Just finished Tractate Chullin! It's my 14th complete tractate! Now onto the post...
One reason I love Judaism is that it is mainly a religion of deed. That's why I was surprised today when I came across a teaching that one can be punished for his thoughts - if that thought was about idol worship.
The teaching come in the context of an incident where a child sends away a mother bird before fetching eggs for his father. Based on the Torah, one is promised a long life if he does either of two commandments (sending away a mother bird before taking their young and honoring one's parents). However, on his way down the child falls to his death, and the text must struggle with the question of theodicy: how can such a bad thing happen to such a meritorious boy?
In debating what went wrong the Talmud suggests that he was punished for his sinful thoughts. However that is quickly dismissed because "The holy one does not consider a sinful thought to be in the realm of deeds." Therefore the child would not be punished on account of this.
However, the text continues, if he was thinking about idol worship that warrants punishment. So what's different about idol worship?
The Meiri has an interesting answer: Idol worship at it's core is a belief in one's heart.
When I pray to God I do a lot. I read words. I bow. I stand. However, my real prayer comes from my intention. That's different than say eating pork because I can think about the other white meat till the cows come home but until I eat it I haven't done anything wrong. Thinking about Baal or any other gods, is in a way akin to actually worshipping them.
So what does this text teach us? There is something special about prayer that nothing else has and it's the fact that we can do it even while others are watching. Prayer is inner and personal. Prayer is sui generis which makes it all the more powerful.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Temporary Wilderness - A Sukkot Sermon
The News of Gilad Shalit's release after 5 years of captivity prompted me to change my Sukkot sermon last minute. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it.
בַּסֻּכֹּת תֵּשְׁבוּ, שִׁבְעַת יָמִים; כָּל-הָאֶזְרָח, בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל, יֵשְׁבוּ, בַּסֻּכֹּת.
You shall sit in sukkot for seven days, all the citizenry of Israel shall sit in sukkot.[1]
And so we do. We sit in these sukkot, the next verse tells us, so that the generations may know that God made the children of Israel dwell in booths, when God brought them out of the land of Egypt. Sukkot and the sukkah remind us of the wilderness, of the wandering. The sukkah itself symbolizes impermanence. The rules regulating its size and construction, the materials which can be used, even the hole-y roof, all these requirements signify this dwelling’s temporary nature. Even our visitors, the famous ushpizin only come in for a day. They join us for a part of the holiday, and then make their exit. The festival of Sukkot and its booths suggest the transient nature of life, the ebb and flow. To every thing, there is a season.[2]
Why live in these temporary dwellings? Yes, the verse says that we are to remember the exodus from Egypt, but isn’t every other holiday also a time to recall the exodus from Egypt? After all, Shabbat asks us to remember the exodus; it’s right there in the Kiddush! Whereas in other chapters of the Torah, different festivals and Shabbat are tied to the exodus, in our chapter of Leviticus, there is only one mention of the exodus, and that is connected to Sukkot. Only Sukkot, so that future generations will know that God made us dwell in booths when we left Egypt. Why the special significance here? Yes, we lived in booths, but it is also more than that. It all comes back to impermanence, but not of the dwellings, per se, rather of the experience.
For it is also the wilderness which is temporary. Isolation and separation from our land is temporary. The hard days and nights, the tough work of getting to know God and understanding God’s power: that won’t last forever. One day, we will cross the Jordan. One day, there will be one God whose name is one.[3] So, we remind ourselves of that, every year for a week. We come together to build sukkot and celebrate with the Lulav and Etrog. Each year, we string the autumnal colored decorations, repurposing Halloween and Thanksgiving knick-knacks for our temporary dwelling to remind us of the days when we were in the wilderness. We bring with us a recollection of our redemptive journey to freedom and hope for our ultimate redemption. All thanks to the little, temporary structure.
Sukkot asks that we bring the wilderness with us, but sometimes we may choose to highlight the wilderness on our own. How interesting, then, that this year, we are all paying attention to temporary dwellings in a new way. We are called to take note of the wilderness of those isolated and separated. Summoned to see those working hard and not getting ahead. This summer, thousands of Israelis moved to tents in every major city and many not-so-major ones. They were young people looking to establish themselves in their land, though all they found was wilderness. They found rising costs of food, no mannah to gather. They found inaccessible housing, they couldn’t even afford an apartment the size of a sukkah. And so, they built cities of temporary dwellings. All to call attention to their wilderness. They came together in their tents and huts to highlight the wilderness of their present, not to remember the wilderness of their past and hoping for a brighter future.
In this country as well, the Occupy Wall Street movement shines a light on those mired in a wilderness. The wilderness of low wages and high prices for food, fuel and health care. The wilderness of a tax code considered overly beneficial to corporations and the wealthiest. The wilderness of disenfranchisement from representative government, feeling like they don’t have a voice, because they can’t afford a lobbyist. These protestors, whether we agree with them or not, even in part, call to mind a perceived wilderness in this nation through their tents. They are attempting to focus our attention toward the majority who had until now not spoken up, who had not, until recently, reached its breaking point. They call to mind those who are the most vulnerable when left out in the elements. And they do it all from their tents in the financial district, promising not to go home until something changes.
And sometimes, things do change. A little over a year ago, one family set up their own temporary dwelling, outside the Prime Minister’s residence in Jerusalem, on Azza Street. This tent, modest in stature, recalled another wilderness. This time, the wilderness of one. One soldier, who as of today has been in captivity 1936 days. The Shalit family set up this tent saying that until their son was brought home, they would not go home. While their son was in the wilderness, they would brave it with him, and remind people that there was still someone out in the desert. This year, the festival of Sukkot will be remembered not only because of the Shalit family’s temporary dwelling, but because of the redemption that followed. It will be remembered as the time when Gilad Shalit was freed from his captivity and brought forth to freedom. When he crossed back into his homeland. He is due to be transferred to Egypt and then to Israel early next week.
And it is Gilad Shalit’s freedom that ultimately reminds us of the joy that we are meant to feel on Sukkot. For even though the dwellings are temporary, reminding us of the difficulties of the wilderness, the mere fact that we build them means that we have prevailed. We were rescued from Egypt. We have made it through the wilderness in the past, we will do it again.
Whether reminding us of the difficulties in our past, revealing the wildernesses of our present, or serving as a symbol of making it through the desert, our modest huts resonate in impressive ways. The schach on the roof will fade from the green of freshly cut bows to a pale brown. The paper garlands will fade in the sun and be ravaged by the wind and the rain. The gourds will wither. Yet each year we build again. Each year we decorate again. Each year we invite our guests in. We know that the wilderness is only temporary.
May we all recognize the wildernesses these sukkot represent, both past and present. May we rejoice that freedom has been achieved and another of the citizenry of Israel can look back on wilderness rather than forward to more days in the desert. And, with these sukkot all around us as we gather in this holy community, may we all pray for the Sukkat Shalom, the Sukkah of peace to prevail over us, over all of Israel and over all of humanity.
Ken Yehi Ratzon.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Honoring Your Parents - only gains (Chullin 110b)
I've always wondered why so few laws in the Torah have rewards attached to them. Honoring parents (Kibud Av v'Em) is perhaps the most famous. Here's the text:
In other words: the only thing one has to lose by not obeying his parents is the "reward" of a longer life! Should they mess up, their life expectancy stays what it always would be.
So what's so special about obeying one's parents? I imagine the tradition knows just how hard it is to truly honor one's parents. How do you care for them when they are old? How do you take their advice when you think you are correct?
Like everything we make mistakes with our parents, but knowing what's on the line and that it's easier to mess up here (as opposed to simply not putting up a sukkah), the tradition creates a fail safe. We can only go up from here!
Honor your father and your mother, that you may long endure on the land that the Lord your God is assigning to you. (Ex. 20:12)According to the daf from a few days ago there is an interesting reason for this. The text reads:
Any positive command whose reward is written in the verse alongside its command, the lower (earthly) court is not admonished with respect to itWe know that in the Talmud, a court can compel someone to obey a law, even a positive command like building a sukkah, by punishing them (usually with lashes). However, as the above text teaches, if the Torah gives a reward for doing a commandment, the court cannot compel them to obey the command. That's because the punishment for not obeying the commandment is simply that they will not receive the reward.
In other words: the only thing one has to lose by not obeying his parents is the "reward" of a longer life! Should they mess up, their life expectancy stays what it always would be.
So what's so special about obeying one's parents? I imagine the tradition knows just how hard it is to truly honor one's parents. How do you care for them when they are old? How do you take their advice when you think you are correct?
Like everything we make mistakes with our parents, but knowing what's on the line and that it's easier to mess up here (as opposed to simply not putting up a sukkah), the tradition creates a fail safe. We can only go up from here!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
My Rosh Hashanah Sermon - would love to hear your thoughts!
In Marc Foster’s “Stranger than Fiction” Howard Crick’s life is turned upside down when he realizes he might be a character in novel. Immediately, Crick, played by Will Ferrel, seeks out a literature professor to find out what to do. His instructions are clear, figure out whether he is a character in comedy or a tragedy. As the narrative continues we find Crick carrying around a notebook. On one side, he has written the word, comedy. On the other side, he has written the word tragedy. As he lives his life, he begins tallying up moments of tragedy and comedy until he looks his love in the eyes and says, in perhaps the funniest moment of the movie, “I think I’m in a tragedy!”
Howard Crick is not the only person in history to divide stories into comedies and tragedies. Since Aristotle, literature has been placed into one of these two categories. Comedies begin in disarray but over the course of the narrative, they move toward unity until they finish with a final act of unity, usually a marriage. Think “Taming of the Shrew” or even “The Hangover.” Tragedy on the other hand, begins well but because of some fatal flaw everyone ends up dead on the floor. These range from “Hamlet” to Scorseese’s “The Departed.”
It seems today people are still using these classical definitions to debate the present state of the Jewish community. Open the newspaper and you’ll find many arguing that we are living in a tragedy. The Jewish population is shrinking, young Jews lack engagement with Israel, hostility toward religion is more accepted than it ever has been in America, the future of many of our greatest Jewish institutions is in question, including the future of the synagogue. Some view these as fatal flaws and fear that they spell the tragic death of the American Jewish community and perhaps the Jewish people.
Then of course, there are those who feel that we are living in a comedy. Look at the Jewish Meditation Center of Brooklyn and other similar organizations and you’ll see a renewed commitment to Jewish spiritual connection. Pray with Altshul or any other independent minyan and you’ll see an intense and powerful connection to Jewish prayer and community. Anti-Semitism is at an all time low, and in fact, we might actually be in a period of Philo-Semitism, a love of Jews. And of course, the current generation of Jews is the most secularly educated in history and this creates stronger leaders and brings to the table new ideas. Follow the comedy paradigm and the Jewish future has never been more sound than it is today.
In a way, the tragedy / comedy dichotomy is a false one. Jewish narratives do not function as one or the other. Like good postmodern movie, Jewish time combines moments of comedy and tragedy. Let me give you two examples:
Each week, the Jewish calendar relives the story of creation. Just as the world was created out of chaos and emptiness, tohu v’avohu so too does our week begin is disarray. However, our sages teach us that like any good comedy as our week progresses it moves toward wholeness. Monday is less broken than Sunday, Thursday less than Wednesday, until Shabbat arrives and our comedy ends like most, with a wedding as we welcome the Shabbas bride during the singing of L’cha Dodi. This wedding ushers in a 24 hour period where we gain an extra soul, taste the world to come, and experience wholeness unlike any other time during the week. It’s the ultimate happy ending.
However, our story doesn’t end there. Humanity has a fatal flaw. We haven’t brought about redemption. Our world, because of hunger, hate, injustice, and fear cannot sustain the unity of Shabbat. Saturday night arrives, Shabbat crumbles and we need the smells and sounds of the Havdallah services just to survive. Our comedy ends in tragedy. Our world is again in chaos and we must start our comedy narrative anew.
Like the Jewish week, the Jewish year bounces between comedy and tragedy. Each year, during the month of Elul we engage in a sacred drama with God. God, who according the Abraham Joshua Heschel is in search of humanity, goes looking for us. At some point right before Rosh Hashanah God finds us and in an act of love we unite with God. In fact, our tradition teaches us that at this time every year, humanity is so close to God, that God cannot tell the difference between humanity and the angels. For the rabbis who developed this doctrine, the month of Elul isn’t just a 30-day before the High Holy Days; it is an acronym for this process. Elul means ani l’dodi, v’dodi li, I am my beloved and my beloved is mine. God and humanity are intertwined and unified. The Holy Days are the last scene in the Jewish comedy, as God and the humanity are wed.
However, over the course of the year, we begin to fade. Humanity moves further and further from God. Again, humanity has let the flaws of hate, anger and materialism get in the way and we experience tragedy anew. Each summer as a reminder that our world is not whole, we arrive at the 9th day of the month of Av, Tisha B’av and are forced to relive the destruction of the Temple and God’s exile from our midst. But like our Jewish week, time moves in cycles. The month of Elul starts again and our tragedy turns to comedy anew.
Both the Jewish week and the Jewish year are microcosms of Jewish history. These narratives tell us many things about our relationship to God and to the Jewish story. However, most importantly, they tells us that Jewish time is neither tragedy nor comedy but the inextricable linking of the two.
Those who look at Jewish history can certainly make a reasonable argument that we live in a tragedy. I often look around at hostility toward Israel or see the shrinking demographic data and I feel the fear and regret I do when I say goodbye to Shabbat on Saturday night. However, I can also make a reasonable argument that we live in a comedy. I observe the energy in the Brooklyn Jews community, I hear a high-school student say that he’s never experienced anti-Semitism, I see how liberal Judaism has accepted fully the notion of gay marriage and I feel much like I do on Friday night when the Shabbas bride enters.
Throughout time, the Jewish world has contained pessimists and optimists. To steal a phrase from Simon Rawidowicz, Judaism is the “ever dying people.” Yet, we are also the ever-thriving people! Saul Bellow described Jewish literature (as a representation of Jewish life) as “a curious intermingling of laughter and trembling” because the tragedy narrative and the comedy narrative depend on one another. Just as Shabbat is so much sweeter because we experienced the chaos of the week, and Saturday night is so much harder because we’ve experienced the peace of Shabbat, our tragedy narratives make our comedy narratives stronger and visa versa.
A brit milah of a newborn baby has added meaning in light of the narrative of shrinking demographics. Anyone who joins Congregation Beth Elohim or goes to a Federation program proves wrong those who say that our age cohort does not care about Jewish institutions. And it works the opposite way. The narrative of non-affiliation forces congregations and organizations to avoid staleness and self-gratification. The narrative of lack of Israel engagement empowers us to create innovative programs and experiences like Birthright to educate our community about the richness of the state of Israel.
Tragedy and comedy narratives may seem mutually exclusive but they are not. A rich Jewish future is built on mutual interdependence of these stories. As Jews, we must laugh in the face of our greatest fears and view our greatest successes with a bit a fear. That’s the only way to avoid complacency.
However, Jewish time is not an endless cycle of bouncing between comedy and tragedy. Although the two are intertwined, the idea of redemption has always remained a foremost hope of the Jewish people. For some this is called the Messianic era. For others it is called peace, security, or stability. We may live today in both a comedy and a tragedy but it’s been the hope the Jewish people for millennia that we end up well. One day Shabbat will begin and it not end. Then life will be “yom shkulo Shabbat—the perfectly actualized Shabbat day. One day we unite with God at the High Holy Days and we don’t lose that connection. Maimonides’ famous statement, “ani mamamin, b’emunah sh’lemah,” I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messianic age is statement of faith that we live in a comedy.
Time may vacillate between comedy and tragedy but it doesn’t function like a ferris wheel. We aren’t stuck in a perpetual and inescapable cycle of ups and downsbetween good and bad, joyshope and fears. Jewish time differs from those in say a Greek novel because history has a direction. Jewish time looks less like a hamster wheel and more like a…well a Shofar!
[hold out long, curved shofar]
The shape of the Shofar reminds us that we live in the interplay between the high’s and low’s but more importantly that one day the tragedy narrative will dissolve and we will end our story in a comedy. Yes, a shofar loops around, but it also ends up somewhere a little further ahead than where it began. One reason we blow the shofar is to remind us that there is a better place. We sound the horn to rouse us from our pessimism, to collect up our feelings of exile, pain, and fear and to acknowledge that the “ever dying people” will continue to thrive.
We live in a scary time. However, we also live in a hopeful time. Both narratives are important and both are crucial a whole Jewish story. Whether we see our current reality as a comedy or tragedy is really up the individual. There are enough elements of both to make a strong case for either. But Jewish history and faith teach us that no matter how many checks we put in the tragedy or comedy box we are a link in a history that is always moving toward betterment and self-actualization. There’s nothing more hopeful and entertaining than that!
Howard Crick is not the only person in history to divide stories into comedies and tragedies. Since Aristotle, literature has been placed into one of these two categories. Comedies begin in disarray but over the course of the narrative, they move toward unity until they finish with a final act of unity, usually a marriage. Think “Taming of the Shrew” or even “The Hangover.” Tragedy on the other hand, begins well but because of some fatal flaw everyone ends up dead on the floor. These range from “Hamlet” to Scorseese’s “The Departed.”
It seems today people are still using these classical definitions to debate the present state of the Jewish community. Open the newspaper and you’ll find many arguing that we are living in a tragedy. The Jewish population is shrinking, young Jews lack engagement with Israel, hostility toward religion is more accepted than it ever has been in America, the future of many of our greatest Jewish institutions is in question, including the future of the synagogue. Some view these as fatal flaws and fear that they spell the tragic death of the American Jewish community and perhaps the Jewish people.
Then of course, there are those who feel that we are living in a comedy. Look at the Jewish Meditation Center of Brooklyn and other similar organizations and you’ll see a renewed commitment to Jewish spiritual connection. Pray with Altshul or any other independent minyan and you’ll see an intense and powerful connection to Jewish prayer and community. Anti-Semitism is at an all time low, and in fact, we might actually be in a period of Philo-Semitism, a love of Jews. And of course, the current generation of Jews is the most secularly educated in history and this creates stronger leaders and brings to the table new ideas. Follow the comedy paradigm and the Jewish future has never been more sound than it is today.
In a way, the tragedy / comedy dichotomy is a false one. Jewish narratives do not function as one or the other. Like good postmodern movie, Jewish time combines moments of comedy and tragedy. Let me give you two examples:
Each week, the Jewish calendar relives the story of creation. Just as the world was created out of chaos and emptiness, tohu v’avohu so too does our week begin is disarray. However, our sages teach us that like any good comedy as our week progresses it moves toward wholeness. Monday is less broken than Sunday, Thursday less than Wednesday, until Shabbat arrives and our comedy ends like most, with a wedding as we welcome the Shabbas bride during the singing of L’cha Dodi. This wedding ushers in a 24 hour period where we gain an extra soul, taste the world to come, and experience wholeness unlike any other time during the week. It’s the ultimate happy ending.
However, our story doesn’t end there. Humanity has a fatal flaw. We haven’t brought about redemption. Our world, because of hunger, hate, injustice, and fear cannot sustain the unity of Shabbat. Saturday night arrives, Shabbat crumbles and we need the smells and sounds of the Havdallah services just to survive. Our comedy ends in tragedy. Our world is again in chaos and we must start our comedy narrative anew.
Like the Jewish week, the Jewish year bounces between comedy and tragedy. Each year, during the month of Elul we engage in a sacred drama with God. God, who according the Abraham Joshua Heschel is in search of humanity, goes looking for us. At some point right before Rosh Hashanah God finds us and in an act of love we unite with God. In fact, our tradition teaches us that at this time every year, humanity is so close to God, that God cannot tell the difference between humanity and the angels. For the rabbis who developed this doctrine, the month of Elul isn’t just a 30-day before the High Holy Days; it is an acronym for this process. Elul means ani l’dodi, v’dodi li, I am my beloved and my beloved is mine. God and humanity are intertwined and unified. The Holy Days are the last scene in the Jewish comedy, as God and the humanity are wed.
However, over the course of the year, we begin to fade. Humanity moves further and further from God. Again, humanity has let the flaws of hate, anger and materialism get in the way and we experience tragedy anew. Each summer as a reminder that our world is not whole, we arrive at the 9th day of the month of Av, Tisha B’av and are forced to relive the destruction of the Temple and God’s exile from our midst. But like our Jewish week, time moves in cycles. The month of Elul starts again and our tragedy turns to comedy anew.
Both the Jewish week and the Jewish year are microcosms of Jewish history. These narratives tell us many things about our relationship to God and to the Jewish story. However, most importantly, they tells us that Jewish time is neither tragedy nor comedy but the inextricable linking of the two.
Those who look at Jewish history can certainly make a reasonable argument that we live in a tragedy. I often look around at hostility toward Israel or see the shrinking demographic data and I feel the fear and regret I do when I say goodbye to Shabbat on Saturday night. However, I can also make a reasonable argument that we live in a comedy. I observe the energy in the Brooklyn Jews community, I hear a high-school student say that he’s never experienced anti-Semitism, I see how liberal Judaism has accepted fully the notion of gay marriage and I feel much like I do on Friday night when the Shabbas bride enters.
Throughout time, the Jewish world has contained pessimists and optimists. To steal a phrase from Simon Rawidowicz, Judaism is the “ever dying people.” Yet, we are also the ever-thriving people! Saul Bellow described Jewish literature (as a representation of Jewish life) as “a curious intermingling of laughter and trembling” because the tragedy narrative and the comedy narrative depend on one another. Just as Shabbat is so much sweeter because we experienced the chaos of the week, and Saturday night is so much harder because we’ve experienced the peace of Shabbat, our tragedy narratives make our comedy narratives stronger and visa versa.
A brit milah of a newborn baby has added meaning in light of the narrative of shrinking demographics. Anyone who joins Congregation Beth Elohim or goes to a Federation program proves wrong those who say that our age cohort does not care about Jewish institutions. And it works the opposite way. The narrative of non-affiliation forces congregations and organizations to avoid staleness and self-gratification. The narrative of lack of Israel engagement empowers us to create innovative programs and experiences like Birthright to educate our community about the richness of the state of Israel.
Tragedy and comedy narratives may seem mutually exclusive but they are not. A rich Jewish future is built on mutual interdependence of these stories. As Jews, we must laugh in the face of our greatest fears and view our greatest successes with a bit a fear. That’s the only way to avoid complacency.
However, Jewish time is not an endless cycle of bouncing between comedy and tragedy. Although the two are intertwined, the idea of redemption has always remained a foremost hope of the Jewish people. For some this is called the Messianic era. For others it is called peace, security, or stability. We may live today in both a comedy and a tragedy but it’s been the hope the Jewish people for millennia that we end up well. One day Shabbat will begin and it not end. Then life will be “yom shkulo Shabbat—the perfectly actualized Shabbat day. One day we unite with God at the High Holy Days and we don’t lose that connection. Maimonides’ famous statement, “ani mamamin, b’emunah sh’lemah,” I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messianic age is statement of faith that we live in a comedy.
Time may vacillate between comedy and tragedy but it doesn’t function like a ferris wheel. We aren’t stuck in a perpetual and inescapable cycle of ups and downsbetween good and bad, joyshope and fears. Jewish time differs from those in say a Greek novel because history has a direction. Jewish time looks less like a hamster wheel and more like a…well a Shofar!
[hold out long, curved shofar]
The shape of the Shofar reminds us that we live in the interplay between the high’s and low’s but more importantly that one day the tragedy narrative will dissolve and we will end our story in a comedy. Yes, a shofar loops around, but it also ends up somewhere a little further ahead than where it began. One reason we blow the shofar is to remind us that there is a better place. We sound the horn to rouse us from our pessimism, to collect up our feelings of exile, pain, and fear and to acknowledge that the “ever dying people” will continue to thrive.
We live in a scary time. However, we also live in a hopeful time. Both narratives are important and both are crucial a whole Jewish story. Whether we see our current reality as a comedy or tragedy is really up the individual. There are enough elements of both to make a strong case for either. But Jewish history and faith teach us that no matter how many checks we put in the tragedy or comedy box we are a link in a history that is always moving toward betterment and self-actualization. There’s nothing more hopeful and entertaining than that!
Friday, September 2, 2011
An authentic reading of tradition - a Shoftim Sermon
“For whom do you speak?” asked our dean Jack Wertheimer.
I was attending a seminar for rabbinical students from all seminaries, orthodox, conservative, reform, and transdemoninational and it was our first session. With a smile, knowing he was about to be controversial, Dr. Wertheimer asked again, “For whom do you speak? As a rabbi, can you ever speak for the Jews? What about your movement? How about your synagogue community? We know that traditionally rabbis are considered a public voice for social justice. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel marched with Martin Luther King. After the Six Day War, American Jewry was unified in its pride and support of Israel. But today, can you ever speak for any view other than your own.”
It was a provocative question and the answers surprised me. While the Reform Movement has been an important voice for social justice since the 1960s (and in some cases even before), I quickly learned that that was not the case with other movements. In fact, most of my orthodox classmates were adamant that an issue like climate change and health care is too complicated for any rabbi to advocate for. Jewish ethics do not conform to the intricacies of public policy, they said. You can speak to your own views but its unfair to force Judaism to say what it does not.
I was a minority voice but a loud one. Jewish leaders, rabbis, cantors, and Jewishly educated laity have not only a right but an obligation to teach, preach, and advocate for American interests in a distinctly Jewish idiom. My classmates were right in one regard. Issues are just too complicated and opinions to diverse to ever begin a sentence with the phrase, “the Jews feel that…” If I took a poll, we would find a diversity of opinions on universal health care, environmental policy, and reproductive rights. Unless you give me the right, I cannot speak for you.
What I can speak for (and this applies to anyone who takes the study of our sacred texts seriously) is an authentic reading of our tradition. I am framed by certain key texts in our tradition, one of which appears at the start of this week’s Torah portion and is the phrase, tzedek, tzedek tirdof…“Justice, justice, shall you pursue!” Other texts include the command, v’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha, love your neighbor as yourself and the notion that we are all created b’tzelem elohim, in the image of God. Anyone who takes Jewish learning seriously has a right to use that information to frame their worldview and raise a prophetic voice that advocates for justice and equality!
However, I often find myself reluctant to speak up about issues we face today. Am I smart enough to take a teaching from the prophets Isaiah or Jeremiah, couple it with teachings from the rabbis and speak with a prophetic voice for social change? The answer is yes! WE ALL ARE. And we have an apt metaphor for this internal struggle in this week’s Torah portion.
Parshat Shoftim speaks about the notion of the false prophet. Here, Moses tells the people that after he is gone, God will raise up a prophet in his stead. He will speak the words of truth and the people are commanded to listen to him. However, Moses continues, there will surely arise false prophets among you. How then will you know whether a prophet speaks the truth? Moses explains that if a prophet speaks in the name of God and his prophesy comes true we know he was a true prophet. If not we punish him for uttering a false prophesy in the name of God.
This text is telling but dated. The rabbis acknowledge that after the destruction of the Temple, prophesy halted. God no longer speaks to us directly. Now, when we want to find out our religious duty in the world, we have to look to our sacred texts for guidance. Where once, a prophet knew if he was speaking the truth if he heard God’s voice, today speaking in a prophetic voice for justice is much harder. We have to read texts, make judgments and trust ourselves.
Where once the big question was whether or not a person was a false prophet, today the bigger question is whether when we speak for the tradition, are we speaking truth or falsehoods? Without God’s guidance, it’s a lot easier to be on the wrong side of history and that’s a scary thought. It’s easy to look back at those rabbis who marched in Selma or who fought to preserve the redwood forests in the 1990s, known affectionately as the Redwood Rabbis and say that their decision was easy. It’s much harder to be in the moment having to choose between a Jewish reading of budgetary issues and social programs, workers or employers, those who wish to immigrate to America and those who citizens who remain unemployed.
Without divine guidance and forced to make my own judgments about Jewish tradition, it’s no wonder that I and many others would rather simply let Judaism inform our religious life, like prayer, Shabbat, and kashrut, and personal ethics like honoring my parents, avoiding stealing, and treating others with dignity and avoid any mixing of Judaism and public policy.
However, Jewish tradition is clear, a reading of the tradition informed by texts and thoughtfulness is an authentic reading and can serve as a platform to assess and engage with the modern world. As American Jews we can hold two truths in our hands. We are informed by American sensibilities and by Jewish ideals, and together we can each speak for what we feel Jewish ethics mandate from America. Others may not agree with us our conclusions. Many may ridicule our reading of tradition. But without God’s voice in our heads, we can only trust our own judgment as we rightfully and prophetically fulfill our moral mandate to seek peace and pursue justice.
Our struggle to overcome our fear of giving the wrong message and being on the wrong side of history is an ancient struggle that our rabbis faced nearly two thousand years ago. The Talmud asks the question, “There are so many smart rabbis who study much more than I but some pronounce things ritually pure while other pronounce it impure. Some kosher while others unkosher. What should I do?”
The Talmud answers with a teaching that still speaks to today, “Make your ear like a hopper, which takes in that you hear, but acquire for yourself a discerning heart and don’t be afraid to pick a side.”
The jury is still out about whether we can speak in the name of other Jews, but I submit to you that there is no question that each and every one of us here, can cultivate that discerning heart and can speak with an authentic and prophetic voice in the name of Judaism.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Play it safe or play it rational (Chulin 48b)
So here's a question: you find a needle in the lung of an animal. Is it the animal (and lung) kosher or not?
The issue at hand is whether the needle punctured the lung. If it did, the lung is considered traif and thus the animal is not kosher. If it didn't the animal is fine.
What's interesting about this question is that Rabbis Yochanan, Elazar and Chanina permit the animal for eating, while Shimon Ben Lakish, Mani bar Patish, and Shimon be Elyakim say it is traif. That's a pretty big (and even) split.
At the heart of the disagreement is how the needle got into the animal in the first place. There are really only two options. The animal could have swallowed it or aspirated it.
If the animal swallowed it, the needle would have had to have left it's digestive track, puncturing it's intestines (another way an animal become traif) then entered into the lungs by puncturing it from the outside. If the animal aspirated it, the needle would simply have gone down the wrong tube (if there is a right one for a needle!) and the presumption is that it would not have made any holes.
At the root of this debate is whether we privilege rational explanations or halachic certainty. Rationally, it makes much more sense that the needle was aspirated than that it left a cows intestines and found it's way into a lung. That's why Yochanan and his group render the animal kosher. However, Shimon ben Lakish and his group privilege something entirely different. As far-fetched at their scenario may be there is a chance it could have happened. Since the only thing you can be sure about in this situation is that you are not eating non-kosher meat if you prohibit the animal they deem the organ traif and play it safe.
Jewish law is a dance between what is rational and what is safe. Sometimes these two ideals line up. Sometimes, as it does in today's daf, they do not and you must decide which of these two values to privilege.
The issue at hand is whether the needle punctured the lung. If it did, the lung is considered traif and thus the animal is not kosher. If it didn't the animal is fine.
What's interesting about this question is that Rabbis Yochanan, Elazar and Chanina permit the animal for eating, while Shimon Ben Lakish, Mani bar Patish, and Shimon be Elyakim say it is traif. That's a pretty big (and even) split.
At the heart of the disagreement is how the needle got into the animal in the first place. There are really only two options. The animal could have swallowed it or aspirated it.
If the animal swallowed it, the needle would have had to have left it's digestive track, puncturing it's intestines (another way an animal become traif) then entered into the lungs by puncturing it from the outside. If the animal aspirated it, the needle would simply have gone down the wrong tube (if there is a right one for a needle!) and the presumption is that it would not have made any holes.
At the root of this debate is whether we privilege rational explanations or halachic certainty. Rationally, it makes much more sense that the needle was aspirated than that it left a cows intestines and found it's way into a lung. That's why Yochanan and his group render the animal kosher. However, Shimon ben Lakish and his group privilege something entirely different. As far-fetched at their scenario may be there is a chance it could have happened. Since the only thing you can be sure about in this situation is that you are not eating non-kosher meat if you prohibit the animal they deem the organ traif and play it safe.
Jewish law is a dance between what is rational and what is safe. Sometimes these two ideals line up. Sometimes, as it does in today's daf, they do not and you must decide which of these two values to privilege.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
How to avoid a dishonest reputation (Chullin 44b)
A useful teaching in today's Daf:
The answer may be no, however just by raising the question I have planted in your mind the question of my honesty and integrity. We live in a world where those two values are so easily lost. The sages are right. If there is a change it might seem fishy, avoid any hint of it, even if it is a fair (and smart) purchase.
If one adjudicated a case (concerning contested property) and ruled in favor of one party and against another, or he ruled an item impure or pure or the ruled it forbidden or permitted, and likewise if witnesses testified about the property all of these (the judges and witnesses) are allowed to buy the item [in which they played a role in permitting or invalidating]. However, the sages said, keep far away from unseemliness and from anything resembling it.Here the sages give sound advice. If I am a judge and I award someone lost property and then he turns around and sells it to me, doesn't that look fishy? Have I ruled in accordance with his claims because I knew he would sell it to me at a fair price?
The answer may be no, however just by raising the question I have planted in your mind the question of my honesty and integrity. We live in a world where those two values are so easily lost. The sages are right. If there is a change it might seem fishy, avoid any hint of it, even if it is a fair (and smart) purchase.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Matot D'var Torah - collective unity
I want to begin with an odd scene. Picture a ball of bees. When winter rolls around, bees understand that they need to protect their queen, so they swarm her. Creating a giant ball around her, their collective bodies give off heat saving all but the most peripheral bees. Only those bees that remain on the outside, freeze and fall off.
While an odd picture, this natural phenomenon describes a scene that is taking place in this week’s Torah portion, Matot. There, two tribes, Rueben and Gad approach Moses and ask to remain outside of the promised land because the land there is better for their cattle. Moses agrees, provided the men of the tribes first act as shock troops in the conquest of Caanan. After winning the war for the promised land they can return to the east side of the Jordan river with their families and begin life outside of the land.
The rabbis come down hard on these two tribes for their decision to remain outside of the Caanan. Therefore the rabbis paint their motives as flawed. Numbers Rabbah tells us that the tribes asked to remain outside of the land because they loved money more than people. When the tribes first approach Moses about staying behind they explain, “Let us stay here and we will build fenced-in enclosures for our cattle and cities for our young children.' (Numbers 32:16). Moses hears this plea and is appalled. In listing the rationale for staying behind, the tribes have privileged their livestock over their families. When they finally attain permission from Moses, the leader reminds them of what is really important, putting their children foremost on the list of tasks, first “Build cities for your young children” and only then “fenced-in enclosures for your cattle.” (Numbers 32:24).
Ironically, in their quest for wealth these tribes failed to put people first and consequently, they left themselves exposed. As a result of this oversight, they were the first tribes to be conquered and to go into exile. In our beginning example, the bees on the outside of the ball have no choice. In this natural process some need to freeze to protect the queen. But these tribes could have entered the promised land and stayed close to the body politic. If they had remained one unit, together with the rest of Israel, they may not have been taken captive by King Mesha of Moab in the 9th century.
Throughout time, Jewish law and ethics have privileged collective responsibility and unity. We are commanded in the Torah, “lo titgodedu” which the rabbis understood to mean, “do not make factions.” Factions create discord. Factions are weaker. It’s cold out there alone on the outside.
So I leave you with a final image, one from our tradition and very fitting for a Temple so close to the water. The rabbis liken the Jewish people to two barges. When these barges are tied together, God builds God’s palace across their bows and anything is possible. But when they are untied and drift toward their own selfish pursuits as did the tribes of Rueben and Gad, God’s palace has no platform tumbles into the space between the boats, sinking to the bottom of the sea.
May you stand firm in your collective resolve and sense God’s palace all around you. Shabbat Shalom
While an odd picture, this natural phenomenon describes a scene that is taking place in this week’s Torah portion, Matot. There, two tribes, Rueben and Gad approach Moses and ask to remain outside of the promised land because the land there is better for their cattle. Moses agrees, provided the men of the tribes first act as shock troops in the conquest of Caanan. After winning the war for the promised land they can return to the east side of the Jordan river with their families and begin life outside of the land.
The rabbis come down hard on these two tribes for their decision to remain outside of the Caanan. Therefore the rabbis paint their motives as flawed. Numbers Rabbah tells us that the tribes asked to remain outside of the land because they loved money more than people. When the tribes first approach Moses about staying behind they explain, “Let us stay here and we will build fenced-in enclosures for our cattle and cities for our young children.' (Numbers 32:16). Moses hears this plea and is appalled. In listing the rationale for staying behind, the tribes have privileged their livestock over their families. When they finally attain permission from Moses, the leader reminds them of what is really important, putting their children foremost on the list of tasks, first “Build cities for your young children” and only then “fenced-in enclosures for your cattle.” (Numbers 32:24).
Ironically, in their quest for wealth these tribes failed to put people first and consequently, they left themselves exposed. As a result of this oversight, they were the first tribes to be conquered and to go into exile. In our beginning example, the bees on the outside of the ball have no choice. In this natural process some need to freeze to protect the queen. But these tribes could have entered the promised land and stayed close to the body politic. If they had remained one unit, together with the rest of Israel, they may not have been taken captive by King Mesha of Moab in the 9th century.
Throughout time, Jewish law and ethics have privileged collective responsibility and unity. We are commanded in the Torah, “lo titgodedu” which the rabbis understood to mean, “do not make factions.” Factions create discord. Factions are weaker. It’s cold out there alone on the outside.
So I leave you with a final image, one from our tradition and very fitting for a Temple so close to the water. The rabbis liken the Jewish people to two barges. When these barges are tied together, God builds God’s palace across their bows and anything is possible. But when they are untied and drift toward their own selfish pursuits as did the tribes of Rueben and Gad, God’s palace has no platform tumbles into the space between the boats, sinking to the bottom of the sea.
May you stand firm in your collective resolve and sense God’s palace all around you. Shabbat Shalom
Monday, July 4, 2011
Plan Ahead - a Parshat Chukat Sermon
Sorry I haven't written in a while. I've been working hard at Temple Adas Israel in Sag Harbor. Here's a sermon I gave this past Friday:
30 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes. That’s how long William Henry Harrison served as the president of the United States. As legend has it, Harrison came to office on a cold and wet March 4th day. Known for his tough persona, he left his hat and coat inside and delivered the longest inaugural address in the history of the United States, over 2 hours. Needless to say, Harrison caught pneumonia and died soon after.
Immediately following his death, America faced an important question. Who would be the next president? Article two of the constitution is vague. If a president dies the constitution makes it is clear that his vice president, in this case, John Tyler assumes presidential responsibilities. However, what is not clear is whether Tyler would be the new president or the acting president until an emergency election is held. Following the death, lawmakers made a mad scramble to figure out what would happen. After some hard fought battles, it was decided that Tyler would become the new president of the United States. Even on his deathbed, William Henry Harrison had not prepared for his succession and the next generation of leaders had to pay for this oversight.
Why begin a sermon with this story tonight? Besides the fact that it’s the fourth of July weekend, the story shows just how hard it is to get one’s house in order before one makes a transition. Harrison’s story deals with death, but people struggle similarly with preparing successors after moving up in a job or even handing their children over to a new babysitter for the evening. With everything to think about, how can you adequately prepare and guard those after you for the challenges that lay ahead.
Our Torah portion this week, Chukat, gives us two models of transition, one good and one poor. Parshat Chukat contains two deaths, first Moses’s sister Miraim dies, then Moses’s brother Aaron. Both leaders die for mysterious reasons and both leaders die quickly. However, there is one marked difference in the Torah’s depiction of their deaths: Aaron prepares for his transition.
We don’t know anything about Miriam’s death. It appears suddenly at the start of Numbers chapter 20, “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried.” After this, the Torah moves on. The people do not mourn, the cause is not explained. However, Miriam’s death would play a crucial role in the story of the Jewish people. According to rabbinic legend, Miriam was given a special gift. Throughout the desert, in the driest of climates, Miriam was able to summon a magic well and provide water for the people. Yet, no sooner do we learn of Miriam’s death than we learn that the people are parched. The verse following Miriam’s death reads, “The community was without water, and they joined against Moses and Aaron.” True, we don’t know how Miriam died, if it was sudden or not, but what we do know is that as she was nearing the end of her life, Miriam had not found a successor. No one but her had the power over water. Therefore, when she disappeared so did her well. Trepidation followed Miriam’s death in the same way it did after William Henry Harrison.
Aaron’s death was different. At the behest of God, Aaron was commanded to ascend Mount Hor in front of the whole community. There he took of his priestly garments and dressed his son Eleazer in them. This simple act was all that was needed to pass the mantle of leadership from father to son. Aaron would ascend the mountain as high priest and his son would descend in that role. This simple act by Aaron ensured that would be no power vacuum and there would be someone to serve in his place after his death.
Aaron’s death exemplified an important feature of the way he lived his life. According to rabbinic legend Aaron used to walk around town. If he saw someone who didn’t know the prayers, he would teach them. As high priest, Aaron could have taken care of the people’s spiritual needs. He could have recited the prayers for them. However, knowing that an empowered people are better than a dependent one he took to time to instruct them. The same goes for settling disputes. According to rabbinic tradition, Aaron would stay up the night before a big trial, convincing the plaintiff and defendant to meet. There he would mediate between the two of them. Having worked out their dispute on their own, the two parties would cancel the case. True the courts are capable of ruling between parties, but a people who can compromise and discuss problems is better. This action is why the rabbi referred to Aaron as a “Rodef Shalom,” a pursuer of peace.
Aaron teaches us that although we can’t predict the future, living our life with one eye toward it is crucial. We won’t always be there to recite prayers or rule in disputes, so teaching others these skills ensures that prayers will get said and arguments settled even in our absence. Because of the way Aaron lived his life, his legacy was a more self-sustaining and grounded people, and Aaron’s death was a little less of a tragedy.
Having time to get one’s affairs in order and teach one’s lessons before death is sometimes a luxury we don’t often get. However, when we do have the time, it is important to take advantage of it. According to one rabbinic legend, before Jacob’s death, people died by sneezing. They would feel fine one minute, sneeze, and their soul would fly out their nose. As an aside, this is one reason why we bless those after a good sneeze. However, Jacob’s death would be different. He prayed for sickness, so that he would have time to gather his children together one last time and settle his affairs. With as much pain as it has caused us over time, sickness would be Jacob’s gift to humanity in forcing us to make important end of life decisions.
We cannot settle everything while we are living, but it’s never too late to start. No matter your age, make a decision about organ donation. Talk to your loved ones about what to if you end up on life support. If you have young children, make sure you designate a legal guardian if something should happen to you. Make sure your life insurance is up to date. Buy a funeral plot. The synagogue owns a cemetery and Howard Chwatzky would be happy to tell you more about it.
In the coming weeks, look out for a bereavement guide that Rabbi Morris and I have been working on. In addition to explaining the stages of Jewish mourning, it includes information about legal and living wills, a helpful sheet containing all the crucial information your family may need to know in the case of a tragedy (simple things like your safety deposit box number), and resources on how to fill out an ethical will so that your children and grandchildren may read in your own words the life lessons you want to impart. There’s a lot to remember when planning for the future, and Rabbi Morris and I are happy to be a resource if you would like to talk more about it.
After William Henry Harrison’s death, America faced a challenge because they had not prepared. However, they didn’t learn their lesson. After Harrison, other presidents would die in office, and each time they would rely on a Harrison’s shaky precedent to appoint the sitting vice president. This shows just how hard it is to really prepare. Finally, in 1967, this changed with the ratification of the 25th amendment that spelled out all the steps of vice presidential succession. America had finally learned their lesson and moved from a Miriam model of winging it to an Aaron model of advance planning. In this instance, there would be no more loose ends.
Shabbat Shalom and Happy 4th of July weekend.
30 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes. That’s how long William Henry Harrison served as the president of the United States. As legend has it, Harrison came to office on a cold and wet March 4th day. Known for his tough persona, he left his hat and coat inside and delivered the longest inaugural address in the history of the United States, over 2 hours. Needless to say, Harrison caught pneumonia and died soon after.
Immediately following his death, America faced an important question. Who would be the next president? Article two of the constitution is vague. If a president dies the constitution makes it is clear that his vice president, in this case, John Tyler assumes presidential responsibilities. However, what is not clear is whether Tyler would be the new president or the acting president until an emergency election is held. Following the death, lawmakers made a mad scramble to figure out what would happen. After some hard fought battles, it was decided that Tyler would become the new president of the United States. Even on his deathbed, William Henry Harrison had not prepared for his succession and the next generation of leaders had to pay for this oversight.
Why begin a sermon with this story tonight? Besides the fact that it’s the fourth of July weekend, the story shows just how hard it is to get one’s house in order before one makes a transition. Harrison’s story deals with death, but people struggle similarly with preparing successors after moving up in a job or even handing their children over to a new babysitter for the evening. With everything to think about, how can you adequately prepare and guard those after you for the challenges that lay ahead.
Our Torah portion this week, Chukat, gives us two models of transition, one good and one poor. Parshat Chukat contains two deaths, first Moses’s sister Miraim dies, then Moses’s brother Aaron. Both leaders die for mysterious reasons and both leaders die quickly. However, there is one marked difference in the Torah’s depiction of their deaths: Aaron prepares for his transition.
We don’t know anything about Miriam’s death. It appears suddenly at the start of Numbers chapter 20, “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried.” After this, the Torah moves on. The people do not mourn, the cause is not explained. However, Miriam’s death would play a crucial role in the story of the Jewish people. According to rabbinic legend, Miriam was given a special gift. Throughout the desert, in the driest of climates, Miriam was able to summon a magic well and provide water for the people. Yet, no sooner do we learn of Miriam’s death than we learn that the people are parched. The verse following Miriam’s death reads, “The community was without water, and they joined against Moses and Aaron.” True, we don’t know how Miriam died, if it was sudden or not, but what we do know is that as she was nearing the end of her life, Miriam had not found a successor. No one but her had the power over water. Therefore, when she disappeared so did her well. Trepidation followed Miriam’s death in the same way it did after William Henry Harrison.
Aaron’s death was different. At the behest of God, Aaron was commanded to ascend Mount Hor in front of the whole community. There he took of his priestly garments and dressed his son Eleazer in them. This simple act was all that was needed to pass the mantle of leadership from father to son. Aaron would ascend the mountain as high priest and his son would descend in that role. This simple act by Aaron ensured that would be no power vacuum and there would be someone to serve in his place after his death.
Aaron’s death exemplified an important feature of the way he lived his life. According to rabbinic legend Aaron used to walk around town. If he saw someone who didn’t know the prayers, he would teach them. As high priest, Aaron could have taken care of the people’s spiritual needs. He could have recited the prayers for them. However, knowing that an empowered people are better than a dependent one he took to time to instruct them. The same goes for settling disputes. According to rabbinic tradition, Aaron would stay up the night before a big trial, convincing the plaintiff and defendant to meet. There he would mediate between the two of them. Having worked out their dispute on their own, the two parties would cancel the case. True the courts are capable of ruling between parties, but a people who can compromise and discuss problems is better. This action is why the rabbi referred to Aaron as a “Rodef Shalom,” a pursuer of peace.
Aaron teaches us that although we can’t predict the future, living our life with one eye toward it is crucial. We won’t always be there to recite prayers or rule in disputes, so teaching others these skills ensures that prayers will get said and arguments settled even in our absence. Because of the way Aaron lived his life, his legacy was a more self-sustaining and grounded people, and Aaron’s death was a little less of a tragedy.
Having time to get one’s affairs in order and teach one’s lessons before death is sometimes a luxury we don’t often get. However, when we do have the time, it is important to take advantage of it. According to one rabbinic legend, before Jacob’s death, people died by sneezing. They would feel fine one minute, sneeze, and their soul would fly out their nose. As an aside, this is one reason why we bless those after a good sneeze. However, Jacob’s death would be different. He prayed for sickness, so that he would have time to gather his children together one last time and settle his affairs. With as much pain as it has caused us over time, sickness would be Jacob’s gift to humanity in forcing us to make important end of life decisions.
We cannot settle everything while we are living, but it’s never too late to start. No matter your age, make a decision about organ donation. Talk to your loved ones about what to if you end up on life support. If you have young children, make sure you designate a legal guardian if something should happen to you. Make sure your life insurance is up to date. Buy a funeral plot. The synagogue owns a cemetery and Howard Chwatzky would be happy to tell you more about it.
In the coming weeks, look out for a bereavement guide that Rabbi Morris and I have been working on. In addition to explaining the stages of Jewish mourning, it includes information about legal and living wills, a helpful sheet containing all the crucial information your family may need to know in the case of a tragedy (simple things like your safety deposit box number), and resources on how to fill out an ethical will so that your children and grandchildren may read in your own words the life lessons you want to impart. There’s a lot to remember when planning for the future, and Rabbi Morris and I are happy to be a resource if you would like to talk more about it.
After William Henry Harrison’s death, America faced a challenge because they had not prepared. However, they didn’t learn their lesson. After Harrison, other presidents would die in office, and each time they would rely on a Harrison’s shaky precedent to appoint the sitting vice president. This shows just how hard it is to really prepare. Finally, in 1967, this changed with the ratification of the 25th amendment that spelled out all the steps of vice presidential succession. America had finally learned their lesson and moved from a Miriam model of winging it to an Aaron model of advance planning. In this instance, there would be no more loose ends.
Shabbat Shalom and Happy 4th of July weekend.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Economic Advice in the Talmud - It's not all about the next big idea (Menachot 85a)
In the daf from a few days back the Talmud quotes a disagreement between Moses and two Egyptian sorcerers (Yochana and Mamrei). According to Rashi after the first plague (turning water to blood), these sorcerers mocked Moses, saying "Straw you are bringing to Aforayim!" Rashi explains that Aforayim was a market that was known for selling straw. According to these sorcerers, Moses's "magic" in Egypt was nothing special. Since they were known also for doing tricks and feats, it was repetitive and futile for Moses to try anything supernatural. In essence they mock him saying "It's been done!" For them, doing magic in Egypt was like bringing straw to a market already saturated with the product.
However, Moses doesn't give up. He has an answer, "People say: To a place of vegetables, take your vegetables." For Moses, it's smart business to take vegetables to a market that already sells them. That's because there is already demand for them and because people can compare prices and quality. If your produce is good quality, it can only help you to enter the market. Being the first person in the community to sell tomatoes when no one is accustomed to buying them isn't always good business. Yes, you will corner the market, but people may pass by your product because they are not used to buying it or have never tasted it.
This text is interesting for two reasons. The first is this, that this is one of the many aphorisms found in the Talmud that teaches us the rabbis understanding of economic forces. However, perhaps more important, Moses's response is interesting because of what it says about influencing people.
If you do extraordinary work (like turn water into blood) you hope to get recognized. However, if no one knows to look out for your work, people will miss it - I'm not sure one would miss blood rivers but I hope you get the point. Great ideas are only great if people hear them. Perhaps, it's not about being the first person to do something. Rather it's entering a market that already expects a certain kind of innovation and doing it better (and slightly different) than anyone else. Perhaps that's what make the plague so great. Everyone does magic but not everyone can turn rivers to blood.
This second reading of Moses's statement is important for many reasons, not the least of which is it sums up my view on synagogues. It seems today that people are looking for the next big idea to shape Jewish life. Some of these ideas may be great but they lack something. There is no platform for them. Innovation in Jewish life must happen, but in the marketplace of Jewish ideas, fixing and engaging with an established product, temple life, is the smarter way to make change and impact people. We can support Israel, encourage Jewish practice, fix Jewish literacy rates, and support our needy anywhere. But there is no place that we can do it better than through our institutions.
However, Moses doesn't give up. He has an answer, "People say: To a place of vegetables, take your vegetables." For Moses, it's smart business to take vegetables to a market that already sells them. That's because there is already demand for them and because people can compare prices and quality. If your produce is good quality, it can only help you to enter the market. Being the first person in the community to sell tomatoes when no one is accustomed to buying them isn't always good business. Yes, you will corner the market, but people may pass by your product because they are not used to buying it or have never tasted it.
This text is interesting for two reasons. The first is this, that this is one of the many aphorisms found in the Talmud that teaches us the rabbis understanding of economic forces. However, perhaps more important, Moses's response is interesting because of what it says about influencing people.
If you do extraordinary work (like turn water into blood) you hope to get recognized. However, if no one knows to look out for your work, people will miss it - I'm not sure one would miss blood rivers but I hope you get the point. Great ideas are only great if people hear them. Perhaps, it's not about being the first person to do something. Rather it's entering a market that already expects a certain kind of innovation and doing it better (and slightly different) than anyone else. Perhaps that's what make the plague so great. Everyone does magic but not everyone can turn rivers to blood.
This second reading of Moses's statement is important for many reasons, not the least of which is it sums up my view on synagogues. It seems today that people are looking for the next big idea to shape Jewish life. Some of these ideas may be great but they lack something. There is no platform for them. Innovation in Jewish life must happen, but in the marketplace of Jewish ideas, fixing and engaging with an established product, temple life, is the smarter way to make change and impact people. We can support Israel, encourage Jewish practice, fix Jewish literacy rates, and support our needy anywhere. But there is no place that we can do it better than through our institutions.
There are those who always want the next big Jewish idea. There are others who want to enter the race in the middle and build off what others have done. Today, our Talmud gives a vote for the latter.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Oil, Tax Loopholes, and Tithing (Menachot 67b)
First of all, a shameless plug. If you haven't already, please go to www.facebook.com/brooklynjews and "like" the Brooklyn Jews page. It's the organization I work for (the outreach arm of Congregation Beth Elohim) and we are trying to get 100 likes by the end of the week!
Now for the post.
The Talmud asks the question: Why is an idolater's terumah (priestly tithe) valid? Technically, if we read the Bible there is no evidence that an idolater can bring a tithe to the Temple. The reason for this is because the specific act that makes grain subject to tithing is the "smoothing" of the grain during preparation. Without smoothing, grain is technically not subject to tithes, and any grain not subject to tithes cannot be brought to the temple, even as a gift. Therefore, if an idolater were to smooth grain the grain would never be subject to the laws of tithing.
However the rabbis noticed that something odd was happening with the grain. Since terumah is donation by percentage (like any tithe), it meant that those who were rich and could afford a lot of grain also had to donate a lot to the Temple. So what did they do? They transferred the ownership of the grain to idolators right before the grain was to be "smoothed." Then after the idolator smoothed the grain (and it was no longer subject to the laws of terumah) they transferred the ownership back wealthy person, and thus no one was obligated in this particular tithe.
To counter this, the rabbis decided that the terumah of idol worshipers would be valid!
If we consider terumah to be a tax to the Temple, there is a lot in common with the actions of these wealthy individuals and the oil companies who set up offices in other nations to avoid paying US taxes. The rabbis noticed these tax loopholes in their system and thus added strictures on the biblical law in order to close them?
Maybe we should use the rabbis as a model and do the same?
As it turns out the senate is voting TODAY on at least part of the issue. I don't know enough about the bill to endorse it or reject it but one has to admit, it's funny when timing works out like it does.
Now for the post.
The Talmud asks the question: Why is an idolater's terumah (priestly tithe) valid? Technically, if we read the Bible there is no evidence that an idolater can bring a tithe to the Temple. The reason for this is because the specific act that makes grain subject to tithing is the "smoothing" of the grain during preparation. Without smoothing, grain is technically not subject to tithes, and any grain not subject to tithes cannot be brought to the temple, even as a gift. Therefore, if an idolater were to smooth grain the grain would never be subject to the laws of tithing.
However the rabbis noticed that something odd was happening with the grain. Since terumah is donation by percentage (like any tithe), it meant that those who were rich and could afford a lot of grain also had to donate a lot to the Temple. So what did they do? They transferred the ownership of the grain to idolators right before the grain was to be "smoothed." Then after the idolator smoothed the grain (and it was no longer subject to the laws of terumah) they transferred the ownership back wealthy person, and thus no one was obligated in this particular tithe.
To counter this, the rabbis decided that the terumah of idol worshipers would be valid!
If we consider terumah to be a tax to the Temple, there is a lot in common with the actions of these wealthy individuals and the oil companies who set up offices in other nations to avoid paying US taxes. The rabbis noticed these tax loopholes in their system and thus added strictures on the biblical law in order to close them?
Maybe we should use the rabbis as a model and do the same?
As it turns out the senate is voting TODAY on at least part of the issue. I don't know enough about the bill to endorse it or reject it but one has to admit, it's funny when timing works out like it does.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Lesser of Two Evils: Be a Good Samaritan (Menachot 64a)
A good puzzle in Friday's Daf:
On the other hand, if one plucks the two stems each with a single fig on it they have not wasted any figs, however they have done TWO acts that are a desecration of Shabbat - two reaping are worse than one. So what is the answer?
According to the Talmud, it the answer is obvious. We should bring three figs on one stem. In the fight between a desecration of amount or a desecration of number of actions, the Talmud rules in favor of avoiding the latter. For our commentators, the reason is because bringing three figs violates a prohibition of the rabbis while plucking twice violates a biblical prohibition.
However, I think there is something more here. When one needs to save a life, they must act fast. There are times when you know what you are doing is clearly wrong. No lifeguard should pull a potential spinal victim out by their neck. Doing so is irresponsible like choose to pluck twice when one only needs to pluck once. However, when you have the potential to save someone's life you shouldn't be held accountable for acting fast even if you make small mistakes along the way. Using the same example, you could have turned the spinal victim more smoothly, you could have hooked them up tighter to the backboard, however, if you do the best you can, you should not be held liable. Don't count the figs like you don't scrutinize the knots on the backboard. Just act!
Rava's puzzle teaches us that good samaritan laws applty in some form to the rabbis.
Rava asked: If a sick person was assessed as needing to eat two dried figs on Shabbat (because doing so would save their life) and there are two dried figs attached to two stems or there are three figs attached to one stem which do we bring?Here's the problem. If the person only needs two figs but we bring him three we have plucked on too many figs for him. Jewish law allows one to violate the laws of Shabbat (in this case the prohibition against reaping) in order to heal a sick person. However, anything above the bare minimum is considered a true violation and is not excused in order to help the sick person. This prohibition is called "ribui b'shurin."
On the other hand, if one plucks the two stems each with a single fig on it they have not wasted any figs, however they have done TWO acts that are a desecration of Shabbat - two reaping are worse than one. So what is the answer?
According to the Talmud, it the answer is obvious. We should bring three figs on one stem. In the fight between a desecration of amount or a desecration of number of actions, the Talmud rules in favor of avoiding the latter. For our commentators, the reason is because bringing three figs violates a prohibition of the rabbis while plucking twice violates a biblical prohibition.
However, I think there is something more here. When one needs to save a life, they must act fast. There are times when you know what you are doing is clearly wrong. No lifeguard should pull a potential spinal victim out by their neck. Doing so is irresponsible like choose to pluck twice when one only needs to pluck once. However, when you have the potential to save someone's life you shouldn't be held accountable for acting fast even if you make small mistakes along the way. Using the same example, you could have turned the spinal victim more smoothly, you could have hooked them up tighter to the backboard, however, if you do the best you can, you should not be held liable. Don't count the figs like you don't scrutinize the knots on the backboard. Just act!
Rava's puzzle teaches us that good samaritan laws applty in some form to the rabbis.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
A coda to the last post (Menachot 62a)
It turns out there is a proof text for why we should engage as many people as possible in ritual acts. In discussing why there are three priests involved in a particular act of ritually waving a sacrifice.
The text reads as follows:
With the multitude of people is the glory of the King (Prov 14:28).
Turns out that sharing in tasks was so important that it wasn't just something the Kohanim did. Rather it was a value for which they looked for a precedent in the Bible.
Now I really have to find Ark openers for the next high holy day!
The text reads as follows:
With the multitude of people is the glory of the King (Prov 14:28).
Turns out that sharing in tasks was so important that it wasn't just something the Kohanim did. Rather it was a value for which they looked for a precedent in the Bible.
Now I really have to find Ark openers for the next high holy day!
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Ark Openers and Other Crucial Tasks (Menachot 52a)
I always hate being given the "honor" of opening the ark. "Can't the rabbi or cantor just do it," I ask myself. But I always say yes. I don't want to seem standoffish.
What I find is that sometimes the most successful synagogues actually make work for their congregants to keep them involved. Ark openers, english readings, people to undress the Torah, and people to hold it are actually not so crucial to the flow of the service. And often, the service would seem smoother without these people. So why involve them in these tasks?
The reason is that the more you involve people the more buy-in you have from the community. A great example of this comes up in today's daf (or more precisely the daf quotes a piece of a very long Mishnah from Tamid 4:3). In essence here's the summary of the Mishnah.
There was a definite procedure to offer up the daily Tamid sacrifice in the Temple. To accomplish all the steps of offering the sacrifice, the texts mandate that no less than 9 priests become involved (although there is room for more). Here's the breakdown:
5 priests dealt with the animal (most holding sections of the animal that were cut up)
1 priest dealt with the entrails
2 priests dealt with the two kinds of grain offerings that happen along with the sacrifice
1 priest dealt with the wine offering that happen along with the sacrifice
And then of course there are:
1 priest who slaughters the animal
1 priest who throws the blood on the altar
1 priest who cleans up the ash
Although it's clear that we could have had less than 13 people involved in the sacrifice, I think it's telling that the Talmud mandates this number. Like the ark opener, the task is easily done by someone else (why can't the same person deal with the wine and later clean up the ashes?). However, getting these priests involved is good for everyone. It keeps them invested and feeling like they matter.
Perhaps I shouldn't be so down on ark openers after all?
What I find is that sometimes the most successful synagogues actually make work for their congregants to keep them involved. Ark openers, english readings, people to undress the Torah, and people to hold it are actually not so crucial to the flow of the service. And often, the service would seem smoother without these people. So why involve them in these tasks?
The reason is that the more you involve people the more buy-in you have from the community. A great example of this comes up in today's daf (or more precisely the daf quotes a piece of a very long Mishnah from Tamid 4:3). In essence here's the summary of the Mishnah.
There was a definite procedure to offer up the daily Tamid sacrifice in the Temple. To accomplish all the steps of offering the sacrifice, the texts mandate that no less than 9 priests become involved (although there is room for more). Here's the breakdown:
5 priests dealt with the animal (most holding sections of the animal that were cut up)
1 priest dealt with the entrails
2 priests dealt with the two kinds of grain offerings that happen along with the sacrifice
1 priest dealt with the wine offering that happen along with the sacrifice
And then of course there are:
1 priest who slaughters the animal
1 priest who throws the blood on the altar
1 priest who cleans up the ash
Although it's clear that we could have had less than 13 people involved in the sacrifice, I think it's telling that the Talmud mandates this number. Like the ark opener, the task is easily done by someone else (why can't the same person deal with the wine and later clean up the ashes?). However, getting these priests involved is good for everyone. It keeps them invested and feeling like they matter.
Perhaps I shouldn't be so down on ark openers after all?
Friday, April 22, 2011
Repetitive for a Reason (Menachot 44a)
Ever wonder why the line "I am the Lord your God" repeats itself in Numbers 15:41:
The Rabbis have come up with something brilliant. We begin the Shema with a statement of monotheism and (with the help of this Midrash) we end the third paragraph of the Shema with the same statement. "I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt to be your God. I am the LORD your God" has become a bookend to the prayer that reminds us just how ONE God really is.
I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt to be your God. I am the LORD your God.’Here's an interesting story that seeks to answer the question (translation Soncino). Even though it's not relevant I'm going the whole text because it's really THAT good:
It was taught: R. Nathan said, There is not a single precept in the Torah, even the lightest, whose reward is not enjoyed in this world; and as to its reward in the future world I know not how great it is. Go and learn this from the precept of tzitzit. Once a man, who was very scrupulous about the precept of tzitzit, heard of a certain harlot in one of the towns by the sea who accepted four hundred gold [denars] for her hire. He sent her four hundred gold [denars] and appointed a day with her. When the day arrived he came and waited at her door, and her maid came and told her, ‘That man who sent you four hundred gold [denars] is here and waiting at the door’; to which she replied ‘Let him come in’. When he came in she prepared for him seven beds, six of silver and one of gold; and between one bed and the other there were steps of silver, but the last were of gold. She then went up to the top bed and lay down upon it naked. He too went up after her in his desire to sit naked with her, when all of a sudden the four fringes [of his garment] struck him across the face; whereupon he slipped off and sat upon the ground. She also slipped off and sat upon the ground and said, ‘By the Roman Capitol, I spear I will not leave you alone until you tell me what blemish you saw in me. ‘By the Temple’, he replied, ‘I swear I have never seen a woman as beautiful as you are; but there is one precept which the Lord our God has commanded us, it is called tzitzit, and with regard to it the expression ‘I am the Lord your God’ is twice written (In Numbers 15:41), signifying, I am He who will exact punishment in the future, and I am He who will give reward in the future. Now [the tzitzit] appeared to me as four witnesses [testifying against me]’.
She said, ‘I will not leave you until you tell me your name, the name of your town, the name of your teacher, the name of your school in which you study the Torah’. He wrote all this down and handed it to her. Thereupon she arose and divided her estate into three parts; one third for the government, one third to be distributed among the poor, and one third she took with her in her hand; the bed clothes, however, she retained. She then came to the Beth Hamidrash of R. Hiyya, and said to him, ‘Master, give instructions about me that they make me a proselyte’. ‘My daughter’, he replied; ‘perhaps you have set your eyes on one of the disciples?’ She thereupon took out the script and handed it to him. ‘Go’, said he ‘and enjoy your acquisition’. Those very bed-clothes which she had spread for him for an illicit purpose she now spread out for him lawfully. This is the reward [of the precept] in this world; and as for its reward in the future world I know not how great it is.The story speaks for itself and is a great example of humor in the bible (I mean come on! His tzitzit come to life and start hitting him!). However, in addition there is a theological message. We are reminded twice that Adonai is "our God" at the end of the Veahavtah (Numbers 15:41) as a further connection to the Shema. If God is really ONE then God is responsible for both the good and the bad in the world.
The Rabbis have come up with something brilliant. We begin the Shema with a statement of monotheism and (with the help of this Midrash) we end the third paragraph of the Shema with the same statement. "I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt to be your God. I am the LORD your God" has become a bookend to the prayer that reminds us just how ONE God really is.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Dealing with difficult texts: an acharei mot sermon
Et Zachar Lo Tishkav Mishkavei Ishah, To’evah Hi
Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination (Leviticus 18:22)
Each year, rabbis around the country cringe when they reach Leviticus 18 in the yearly Torah cycle. There’s so much great stuff in the Torah, commandments to love our neighbor as ourselves, reminders to value the poor, widow and orphan, acts of courage and admissions of faith. But what do we do with a text like Leviticus 18:22, that speaks so harshly about the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgendered community? How do we make peace with a text that says so explicitly “Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination”? And then goes on a few chapters later to say that we should stone them for their actions?
Leviticus 18:22 is not the only difficult text we Jews must face. It’s not the only text that fears the other, that calls the actions of people in our community an abomination. The Torah is filled with troubling notions and idea with which we must wrestle. In truth, there are dozens of ways to look at difficult texts. Using Leviticus 18:22 as a jumping off point, I want to explore four of these in tonight’s sermon.
The first approach to difficult texts is to skip them. Texts like Leviticus 18:22 have silenced millions around the world. Perhaps we can fight back by silencing it. Since no rabbi can cover a whole portion in his sermon and Reform congregations only choose a part of the portion each week to read aloud, it’s actually quite easy to avoid this troubling passage altogether. With such great stuff in this week’s potion like the first Yom Kippur there’s no lack of other things to discuss.
In fact, there is a long tradition in the Reform movement of replacing troubling texts. A few generations ago, the esteemed scholar Jacob Petekowski published a short essay where he outlined the characteristics of Reform prayer. In it, he explained that one may remove all notions of resurrection, angelology, yearning for the third Temple, and most importantly hateful and xenophobic notions. Its for this reason that the Reform movement has decided to change the traditional Yom Kippur afternoon Torah reading from Leviticus 18 which equates homosexuality with incest, and bestiality to Leviticus 19 which speaks of justice and holiness.
The next approach to dealing with difficult texts is to tell their story. Each text has a context and each has something of value to teach. Take our upcoming Passover haggadah. Personally, I struggle with one particular passage in a traditional haggadah where we implore God to “Pour out your wrath on the nations that do not know you.” True, today it seems odd to curse our neighbors simply because they do not believe in God. However, let’s tell the story of this text.
Our haggadah is a tapestry of text and history that were inserted into the Passover seder over time. This particular text came about during the time of the crusades, when the Jewish people were oppressed and powerless. When they implored God to “pour out your wrath” what they were actually doing was demanding a bit of control and power in a world where they lacked it. We may not agree with the message of this prayer in our haggadah but we can certainly identify with the emotions. We have all felt powerless, fearful, and angry. Each time we read this troubling text in the Haggadah we are reminded that these feelings are only natural and that our story is not unique. We fail to stand alone. Our story is intertwined with our ancestors. We have a long tradition of powerless and anger to fall back on.
The story of Levitucs 18:22 is no less powerful. Scholars have pointed out that the prohibition against homosexuality comes directly after the prohibition for child sacrifice to the demon God, Moloch. Somehow, the two were intertwined in the minds of our Biblical authors. Moloch and the cultures who worshiped him were scary to our ancestors. Because some scholars think that homosexuality was involved in the cult worship of Moloch, it seems only natural that our Bible would prohibit it. How could they have ever imagined that nearly 3,000 years later monogamous love between two men could be normative? When we read the word “Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination” we are reminded of the fear and defensiveness of our ancestors as they sought to distance themselves from the strange and dangerous cult around them. To many of us in this room, we understand what it’s like to protect our children from what we see as dangerous. Leviticus 18:22 reminds us that we are not alone in this fear.
The third approach to troubling texts are to reinterpret them. At face value “Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination” seems troubling, but what happens if we look closely at what the words mean? Rabbi Steven Greenberg, the first openly gay Orthodox rabbi in America teaches that one may deal with this difficult text by narrowly defining a single word “tishkav” to “lie down with.” In his book, “Wrestling with God and Men” Greenberg points out that the word “to lie down” is often associated with violence. The word appears in a number of rape scenes in the Bible and is hardly ever used as a part of a loving and mutual relationship. For this reason, Greenberg sees our Leviticus 18:22 text not as a blanket statement against homosexuality but as prohibition against abuses of power in relationships. “Do not lie with a male” becomes “Do not lie FORCEFULLY with a male” and becomes immediately less troubling.
The final approach is to use the troubling text as a mnemonic for social change. Today the GLBT community does not have equal rights. While religions, races, and sexes are protected from workplace discrimination, the GLBT community is not offered these same protections. One may be fired based solely on their sexual preference. Furthermore, gay and lesbian couples are not afforded the same fiscal, medical, and family protections as other couples. It’s harder from them to adopt children and harder for them to visit their loved one in a hospital. If we are all created “b’tzelem elohim” in the image of God, how can some of us have right while others lack them?
Each year, when we read Leviticus 18:22, no matter what we are doing, we are forced for even a short time to engage the issue of the rights of the GLBT community. We are snapped out of our complacency and our comfort and forced to engage our texts, our traditions and our world. Today, it is our silence that is the to’evah, the abomination and each year we read our troubling texts to remind of us of this.
In truth, there are merits and flaws to all of these approaches. Some tug at our heartstrings. Some are highly consistent. And some very empowering. However, some ignore the 3,000 years of textual and legal development since these text were written. Some come off as idealistic. And some fail to engage at all with the issues at hand. However, each method is highly personal and its impossible to say which is right.
Whether or not you find our Leviticus 18:22 text as difficult as I do is up to you. However, my hope for us all is that when we find texts that are troubling we can develop a method that that helps us come to terms with it. Then, whether we ignore it, expand it, reinterpret it, use it to empower us, or employ any other method we choose, we can add our voice into the 3,000 year conversation that has surrounded this particular text and make them just a little less troubling for all of us.
Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination (Leviticus 18:22)
Each year, rabbis around the country cringe when they reach Leviticus 18 in the yearly Torah cycle. There’s so much great stuff in the Torah, commandments to love our neighbor as ourselves, reminders to value the poor, widow and orphan, acts of courage and admissions of faith. But what do we do with a text like Leviticus 18:22, that speaks so harshly about the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgendered community? How do we make peace with a text that says so explicitly “Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination”? And then goes on a few chapters later to say that we should stone them for their actions?
Leviticus 18:22 is not the only difficult text we Jews must face. It’s not the only text that fears the other, that calls the actions of people in our community an abomination. The Torah is filled with troubling notions and idea with which we must wrestle. In truth, there are dozens of ways to look at difficult texts. Using Leviticus 18:22 as a jumping off point, I want to explore four of these in tonight’s sermon.
The first approach to difficult texts is to skip them. Texts like Leviticus 18:22 have silenced millions around the world. Perhaps we can fight back by silencing it. Since no rabbi can cover a whole portion in his sermon and Reform congregations only choose a part of the portion each week to read aloud, it’s actually quite easy to avoid this troubling passage altogether. With such great stuff in this week’s potion like the first Yom Kippur there’s no lack of other things to discuss.
In fact, there is a long tradition in the Reform movement of replacing troubling texts. A few generations ago, the esteemed scholar Jacob Petekowski published a short essay where he outlined the characteristics of Reform prayer. In it, he explained that one may remove all notions of resurrection, angelology, yearning for the third Temple, and most importantly hateful and xenophobic notions. Its for this reason that the Reform movement has decided to change the traditional Yom Kippur afternoon Torah reading from Leviticus 18 which equates homosexuality with incest, and bestiality to Leviticus 19 which speaks of justice and holiness.
The next approach to dealing with difficult texts is to tell their story. Each text has a context and each has something of value to teach. Take our upcoming Passover haggadah. Personally, I struggle with one particular passage in a traditional haggadah where we implore God to “Pour out your wrath on the nations that do not know you.” True, today it seems odd to curse our neighbors simply because they do not believe in God. However, let’s tell the story of this text.
Our haggadah is a tapestry of text and history that were inserted into the Passover seder over time. This particular text came about during the time of the crusades, when the Jewish people were oppressed and powerless. When they implored God to “pour out your wrath” what they were actually doing was demanding a bit of control and power in a world where they lacked it. We may not agree with the message of this prayer in our haggadah but we can certainly identify with the emotions. We have all felt powerless, fearful, and angry. Each time we read this troubling text in the Haggadah we are reminded that these feelings are only natural and that our story is not unique. We fail to stand alone. Our story is intertwined with our ancestors. We have a long tradition of powerless and anger to fall back on.
The story of Levitucs 18:22 is no less powerful. Scholars have pointed out that the prohibition against homosexuality comes directly after the prohibition for child sacrifice to the demon God, Moloch. Somehow, the two were intertwined in the minds of our Biblical authors. Moloch and the cultures who worshiped him were scary to our ancestors. Because some scholars think that homosexuality was involved in the cult worship of Moloch, it seems only natural that our Bible would prohibit it. How could they have ever imagined that nearly 3,000 years later monogamous love between two men could be normative? When we read the word “Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination” we are reminded of the fear and defensiveness of our ancestors as they sought to distance themselves from the strange and dangerous cult around them. To many of us in this room, we understand what it’s like to protect our children from what we see as dangerous. Leviticus 18:22 reminds us that we are not alone in this fear.
The third approach to troubling texts are to reinterpret them. At face value “Do not lie with a male as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination” seems troubling, but what happens if we look closely at what the words mean? Rabbi Steven Greenberg, the first openly gay Orthodox rabbi in America teaches that one may deal with this difficult text by narrowly defining a single word “tishkav” to “lie down with.” In his book, “Wrestling with God and Men” Greenberg points out that the word “to lie down” is often associated with violence. The word appears in a number of rape scenes in the Bible and is hardly ever used as a part of a loving and mutual relationship. For this reason, Greenberg sees our Leviticus 18:22 text not as a blanket statement against homosexuality but as prohibition against abuses of power in relationships. “Do not lie with a male” becomes “Do not lie FORCEFULLY with a male” and becomes immediately less troubling.
The final approach is to use the troubling text as a mnemonic for social change. Today the GLBT community does not have equal rights. While religions, races, and sexes are protected from workplace discrimination, the GLBT community is not offered these same protections. One may be fired based solely on their sexual preference. Furthermore, gay and lesbian couples are not afforded the same fiscal, medical, and family protections as other couples. It’s harder from them to adopt children and harder for them to visit their loved one in a hospital. If we are all created “b’tzelem elohim” in the image of God, how can some of us have right while others lack them?
Each year, when we read Leviticus 18:22, no matter what we are doing, we are forced for even a short time to engage the issue of the rights of the GLBT community. We are snapped out of our complacency and our comfort and forced to engage our texts, our traditions and our world. Today, it is our silence that is the to’evah, the abomination and each year we read our troubling texts to remind of us of this.
In truth, there are merits and flaws to all of these approaches. Some tug at our heartstrings. Some are highly consistent. And some very empowering. However, some ignore the 3,000 years of textual and legal development since these text were written. Some come off as idealistic. And some fail to engage at all with the issues at hand. However, each method is highly personal and its impossible to say which is right.
Whether or not you find our Leviticus 18:22 text as difficult as I do is up to you. However, my hope for us all is that when we find texts that are troubling we can develop a method that that helps us come to terms with it. Then, whether we ignore it, expand it, reinterpret it, use it to empower us, or employ any other method we choose, we can add our voice into the 3,000 year conversation that has surrounded this particular text and make them just a little less troubling for all of us.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Metzora Sermon: Making Reform Halachic Decision
One thing I’ve always loved about Nathan Englander’s writing is his use of tragedy and irony. Here’s a great example from his novel, The Ministry of Special Cases. Taking place in Argentina in 1976, the novel tells the story of one family during the countries “dirty war” when 30,000 students disappeared and were murdered at the hands of the government. In it, Englander tells the story of Kaddish Poznan, an outsider who makes his money wiping clean the tombstones of prostitutes and gangsters. One day on the job, Kaddish takes his son Pato with him. In a moment of distraction, Kaddish slips and chisels his son’s ring finger along with the gravestone. After a brief visit to the emergency room, he disposes of the severed finger, embarrassed about his slip up.
While this encounter seems inconsequential, it will come up later. After the government kidnaps Pato, Kaddish approaches his rabbi seeking closure. However, when he asks his rabbi to make his son a grave the rabbi responds, “You can’t dig a grave without something to put in it. Beyond Jewish law, it’s basic logic. A grave must hold something if it has to be a grave. Otherwise it’s just a hole filled in.” When Kaddish pleads with the rabbi the leader responds, “To have a funeral, to dig a grave, one would need something to put in it. Not even a whole body. Even a finger is enough.” In an ironic twist of fate, Kaddish’s slip up is the exact thing that would have led to his closure. However, without this finger his wound would always remain open. As the scene comes to a close, the rabbi holds Kaddish in his arms, brushing his hair with his hand as Kaddish bemoans disposing of the finger in the hospital trash can.
I’m not sure if Englander realized it but this tragedy appears in a similar vein in rabbinic discussions about this week’s Torah portion. After spending time in isolation away from the camp, the Metzora or person afflicted with the biblical ailment, Tzra’at must undergo a series of purification rituals. The Torah explains each of these in detail but in essence they boil down to the sacrifice of a bird, and the release of another dipped in the first’s blood, the laundering of clothes, the shaving of the metzora’s head, and the immersion in a ritual bath. After waiting a few days, he again shave his head, and get’s ready to slaughter three animals. However after the first of these three is slaughtered the metzora must first undergo a strange ritual. The priest takes some of the blood of the first offering and dabs it on his right ear, right thumb, and right big toe. Only then can the metzora continue with the rest of the ritual and be fully cleared to continue his life in the camp.
Simple enough! But the rabbis ask an interesting question: what happens if the metzora lacks either a right earlobe, right thumb, or right big toe? What does that mean for him? According to our classical commentators, failure to finish the purification process means one cannot be cleared to have marital relations with their spouse. If you are childless it means you remain childless. No matter what, it means losing an important part of an intimate relationship. Because of these high stakes, the rabbis naturally disagreed on the answer.
Imagine you’re in a study hall during the time of our Mishnah and this question gets asked. From one end of the hall comes the booming voice of Rabbi Meir . “If has no right thumb, earlobe, or big toe he can never attain purification.” Rabbi Meir is like Englander’s rabbi. Just as a Jewish burial needs a body (or body part) the metzora ritual needs these three elements. No thumb, no ear, no toe, no entry into the camp. The answer may be painful, but it is also elegantly simple and conisistant.
However, just as it was tragic for a grieving father like Kaddish, so too is a simple answer like this painful for the metzora and his family. Therefore, Rabbi Eliezer jumps in “He may daub the blood on the spot where these appendages uses to be.” For Eliezer, the answer is not to condemn the metzora but to accommodate him. Whether Eliezer means to daub the air or the stub is not clear. What is clear is that he informs us that we should act “as if” these appendages are there. For Kaddish this answer means digging an empty grave for his son and marking it with a tombstone. It means reaching outside of the law and embracing the idea that in a person’s time of need sometimes what seems absurd is actually the best answer for them.
However, no sooner does Rabbi Eliezer finish than Rabbi Shimon jumps in, “If he substitutes the left ear, thumb, or big toe, it is sufficient.” For Shimon its not about the ritual but about the meaning associated with the ritual. Meir demanded that one must have each of the right appendages. Eliezer was able to suspend disbelief. But for Shimon the letter of the law was less important than the spirit. If Shimon was the rabbis who talked to Kaddish he would not have answered him with a simple yes or no as Meir and Eliezer would have when asked if he could dig an empty grave. Rather, he would have asked, “what can we bury that will give you closure?”
The wonderful thing about this Mishnaic discussion is it gives us three paradigms to deal with difficult questions in our Jewish life. Will we demand a standard as Meir has? Will we overlook a difficult situation and pretend that everything is alright such as Eliezer has? Or will we find a close approximation like Rabbi Shimon did?
In every situation we will have make these choices and most of the time there is no right answer. A person needs to say Kaddish and you do not have a minyan. Do you not say it? Do you do it even with only five people? Do you have an alternative like Psalm 23 that do you instead?
A parent of another faith background asks for an Aliyah during their child’s bar mitzvah. Do you allow them to bless the Torah? Do you refuse? Do you dispense with the blessing for that particular aliyah and give them an alternative that shys away from the themes of chosenness and divine election?
A grieving Kaddish Poznan wants to bury his son who has disappeared. Do you say no? Do you allow him to dig an empty grave? Do you permit him to bury his son’s book or favorite shirt?
There is a time to be Meir, a time to be Eliezer, and a time to be Shimon. In fact, I’m not sure that anyone can privilege one approach over the other. They are simply manifestations of different priorities. Do you privilege the individual’s story or the continuity of law? Creativity or consistency?
We can’t predict how we will act in a given situation. Would I have let Kaddish dig an empty grave for his son? Would my answer change if he was standing, weeping in front of me? What I do know is that at that point in the story I would have been his priest. I would have been his gateway back into the community, back into wholeness. There may be no right answer in this situation and others like it, but there is something more important. Whether I side with rabbis Meir, Eliezer, or Shimon, it is crucial to be present in my decision and deliver it with love, honesty, and commitment. And whether good news or bad news I must emulate Kaddish’s rabbi and hold him, whoever he might be, even after my answer seeps in.
While this encounter seems inconsequential, it will come up later. After the government kidnaps Pato, Kaddish approaches his rabbi seeking closure. However, when he asks his rabbi to make his son a grave the rabbi responds, “You can’t dig a grave without something to put in it. Beyond Jewish law, it’s basic logic. A grave must hold something if it has to be a grave. Otherwise it’s just a hole filled in.” When Kaddish pleads with the rabbi the leader responds, “To have a funeral, to dig a grave, one would need something to put in it. Not even a whole body. Even a finger is enough.” In an ironic twist of fate, Kaddish’s slip up is the exact thing that would have led to his closure. However, without this finger his wound would always remain open. As the scene comes to a close, the rabbi holds Kaddish in his arms, brushing his hair with his hand as Kaddish bemoans disposing of the finger in the hospital trash can.
I’m not sure if Englander realized it but this tragedy appears in a similar vein in rabbinic discussions about this week’s Torah portion. After spending time in isolation away from the camp, the Metzora or person afflicted with the biblical ailment, Tzra’at must undergo a series of purification rituals. The Torah explains each of these in detail but in essence they boil down to the sacrifice of a bird, and the release of another dipped in the first’s blood, the laundering of clothes, the shaving of the metzora’s head, and the immersion in a ritual bath. After waiting a few days, he again shave his head, and get’s ready to slaughter three animals. However after the first of these three is slaughtered the metzora must first undergo a strange ritual. The priest takes some of the blood of the first offering and dabs it on his right ear, right thumb, and right big toe. Only then can the metzora continue with the rest of the ritual and be fully cleared to continue his life in the camp.
Simple enough! But the rabbis ask an interesting question: what happens if the metzora lacks either a right earlobe, right thumb, or right big toe? What does that mean for him? According to our classical commentators, failure to finish the purification process means one cannot be cleared to have marital relations with their spouse. If you are childless it means you remain childless. No matter what, it means losing an important part of an intimate relationship. Because of these high stakes, the rabbis naturally disagreed on the answer.
Imagine you’re in a study hall during the time of our Mishnah and this question gets asked. From one end of the hall comes the booming voice of Rabbi Meir . “If has no right thumb, earlobe, or big toe he can never attain purification.” Rabbi Meir is like Englander’s rabbi. Just as a Jewish burial needs a body (or body part) the metzora ritual needs these three elements. No thumb, no ear, no toe, no entry into the camp. The answer may be painful, but it is also elegantly simple and conisistant.
However, just as it was tragic for a grieving father like Kaddish, so too is a simple answer like this painful for the metzora and his family. Therefore, Rabbi Eliezer jumps in “He may daub the blood on the spot where these appendages uses to be.” For Eliezer, the answer is not to condemn the metzora but to accommodate him. Whether Eliezer means to daub the air or the stub is not clear. What is clear is that he informs us that we should act “as if” these appendages are there. For Kaddish this answer means digging an empty grave for his son and marking it with a tombstone. It means reaching outside of the law and embracing the idea that in a person’s time of need sometimes what seems absurd is actually the best answer for them.
However, no sooner does Rabbi Eliezer finish than Rabbi Shimon jumps in, “If he substitutes the left ear, thumb, or big toe, it is sufficient.” For Shimon its not about the ritual but about the meaning associated with the ritual. Meir demanded that one must have each of the right appendages. Eliezer was able to suspend disbelief. But for Shimon the letter of the law was less important than the spirit. If Shimon was the rabbis who talked to Kaddish he would not have answered him with a simple yes or no as Meir and Eliezer would have when asked if he could dig an empty grave. Rather, he would have asked, “what can we bury that will give you closure?”
The wonderful thing about this Mishnaic discussion is it gives us three paradigms to deal with difficult questions in our Jewish life. Will we demand a standard as Meir has? Will we overlook a difficult situation and pretend that everything is alright such as Eliezer has? Or will we find a close approximation like Rabbi Shimon did?
In every situation we will have make these choices and most of the time there is no right answer. A person needs to say Kaddish and you do not have a minyan. Do you not say it? Do you do it even with only five people? Do you have an alternative like Psalm 23 that do you instead?
A parent of another faith background asks for an Aliyah during their child’s bar mitzvah. Do you allow them to bless the Torah? Do you refuse? Do you dispense with the blessing for that particular aliyah and give them an alternative that shys away from the themes of chosenness and divine election?
A grieving Kaddish Poznan wants to bury his son who has disappeared. Do you say no? Do you allow him to dig an empty grave? Do you permit him to bury his son’s book or favorite shirt?
There is a time to be Meir, a time to be Eliezer, and a time to be Shimon. In fact, I’m not sure that anyone can privilege one approach over the other. They are simply manifestations of different priorities. Do you privilege the individual’s story or the continuity of law? Creativity or consistency?
We can’t predict how we will act in a given situation. Would I have let Kaddish dig an empty grave for his son? Would my answer change if he was standing, weeping in front of me? What I do know is that at that point in the story I would have been his priest. I would have been his gateway back into the community, back into wholeness. There may be no right answer in this situation and others like it, but there is something more important. Whether I side with rabbis Meir, Eliezer, or Shimon, it is crucial to be present in my decision and deliver it with love, honesty, and commitment. And whether good news or bad news I must emulate Kaddish’s rabbi and hold him, whoever he might be, even after my answer seeps in.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Yosef the Babylonian's Memory (Menachot 18a)
I hate to forget things. Today I had a text that was on the tip of my tongue. Sitting in class, I knew it was important to our discussion, but I just couldn't remember what it was. As an aside it turned out to be a reference to the mythical poop god, Baal Peor.
In the daf a few days ago, a similar thing happened to one of the rabbis. In a discussion about sacrifice, Yosef the Babylonian keeps asking his teacher, Elazar Ben Shamua, to repeat a certain legal decision. He asks him one day, then again the next. Each time his teacher gives him the same decision, the blood of a particular sacrifice is valid. However he keeps asking and finally after a while, Elazar gives a little more information, "Everyone declares the blood valid, except Rabbi Eliezer."
Although this information doesn't change much, Yosef jumps up in joy. It appears that he had known that someone did not agree with the "valid" ruling but couldn't recall who. It was on the tip of his tongue. Therefore he kept asking until he found out who. When he finally did learn the truth, he replied in joy "You have returned to me my lost [teaching]!"
When we can't remember something it can be very troubling. In fact because we treasure our own mental faculties it can be as if something precious has been lost. This week, I'm beginning to read Joshua Foer's book Moonwalking With Einstein: the Art and Science of Remembering Everything. I hope through reading the book, I might better understand how our ancient rabbis remembered things and how I might improve my recall as I study these complex texts.
In the daf a few days ago, a similar thing happened to one of the rabbis. In a discussion about sacrifice, Yosef the Babylonian keeps asking his teacher, Elazar Ben Shamua, to repeat a certain legal decision. He asks him one day, then again the next. Each time his teacher gives him the same decision, the blood of a particular sacrifice is valid. However he keeps asking and finally after a while, Elazar gives a little more information, "Everyone declares the blood valid, except Rabbi Eliezer."
Although this information doesn't change much, Yosef jumps up in joy. It appears that he had known that someone did not agree with the "valid" ruling but couldn't recall who. It was on the tip of his tongue. Therefore he kept asking until he found out who. When he finally did learn the truth, he replied in joy "You have returned to me my lost [teaching]!"
When we can't remember something it can be very troubling. In fact because we treasure our own mental faculties it can be as if something precious has been lost. This week, I'm beginning to read Joshua Foer's book Moonwalking With Einstein: the Art and Science of Remembering Everything. I hope through reading the book, I might better understand how our ancient rabbis remembered things and how I might improve my recall as I study these complex texts.
Friday, March 25, 2011
More on Job Transitions (Menachot 16a)
There's an interesting disagreement cited in today's Talmud page. The original disagreement appears in Yoma 49b and basically boils down to this: if the Kohen Gadol (high priest) dies or is disqualified in the middle of the Yom Kippur sacrifice and you must replace him what do you do with the substance of his sacrifice? Does the next Kohen Gadol pick up right where he left off or does he have to provide his own? This dispute matters in a case where the original Kohen Gadol did most of the work and slaughtered his offering but died before pouring the blood on the altar. Does the new Kohen get to use the blood from the first's sacrifice or does he have to bring a new animal?
A few weeks ago I wrote about mentorship and job transitions. It seems that one can apply this case to job transitions as well. If your predecessor leaves suddenly is it ethical to pick up right where he left off, finishing the work he began and getting the credit for having done it (all of it)? Or do you need to begin anew, knowing that you should only get credit for the work you do. This assumes that only the person who finishes the work gets the credit. However, if your predecessor leaves on bad term this just might be what happens.
It's a tough question and I'm not sure I have the answer. Maybe that's why it's been in the air for at least 2,000 years.
A few weeks ago I wrote about mentorship and job transitions. It seems that one can apply this case to job transitions as well. If your predecessor leaves suddenly is it ethical to pick up right where he left off, finishing the work he began and getting the credit for having done it (all of it)? Or do you need to begin anew, knowing that you should only get credit for the work you do. This assumes that only the person who finishes the work gets the credit. However, if your predecessor leaves on bad term this just might be what happens.
It's a tough question and I'm not sure I have the answer. Maybe that's why it's been in the air for at least 2,000 years.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
HUC, Intermarriage, and High Standards (Menachot 6a)
People may not know this but one may not be ordained by the Hebrew Union College is they are in an interfaith relationship. Over the past few decades this rule has raised a lot of controversy. Why should Reform rabbis be allowed to do interfaith weddings but not be in one themselves? Or perhaps, rabbis should be held to a higher standard?
The JTA has some interesting things to say about this tension.
I thought about this issue as I read today's daf. In it we find the ruling that a person who is uncircumcised is invalidated from performing the wheat offerings of the Temple service. But is this ruling final? While the Jewish tradition provides some leeway, exempting some from circumcision - if one's brother died because of circumcision one is exempt (Shabbat 134a)- there is disagreement among the commentators about whether people affected by these special circumstances can serve in the Temple. Rashi says no. Rabbeinu Tam says yes.
It seems from Rashi, circumcision is a mark of one's connection to God and the covenant. For most people it is fine if they don't get circumcised (assuming they fall into the category of those who are exempt) but a priest is different. We hold him to a higher standard.
Rabbeinu Tam on the other hand, sees flexibility in the system. A good leader is a good leader. Why force him to undergo something that may be painful when he would be just as good of a leader without the pressure.
This isn't a perfect analogy and I hope no one takes my words as comparing an intermarried man to an uncircumcised one. However, both contain this interesting tension and implicit question: to what extent should we hold our leaders to a different standard? Are we better or worse for it?
The JTA has some interesting things to say about this tension.
I thought about this issue as I read today's daf. In it we find the ruling that a person who is uncircumcised is invalidated from performing the wheat offerings of the Temple service. But is this ruling final? While the Jewish tradition provides some leeway, exempting some from circumcision - if one's brother died because of circumcision one is exempt (Shabbat 134a)- there is disagreement among the commentators about whether people affected by these special circumstances can serve in the Temple. Rashi says no. Rabbeinu Tam says yes.
It seems from Rashi, circumcision is a mark of one's connection to God and the covenant. For most people it is fine if they don't get circumcised (assuming they fall into the category of those who are exempt) but a priest is different. We hold him to a higher standard.
Rabbeinu Tam on the other hand, sees flexibility in the system. A good leader is a good leader. Why force him to undergo something that may be painful when he would be just as good of a leader without the pressure.
This isn't a perfect analogy and I hope no one takes my words as comparing an intermarried man to an uncircumcised one. However, both contain this interesting tension and implicit question: to what extent should we hold our leaders to a different standard? Are we better or worse for it?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Uniting the Place With The Spirit (Zevachim 117a)
First of all congratulations to all who finished Zevachim today. May you return again and again to its teachings.
I just had an interesting conversation about a footnote in the Schottenstein Talmud from a few days ago (117a note 15). In it, the famous scholar from south France, the Meiri wonders why there were points in Israel's history that we were allowed to sacrifice anywhere, even on private alters, while at other times we were forced to all bring our sacrifices to the same place, like the Mishkan or the Temple.
His answer is fascinating. He explains that whenever we were given the right to sacrifice on private altars, it was because the Ark was separated from the central altar. Therefore, when we first entered the Promised Land and we set up the Mishkan in Gilgal, we were allowed to sacrifice anywhere we desired because the ark was out and about accompanying the Jews as they conquered the promised land. The same rationale applied to the time when the Jews were in Nov and Giveon. Because the Philistines had captured the ark, we were not required to bring all our sacrifices to a central place.
What does this have to do with us?
If we consider that the central altar today is the synagogue - the Talmud calls it a mikdah me'at, a little Temple - and the ark today is the people's spirituality and connection to God, one has to wonder whether for many young Jews, their "ark" is in a separate place from their "central altar." And if that's true, can the synagogue really do the work it needs to do?
So what can we do? First of all, we do what our ancestors did and validate that in this time, one's spirituality and connection to God can be found anywhere. If people don’t want to enter the synagogue, should we force them? Why limit prayer, meditation, and other forms of worship to the synagogue.
As I'm writing this, I wrestle with the most important question. In this analogy, and taking into account our history, the ultimate aim is to bring the ark and the central altar together. In other words, we should seek to bring the spiritual and the physical (Jewish institutions) together. I agree with this, however the question remains, should we bring the ark to the central altar (i.e. bring people into the synagogue) or bring the central altar to the ark (and purse a synagogue without wall model). There are lot's of organizations trying both approaches, and some like Brooklyn Jews and Congregation Beth Elohim trying to meld the two.
I just had an interesting conversation about a footnote in the Schottenstein Talmud from a few days ago (117a note 15). In it, the famous scholar from south France, the Meiri wonders why there were points in Israel's history that we were allowed to sacrifice anywhere, even on private alters, while at other times we were forced to all bring our sacrifices to the same place, like the Mishkan or the Temple.
His answer is fascinating. He explains that whenever we were given the right to sacrifice on private altars, it was because the Ark was separated from the central altar. Therefore, when we first entered the Promised Land and we set up the Mishkan in Gilgal, we were allowed to sacrifice anywhere we desired because the ark was out and about accompanying the Jews as they conquered the promised land. The same rationale applied to the time when the Jews were in Nov and Giveon. Because the Philistines had captured the ark, we were not required to bring all our sacrifices to a central place.
What does this have to do with us?
If we consider that the central altar today is the synagogue - the Talmud calls it a mikdah me'at, a little Temple - and the ark today is the people's spirituality and connection to God, one has to wonder whether for many young Jews, their "ark" is in a separate place from their "central altar." And if that's true, can the synagogue really do the work it needs to do?
So what can we do? First of all, we do what our ancestors did and validate that in this time, one's spirituality and connection to God can be found anywhere. If people don’t want to enter the synagogue, should we force them? Why limit prayer, meditation, and other forms of worship to the synagogue.
As I'm writing this, I wrestle with the most important question. In this analogy, and taking into account our history, the ultimate aim is to bring the ark and the central altar together. In other words, we should seek to bring the spiritual and the physical (Jewish institutions) together. I agree with this, however the question remains, should we bring the ark to the central altar (i.e. bring people into the synagogue) or bring the central altar to the ark (and purse a synagogue without wall model). There are lot's of organizations trying both approaches, and some like Brooklyn Jews and Congregation Beth Elohim trying to meld the two.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Saul and Samuel – Transitioning Leadership (Zevachim 118b)
I’ve been in jobs that have really helped me with my transition. I’ve also been at jobs that haven’t been so great at it. Here’s one model that we find in today’s daf for how to negotiate this transition.
While accounting the history of Israel’s early rulers, the Talmud uses an interesting phrase:
In case these two names don’t sound familiar here is a little background. Samuel was one of Israel’s most important prophets, but after ten years of leadership the people began begging for a king. After asking God what he should do Samuel eventually agreed and Saul became king. However, Samuel didn’t relinquish control. Rather, as Rashi tells us, he continued to rule alongside Saul; Saul was the political arm of the government, Samuel was his council.
I like this model for leadership transition. I know that Samuel must have been a big pain for Saul, telling him the “right way” to do things. However, through his guidance, I imagine Saul might have also felt a sense of security, as if he wasn’t at it completely alone.
What ended the year of joint work? Saul spared the Amalekite king Agag during war (1 Sam 15) and Samuel was so angry that he stopped advising him. Tradition looks at this as one of Saul’s greatest mistakes; however, we might look at this episode another way. Perhaps Saul felt that he had worked long enough with Samuel to take a risk. Tradition may view this risk as a mistake but maybe deep down Samuel thought, “Enough holding your hand! You’ve made a mistake, now you’re really ready to lead!”
While accounting the history of Israel’s early rulers, the Talmud uses an interesting phrase:
ושנה המלך שמואל ושאול
Samuel and Saul reigned for one year [jointly]
In case these two names don’t sound familiar here is a little background. Samuel was one of Israel’s most important prophets, but after ten years of leadership the people began begging for a king. After asking God what he should do Samuel eventually agreed and Saul became king. However, Samuel didn’t relinquish control. Rather, as Rashi tells us, he continued to rule alongside Saul; Saul was the political arm of the government, Samuel was his council.
I like this model for leadership transition. I know that Samuel must have been a big pain for Saul, telling him the “right way” to do things. However, through his guidance, I imagine Saul might have also felt a sense of security, as if he wasn’t at it completely alone.
What ended the year of joint work? Saul spared the Amalekite king Agag during war (1 Sam 15) and Samuel was so angry that he stopped advising him. Tradition looks at this as one of Saul’s greatest mistakes; however, we might look at this episode another way. Perhaps Saul felt that he had worked long enough with Samuel to take a risk. Tradition may view this risk as a mistake but maybe deep down Samuel thought, “Enough holding your hand! You’ve made a mistake, now you’re really ready to lead!”
Monday, March 7, 2011
Rechav - a model of Teshuvah (Zevachim 116b)
One of Judaism's most famous prostitutes if Rechav. Here's her story:
According to our text, when Rechav met the Israelite scouts she was so taken with Israel's power that she converted to Judaism. However, she was left with her past. How was she to confront all lives she might have ruined with her actions?
It turns out that by using the window, rope, and flax (three symbols of her harlotry) as the means to help the Israelites, she had in essence solved the problem. God forgave her through her work with these three items.
We all have symbols of bad things we have done in the past and they might take many forms. For some it is money. For others it is tangible things that were used to lie, cheat, steal, or embarrass. For some, attaining atonement will necessitate the destruction of these things (see Sanhedrin 25b). However for others, it is the reappropriating of these items that will serve as powerful means to teshuvah.
Then Joshua son of Nun secretly sent two spies from Shittim. “Go, look over the land,” he said, “especially Jericho.” So they went and entered the house of a prostitute named Rahab and stayed there. The king of Jericho was told, “Look, some of the Israelites have come here tonight to spy out the land.” So the king of Jericho sent this message to Rahab: “Bring out the men who came to you and entered your house, because they have come to spy out the whole land.” But the woman had taken the two men and hidden them. She said, “Yes, the men came to me, but I did not know where they had come from. At dusk, when it was time to close the city gate, they left. I don’t know which way they went. Go after them quickly. You may catch up with them.” (But she had taken them up to the roof and hidden them under the stalks of flax she had laid out on the roof.) So the men set out in pursuit of the spies on the road that leads to the fords of the Jordan, and as soon as the pursuers had gone out, the gate was shut.
Before the spies lay down for the night, she went up on the roof and said to them, “I know that the LORD has given you this land and that a great fear of you has fallen on us, so that all who live in this country are melting in fear because of you. We have heard how the LORD dried up the water of the Red Sea for you when you came out of Egypt, and what you did to Sihon and Og, the two kings of the Amorites east of the Jordan, whom you completely destroyed. When we heard of it, our hearts melted in fear and everyone’s courage failed because of you, for the LORD your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below.
“Now then, please swear to me by the LORD that you will show kindness to my family, because I have shown kindness to you. Give me a sure sign that you will spare the lives of my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and all who belong to them—and that you will save us from death.” “Our lives for your lives!” the men assured her. “If you don’t tell what we are doing, we will treat you kindly and faithfully when the LORD gives us the land.” So she let them down by a rope through the window, for the house she lived in was part of the city wall. She said to them, “Go to the hills so the pursuers will not find you. Hide yourselves there three days until they return, and then go on your way.” (Joshua 2:1-16)Notice the bold. Rechav has a special house. She has flax growing on her roof. She also has a window that is part of the city wall and a rope hanging down from it. According to today's daf, these three items traditionally played another role. Rashi tells us that as a prostitute, Rechav used used to use the window and the rope to bring her client's into her house. Furthermore, when she deemed necessary, she would hide them in the flax on her roof.
According to our text, when Rechav met the Israelite scouts she was so taken with Israel's power that she converted to Judaism. However, she was left with her past. How was she to confront all lives she might have ruined with her actions?
It turns out that by using the window, rope, and flax (three symbols of her harlotry) as the means to help the Israelites, she had in essence solved the problem. God forgave her through her work with these three items.
We all have symbols of bad things we have done in the past and they might take many forms. For some it is money. For others it is tangible things that were used to lie, cheat, steal, or embarrass. For some, attaining atonement will necessitate the destruction of these things (see Sanhedrin 25b). However for others, it is the reappropriating of these items that will serve as powerful means to teshuvah.
Friday, March 4, 2011
He's Got Yichus - Bezalel
It's been a long time since I posted but I wanted to share this teaching with everyone.
Our torah portion this week (pikuedi) starts with the mention of Bezalel, the architect of the tabernacle:
Here are two mentions of him from the Bible:
Two generations later (but actually only a short time later) Bezalel, who was also given the gift of art would do what his grandfather was never able to do: he would build for good, and create the masterpiece we know as the tabernacle.
We all live in the shadow of our ancestors. Whether we want to or not we cannot escape their struggles. For some of us we will never live us to them. For other we will forever be in dialogue with them. And for the lucky few (like Bezalel) we will complete the work they should have completed using the gifts they were given.
Our torah portion this week (pikuedi) starts with the mention of Bezalel, the architect of the tabernacle:
These are the records of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of the Pact, which were drawn up at Moses' bidding — the work of the Levites under the direction of Ithamar son of Aaron the priest. Now Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, had made all that the Lord had commanded Moses; at his side was Oholiab son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, carver and designer, and embroiderer in blue, purple, and crimson yarns and in fine linen. (Ex. 38:21-23)When I first read the text, I thought it was interesting that Bezalel is identified by his grandfather. So who is Hur? Turns our he has an interesting history.
Here are two mentions of him from the Bible:
- Amalek came and fought with Israel at Rephidim. Moses said to Joshua, "Pick some men for us, and go out and do battle with Amalek. Tomorrow I will station myself on the top of the hill, with the rod of God in my hand." Joshua did as Moses told him and fought with Amalek, while Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill. Then, whenever Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed; but whenever he let down his hand, Amalek prevailed. But Moses' hands grew heavy; so they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it, while Aaron and Hur, one on each side, supported his hands; thus his hands remained steady until the sun set. And Joshua overwhelmed the people of Amalek with the sword. (Ex. 17:10)
- The Lord said to Moses, "Come up to Me on the mountain and wait there, and I will give you the stone tablets with the teachings and commandments which I have inscribed to instruct them." So Moses and his attendant Joshua arose, and Moses ascended the mountain of God. To the elders he had said, "Wait here for us until we return to you. You have Aaron and Hur with you; let anyone who has a legal matter approach them." (Ex. 24:12-14)
So what do we know about Hur? We know he was pretty important. In the war against Amalek he was literally Moses's "right hand man." We also know that when Moses went up to see God, he left Hur alone to hold down the fort.
But what happened to Hur? Well the rabbis have an interesting story. It appears that when the Israelites wanted to make the golden calf, they went to Hur first and asked him to make it. When he refused they killed him:
And when Aaron saw it, he built an altar before it (Ex. 32:5) What did he actually see? — R. Benjamin b. Japhet says,reporting R. Eleazar: He saw Hur lying slain before him and said [to himself]: If I do not obey them, they will now do unto me as they did unto Hur…and they will never find forgiveness. Better let them worship the golden calf, for which offence they may yet find forgiveness through repentance. (Talmud, Sanhedrin 7a)Imagine a little Bezalel--according to the rabbis he was 13 when he make the tabernacle--growing up knowing that his grandfather was not only a powerful man but was an artist himself. Furthermore, it was his unwillingness to use his artistic gift that ultimately lead to his death.
Two generations later (but actually only a short time later) Bezalel, who was also given the gift of art would do what his grandfather was never able to do: he would build for good, and create the masterpiece we know as the tabernacle.
We all live in the shadow of our ancestors. Whether we want to or not we cannot escape their struggles. For some of us we will never live us to them. For other we will forever be in dialogue with them. And for the lucky few (like Bezalel) we will complete the work they should have completed using the gifts they were given.
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