Look to Future for Hope

This week the Israelites’ complaining reaches a crescendo. A rebellion ensues. Korah and his followers question Moses’ leadership. God sides with Moses and kills the rebels.

On the one hand, I am sympathetic to Korah’s complaints and even his critiques of Moses. He shouts: “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16) Korah suggests that Moses is no longer as humble as a leader should be. Humility is a necessary quality for effective leadership.

Korah’s frustration is understandable. Last week we learned that his generation will not enter the promised land. Because the people believed the scouts’ negative reports, they are destined to die in the wilderness. Imagine the rebels’ distress. Moses urged them to leave Egypt with the assurance that soon after their rescue from slavery they would be able to build new lives in their own land, the land of Israel.

And now that promise is no more. Their lot is going to be years of wandering. Their lives will be marked by struggle.

Their children will taste the promised land. They will only know the struggles freedom entails.

On the other hand, the rebels’ complaints go too far. Not only do they lose faith in God, and trust in Moses’ leadership, they appear to view Egypt as the promised land. They say, “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?” Their statements are divorced from fact. Egypt was not a land of bounty, but instead one of servitude and oppression.

Here is where we discover the rebels’ sin. And, we begin to understand why God’s punishment was so harsh. They saw Egypt, and not Israel, as a land flowing with milk and honey. The rebels mythologize the past. They come to believe that even a tortuous past filled with slavery is better than the promise, and hope, of a better future for their children.

When we mythologize the past, we obscure the future’s promise. Too often we say things like, “Kids today don’t…. When I was young, we knew how to…” When we utter such words, we forget that progress goes hand in hand with change. And change can be unnerving.

Of course, there are problems today. Of course, some of today’s challenges appear solvable when looking back in the rearview mirror. When we hold on to the past too tightly, we forget the problems of yesterday. The 1950’s, for example, did not face the challenges of social media, or the worries about climate change, but they also did not benefit from the welcome successes of women’s rights or enjoy the advancements the computer age has offers.

We can, and should, look to the past for wisdom, but not for hope. Why? Because we cannot go back in time. Instead, we must look to the future with hope. It is in the promise of a better tomorrow for which we must fasten our dreams.

The rabbis suggest we will be asked several questions when we approach heaven. Among these is the question, “Did you have hope in the future?” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a)

Sure, it is easier to look back. Nostalgia is a powerful drug. But the future is the only direction we can travel. It is all that stands before us. And hope is the only thing that will steer us right.

Look back for wisdom. Look forward for hope.

Take Less Selfies!

A few years ago, Susie and I visited Mystic Seaport. It was not a planned getaway. We had spent a few days with family in Provincetown and had arrived several hours early for our return ferry to Orient Point. We walked through town and made our way to the 100-year-old Mystic River Bascule Bridge. There, I struggled to take a selfie of Susie and me. After several attempts of trying to make my arm longer, a twenty-something year old walked over and asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you?” “Yes, please,” we said in unison.

We are not of the selfie generation. We are far more comfortable turning the camera outward. Does this make us old? Yes, absolutely. Does this make us wise? Perhaps.

In my seventh-grade class, I give students the opening minutes to hang out, enjoy each other’s company, and eat pizza. In those first few moments I discover what is going on in their lives. They share what they are doing in school and what after school activities they are involved in. They often talk about what they are excited about and in addition, what they are worried about.

They also often spend time on their iPhones. (Once the lesson begins their phones must be placed on another table.) They play games and take pictures of themselves. They examine the pictures to determine which is the most flattering. They ask their friends to weigh in. “Do I look better in this picture or that one?” One time, I somewhat innocently asked, “Is there ever a day when you don’t take a picture of yourself?” The students looked at me incredulously. “No, rabbi!”

I found their candid admission revelatory. How does the world look if it is filled with so many pictures of ourselves? What effect do all these selfies have on our children? What happens to self-esteem when people worry too much about how they appear to others?

In the Torah we discover a similar dilemma. Moses sends twelve scouts to reconnoiter the land before the Israelites are set to march across the border. Joshua and Caleb return with positive reports. The remaining ten suggest that the land is filled with giants and that there is no way the people will succeed in conquering the land of Canaan. They conclude, “And we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13)

How could they possibly now how they appeared to the Canaanites? They could not. And yet their worry with how they look, their obsession with how they appear to others, distracts them from their God given mission. The Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, imagines God asking, “Why are you so concerned about how you look in the eyes of the Canaanites, to the point that it distracts you from your sacred task?”

When we turn inward too much, we lose sight of not only what is happening around us but the needs of those around us. Our sacred task is to better our world, to ease the pain of those closest to us as well as lift them even higher when they rejoice. (You cannot hoist yourself in a chair for the hora!). If we worry about how we appear to others, we forget about the needs of others.

From where can we draw strength?

The Psalmist teaches: “I turn my eyes to the mountains;/ from where will my help come?/ My help comes from the Lord,/ maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121)

Turn the camera outward. Look to the world for inspiration. And there find God’s light.

My favorite photographer is Neil Folberg. I discovered his work years ago when I wandered into his studio. His black and white photographs appear to shine with color. I admire how light dances among the trees.

I wonder if the solution is simple and staring back at us. Use the selfie button less.

A stranger offered help. And she captured the best picture.

It is the response of others and the response to others that makes our world whole.

Manna and Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory

I own many cookbooks but rarely look to them for guidance. More often than not I prefer to garner recipe hints from the internet. Perhaps it is because they are not as frequently adorned with beautiful pictures that are impossible to emulate. The imagination of the meal rarely lives up to the reality.

And when it comes to food our imaginations do not always live up to our expectations. What we want to eat is not always what we can have.

I have been wondering as perhaps only a rabbi might why the Israelites complain so much about food. God provides them with manna. Our tradition suggests that this God-given sustenance tasted like whatever someone wanted it to taste like. “It tasted like rich cream.” (Numbers 11) the Torah offers. What more could they want? God gives them ice cream at every meal. And yet they cry, “If only we had meat to eat!”

How can this be? They never even tasted meat. The Israelites testify against themselves. “We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.” How can they crave something they never even tasted? Are they imagining the meals they were forced to serve to their Egyptian taskmasters? Did they think freedom is synonymous with luxury? “We want what they have!”

I find myself singing, “There is no life I know/ To compare with pure imagination/ Living there, you'll be free/ If you truly wish to be.” In Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (and I mean the version with Gene Wilder not the one with Johnny Depp), we learn many things. Everyone is overcome by desire. (Charlie’s lapse is rescued by his honesty.)

God responds to the Israelites’ complaints by providing them with a month’s supply of quail. And like Violet who blows up like a giant blueberry, they eat so much they become sick. Some commentators suggest that they were so overcome with “gluttonous craving” that they did not even bother to cook the meat and ate it immediately after slaughtering the birds. Their desires overwhelm their bellies.

Sometimes we imagine ourselves to be starving when we are not. Who among us has known true hunger or starvation? Still, we persist in describing ourselves as famished. “I am so hungry I could eat a horse!” Or more simply, “I am starving.” Even though I have said the latter on many occasions, such phrases are an insult to those who have experienced hunger and starvation. Our imaginations overwhelm our appetites.

And yet imagination is the secret ingredient to every meal. It is where the meal begins for the cook. “What will dinner look like? Could this lunch be great?” Imagination is where the meal finds its union with taste. Does it evoke remembrances? “It is almost like my grandmother’s.” Or does the meal open up new possibilities? “I did not think asparagus could taste so good.”

Jose Andres writes: Food is not just fuel! Food is history, culture, politics, art. It is nourishment for the soul. The simple fact of life is that we will be eating two or three meals a day every day until we die. We should all be experts at eating.” (Vegetables Unleashed: A Cookbook)

The Torah imagines God provides our food. “The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes.” It also hints that more rests in our own hands than we originally thought. The people had to work to transform the manna. Its taste is unleashed by their preparations. Manna provides not only sustenance but rich taste. Who does not like rich cream? Manna is like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

Is the meal miraculously transformed? Or is it instead our hands that transform it?

Too often we think the secret of every meal is desire. “I want steak!” Instead, the secret is imagination. Do we believe we are content? Do we have faith we are sated?

Can we imagine a meal that is manna worthy?

Can we work to create nourishment for the soul as well as the body?

Let’s Bless Like Tevye

In Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye blesses his daughters with the familiar words:

May the Lord protect and defend you.
Favor them, oh Lord, with happiness and peace.
Oh, hear our Sabbath prayer. Amen.

The 1964 Broadway show, written by Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick, is based on the Yiddish writer Sholom Aleichem’s story, Tevye the Dairyman, published in 1894. Songs such as “If I Were a Rich Man” and “Tradition” belie the more melancholy tone of Aleichem’s original story. Although in both our hero’s shtetl is destroyed, there are crucial differences. In particular, in the Broadway musical the family heads to Amerika; in the original story, the family makes plans to journey to the land of Israel.

The show’s conclusion affirms American Jews’ faith in their adopted land. Sholom Aleichem’s story ends with more questions than answers. The village is destroyed. Our exile persists. The State of Israel’s creation is then only a distant hope. Antisemitism and persecution remain regular features of our existence.

Too often such differences remain hidden. And yet the choices they represent begin to take form. Do we wish to keep on singing and dancing as Tevye does on stage? Do we wish to have our commitments affirmed? Or do wish to turn through the pages of the book? Do we wish to leave with new challenges placed before us?

Tevye’s blessing is based on the priestly benediction found in this week’s Torah portion:

Lord, bless you and protect you!
Lord, deal kindly and graciously to you!
Lord, bestow favor upon you and grant you peace! (Numbers 6)

Again, our association with these words is different than how the tradition has ritualized them. We believe that the priestly blessing is something that the rabbi recites. And it remains my greatest privilege to bless bnai mitzvah students with these words, as well as newborn babies and wedding couples, especially those who I have known since their earliest days. (Mazel tov!)

The tradition, however, urges parents to recite these words. They are to offer this blessing to their children (and even grandchildren) on Shabbat and holidays. Every week, parents place their hands on their children’s heads and recite these ancient words. It is a ritualized way of saying, “I love you.”

And while Tevye could not control his fate, or his children’s decisions for that matter, and while we are not likewise masters of our own destinies, or of our children’s paths as well, we do hold the power of blessing in our own hands.

Don’t rely so much on me. Instead rely on yourselves.

We can always add more blessing to our lives. We can always bless those we love.

Read a Book, Read the Book—Be Challenged

Moses Maimonides died in 1204 and was buried in Fustat, Egypt. Later he was reinterred in Tiberias, Israel. He is considered the greatest Jewish scholar who ever lived. People continue to visit his grave and pay homage to his influence and scholarship.

Two of his works are often cited. His fourteen-volume compendium of Jewish law, Mishneh Torah, and his philosophical treatise, The Guide of the Perplexed, continue to hold sway over Jewish thought.  He is so influential that Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “If one did not know that Maimonides was the name of a man, one would assume it was the name of a university.” Like many of my colleagues, I continue to turn to his writings for guidance.

It therefore might come as a surprise to learn that in the last years of his life, and following his death, his thinking and writing, were steeped in controversy. Fellow scholars found his suggestion that the Mishneh Torah was so comprehensive that it would render the rabbinic profession obsolete and threaten their livelihood. He argued that rabbis should not make their living as rabbis but should instead earn money through other vocations. Maimonides was a physician. Teaching Torah should only be done out of love for Torah.

Even more controversial was his attempt to synthesize traditional views with philosophical teachings. How do we reconcile tradition with contemporary ideas was Maimonides’ overarching question. He was enamored of Greek thought, and in particular the writings of Aristotle. Maimonides’ contemporaries leaned on ancient Greek philosophy. He discovered Aristotle from Muslim philosophers. When The Guide of the Perplexed was translated from Arabic to Hebrew, many traditional rabbis were aghast. In 1232 the leading rabbis of France issued a ban on The Guide, as well as the philosophical introduction to the Mishneh Torah.

In that same year Catholic leaders took up the cause of this anti-Maimonidean camp and burned his books. The traditionalists soon realized that their arguments had gone too far. The objections dissipated. The disagreements by and large died down. Over the centuries a compromise took hold. Study the tradition first. After sufficient mastery of these subjects, one can then dwell on philosophical writings. The banning of Maimonides’ writings was not attempted again.

The struggle continues. How do we reconcile contemporary thinking with traditional teachings?

This evening begins Shavuot, the holiday that marks the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. 

There are many passages in this holy Torah that I find unsettling. God condones violence. There are others I find objectionable. God forbids homosexual relations. There are more than a few that have stirred my soul since the day I first discovered them. God commands, “Love the stranger.” If I were to judge the Torah by the verses with which I disagree, I might urge banning it. I might suggest that no young b’nai mitzvah students should ever read its words or ponder its implications.

On this Shavuot I recommit myself to the study of Torah. I find inspiration in its challenges.  

In doing so, I also recommit to reading books and pondering their meaning. 

The point, of reading, and studying, and learning is to be challenged.

And so now, it’s off to the bookstore. I need to purchase Toni Morrison’s Beloved and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.  I need to add them to my reading list.

Every word offers a challenge and an inspiration, every sentence the opportunity for renewed obligation.

Be as Open as the Wilderness

“The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai.” (Numbers 1)

Why did God speak in the wilderness? Why did God choose such a barren place to reveal the Torah?

It is because the wilderness belongs to no one. And wisdom can be claimed by everyone. It is because this barren place is open to all. And knowledge can be found by anyone.

The rabbis add: “Anyone who does not make oneself open to all like a wilderness cannot acquire wisdom and Torah.” (Bamidbar Rabbah 1)

What does it mean to be open to all?

It means that we must remain open to learning from each and every person. If we only learn from one source, then we cannot become wise. If we only read Jewish texts, but do not study secular literature, we do not truly learn. If we only delve into the sciences but do not pore over history’s texts, then we do not become well rounded thinkers. If we, to put it into contemporary language, only watch Fox News or conversely only read The New York Times, we cannot discern the contours of the arguments that animate present society.

It also means that we must foster an openness to others. There are those with whom we love to spend time and others we do not. There are those with whom we disagree and those with whom we agree (most of the time). Are we open to all?

There are those who are Americans and others who are not. There are those who are citizens and others who are migrants. There are those who are Jewish and others who are Christians or Muslims, Hindus or Buddhists, Sikhs or atheists. Are we truly open to each and every person?

Years ago, in the Spring of 1987 to be exact, I traveled to the Sinai. I marveled at its vastness. I was awed by its expansiveness. It was harsh yet beautiful, stark yet majestic. Our Bedouin guide led us through wadis and over mountains. We struggled to keep pace with his even steps. I wondered how his pace never changed. It was consistent despite the terrain. I attempted to mirror his cadence. I discovered a camaraderie in our footsteps.

There was learning to be discerned in this wilderness.

Do we remain open to others, to people who are different than ourselves, who believe not as we do? Do we remain open to ideas other than those beliefs we hold in our own hearts?

How can we be as open and expansive as the wilderness? How can we remain receptive to the Torah that continues to be revealed in such a wide, expansive place?

Spring Brings Hints of Gladness

“On the seventh day God finished the work that God had been doing.” (Genesis 2)

What work was left to be done on this day? What finishing touches did the world require? the rabbis ask. Again, they answer their own question. God created menucha—rest. This teaches us that rest is a divine gift.

In the rabbinic imagination, we are not talking about sleeping or even a taking a nap, but rather rest that restores the soul. The prayerbook attests to this idea and teaches that Shabbat menucha is different than ordinary rest. In addition to its holiness, menucha is described in its pages as a “rest reflecting Your lavish love and true faithfulness, in peace and tranquility, contentment and quietude—a perfect rest in which You delight.”

How can we discover a rest that offers us peace and tranquility, contentment and quietude? It seems almost impossible.

Then again, now that Spring has bloomed, it may be as easy as venturing outside, going for walk and breathing in nature’s beauty. Tell your children to put their phones down, grab their hands and go for a walk. Teach them not to look at screens but at the flowers and trees, birds and even the bugs crawling on the leaves. Teach them to say with you, “Look at how wonderful the world is!”

The Torah concurs. So important is rest that even the land requires it. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25). And while our tradition views the sabbatical year as applying only to the land of Israel (may it soon know peace!), I am beginning to think that it should apply beyond these borders. If rest is a divine gift, then all of God’s creations should enjoy it.

And thus, when I marvel at the landscaping surrounding my home and the beautiful trees now unfurling their leaves (as well coughing up their allergy inducing pollen), I find myself correcting my thoughts. I used to say, “Look at my trees.” Now I say instead, “Look at God’s trees.”

The poet Mary Oliver exclaims:

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

And I imagine the trees taking in a breath and filling their veins with Shabbat menucha. I watch as they restore the earth—and refresh my soul.

Abraham Joshua Heschel writes: “There are three ways in which we may relate ourselves to the world—we may exploit it, we may enjoy it, and we may accept it in awe.”

Indeed, I am awed. Look at the beauty, and marvels, and wonders God has created. I behold hints of gladness in the air.

We Always Need to Give Thanks

Rabbis debate everything.

In ancient times the rabbis argued about the world to come and what will still be required of us. When the messiah comes and perfects the world will we, for example, still need to pray? After all, when peace finally reigns, when there is no more oppression or, when no human being goes to sleep hungry or cold, what more do we need to pray for?

Rabbis also answer their own questions.

Rabbis Pinhas, Levi and Johanan said in the name of Rabbi Menahem of Galilee: “In the world to come, all prayers shall cease, but the prayer of thanksgiving shall never cease.” (Midrash Tanhuma Emor)

We will always need to say thanks. We will always want to say thanks?

When all wrongs are righted, when peace is at long last achieved, why do we need to keep offering thanks to God? If we have everything, would we even feel the impulse to say thanks? Isn’t the impulse to say thanks precipitated by gaining what we did not have? When we gain what we did not previously have, we are filled with gratitude. (Or are we never sated and keep wanting more?)

The rabbis urge otherwise. They argue that our spirits must always be filled with gratitude, regardless of what we may or may not have and regardless of how we feel. Take their approach to food as but one example. When do we say the motzi and offer thanks for the meal? We say the prayer before we even taste the hallah. We say, “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth,” before we even know if the meal is delicious or not.

We do not begin the meal with words of “I would have preferred steak.” Or, “Really, chicken again.” Instead, gratitude emerges from our mouths before we even allow food to touch our lips.

The meal is transformed by our thanks, as well as the people sitting by our sides.

Saying thank you shifts our outlook. We might think we were not given enough or even that we deserved more but offering prayers of thanks cures our feelings of emptiness. Our souls become full. They are always overflowing. Why? Because they are filled with thanks.

This is why we say the prayers we say when we are confronted with death. Before we tear the ribbon we shout praises to God. Of course the tear is far more representative of our feelings. And yet in that moment, Judaism instructs us to say thanks. Whether we are granted many years with our loved ones, or few, whether their deaths were tragic or peaceful, we say thank you for their lives. Thank you for their teachings. Thank you for the blessings of their companionship.

It does not make the hurt go away. It does not dissipate the longing. It does strengthen us. A soul filled with gratitude is stronger. There is no better option for returning us to friends. There is no other choice for sending us back to the world. We continue offering the Kaddish. We shout praises, and thanks, to God.

Saying thanks makes us better. Even when we have all else, when we have everything we might want and everything God can offer, we still say thanks. Too often we think peace is the more important prayer. It is instead the prayer of thanksgiving.

Our thanks will transform us. And it will outlast us.

The Torah states: “When you sacrifice a thanksgiving offering to the Lord, sacrifice it so that it may be acceptable in your favor.” (Leviticus 22)

Saying thanks makes life feel more favorable.

The debate continues.

Building Our Home

On June 7, 1967, Israeli troops climbed the steep path toward the Old City, then under the control of Jordanian forces, and stormed through the city’s Zion Gate, finally making their way to the Western Wall. There the soldiers sang Hatikvah, prayed and cried. The Kotel, and the Jewish Quarter, the entire Old City and East Jerusalem were now, at long last, under Jewish control. 

And yet even though I often go the Wall and touch the stones erected thousands of years ago by our Jewish ancestors when they built the Temple, and wander the narrow streets of the Old City, often stopping for a Turkish coffee in the Muslim Quarter, the spot that continues to take my breath away is not in the East but in the West. After ascending this steep path, lined with fragrant rosemary bushes, I turn around and look to the valley below.

There, in the distance, with the Old City behind me, and atop another hill is Yemin Moshe, the first Jewish settlement built outside the city’s walls. And then, filling every view, are the new buildings, hotels, and apartments, that comprise West Jerusalem. I think to myself. “There was little here seventy-five years ago. And now hundreds of thousands of people call these neighborhoods home.” 

In that moment, the controversies that are an ever-present part of what lies behind me, seem to fade into the distance. I cannot see from this spot the security fence, and wall, that separates the West Bank from Jerusalem. 

I see only the new. I take in only the potential. 

The dream is real. The prayers have been realized.

We have returned to this place. We have built a home. 

Of course, our return, and our building of this home, have been challenging, and at times imperfect. Our settling has unsettled others. And yet, in that moment, I see only perfection—or perhaps the reaching for perfection. 

What an extraordinary blessing it is to live in this time and at this moment. There is a sovereign State of Israel.

Later, I will argue about its pitfalls and its current struggles. For now, after reaching these heights and catching my breath, I will take in the scent of rosemary and revel in the sight of what has been created.

Our hope is not yet lost,

It is two thousand years old,

To be a free people in our own land,

The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Remembering the Holocaust

On Tuesday, the State of Israel observed Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. 

Following the Holocaust, and the destruction of much of European Jewry, Israel’s founders debated which day to observe and commemorate our greatest tragedy. In 1951 the Knesset took up the argument. Some urged the day should be the tenth of Tevet, a traditional fast day marking the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem in the sixth century BCE. (The Chief Rabbinate favored this day.)

Others suggested the eighth of Av, the day the Nazis began the liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto. (The Nazis often chose dates that held Jewish significance.) Given this date’s proximity to the ninth of Av, the fast day commemorating the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple by the Romans in 70 CE, it was rejected. Some argued for the first of September, the day Nazi Germany invaded Poland and World War II began.

Others favored the fourteenth of Nisan, the day the Warsaw Ghetto’s small band of Jews began their revolt against the Nazis. These fighters kept the Nazi army at bay for nearly one month. (Poland’s army lasted slightly longer.) This date seemed impractical given that Passover begins that evening and so the Knesset resolved that the date should be the twenty seventh of Nisan, five days after the conclusion of the Passover holiday. They wished to maintain the connection between our armed revolt against the Nazis and our remembrance of the murdered six million Jews.

In the first year that Yom HaShoah was observed, a statue of Mordecai Anielewicz, the leader of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, was unveiled. Israel’s early leaders wished to proclaim the importance of a Jewish army. Like the Warsaw Ghetto fighters, we can defend ourselves against our enemies. Now we have the IDF! In fact, the official name for the day is Yom HaZikaron laShoah ve-laG’vurah, Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day.

There were, however, other examples of heroism. Most did not in fact involve weapons. In the camps, people shared morsels of food with others even though such an act might lead to their own demise. Some secretly observed Jewish holidays and offered prayers. Think about this. Even keeping track of the calendar and knowing when Passover began was an act of defiance. There were countless examples of spiritual heroism. Many remain lost to history. Others we still recall.

Many know the words of Anne Frank, who penned words of hopefulness while hiding in an Amsterdam attic. The despair that surrounded her did not color her outlook. Likewise, Etty Hillesum recorded her most intimate thoughts in a diary that was published in 1981. In An Interrupted Life, she speaks about love (and making love) while living in the Netherlands during the war.

Etty served on the Jewish Council of Westerbrok. The Nazis established these councils to force Jewish leaders to decide who was transported from ghettos to concentration camps. On September 7, 1943, Etty and her family were sent to Auschwitz. I have always wondered if she placed her own name on that fateful list. Was this journey her act of bravery?

Etty Hillesum died in the Auschwitz concentration camp a few months later. I return to her writings.

She proclaims: “And even if we stay alive, we shall carry the wounds with us throughout our lives. And yet I don’t think that life is meaningless. And God is not accountable to us for the senseless harm we cause one another.”

I find hope in her words. I find heroism in her prophetic call.

The wounds remain. The senseless harm persists.

Lean Into Silence

And Aaron was silent.” (Leviticus 10)

I have always been puzzled by Aaron’s silence. After the death of his sons Nadav and Avihu he does not speak. He does not offer a complaint against God. He does not raise his voice in understandable, and justifiable, anger. Instead, he is silent.

And while I do not believe anyone should criticize a mourner or suggestion that one emotion is better than another, I am perplexed by his silence. Stoicism in the face of grief seems misplaced. It is not a sign of strength to hold back tears and be strong for others. Tears, and sobbing, complaint and even anger, are greater testaments to strength, than the withholding of emotions.

If silence is appropriate it should instead be worn by those offering comfort to the mourners. Too often, well-meaning friends attempt to placate the pain, and grief, of friends with inappropriate words. Cliches like “You have to be strong,” or “You will get over it” or even “He is in a better place” or “At least she is no longer in pain” are not helpful.

Instead, practice silence. Listen. Offer a hug. And if one must say anything, recount a story, or a memory about the person who died.

Don’t lean into cliches. They do not work. More often than not these phrases hurt. Words cannot fix every heartache. Be present. Stand alongside your friend. Accept the silence however awkward it might appear. Affirm your friend’s pain. Don’t rush in with words. Even the most well-chosen words fall short.

The rabbis suggest that Aaron’s silence indicates his acceptance of God’s judgment. I am not so sure. I wonder. Is this why the Mourner’s Kaddish does not mention death. This prayer is instead piles of praise for God. “Blessed, praised, honored, exalted, extolled, glorified, adored, and lauded the name of the Holy Blessed One, beyond all earthly words and songs of blessing, praise, and comfort.”

And the congregation responds, “Amen.” We affirm the grief.

Is this possible? Even the Kaddish struggles to acknowledge the death we confront.

The Kaddish likewise falls silent. And all we can say is, “Amen.” We stand with you.

This week I am going to lean into this silence.

Sometimes, there are no words.

Passover's Us and Them

Judaism fights the impulse to say God favors us and only us. Sometimes, however, it yields to this impulse. Take for example the very name of this evening’s holiday: Passover.

God spares us and saves us while striking down the Egyptians and their first born. Then again as we recall these very same plagues, we lessen our joy by removing one drop of wine from our celebratory cups. Our joy is diminished because others suffered so that we might go free. In that moment of particularism, we acknowledge a universal spirit.

God rescues the Israelites. They walk through the sea on dry land. The Egyptian army is drowned in the sea. Our tradition adds: when the angels celebrate our enemies defeat, God admonishes them and says, “My children are drowning.”

The tension continues. The push and pull between universalism and particularism are played out in the Seder’s rituals. Chosenness is sometimes viewed as exclusive favor. “God took us out of Egypt, gave us the Shabbat and the Torah. Dayyenu!” More often it is seen as testimony to additional responsibility. “Ha lachma anya. Let all who are hungry, come and eat.”

Even hidden within the name for this evening’s dessert are hints of this tension. Afikomen is not a Hebrew word but instead Greek. It means dessert or even the after party. One of the central rituals of this festive meal, celebrating the Jewish people’s rescue from foreign rulers, is tied to the very customs from which we try to differentiate ourselves. Let the search for the afikomen begin. Let the after party start!

The seder concludes. “Next year in Jerusalem!” And yet we live in America.

There is no resolution to the tension. We are meant to affirm both.

We are free. Others are not yet free.

Change Your Clothes

In ancient times, we offered daily sacrifices. There was the burnt offering which consisted of two yearling lambs, one sacrificed in the morning and another in the evening. In addition, there was a grain offering that was consumed on the altar. The priest also tended to these rituals and made sure the altar fire burned throughout the day.

In the morning, his first task was removing the ashes. This was not left to anyone else. The dirty, and I would imagine somewhat disgusting, job of cleaning out the sacrificial altar was done by the priest himself. “He shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.” (Leviticus 6)

Interestingly before taking the ashes outside the camp, he had to change his clothes. He wears his priestly garb when working within the sacred precinct. Before moving outside, he changes his clothes. This appears strange. Why not change before cleaning up the ashes? Wear the dirty work clothes for such a job is my thinking. Instead, it seems that it is not so much about the dirtiness of the project as opposed to where he is working.

The Hasidic rebbe, Simhah Bunem, offers a startingly observation. The reason why the priest puts on ordinary clothes serves as a reminder to the priest of his place within the community. He must never forget his link to the ordinary people who spend their days in mundane pursuits. He may spend almost every hour of his day occupying himself with holy work, but for at least a moment every day he must recall that he is in truth just like everyone else.

Too often leaders because of their position, or wealth, forget their connection to others. Every day they must find the means to restore the connection to others. Leadership is supposed to be in the service of others. Wealth can be transformed into something holy by the question of what more can we do for others.

Perhaps the only reminder we need is to change our outfit. We must never forget that we are just like everyone else.

Ask the Painful Questions

These days I am plagued by a question. How does a group come to recognize its wrongs?

Last week I traveled to Washington DC. There we visited the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. As one wanders through its exhibits one question stands out, “Where was America?” After hours walking through this painful history, one confronts newspaper headlines reporting the murder of Europe’s Jews. Juxtaposed with these reports, one sees a copy of a letter from Assistant US Secretary of War, John McCloy.

He writes: “At the present critical stage of the war in Europe, our strategic air forces are engaged in the destruction of industrial target systems vital to the dwindling war potential of the enemy, from which they should not be diverted.” And yet, US forces bombed factories within five miles of Auschwitz-Birkenau. The question lingers. Where was America?

And then one comes to an additional exhibit about the Rohingya genocide. Myanmar officials continue their oppression, persecution, and murder of their country’s Muslim minority. Nearly one million are now refugees. Nearly 25,000 have been killed. The question continues. Where is America?

We crossed the Mall, and then visited the National Museum of African American History and Culture. As one enters, the words of the Declaration of Independence are seen emblazoned on the wall: “All men are created equal.” The journey through the exhibits moves from slave ships to plantations, and continues from the 1960’s civil rights struggle to today’s Black Lives Matter protests. As one turns the corner, the large wall is again seen. The words of Langston Hughes’ epic poem are etched above: “I, too, am America.”

The realization is stunning. It is the same wall. The same nation that changed the world with the words, “All men are created equal” is the same nation that enslaved Blacks. The two are inseparable. The question has changed. What is America? Can we be both great and flawed? And then it occurred to me. Whereas the atrocities in Europe happened over there, I felt an increasing intimacy to America’s ongoing struggle with racism and its lingering presence in the country I call home.

We began our trip with a private tour of the US Capitol with Representative Steve Israel. He is an extraordinary tour guide and a compelling historian. We sat in the House of Representatives. We spoke of the debates that occurred there. He showed us where some of the January 6th rioters (insurrectionists!) climbed through windows to storm the chamber. We then made our way to the lobby.

We stood in front of a majestic painting of George Washington. Representative Israel shared with us how fortunate Washington and his troops were during the Battle of Long Island. If not for a miraculous fog, the surrounding British forces would have surely destroyed the Continental Army who were encamped in Brooklyn Heights. Washington’s military blunder was redeemed by nature’s saving grace. We then spoke about Washington’s evident grimace. Everyone shared the well-known fact that our first president had false teeth. “They were made out of wood,” we said in near unison.

Our historian corrected us. “They were the teeth of enslaved Blacks. Other times they were taken from cadavers.” Representative Israel continued, “Sometimes slave owners paid for these teeth. Other times, they did not.” Now I too grimaced. The pain of our history was almost too much to bear. We are flawed. “The genius of our founders,” Israel suggested, “is found in the words they penned. The spoke about creating a ‘more perfect union.’ They did not believe the United States of America is perfect, but that we would always be reaching to be more perfect.”

The Torah responds to my lingering questions. “If it is the whole community of Israel that has erred and the matter escapes the notice of the congregation, so that they do any of the things which by the Lord’s commandments ought not to be done, and they realize their guilt (ashamnu!)—when the sin through which they incurred guilt becomes known, the congregation shall offer a bull of the herd as a sin offering, and bring it before the Ten of Meeting.” (Leviticus 4)

For the first time in my life, I find myself longing for a restoration of Leviticus’ promise. Maybe we need the sacrifices. Perhaps the rabbis were right. Soon after the Temple was destroyed and we could no longer perform these sacrifices, they argued our idyllic life was lost. The sacrifices offered us the perfect antidote to rectify wrongs. They provided us with a mechanism to publicly declare our wrongs and restore order. Only then can we create a better future.

I wonder what can be done today. We struggle to come to terms with our past mistakes. We wrestle with how to even teach about such imperfections. We dare not mention such wrongs. We hesitate to talk about our founders’ wrongs and nation’s sins.

A perfect past does not exist. A better future is always within reach. I wonder how to get there.

One thing appears clear. We can only get there if we are unafraid to ask such questions.

Creating in God's Shadow

This week we read about the requirements for building the tabernacle. These details were already offered in prior chapters. Are these now repeated because the Israelites need a reminder about what they should be setting their hearts to build? So soon after gathering against Aaron and pressuring him to help them build the Golden Calf Moses reasserts his leadership and gathers them for a renewed holy purpose.

We can gather for bad. We can congregate for good. The leader helps redirect the people’s energies. “Take from among you gifts to the Lord; everyone whose hearts so move them shall bring them—gifts for the Lord: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple and crimson yarns…” (Exodus 35)

And then Moses singles out an artisan from among the tribe of Judah who will lead this project. His name is Bezalel. The Torah records: “God has endowed him with a divine spirit of skill (hokhmah), ability (t’vunah) and knowledge (da-at) of every kind of craft.” The famous medieval commentator, Rashi, offers this explanation about the differences between these artistic qualities.

Skill, or wisdom, is what a person learns from others. Ability describes one’s own insights or experiences. Knowledge, he equates, with divine inspiration. Artistic creations sometimes overwhelm us with their power. We wonder what unknown, or otherworldly, source inspired the artist. This is what Rashi deems da-at. It is not simply knowledge but instead divine knowledge.

Often, we think of artists as singular. We describe the artists we admire as unique and unparalleled. It is how I felt when I walked into La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona’s soon to be completed cathedral. The work on this church began in 1882. It was conceived by Antoni Gaudi. The stained-glass windows are unlike anything I have ever seen before. The way the windows illuminate the sun’s rays are breathtaking. And yet Gaudi most certainly saw his creations as standing on the shoulders of his Christian faith.

The Torah reminds us of an important lesson. Artists must learn from others. They lean on their predecessors.

No creative work stands disconnected from others. They are bound together by the thread of wisdom that ties one generation to another.

Everyone must learn from others. Everyone must stand on the shoulders of their teachers. That is the essence of wisdom. That is what engenders the greatest skill and artistry.

All creations are manifestations of the divine. We create in the shadow of God. And this of course is what the Hebrew name Bezalel means.

Defend Israel's Democracy

Israel is on fire from within and from without.

From the outside it continues to face lethal terrorist attacks and the specter of an increasingly emboldened and nuclear Iran. From within it faces something which has long been simmering but has now found voices of legitimacy within the current ruling coalition.

I mourn the deaths. Their numbers increase. Two young brothers, Hillel and Yagel Yaniv, were recently murdered when traveling to their home. Elan Ganeles, an American who had made aliyah, was also murdered. He was on his way to a friend’s wedding. Rockets are fired from Gaza at Israeli towns. Terrorism continues.

Israel responds with force. Its soldiers kill terrorists. Its police continue to thwart planned attacks. Fierce fighting was reported in Jenin. Settlers rioted in the town of Huwara. They burned hundreds of homes. A Palestinian was killed. Sameh Aqtesh. I grieve over the deaths of innocent Palestinians.

During these riots, Israeli soldiers rescued Palestinians from their burning homes. Their commanding officer called the settlers’ rampage a pogrom....

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Secure the Soul

Purim is celebrated on Monday evening. With its penchant for costumes and carnivals, it is a day typically relegated to children. And yet the rabbis imagined otherwise. The Talmud commands: “A person is obligated to get drunk until they do not know the difference between 'cursed is Haman' and 'Blessed is Mordechai.'” (Megillah 7b)

This is derived from the concluding lines of the Book of Esther: “The same days on which the Jews enjoyed relief from their enemies and the same month which had been transformed from one of grief and mourning into one of festive joy, they were now to observe them as days of feasting and merrymaking.” (Esther 9). Nothing suggests feasting and merrymaking more than abundant food and most especially, plenty of wine and spirits.

Still, it is a curious commandment and gives one pause. This is how we are supposed to commemorate a victory over antisemitism? We are supposed to get wasted? This is counterintuitive. The only way to achieve victory over antisemites is by remaining clear headed. The essence of confronting evil and hate lies in the ability to draw distinctions. When we get drunk nothing is clear. Often the lines between right and wrong become blurred. And we must keep these straight. We must remain clear eyed if we are to face today’s threats.

Antisemitism threatens us in two ways. One is the obvious. Throughout our long history, and especially our more recent history, antisemites have succeeded in carrying out their lethal threats. We have been gunned down in synagogues and supermarkets. We have been murdered in Nazi concentration camps and chased from cities and villages. The list is lengthy. It is painful to enumerate. What began with Haman did not end with Mordecai’s victory. This threat remains forever clear.

The other danger is blurred. Antisemites threaten our soul. We can become consumed by the fear antisemitism ingenerates. Take our response to last weekend’s so called “Day of Hate” as but one example. The Jewish community, its leaders and members, discussed this in more detail and at greater length than the Nazis who promoted this day. (There is nothing neo about people who call themselves Nazis!). We became consumed by fear.

I understand the worry. I hear the nervousness. I am attuned to the fears. Still, I wonder. What is the cost of these worries to our spirits? What happens to a people who is forever on guard, who fears what dangers might lie in wait around every corner, who worries what threats may lurk beneath every word?

What about the security of the soul? How might we better attend to our embattled souls?

Just as we can become consumed by overindulging in the alcohol that our Purim celebrations demand, so too can we become consumed by our fears. On this Purim, I wonder if this was the hidden message contained in the rabbis’ command.

Antisemitism is real. Its threats are not unfounded. Let us recognize that its dangers remain twofold. The danger about which we can exert the most control we are the least attentive. It is within our power to banish fear. We worry about guards and cameras, doors and safe rooms and will continue to do so. We ignore the needs of the soul.

Take a cue from our tradition and Purim’s message.

Feast. Rejoice. Celebrate Jewish life.

And then perhaps the soul will feel more secure.

Building the Sanctuary of the Heart

The Hasidic movement was founded by Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer in eighteenth century Ukraine. It was a radical departure from traditional norms in which rabbinic leadership was predicated on scholarship and in particular mastery of the Talmud.

Rabbi Israel, who later became known as the Baal Shem Tov, was a schoolteacher and laborer. He was more enamored of mystical texts such as the Zohar than classical rabbinic texts. He loved meditating rather than studying. Unlike other rabbis he did not spend his days poring over traditional passages. Instead, he would spend considerable time wandering in the woods. He taught that the spiritual path was a mystical road open to anyone.

The secret is not, the Hasidic masters taught, mastery of chapter and verse, but instead in finding a teacher, a rebbe. Follow in his footsteps. Sing wordless melodies (niggunim) by his side. These were always the best medicine and the recipe Hasidism offered to the Jewish masses hungry for spirituality but unable to devote hours to study and learning.

Each of the Hasidic masters who followed Rabbi Israel offered nuanced perspectives. They developed competing schools of thought. Each generation refined their masters’ teachings and sometimes offered insights not heretofore known. Some took their master’s teachings in new and unfound directions.

Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk drew a sharp contrast with his predecessors. Whereas the Baal Shem Tov was forgiving in his approach and emphasized God’s compassion, the Kotzker rebbe as he later became known, was obsessed with God’s justice. In fact, he was so intoxicated with truth that he burned nearly all of his writings. Nothing a person writes could ever really approximate God’s truth.

Too often the outer life veils the inner. We spend our days dwelling on appearances and outer trappings rather than focusing on mastering the spirit.

Abraham Joshua Heschel observes:

If he were alive today, the Kotzker would look aghast at the replacement of spirituality by aesthetics, spontaneity by decorum. Like Kierkegaard he would vehemently condemn an aesthetic concept of Judaism acted out in customs, ceremonies, sentimental celebrations and polished oratory, as well as in decorative representations of God in terms of grandiose temples. He would also reject the reduction of Judaism to an outward compliance with ritual laws, strict observance mingled with dishonesty, the pedantic performance of rituals as a form of opportunism. (A Passion for Truth)

Menahem Mendel was unforgiving. He burned with truth. For the last twenty years of his life the rebbe lived in seclusion. Truth sometimes makes us abandon friends. Hard truths exile friendship.

The Torah commands: “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25)

Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk comments: “It says ‘among them’ and not ‘among it,’ to teach you that each person must build the sanctuary in his own heart; then God will dwell among them.”

It is not enough to build synagogues or temples, institutions or organizations. What matters instead is the sanctuary we build within. It is the truth we hold in our hearts.

Heschel again:

The Kotzker would call upon us to be uneasy about our situation, to feel ashamed of our peace of mind, of our spiritual stagnation. One’s integrity must constantly be examined. In his view, self-assurance, smug certainty of one’s honesty was as objectionable as brazen dishonesty. A moderately clean heart was like a moderately foul egg. Lukewarm Judaism would be as effective in purging our character as a lukewarm furnace in melting steel.

How do can we ignite the furnace in our hearts?

How can we live with truth and not as well live alone?

Why Study Chemistry? Why Study Torah?

Recently my seventh graders engaged in a heated discussion about the virtues of the subjects they are studying in school. I asked them which class they liked the best. “Math,” said one. “FCS,” said another one. “What is FCS?” I asked. “Family and Consumer Science,” they answered. “What is “Family and Consumer Science?” I responded. “We learn how to cook and sew,” a student chimed in.

All their answers hinged on the subjects’ apparent usefulness. They reasoned they should know how to balance a checkbook and cook dinner. Learning about American history was another matter. Studying the periodic table did not make much sense. I offered, “Isn’t there value in learning for learning’s sake? Isn’t their merit in learning how to think? Isn’t there interest in finding meaning and inspiration in something as small as an atom?”

This week, I open the Torah to a flurry of laws. I read:

When an ox gores a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be stoned and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner of the ox is not to be punished. If, however, that ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and it kills a man or a woman—the ox shall be stoned and its owner, too, shall be put to death. (Exodus 21)

I hear my seventh grader’s questions. “What does a goring ox have to do with me? No one, I know, even owns an ox.”

The renowned biblical scholar, Nahum Sarna, suggests that the Torah’s laws are unique and stand apart from other ancient near eastern law codes. Other ancient codes made distinctions between the human life that was taken. In other words, there was a guilty party received greater punishment if the person killed or injured was a prince. A wealthy person’s life was accorded more weight. In the bible’s estimation, no distinction can be made between people.

Sarna writes: “The sanctity of human life is such as to make bloodshed the consummate offense, one viewed with unspeakable horror. Neither man nor beast that destroys a life can remain thereafter untainted.” All human life is precious. All people are created in God’s image.

It is not about the ox. It is instead about human life.

And it is about our responsibility to others. Each of us must protect the wellbeing of those around us.

It may appear irrelevant, but this is perhaps as important as O2 and H2O.

The laws about a goring ox can provide us with needed sustenance.

Give Me Some Rest

People often say they are spiritual and not religious. “Rabbi, I am not really into organized religion. I am spiritual.” Sometimes I respond, “You do recognize that you are talking to one of the organizers.” Most of the time, I offer an understanding nod and ask them to tell me more. They suggest that they find spirituality and meaning in nature. They believe in the Ten Commandments. By this they mean the ethical precepts such as, “You shall not murder. You shall not steal.”

I do not have the heart to remind them about the fourth commandment, “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of Lord your God: you shall not do any work.” (Exodus 20)

In the early 1970’s Princeton University conducted a study of its seminary students. All the students were of course familiar with the story from Christian scriptures about the Good Samaritan from which the law protecting someone who stops to help another derives. This tale emphasizes that it is often ordinary people, not devout or holy people, who help those in need.

All the students were told that they had to travel to another campus building where they would partner with a fellow student on a sermon. They then divided the group into three. The first group was told that they had little time and they should rush across campus. The second was told that although they were not rushed, they needed to arrive promptly. The third was told that they could take their time and there was no sense of urgency regarding their arrival.

On their way to the other building, all the students confronted a stranger who appeared desperate and in need. Here is what the study revealed. 63% of those who did not feel rushed stopped to help. 45% of the participants who felt slightly rushed stopped. And only 10% of those students who believed that they were running late offered help to the stranger.

And here is the lesson. There is an ethical dimension to feeling rested. When one feels hurried there feels little time to do anything else. There is little room for others.

The tradition teaches that Shabbat is an expression of our freedom from slavery. Time is a gift given to free people. Judaism sanctifies time. It values time because it restores the soul. Shabbat is a vacation for the soul.

In New York everything seems rushed. Time is not something to hold sacred. Instead, it is something to conquer. “Did you take the LIE or the Northern State?” Time is not restorative. Instead, it is something wasted. “Can you believe the airlines? My flight was delayed for two hours.” We can never rest.

Our cellphones interrupt our meals. They intrude in our time with family. How many conversations were recently interrupted by someone who looked up from their phone’s notification and blurted out, “We shot that Chinese balloon down!” People interrupt others midsentence to share news items. Does it really matter when we find out such news?

We can never relax.

Judith Shulevitz writes in her breathtaking book, The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time:

In a world of brightness and portability and instantaneous intimacy, the Sabbath foists on the consciousness the blackness of night, the heaviness of objects, the miles that keep us apart. The Sabbath prefers natural to artificial light. If we want to travel, it would make us walk, though not too far. If we long for social interaction, it would have us meet our fellow man and woman face-to-face. If we wish to bend the world to our will, it would insist that we forgo the vast majority of the devices that extend our reach and multiply our efficacy.

Perhaps the message, and import, of Shabbat is not so much about its seeming organization but instead about making room for others.

There is only one way to discover this. It is about feeling rested.

Put the cellphone down if not for the day, then at least for the day’s appointed meal.

Become attuned to the soul’s need for rest.

Breathe in the gift Shabbat provides.

I am grateful to the inspiration discovered for this article from Ezra Klein Interviews Judith Shulevitz on The Ezra Klein Show podcast.