen Gadol is made pure and he then (in his purity) can offer sacrifices that atone for the rest of the community.

I think this case has a lot to teach rabbis about the responsibility to one's community. The Kohen Gadol is a human like everyone else. Therefore they sin like others and must seek forgiveness like others. Unlike priests, rabbis are no closer to God than any other congregant is. For this reason, they must prayer, act, and give like anyone else. Although it’s problematic to say that membership and affiliation are akin to sacrifice (although it would be nice if all I had to do is give a bit of money and I’d achieved at least some form of atonement) I wonder if the Kohen Gadol can’t help tip the scales toward the argument that Rabbis should give something tangible of themselves as a way to cement their standing not just as the leader of a community but as part of it as well.

Free Agency: Parshat Mattot-Mas'ei

Numbers 30:2-36:13

Sorry for the lack of post last week.

Also, I'll be posting my d'var for this week about the Torah portion, not the Haftarah.

Something very important for our people happened yesterday.

Last night at 9:27 pm, LeBron James made his announcement that he would be joining the Miami Heat, ending the weeks of speculation about what he would do with his free agency. He explained that he made his decision based on a variety of factors. In the end, LeBron said that he “had to make sure that [he] was making the right decision for no one else but [him]self.” LeBron found himself at the end of this last NBA season in a state of free agency. A basketball player temporarily without a home. No contract. No team.

Many cities tried to court him to their court, each one offering him a contract and provisions and most likely promises that he could be most successful there. The championship that has eluded him for seven years, they would tell him, would become a sure reality. In the end, LeBron would have to pick the place that he felt was the best fit, for him to be successful.

Free agency happens when a contract expires and players are free to look around for better places to play. Places that are a better fit.

Though I am not sure basketball was on their minds, the tribes of Gad, Reuven and one-half of the tribe of Manasseh ask to be made free agents in their covenant with God in the midst of this week’s Parasha. 'Let us live on the east side of the Jordan,' they ask Moses. 'The land here is better for our cattle, and we are, after all, cattlemen. We know that the land on the other side of the Jordan is great and all, but we feel we can be most successful here. We will thrive here. We will survive here. We want to live here. We love our homeland, but this is better for us. We have to make the right decision for us.'

Like any good Team Owner, Moses contemplates this and realizes he now has a bargaining chip. If you want to be free agents, he tells them, you have to promise that you will first cross the Jordan River and help your brothers to conquer the land. “Are your brothers to go to war while you stay here?” (Num. 32:6) Essentially, Moses is asking for a guarantee that the tribes of Gad, Reuven and the half-tribe of Manasseh carry out the terms of their already existent contract. They have to enter the land. They have to make their way into the land and fight alongside their brothers. Once that has been accomplished, they, in essence, become free agents in the land grab of Canaan.

LeBron had a big decision to make. Should he stay in Cleveland, his home team and home town, or should he utilize his free agent status and go elsewhere? By asking to live outside of the boundaries of the Land of Israel that are established in this parasha, are these two and a half tribes being disloyal to the home team? Will the other 9.5 tribes be burning their jerseys and calling them traitors and narcissists?

Do we need to live in Israel in order to be a part of the Jewish people?

Back then, the answer from Moses was a qualified no: 'you can live on the other side of the Jordan, but you need to be here for us when we need you.’ Do we get the same consideration these days? When we go to Israel, do we get the sense that people there feel we are less than what we could be, because we have made a choice to live outside the boundaries of the land? Do we feel that way about ourselves?

When my family moved away from Israel in my infancy, my uncle railed against my father telling him that his children would grow up not knowing Judaism, not having Jewish homes and not having a connection to their past. Well, it is clear that my uncle was mistaken. Without going into a deep family tree, I will simply tell you that between me and my siblings and our cousins, my brother, sister and I are perhaps the most connected to our Judaism, though there is still a stigma for living abroad. Living in Galut, living in the diaspora or in exile is looked down upon by many.

The Israeli author A. B. Yehoshua caused an uproar when, in Washington DC 2006, he proclaimed that the future of the Jewish people was only in Israel. He claimed that diaspora Jews were merely playing at Judaism. Interestingly, he also commented that his identity had little to do with Judaism per se, but was rather based entirely on the fact that he was Israeli. He believes that Jews in Israel lead a more fully Jewish life than is possible in the diaspora.

One of the problems with that statement has to do with what it understands as the definition of what means to be Jewish. In Israel, there is one way to do Judaism, well two. Secular and Religious. Though Reform and other liberal, humanist, and modern understandings of Judaism have made inroads in Israel, it is largely in the absence of Israel’s influence that religious variety and a spectrum of creativity, belief and understanding has flourished. Babylonia, Spain, Germany and the United States should all be credited with expanding the notions of what Judaism means and how it can function.

The extreme opposite end of the spectrum, the anti-Yehoshua statement might even say that the ingathering of exiles has destroyed the variety of Jewish voices and customs, opting for the one Israeliness that Yehoshua values above all others. Much of Judaism’s greatest achievements have come from diaspora communities. And, in fact, it is only because of the diaspora that Judaism was able to reinvent itself again and again to remain a powerful force for morality, justice, and law. When Judaism exists in a variety of milieus, it benefits from the best those places have to offer. When Judaism exists in one place, particularly in a place with a narrow understanding of what Judaism means, it has a possibility of suffocation.

What Moses understood, unlike A. B Yehoshua seems to by his 2006 statement, is that both sides of the Jordan are important. The variety of voices lends to a creativity and vibrancy in Judaism that cannot be paralleled. When the Gadites, the Reuvenites and half of the Mannashites ask to stay where they can be of the most success and the most good, it is good for the entirety of the people. They do not ask to be cut off from their brethren. They just want to play for another city.

Free agency allows the player to go where they are best suited, where they can be the most successful, and ultimately, where they can thrive. A league with one team might win all the championships, but it certainly isn’t very meaningful.

Shabbat Shalom.

Chazak, Chazak v'Nitchazek!

It could happen here

I came across and an interesting argument yesterday (although not in the day's daf).

On Sotah 11a we find a debate between two rabbinic sages, Rav and Shmuel about the meaning of Exodus 1:8, "and there arose a Pharoah who knew not Joseph."

According to Rav this means that a new Pharoah arose, someone who had no relationship with Joseph and was not beholden to him. According to Shmuel our texts means that it was the same Pharoah. He knew Joseph but chose to forget him. This allowed him to enact decrees for his own benefit and against those of the Israelites.

This debate is classic and exists today. It went on in Germany in the period before WWII. The Ravs saw a changing society and said, "as long as Germany is Germany we'll be fine. We've made a home here." The Shmuels on the other hand knew that even the same society, even the same people, could turn on you at any moment.

Even in America we are constantly walking a tightrope between Rav and Shmuel. America has been a great place for the Jews. Will it always be? America has been Israel's greatest friend? Will we always be?

As Daniel Boyarin pointed out in his book "Intertextuality and The Reading of Midrash" perhaps the truth doesn't belong to either Rav or Shmuel but rather lives between their polarities. Maybe we should trust the society from which we live (Rav) while at the same time, keeping our guard up and knowing that it is not infallible (Shmuel).

Suspension of Sin (Shev. 8b)

There's an interesting idea in today's daf. If one commits an inadvertent sin and they don't know about it (the classic example is one who knows they are impure but forgets and eats food that must only be eaten in a state of purity), their sin is "suspended" after Yom Kippur.

What this means is simple. We know from our above example that if someone forgets they were impure and never remembers otherwise, the Yom Kipper sacrifice suspends punishment their sin. According to traditional Jewish belief, there is a system of reward and punishment that begins as soon as someone sins. This system can become activated at any time. Therefore, if I sin on a given day, I might be punished for that sin immediately or it might take years before I suffer for it. In fact, I might only get this punishment after I die.

The case of eating pure foods in a forgotten state of impurity complicates the simple cause and effect of reward and punishment. In this case, the Yom Kippur sacrifice puts a moratorium on the punishment. In effect, it says, "Hold on! This person may one day realize they sinned and then they will repent. But until then, let this Yom Kippur sacrifice be the person's atonement so that they don't get punished for something they don't even know they did."

What I love about this idea is that this vision of Yom Kippur is complicated. Here Yom Kippur is not a magic bullet, fixing everyone's sin. If I remember that I sinned the clock resets and I must quickly make amends for my mistakes. Additionally, Yom Kippur is not a formality. Here Avodah (priestly sacrifice) really serves to "temper judgment's severe decree."

No matter whether this theology seems appealing or anathema, Yom Kippur is richer when it is complicated. Yom Kippur is a great example of a theology of punishment and a theology of mercy in dialogue.

A deep need for the grind

We started a new tractate yesterday. At a meeting today, I found out that two HUC students in the class of '12 have been doing Daf Yomi since the end of school. That brings the total up to 4 (with others who have done it on and off for other periods during the past two years). I'm excited about these two student. They are both very smart and I will try to convince them to write for this blog.

I've been thinking a lot about why this Daf Yomi movement has taken off. I think if you play your cards right at school it's possible to take plenty of text classes. However, Daf Yomi is a completely different experience. It's the daily grind of Talmud.

I'm struck by a passage in the Hadran prayer (the prayer one says when one finishes a tractate of Talmud). In it we state that we labor (in study) and receive reward. The word labor (amal) is telling. Daf Yomi and other such fixed regimens of study are hard. There's never enough time in the day. Finding 45 minutes a day for anything is nearly impossible. Why make time for essoteric Jewish study?

However, I think there is a deep need for the regimen. That's why I think we're seeing liberal rabbinic students engaging in Daf Yomi study (and other regimented activities like Daniel's Haftarah study). Studying when we have leisure is nice and it may be religious, but it's not religion. Rather it's a vacation from the secular world. Studying when we don't have time, that's sacrifice. And its in the grind that religion is made.

I would be happy to help anyone find a regimen that works for them. I have found it really rewarding.

Against Paul (Makkot 23b)

There's a statement in yesterday's Daf by a little known sage (in fact he only appears once in the Mishnah and once in the Toseftah). Here's the quote, with Artscroll inferences in parenthesis:

R. Chananya ben Akashya says: The Holy One Blessed is He, desires to confer merit upon Israel (i.e. to increase their reward by providing them with many opportunities for mitzvah observance) therefore, He gave them Torah and mitzvot in abundance.

I haven't read anything about this to back up my claim, but I wonder if this statement is straight out of the history books.

We know that one of Paul's great changes during the birth of early Christianity was getting rid of the Halachic system. He writes:

What shall we say, then? Is the law sin? Certainly not! Indeed I would not have known what sin was except through the law. For I would not have known what coveting really was if the law had not said, "Do not covet." But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of covetous desire. For apart from law, sin is dead. Once I was alive apart from law; but when the commandment came, sin sprang to life and I died. I found that the very commandment that was intended to bring life actually brought death (Romans 7:7-10)

This statement is one of a number where Paul talks about the problems of commandments.  To summarize this statement (coupled with others), Paul felt that the flaw of the commandments were that we couldn't do them all and therefore, we would sin as we failed to observe our commandments. This sin would eventually lead to punishment. However, God, in his infinite grace (through Jesus) did away with the commandments and required us to have faith alone.

I can imagine the rabbis hearing this doctrine. For them commandments were paramount. So what did they do? They countered with a polemical text of their own. R. Chananya ben Akashya's statement is the anti-Paul statement. It's not that God loves us so he takes away the commandments. Rather it is because God loves us that he GIVES us the commandments! Moreover, God gives us many commandments so we might succeed in performing a lot of them (more brownie points).

For Paul the commandments were like SAT questions: to get them wrong would mean to deduct points. But for the rabbis, it's more like a Jewish summer camp color war: if you try hard and have the right spirit then everyone's a winner.

Hadran Aliech Masechet Makkot!

Will there be an asterisk?: Haftarah Balak

Micah 5:6-6:8

A quick search for the famous phrase from this week’s haftarah from the prophet Micah renders a number of inspirational t-shirts. This is my favorite.

Verse 6:8:

It has been told to you what is good, and that Adonai requires of you:
Only to do justice
And to love goodness
And to walk modestly with your God.

Jewish study Bible reminds us that this verse has been used to understand the essence of the commandments (b Makkot 24a). Micah took the 613 commandments, which already Isaiah whittled down to six, and made them three. These three.

What does it mean to do justice, to love goodness and walk modestly with God’s presence?

The Talmud teaches:

Micah came and reduced them to three [principles], as it is written, It hath been told thee, O man, what is good, and what the Lord doth require of thee: [i] only to do justly, and [ii] to love mercy and [iii] to walk humbly before thy God. To do justly, that is, maintaining justice; and to love mercy, that is, rendering every kind office; and walking humbly before thy God, that is, walking in funeral and bridal processions.
(BT Makkot 24a)

Another version:

What is the implication of the text, “It hath been told thee, O man, what is good, and what the Lord doth require of thee: Only to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God”? To do justly means [to act in accordance with] justice; to love mercy refers to acts of loving kindness and to walk humbly with thy God refers to attending to funerals and dowering a bride for her wedding.
(BT Sukkah 49b)

There is, at first glance, the difference between the translation of the Hebrew Hessed, alternately as mercy or as goodness (New JPS). The term in Hebrew can have either meaning, but also implies a certain fidelity and commitment. This added meaning can give a certain sense of clarity to how we understand this line and these three commands.

There is also the difference between the meaning of loving hessed. Is it about loving kindness or is it about rendering every kind of office? By focusing on hessed as a relational term, we can glean something else from these wise words.

Considering that through our relationships with others, we can and often do come to a relationship with God, the command to be just, be faithful and be humble in our dealings with God is perhaps not only about God, but how we should act toward one another.

How often do we consider the justice of our interactions with one another? How often do we consider the faith we place in one another? How often are we humble in the presence of the other?

Having been mesmerized by the 11 hour and 5 minute longest-tennis-match-in-the-history-of-the-world, I was struck by the remarks afterward by the competitors. Each, in the spirit of humility, faithfulness, and justice remarked at the fight and the drive of their opponent. There was a recognition of the fact that one could not be there without the other. All records will now be second best to this one.

In complete opposition to this, the French football debacle at the world cup represented the opposite. Fighting, blaming, suspicion, entitlement. Not a grand achievement, but an ignominious exit for les bleus. An asterisk recalling the expulsion of a player and the team's refusal to practice.

What does this tell us about tennis vs. soccer? Very little.

However, when the history is written, whether it be in a sports almanac or the pages of our and others’ memory, how will we want to be remembered for our interactions with others? How will we be remembered if we treat each other with the recognition of the divine in each person?

God of Our Fathers (Makkot 19a)

This summer I'm working on a project for HUC, designing a website to help rabbis and cantors with conversions. It will have texts, articles, and programs, pretty much anything you can think of, a one stop shop for everything conversion related.

In doing research I came across an article that I've been meaning to read, “Can Converts to Judaism say ‘God of our fathers’?” by Shaye J.D. Cohen in Judaism 40, 4 (1991) 419-428. We are going to ask Dr. Cohen's permission to include this article on the site, which means that I can't put it up here now.

Although I haven't gotten to it yet, I wonder if it includes sections from today's Daf. Here, Rav Ashi says that that a convert does not have to recite a blessing when he brings his first fruits (bikkurim) to God because he would have to say that God made a promise to "our fathers." Because he can't say this (because God didn't promise his father) he is exempt from this blessing.

Artscroll has an interesting note that speaks to the history of this trepidation to say "our fathers." We first see this idea appear in Bikkurim 1:4:

THESE BRING [BIKKURIM] BUT DO NOT MAKE THE RECITAL: THE PROSELYTE, SINCE HE CANNOT SAY: WHICH THE LORD HATH SWORN TO OUR FATHERS, TO GIVE UNTO US’. IF HIS MOTHER WAS AN ISRAELITE, THEN HE BOTH BRINGS BIKKURIM AND RECITES THE DECLARATION. WHEN HE PRAYS PRIVATELY HE SHALL SAY:’O GOD OF THE FATHERS OF ISRAEL’; BUT WHEN HE IS IN THE SYNAGOGUE, HE SHOULD SAY: ‘THE GOD OF YOUR FATHERS’. BUT IF HIS MOTHER WAS AN ISRAELITE WOMAN, HE SAYS: ‘THE GOD OF OUR FATHERS’.

As it happens, Jewish law doesn't follow this statement. According to a host of sources, Abraham is considered a father to "a multitude of nations" and therefore a convert is allowed to say "God of our fathers" because his father might have been Abraham.

What was interesting about this answer was that I think there is an easier way (legally, although I would take the above answer when dealing with a real person's feelings). Yevamot 22a says that a convert is like a newborn baby. In that case, one who convert renounces their former father and is born anew. Who is their new father? The Jewish people are. Therefore, God is truly God of their fathers. Although I didn't see it, maybe someone at some time made this connection.

I think this debate is a very important one. How people who choose to convert to Judaism relate to issues like Jewish suffering, the Holocaust, the promise of Israel and other aspect of historical memory and connection are interesting. How much should we push a convert to embrace their "fathers" even if it seems unnatural?

Maybe Cohen addresses these question in his essay. Looks like I have some reading to do.

One of us? Haftarah Hukkat

Judges 11:1-33

It is always difficult to find a hook in the haftarot that come from the historical books of the prophets. Though there are many ideas and narratives, somehow the theology in Isaiah or the visions in Ezekiel lend themselves to more interpretation.

Such appears to be the case here, with the story of Yiftach (Jephtah) the Gileadite who leads the Israelites to victory over the Ammonites. There are elements here about negotiations and treaties between nations, but this week, the most intriguing element comes at the beginning of the Haftarah.

Yiftach is the son of a prostitute. His father’s other children, those born to the father’s wife, drive out Yiftach taunting him, saying: “You shall have no share in our father’s property, for you are the son of an outsider.”

Yiftach, who helps bring God back into the community of Israel and helps them to conquer the land of the Ammonites is ostracized because of his lineage and where he comes from.

Prostitution notwithstanding, this kind of bigotry continues to this day in the land of Israel and by its rabbinical authorities no less. The current conversation and debate over the conversion bill making the rounds in the Kenesset in various iterations deal with exactly these questions.

Who is a Jew?

Who gets to be a part of the community of Israel?

Who gets to decide?

The conversion bill proposes that the Chief Rabbinate consolidate its control over conversions, moving it away from special conversion courts. Thus, according to the IRAC, this bill can prevent the acceptance of non-Orthodox conversions both inside and outside of Israel. Since non-Orthodox Judaism is not recognized in Israel to begin with, the Israel Supreme Court has had to intervene to allow converts from outside of Israel to gain rights as citizens of Israel under citizenship laws and laws of the Right of Return.

At the heart of this bill is the question of how we treat Jews-by-Choice and how much importance we place on birth. When Yiftach is shunned from his half-brothers, they were concerned about his birth. To them, his foreign birth makes him an outsider. His apparent love for his people notwithstanding, Yiftach is sent away, until he is needed.

‘Come back and be a chieftain among us!’ His “family” calls to him.

“You are the very people who rejected me! … How can you come to me now when you are in trouble?” (11:7)

If Israel is not careful, and continues to reject parts of the Jewish world from their heritage and birthright, she will lose them. They will not all be as comfortable as Yiftach coming back to save the day.

Israel already assumes that she has the support of American Jews, a majority of whom are Reform, Conservative and Reconstructionist Jews. When events like the Gaza flotilla happen, Israel anticipates the support of the American Jewish community. What will happen when the American Jewish community doesn’t feel welcome by Israel any more? Will we stand alongside our “family” those who rejected us and our Judaism?

One might criticize and say that this argument conflates the religion of Israel and its politics. But, Israel has been doing that since its inception. There is a fine line between religion and politics in Israel, and it grows fainter every time measures like this conversion bill are proposed and taken seriously. Are we supposed to accept and approve Israel’s politics blindly and also turn a blind eye to its religious dicta which deny rights to the non-orthodox?

Israel asks us all to be Yiftach on a regular basis. For now, it seems to be working, but it won’t be long before Israel does something truly unpleasing to the eyes of the diaspora Jews and what will happen then?

We should move away from being so concerned about birthplace and building fences around the Torah and around the religious establishment in order to solidify its power and influence. We should tear these fences down and uncover the heart of the Torah and its message. It is a message of acceptance without question of those desiring to be welcomed into the community. Its message is love and justice, goodness and hope. Freedom is its gift to all who cherish it. Freedom to worship as Jews. Freedom to live as Jews in the homeland for the Jews.

Shabbat Shalom

What is an enemy (San 9b)

I've been in the following situation a number of times. I get in a fight with a friend. After storming off, I'm not ready to talk with this friend, so I avoid him. Days pass and still I am not ready to talk with him. Perhaps this is because I am angry or perhaps this is because I am too proud to apologize for my role in the fight. Nevertheless, I know that when we do see each other things will be fine, because throughout this ordeal we are still friends at our core.

Or are we?

According to today's daf (actually the footnotes on today's daf - the actual source for the following is found in tractate Sanhedrin) one turns from a friend to an enemy if you go three days without speaking because of anger.

The implications of this are important for Talmud's discussion surrounding the "city of refuge." In this case if you kill someone inadvertently, you may flee to one of these cities, however it gets a lot more complicated if the person you kill is your enemy.

Leaving this context aside, I think the idea of the enemy is very important. How many times have we actually turned a friend into an enemy because we went too long without speaking after a fight? The Talmud has created a countdown for us (a three day limit of silence). From the minute we part ways after an argument we have three days to make amends. Maybe if we follow this timeline we'll keep a lot more friends and seriously limit the number of enemies in our lives.

Look to the Skies! Haftarah Rosh Hodesh

Isaiah 66:1-24

When Rosh Hodesh falls on Shabbat, a special Haftarah is read. Coming from the last chapter of Isaiah, there is a vision of new moon after new moon and Sabbath after Sabbath as a promise of God’s unending relationship with humanity. God’s sovereignty will endure forever.

At the beginning of the chapter, we have God’s lamenting the troubles in getting someone’s attention.

For I called and none responded,I spoke and none paid heed.
- Verse 4

God wants us to pay attention. When we don’t pay attention, God stops being nice.

I attended an interfaith group meeting yesterday whose speaker was Pablo Suarez, one of two climate change experts that works for the Red Cross Red Crescent society. He spoke to us about what it means to be proactive about climate change at the local level and how that affects society at a global level. He spoke about how understanding the changes that are happening and working to be ready for them can prevent food shortages and deaths. He spoke about common sense solutions like storing grain in bags as opposed to granaries. When heavier than normal rains come, which happens more and more often these days, the bags can be moved to higher ground and the food saved.

These ideas save money, prevent the need for disaster relief and put survival and recovery int the hands of the people much sooner than the Red Cross can get there. These ideas aside—and there were many of them—Mr. Suarez then moved the conversation to the metaphysical. He asked us to determine if we believed a variety of climate issues were the cause of Man, Nature or God.

Man. Nature. God.

The ice caps melting. Man? Nature? God?
The flooding after hurricane Katrina. Man? Nature? God?
The Tsunami in Indonesia. Man? Nature? God?
The deaths after Katrina. Man? Nature? God?
The oil spill in the gulf. Man? Nature? God?

The list went on.

One response from the audience to this list and the options presented was that perhaps there was no difference between God and Nature. I also considered that I have often mentioned that I believe when we work for positive change, we are partnering with God.

God? Man? Nature?

As I was listening to this I was wondering about the message that we are supposed to be getting when nature is talking to us. Whose attention is nature trying to get? What is going to happen when we don’t listen, or can’t listen or choose not to listen, or let politics dictate what we think science is telling us?

It will soon become the case that something will replace the oil spill and its effects in the news and in the American consciousness. Remember Haiti? Remember Darfur?

God. Nature. Man.

God’s complaint in the opening verses of this chapter from Isaiah speaks for the complaint of more than God. It speaks for the complaint of Nature and Man as well. God is not the only thing that we sometimes tend to ignore.

Who will we pay attention to this week, this month, this year? There are so many things that need our attention. Let us hope that we can give it when it is warrented.

Shabbat Shalom