At Home and On the Road
F. Scott Fitzgerald insisted, “There are no second acts in American lives.”
He was, of course, wrong. Americans love second acts. Consider this: The Great Gatsby was the number two movie at the box office this week—and Baz Luhrmann’s current production is the fourth film version of Fitzgerald’s classic 1925 novel. Our culture, high and low, is practically defined by second acts, from Thomas Jefferson (who lost the presidential election of 1796 to John Adams, then came back to defeat him in 1800) to Kim Kardashian.
Second acts are even more important in the Jewish world. Why? Because our tradition recognizes that since we fail so frequently, life without second chances would be impossible. Teshuvah—the opportunity to learn from our mistakes, make amends, and move forward—is at the very heart of Judaism.
When we sin at the Golden Calf, Moses smashes the tablets of the commandments—then goes back up and returns forty days later with a second set. The ensuing period of wandering in the wilderness is the story of our constant backsliding and failure. We complain and transgress and sorely try the patience of both God and Moses. But though they both get angry, neither ever really gives up on our ability to grow and, given a second (or third or fourth) chance, do better.
This week’s portion, B’ha-alotecha, describes a holiday known as Pesach sheni. Rabbi Harold Kushner describes this event as follows: “People who were ritually impure (on the 14th of Nissan, when Passover fell, and therefore unable to properly observe the festival) felt deprived at not being able to share in this central national reaffirmation. They brought their problem to Moses, who in turn brought it before God. God acknowledges their sincerity and grants them a ‘second Pesach’ one month later. To the sincere individual, life often does offer second chances for spiritual fulfillment that may have been missed when the opportunities first presented themselves.”
As Kushner goes on to note, no one need feel permanently exiled or lost. The wicked child of the haggadah can, with a concerted effort, become the wise. This week, let us be thankful for the second chances that we receive, and generous in affording them to others.
Posted: May 21, 2013, 5:22 am
Creator and Sustainer of Life, Foundation of Justice, Fount of Mercy:
We are thankful for the opportunity to gather for the first time in this newly renovated meeting place. In ancient days, the judges of the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem would convene in a hallowed hall known as the Chamber of Hewn Stone. My Jewish tradition teaches that this was a sacred place, for wherever our leaders gather to hear and honor the voice of the people, to legislate and govern, with wisdom, fairness, and compassion—in such a place, sacredness always dwells.
We pray that this refurbished chamber will live up to that legacy, and be always a source of pride to the citizens of Boise and those whom we choose to represent us.
We ask blessing for them, and for our beloved city.
Eternal One, grant them the vision to guide our future, the patience to secure it, and abundant compassion for all whose destinies will be shaped in part by the decisions that they render.
Help them to hear the voices of all whom they serve. Remind them—remind us all—that the true measure of any community lies in the way it treats its most vulnerable members.
And may we all be blessed, as we re-dedicate this space, by a citizenry with a shared vision, in which people of all races, orientations and creeds are united in a common bond: to banish bigotry, and to establish justice for all.
May they go from strength to strength.
And let us say:
Amen.
Posted: May 15, 2013, 1:02 am
As Belinda Carlisle famously sang back in 1987, heaven is—or at least can be—a place on earth.
In this week’s Torah portion, Naso, Moses erects the mishkan, the sanctuary-tent that the Israelites carry through the desert: “On the day that the Tabernacle was set up, the Cloud covered it. . . . In the evening, it rested over the Tabernacle in the likeness of a fire until morning.” Cloud by day, pillar of fire by night—the Divine Presence, as it were, dwells among the people.
Indeed, Jewish tradition teaches, when Moses brought the community together to construct the mishkan, he metaphorically wed heaven and earth. The Midrash Pesikta de Rav Kahana notes that in the beginning, God dwelt among us. A series of transgressions, beginning with Adam and Eve in Eden, caused the Divine Presence to withdraw. But a series of righteous acts, ending with Moses’ work on the Tabernacle, invited the Holy One to return.
When we act out of justice and compassion, heaven and earth are one. An old folktale tells of a rabbi who longed to see Paradise. One day, Elijah met him and agreed to show him heaven, on the condition that he make the journey blindfolded. The rabbi consented, so Elijah covered his eyes and led him for several days. When they “arrived”, Elijah removed the blindfold. The rabbi blinked his eyes with astonishment, because what he saw was so familiar: a bunch of sages arguing over the meaning of a page of Talmud. He turned to Elijah and said, “This can’t be heaven—it looks just like the house of study that I attend every morning!” To which Elijah replied: “The sages are not in heaven. Heaven is in the sages.”
Heaven is in the sages—and in us, when we live by their sacred legacy. On Tuesday night, we will celebrate Shavuot, z’man matan Torahteynu, the time of the giving of the Torah. May we be ready for, and worthy of, this ever-new and remarkable gift. And may we follow its map to heaven—right here on earth.
Posted: May 13, 2013, 2:33 am
“Be a human being on the streets and a Jew in your tents.”
With these words, from his 1863 poem “Hakitsah Ami” (Awake, My People!), Yehudah Leib Gordon urged his Russian Jewish readers to enter modernity.
The poem captures the spirit of its time, the era of Jewish Emancipation, when we began to emerge from our ghettos and shtetls into the mainstream of European culture. For the first time in centuries, Jews had an opportunity to become citizens of the nations within whose borders they had long lived as strangers.
But citizenship came with a price: assimilation. As a liberal French philosopher and politician of the time put it, “We must refuse everything to the Jews as a nation and accord everything to Jews as individuals.” In other words, Jews who wanted access to European culture shouldn’t be “too Jewish” in public. Yehudah Leib Gordon, our leading Enlightenment poet, sought to accommodate this offer. He proposed that we, essentially, privatize our Judaism, living our Jewish lives behind the closed doors of our homes.
One hundred and fifty years later and an ocean away, times have changed. The notion that one can be some sort of generic, universal human being in the public sphere is archaic. We are who we are, complicated amalgamations of identities, wherever we go. This is what makes life and culture interesting, diverse, and vital.
Yet vestiges of Gordon’s vision remain with us. We still make this kind of false division between our public and private selves, for instance, when we keep kosher at home but eat bacon in restaurants, or when we take off our kipot the moment we leave the synagogue. Even here in America, where our constitution guarantees religious freedom, we may still be afraid of acting “too Jewish” in public, essentially closeting ourselves. This is neurotic and shameful.
It is true that we, as liberal Jews, have multiple identities. We don’t dwell in a shtetl; we live with our feet planted in many different worlds. But if Judaism is to thrive, it can’t be something that we compartmentalize, or turn off whenever we enter the public sphere. To be Jewish is to stand proud as a Jew, everywhere and always. To be Jewish today is to prove Yehudah Leib Gordon wrong, to be a Jew in our tents and on the streets.
Our Torah portion, B’midbar, which opens the book of Numbers, recognizes this. In a description of the Israelite encampments in the wilderness, it notes: “As they camp, so they shall march, each in position by their standards” (Numbers 2:17). Upon which the Midrash comments: “This teaches that one should be the same person at home as away from home, in private as in public.”
This is the meaning of integrity: to be whole, and true to one’s self and one’s people. Jewish integrity means Jewish pride. Let’s embrace who we are, proudly, wherever we go.
Posted: May 6, 2013, 6:47 pm
God’s reputation depends on our actions.
This week’s Torah portion, Emor, teaches: “You shall not profane my holy name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelites.” In their book, Teaching Torah, Barbara Binder Kadden and Sorel Goldberg Loeb note that the Rabbis interpret this verse as a challenge to us, the Jewish people: God asks us to uphold God’s reputation by maintaining the highest standards of ethical behavior.
This is why it is so awful when people commit atrocities in the name of religion. Alas, human history is full of such profanation. Consider our suffering under Christendom for so many centuries: Crusades, blood libel, massacres and expulsions, all orchestrated by “holy” men in the service of the church. In our own time, we have witnessed countless acts of terror performed in the name of Islam. And we Jews are not immune to this scourge. Although our religiously-driven barbarisms and brutalities are arguably fewer and smaller in scale, we, too, have profaned God’s name through faith-based injustices against our Arab and Palestinian neighbors and the assassination of Prime Minister Rabin.
Of course the vast majority of us have no sympathy for assassins and terrorists. But we, too, might ask: how does our faith move us to live? Does it compel us to be a source of holiness in the world? Or does it empower us to criticize others—also created in God’s image—and to scorn those we see as less pious than ourselves? In the end, I believe that any teachings that would have us act hatefully toward others—Jewish or not—do not really come from God. Religion should never be an excuse to exploit God’s creation or mistreat our fellow men and women. Such actions are, by definition, the opposite of holy. They are shameful, profaning God’s name.
Fifty years ago, Bob Dylan wrote and recorded a song of protest over such profanation, called, “With God on Our Side.” He sings of all the unjust wars launched in God’s name and concludes:
But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we’re forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God’s on your side
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we’re forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God’s on your side
When isGod on our side? When we show kindness, work for justice, and strive for peace. These actions are worthy of the reputation of the God we claim to serve.
Posted: April 21, 2013, 9:55 pm
Oftentimes, our commitments are what keep us on a steady life course.
The second half of this week’s double Torah portion, Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, begins with a famous verse: “You shall be holy, for I, the Eternal, Your God, am holy.” Some consider this passage to be the basis for ethical behavior: our moral life is grounded on the principle of striving to be like God (known in Christianity as imitatio dei). As Talmud puts it: “Just as God is merciful, so should you strive to be merciful.”
Yet, as is almost always the case in Torah, the Hebrew text is ambiguous and can be read in at least two different ways. Some see “Kedoshim t’hiyu—You shall be holy” as a generous promise: we, the Jewish people, will be sacred in the eyes of God. Other interpreters, by contrast, see the verse as a calling or a commandment: strive to be holy, by following God’s mitzvot.
I like to read the passage as both of these things at the same time: pledge and obligation. I believe that committing to a life of holiness is what best enables us to achieve the promise of such a path. Obligating ourselves to a sacred set of values helps us in the always-challenging effort to live up to that high calling we espouse.
In their very enlightening book, Willpower, Roy Baumeister and John Tierney note: “Throughout history, the most common way to redirect people way from selfish behavior has been through religious teachings and commandments. . . Consider a strategy to conserve willpower with great success: precommitment. The essence of this strategy is to lock yourself into a virtuous path. You recognize that you’ll face terrible temptations to stray from the path, and that your willpower will weaken. So you make it impossible—or somehow unthinkably disgraceful or sinful—to leave the path. Precommitment is what Odysseus and his men used to get past the deadly songs of the Sirens. He had himself lashed to the mast with orders not to be untied no matter how much he pleaded to be freed to go to the Sirens.”
By analogy, we, the Jewish people have precommitted to a holy life. This does not guarantee that we will not go astray, either as individuals or in community. We all err, despite our precommitments, which our tradition recognizes by giving us Yom Kippur as a day to make amends each fall. But our calling to be holy does help us toward that goal, despite our frequent failings.
We may not always live up to our highest aspirations, but without those aspirations, we have no hope to grow at all. Our journey toward holiness begins when we commit ourselves to a life-long pursuit of that sacred destination.
Posted: April 15, 2013, 5:55 pm
Sometimes the questions that we ask are more important than the answers we give.
Almost thirty-five years ago, Cynthia Ozick wrote a pioneering essay on Jewish feminism called “Notes on Finding the Right Question.” She began by pointing out, “Every answer is concealed in the question that elicits it, and what we must strive to do, then, is not look for the right answer, but attempt rather to discover the right question.”
So what is the proper question in regard to this week’s double parshah from the Torah, Tazria-Metzora? The portion focuses on tzora’at, a leprosy-like skin affliction. Rashi, and almost all of the rabbinic sages who follow, essentially ask: “Why?” They conjecture about the causes and origins of this mysterious affliction. The subtext of their inquiry is: “Why do people get tzora’at?” Almost all of them answer: God afflicts people with this disorder as punishment for speaking ill of others. Midrash Leviticus Rabbah even adds some additional failings that might bring on this disease, noting: “Seven types of behavior are punished with tzara-at: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood in secret, a mind that hatches evil, feet quick to do wrong, a witness who testifies falsely, and one who incites brothers to quarrel.”
But I believe that all of these classic commentaries are asking the wrong question.
As Rabbi Harold Kushner teaches: “Our Sages often could not resist the temptation to ask, ‘What moral or spiritual failing may have caused this illness?’ Today we recognize that it is medically inaccurate and psychologically cruel to tell someone that he or she is afflicted with illness as a punishment for behavior. . .” Even when there are partially accurate “why” answers—“He got lung cancer because he smoked three packs of cigarettes a day”—they are neither helpful nor humane.
In the face of suffering, the real questions are not concerned with “why?” They are, instead: What do we do now? How can I offer assistance? Which is the path of compassion? Where are the possibilities of healing and love?
The prophet Isaiah reminds us that blessing is not found in asking why; it emerges out of deeds of lovingkindness. We do well to heed his words:
“When you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday.”
How do we know when, in the presence of suffering, we are asking the right questions? When the answers call us to compassionate action.
Posted: April 7, 2013, 5:02 am
Anger takes a terrible toll on us. While there are some situations in which it is appropriate to feel and express anger, far more often, rage creates a host of unwelcome consequences. As my wife and mother-in-law note in their book on anger management, The Grump Meter: “Anger without alternatives, reasonable means of expression, and limits, causes monstrous problems.”
We see this in our Torah portion for this week, Shemini. In an otherwise unremarkable passage, Moses rebukes Aaron’s sons Eleazar and Ithamar, who are the first kohanim(priests), for a perceived failure to follow the proper ritual:
Moses burned with anger toward Eleazar and Ithamar. . . and said, “Why did you not eat the purification offering in the sacred area. . . as I commanded?”
But Moses is wrong. Eleazar and Ithamar are, at the time, grieving for their brothers, Nadav and Avihu, who have just died. And so the Midrash teaches: “Look at what anger can do, even to a person as wise and pious as Moses. When Moses became angry, his knowledge of the law left him, and he forgot that a priest in mourning was not permitted to eat of the sacrifice.”
To which another Moses—the medieval sage, Maimonides—adds: “Whoever angers—if he is a prophet, his wisdom will depart from him, and if he is a prophet, his prophetic spirit will depart from him. People who have raging tempers—their lives are not lives.”
When we are angry, we do not think straight. I suspect that all of us can recall times when our rage got the best of us. Looking back on those occasions, we can see how ridiculously and foolishly we acted when we were gripped by anger. To be in that state too often is to have no control over one’s life whatsoever. Thus the Rambam’s teaching that the hothead’s life is not really a life at all.
In this season of Pesach, this time of liberation, may we pray and work for a release from the grip of anger. May spring bring renewal, blessing, and peace.
For a link to more on the Grump Meter, see: http://www.thegrumpmeter.com/
Posted: March 29, 2013, 7:53 pm
Every good teacher knows that each student comes with his or her own learning style; the teacher’s job is to find ways to reach a classroom full of different learners. Some of us learn aurally, some visually. Some respond best to music; others gather information best through words or mathematical patterns. Some learn well in groups, others on their own. Some can only learn if they are sitting still in a quiet environment, others cannot learn unless they are constantly stimulated and moving.
Our tradition recognizes this reality, first and foremost, in the Pesach seder. The genius of the seder is that it presents its core lesson—the ever-new journey from narrowness and bondage towards liberation—in so many different ways. We tell the story through words and singing, games and pictures, numerical patterns (four glasses, four questions, four children, “who knows one?”) and, of course, symbolic foods. Over the course of the night, we are both raucous and reflective, serious and celebratory.
My favorite section of the seder is the parable of the four children: wise, wicked, simple, and unable to ask. We recount the miracle of the passage to freedom for each of these children in a way that is designed to reach and respond to that child’s particular attitude and abilities.
Of course each of us contains all four children. We are all, at times, wise and wicked, and simple, and inarticulate. This is the nature of human life.
So I am wishing you all a wonderful Pesach celebration. May you hear the story anew this year, in a way that challenges your mind, touches your heart, and moves your soul.
Posted: March 22, 2013, 3:55 am
After Sunday’s somber cemetery pilgrimage, Monday’s mission was in a much lighter vein—though not without its own sort of sacredness.
My son, Jonah, is a huge fan of the reality television show, Cake Boss. When I told him that I would be traveling to New Jersey, he responded without missing a beat: “That’s awesome! You’re so lucky! You can go to Carlo’s Bakery!” I had a 3:10 flight back to Boise, so Monday morning meant a trip to Hoboken to check out the now-famous bakery owned and operated by the star of Cake Boss, Chef Buddy.
This turned out to be a lot easier than the journey to Queens, a forty-minute jaunt down the highway. As I neared Hoboken, I got some beautiful views of the Manhattan skyline, just across the river, including the new World Trade Center, which is rapidly rising and looks to be a striking tribute to the victims of 9/11.
I parked in the city’s municipal lot and walked the three blocks to Washington Street, which is Hoboken’s gentrified thoroughfare, lined with organic markets, all sorts of hip specialty stores, ethnic restaurants, food carts, and, of course, coffee shops. I stopped to take a picture of a psychic’s store front, featuring phrenology, tarot, and astrology readings. A young woman passing by paused and addressed me with great urgency: “Do NOT go in there. She is a BAD psychic.” “OK,” I thought, as if there are a whole lot of good ones. . . .All the while, a strong and bitterly cold wind was blowing in from across the Hudson River, so I zipped my down coat tightly and kept my hands in my pockets for warmth. Spring has come to Idaho, but it is still winter in the northeast, and I am no longer accustomed to the dampness of the chilly air.
Carlo’s is at 95 Washington Street—but you couldn’t miss it if you tried. It’s mobbed, humming with people coming and going, with all of the tourists (myself included) taking star-struck photographs out front, as if we were at the White House or the Grand Canyon. If only Andy Warhol, who spoke of a world where everyone enjoys “fifteen minutes of fame” had lived to see the consequences of reality TV!
Just as I stepped back to snap my own picture, another couple came forward to do the same—and to my great surprise, the man was wearing a bright blue Boise State Broncos sweat shirt! Of course, being an avid Broncos fan, I introduced myself and asked where they were from. They told me that they had lived all of their lives in Maryland, but had adopted the Broncos as their favorite team because of their status as giant-killing underdogs. They are huge fans and love our trademark blue turf. It was especially nice to have this almost-miraculously unlikely encounter on this particular morning, as just last night, Boise State received a bid to the NCAA championship basketball tournament, aka “March Madness.” So we got to kvell about this together. Then I took their pictures, they took mine, we bid one another farewell, they headed for their car, and I stepped into Carlo’s and took a number.
#72. At the time, they were serving #51. The rest of us, waiting, crowded into the small space, gawking at the gorgeous cakes and cookies all around us, and Buddy’s memorabilia on the walls, while episodes of Cake Boss ran repeatedly on a flat screen TV mounted in the back.
To the great credit of all the folks at Carlo’s, the line moved very briskly, and the despite the tight confines, the crowed was in high spirits. The cashiers were models of both friendliness and efficiency. When my turn came, I ordered two gorgeous small cakes (white chocolate mousse and red velvet), six cannoli, six chocolate almond biscotti, and a bunch of chocolate rugelach—along with two Carlo’s Bakery tee shirts for Rachel and Jonah. Everything came neatly packaged in white bakery boxes with smart red trim. As he rang up my order, the cashier asked where I was from. When I replied, “Boise, Idaho,” he smiled and warmly said: “Welcome to New Jersey. God bless.”
It was a great way to conclude my sojourn in the Garden State. I got in my rental car, gassed up, and twenty minutes later, arrived at the Newark airport. Rosa and I will enjoy a late dessert from Carlo’s upon my homecoming.
And then, quite literally, sweet dreams. I can’t wait to bring Jonah his cakes!
Posted: March 19, 2013, 6:33 am
Sweets and Cemeteries—My Weekend in New Jersey (Part 1)
I spent this weekend in the Garden State, where I officiated at a wedding for a former student and congregant. The festivities were held Sunday evening at an historic inn in Bernardsville. The wedding was intimate and joyous, and the accommodations very lovely, in classic George Washington-era style, the inn’s walls festooned with brass gas lights and dark oil paintings of horses, fox hunts, and Revolutionary War generals. In a happy juxtaposition to all of these high WASP colonial icons, there was also a terrific bagel place right across the street, where I enjoyed real New York bagels, with whitefish salad to die for, both Sunday and Monday mornings.
But during the daytime hours, I did not hang out in Bernardsville. Instead, I took two interesting road trips, each memorable in its fashion. So here, for part 1 of this post, Sunday’s trip.
Sunday morning, I set out to visit the grave of my great-great grandfather, Rabbi Yehudah Tzvi Finkelstein. Thanks to my father’s years of genealogical research, I’ve learned a bit about R. Yehudah Tzvi’s life. He was born in 1824, in Keidan, a largely Jewish shtetl north of Kovno in what is now central Lithuania. Like his father, Shimon HaLevi Finkelstein, and eight generations before him, Yehudah Tzvi became a rabbi who studied and taught in Slabodka, the materially-poor but spiritually-rich Jewish ghetto of Kovno. He was, according to family lore, a student of Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of the modern Mussar movement; later he would go on to teach this tradition to students of his own.
Together with his wife, Faige Rivka, R. Yehudah Tzvi had five children: daughters Chana Ettel, Reise (Rose), and Rachel Esther, and sons, Shimon and Mendel.
Channa would later move to Palestine with her first husband. Shimon Finkelstein followed in his father’s footsteps, learning Mussar in Slabodka and receiving rabbinic ordination. He emigrated to America and served Orthodox congregations in New York and Baltimore; his son, Louis Finkelstein was a pre-eminent American rabbi and historian, who was, for many years, the chancellor of the Conservative movement’s Jewish Theological Seminary. My great grandfather, Mendel Finkelstein, also became a rabbi and came to America, with the blessing of his renowned Lithuanian teacher, Rabbi Isaac Elhanan Spektor. He settled in Dayton, Ohio with his wife, my great grandmother, Tobba (Tillie) Kagen, who grew up in Srednick, Lithuania, along the banks of the Nemunas River. Their son—my grandfather—Rabbi Joseph Fink, broke with Orthodoxy, studied at the Reform movement’s Hebrew Union College in nearby Cincinnati, and spent most of his illustrious career at Temple Beth Zion in Buffalo, New York, where he was a major public figure, teacher, and activist well beyond the Jewish community.
But to return to Yehudah Tzvi. . . this “Old Country” Litvak came to the United States as a widower in 1906, with his daughter Reise, her second husband and their six children. He was 82 years old at the time. He lived twelve more years in New York and died on the exact same secular date as my own father—March 28—in 1918.
Dad’s records told me that he was buried in the Old Montefiore Cemetery in Queens, in a section belonging to the United Hebrew Congregation of New York: Gate 148 N, Block 88, Row 20 R, Grave 20. So that is where I headed from Bernardsville.
Well, the trip is not the arduous journey it would have been back in 1918, but it is still quite ashlepp. After almost ninety minutes, twenty-plus dollars in toll, and way too many miles of decrepit pot-holed roads (where is all that toll going?) through the grim and graffiti-blighted bowels of the Bronx, I arrived at the cemetery. I checked in at the office, where the thoughtful and accommodating receptionist very graciously outfitted me (contrary to the stereotype, I almost always find New Yorkers to be unusually helpful) with a map and directions to the section.
I parked the car, passed through gate 148N, and walked among crowded rows of tall, weathered, mostly-granite headstones to where my great-great grandfather’s gravesite should have been and found. . . nothing. I thought maybe I had counted wrong, but a recount of rows shed no new light. So I made my way, slowly and carefully, through the entire section, probably containing over four hundred graves, examining each stone and searching for Yehudah Tzvi Finkelstein—to no avail. Eventually, I drove back to the office and asked if they would come out and help me, which they agreed to do. Well, as it turns out, the grave is exactly where it is supposed to be, but the headstone has toppled over and is lying face down on the grass, partly covered with leaves, dirt, and moss, so I could not get even a glimpse of the inscription. I was deeply disappointed, but there was nothing to be done, as the fallen headstone weighs hundreds of pounds, which ruled out the option of trying to raise or even move it. To add insult to injury, at the very moment that I tried to take a picture of the sad cemetery scene, the batteries in my camera went dead.
I did leave a lovely round pebble, which I had taken from the banks of the Boise River before leaving home, atop the prostrate stone, as the traditional token of my respects, as if to say, “Despite all this, I was here.” As I did so, I imagined how utterly unfathomable it would have been to Rav Yehudah Tzvi Finkelstein to imagine his great-great grandson a Reform rabbi in Boise, Idaho. Such is the mystery and miracle of Jewish history.
But equally unfathomable to my family patriarch would have been the presence of hordes of Hasidim buzzing around the cemetery where he is buried. I wondered what brought them there, until one of them approached me and asked if I had put on tefillin that morning. As it turns out, the last Chabad Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, is buried just a stone’s throw from R. Yehudah Tzvi. Needless to say, his headstone is very well-tended, as it is a pilgrimage site for Lubavitchers from around the world. A Talmudic Litvak and misnagid, my great-great grandfather was a undoubtedly a zealous opponent of Hasidism, which spread rapidly through most of Eastern Europe but failed to take hold in proudly rationalist Lithuania. How ironic that he now lies in the shadow of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who most Chabadniks actually believe to have been the messiah as they pray for his imminent resurrection and return.
I bid my great-great grandfather farewell and made the long, expensive trip back to Bernardsville, arriving just in time to shower and change for the wedding. All in all, a bit of a frustrating day, but also educational.
And, just maybe, for the best.
For in the end, of course, no headstone lasts forever. With the passage of sufficient time, even words etched deeply into the hardest rock are worn away by wind and rain. Even the Ohel, the Chabadniks’ venerating complex built over the Rebbe’s grave, will one day yield to history and weather.
Of course R. Yehudah Tzvi’s entire world in Lithuania is also gone—not as a result of time’s slow ravaging but, rather, the Nazis’ swift and brutal annihilation.
I thought of all of these passings, slow and swift, as I reflected on my great-great grandfather’s toppled headstone. Perhaps my memories are somehow better—more fitting—than the picture I might have taken had my camera batteries lasted just an instant longer. Perhaps the best that I can do is to just tell his story, to try to keep his memory alive for another generation or two. And live up to that memory in my own personal and professional life as a rabbi and a Jew.
Zichrono l’vrachah—May his memory be for a blessing.
And in the sprit of his memory and fallen headstone, I will conclude with a favorite poem, by Jane Hirschfield:
The November Angels
Late dazzle
of yellow
flooding the simplified woods,
spare chipping away
of the afternoon-stone
by a small brown finch—
there is little
for them to do,
and so their gossip is
idle, modest:
low-growing,
tiny-white-flowered.
Below,
the Earth-pelt
dapples and flows
with slow bees
that spin
the thick, deep jute
of the gold time’s going,
the pollen’s
traceless retreat;
kingfishers
enter their kingdom,
their blue crowns on fire,
and feast on
the still-wealthy world.
A single, cold blossom
tumbles, fledged
from the sky’s white branch.
And the angels
look on,
observing what falls:
all of it falls.
Their hands hold
no blessings,
no world
for those who walk
in the tall black pines,
who do not
feel themselves falling—
the ones who believe
the loved companion
will hold them forever,
the ones who cross through
alone and ask for no sign.
The afternoon
lengthens, steepens,
flares out—
no matter for them.
It is assenting
that makes them angels,
neither increased
nor decreased
by the clamorous heart:
their only work
to shine back,
however the passing brightness
hurts their eyes.
Posted: March 19, 2013, 5:58 am
Much has been written about the humility of the newly-appointed Pope Francis. Given the numerous challenges facing the Vatican, a pope who prefers to take the bus to work, cook his own meals, and personally pay his hotel bills is, from my outsider’s perspective, a refreshing change. This sort of modesty also calls to mind a message at the center of our weekly Torah portion, Tzav.
Continuing a theme from last week’s portion, Tzav is mostly dedicated to the catalogue of sacrifices offered by Aaron and his sons, the first of the priestly line of kohanim. Like the pope and other contemporary Catholic clerics, the kohanim wore sacred vestments that symbolized the prestige of their office. They—and they alone—were appointed to offer the Israelites’ sacrifices and thereby mediate between the people and God.
And yet. . . for all of their priestly power, the kohanim were required to do their share of menial labor. As Leviticus 6:3 teaches: “The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar, and place them beside the altar.” In other words, as the Hasidic Rabbi Simchah Bunim noted: “The first act of the priest, every morning, is to put on ordinary clothes and remove the ashes of the previous night’s sacrifice. This ensures that he never forgets his link to the ordinary people who spend their days in mundane pursuits.”
Humility is an essential Jewish virtue. Contrary to some common misunderstandings, humility does not mean humiliation or self-degradation. Instead, it demands that we take up our proper amount of space in the world—neither too much, nor too little. We should never shy away from using our God-given gifts to do good. But we must guard against arrogance, which belittles both our fellow men and women and the Holy One. As Rabbi Lawrence Kushner teaches, where the ego is too bloated, there is no room for either God or community.
This is the season to examine our egos. In addition to the wisdom of portion Tzav, we also cleanse our houses of hametz in preparation for Pesach. At a literal level, hametz is leavened foods containing wheat, barley, spelt, rye, and oats. But the Rabbis also spoke of hametz metaphorically, as puffed up pride and conceit. As we clean our kitchens, we are also supposed to examine and improve ourselves.
So. . . enjoy your seder. May it be a wonderful celebration of liberation. But don’t forget that there is also holiness in doing the dishes afterwards, and reflecting on that experience.
Posted: March 18, 2013, 3:51 am
Years ago, when I was struggling with some intense personal matters, an out-of-town therapist offered me some advice that still strikes me as terribly misguided. I told him that I had a difficult decision to make and all of my options seemed to involve deep compromises, in which I would have to give up something of significant importance to me. He responded: “Do not make serious sacrifices. They only leave you feeling resentful.”
This week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, which opens the book of Leviticus, speaks far more positively about sacrifice. It focuses on the offerings that our ancestors brought to the priests: sheep and goats and bulls and birds, and grain and libation sacrifices. On a literal level, these things are very foreign to most of us. The gory details of Leviticus—innards burned and blood dashed on the altar—are worlds removed from our reality. Yet Leviticus stands at the center of the Torah; it was, traditionally, the first thing that children learned in their Jewish education.
Why? Consider the Hebrew word for sacrifices: korbanot. It comes from the verb “l’karev” which means “to bring near.” The sacrifices were prescribed for the Israelites as a means of drawing close to God and to our loved ones. We no longer offer up animals. But we, too, enter into and sustain relationships by learning to make sacrifices for one another. The ability and willingness to make such sacrifices shows that we are prepared to think beyond our own needs—to truly love another.
Rabbi Amy Scheinerman ponders whether human love requires sacrifice. She answers: “I think it does. To reach another’s soul, we have to open ours. We bring our olah (burnt offering) to the altar. Our olah takes the form of entrusting this person with something that makes us feel vulnerable, something deeply personal and meaningful, and knowing that the outcome of that trust is that we are going to be changed. From the other side, when someone reaches out to us to create such an opening and we want to accept their olah, we must suspend judgment, which is to say, sacrifice the stereotypes and pre-conceived notions we harbor to make ourselves feel safe, and be open. From this side, as well, we will be changed.”
My therapist-advisor saw sacrifice as nothing more than a loss that would generate ongoing resentment. If he is right, love is impossible and doomed. Thankfully, I do not believe that he is right. I much prefer the advice of Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, who teaches that when it comes to love, and anything that really matters deeply: “If I hoard it, I lose it. If I give it away, it comes back to me.”
Sacrifice enables nearness—korbanot. And nearness is what makes relationship possible.
Posted: March 11, 2013, 5:06 am
Socrates famously taught, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” To which rabbi and family systems therapist Edwin Friedman adds: “The over-examined life is not so great either.” Surely it is valuable—even critical—to consider our choices and learn from our mistakes. But as Rabbi Friedman recognizes, too much time spent in reflection can be counter-productive, particularly for those of us for whom excessive pondering tends to lead to inaction and despair. Sometimes the best thing to do is stop deliberating and just act.
Consider the events in this week’s double Torah portion, Vayakhel-Pekude, which concludes the book of Exodus. It comes in the wake of our people’s most traumatic and monumental failure, the making of the Golden Calf. The aftermath of that tragedy finds the Israelites in a deep funk. God and Moses need to get the people back on track.
So what do they do? Send them off to contemplate their errors and reflect on their motivations? No. As the parshahopens, God and Moses just tell the Israelites to get down to the work of building the mishkan, the portable sanctuary whose plans have been laid out over the past few weeks. They essentially treat the golden calf episode as an interruption. The “cure” is to resume their sacred labors:
“Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them: ‘These are the things that the Eternal has commanded you to do. . . Take from among you gifts to the Eternal and let all among you who are skilled come and make all that the Eternal has commanded. . .’”
And the people respond. The men collect gold and jewels and tanned skins, while the women spin fine fabrics. Everyone contributes, until there is more than enough material to complete the project. Given a second chance, the Israelites seize the opportunity to achieve their calling.
As Rabbi Spike Anderson notes in the book, Text Messages: “[After the sin of the Golden Calf] the Israelites were lost. And so, God gave our ancestors a task. Its purpose was to redeem their sense of self-worth and confidence. It would help them understand who they really were and what God wanted from each and every one of them. By working together, each one bringing the best of who he or she was to the effort, they were able to build the mishkan, and G came to dwell among them.”
When asked about the secret of civilization, Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis, did not say self-awareness or reflectiveness (though surely both are valuable). He responded, “Love and work.” Healing happens through meaningful labor. When the self-examination comes to an end, no doubt still unfinished, we have to just do something. Loving action has great power.
Posted: March 4, 2013, 5:06 pm
What causes burnout? Recent studies suggest that burnout is not necessarily related to the number of hours that people work. We can toil for lengthy periods of time without much rest if we feel that our efforts are making a significant difference in the world. But even a little labor can quickly bring on burnout if it seems to produce no significant results.
This truth is powerfully illustrated in our weekly Torah portion, Ki Tisa, which describes the events around the building of the golden calf. Moses spends forty days on Mt. Sinai receiving the Torah from God, then heads down the mountain with great strength and energy, ready to bring the Word to his beloved Israelite people. But when he sees what they have done in his absence, constructing and then worshiping an idol of gold, he becomes both enraged and despondent. As the text tells the story: “As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the [people] dancing, he grew furious. He hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain.”
This account raises one difficulty: even though he is understandably angry, how can Moses purposefully destroy the tablets that are God’s own handiwork? The midrash in Pirkei de Rabbi Eliezer offers an ingenious answer to this problem. It says that at the very moment when Moses beheld the Israelites worshipping the golden calf, the letters flew off the stones and they became too heavy for him to bear. In other words, Moses did not throw the tablets—he dropped them out of exhaustion. This gets him off the hook for demolishing God’s words—for God’s words are no longer on the tablets when they shatter. It also suggests that Moses was a victim of burnout. As Rabbi Harold Kushner interprets the scene: “When Moses felt he was bringing God’s word to a people eager to receive it, he was capable of doing something difficult and demanding. When he had reason to suspect that his efforts were in vain, the same task became too hard for him.”
As our portion ends, Moses and God and the people of Israel are all reconciled. The sacred labor of building the mishkan, the portable sanctuary, continues and takes up the rest of the book of Exodus. God and Moses learn that their labors are not in vain—but that progress is incremental, and often filled with setbacks. The Israelites are given a second chance—and this time, fare better. Each side learns to see its work as meaningful, and that sense of purpose will sustain them for forty years in the desert.
As we now move from Purim to Pesach, to the season of our liberation, may we find meaning in our labors and with that meaning, renewed strength to build a better future.
Posted: February 25, 2013, 1:22 am
This week’s portion, the double section Namah-Iacedrom, is the only parashahin the last four books of the Torah that does not contain the name of Moshe Rabbeynu, our teacher, Moses. Our sages offer two divergent explanations for his absence. The great medieval authority, Rashdiaper notes that this reading almost always falls around the 14thof Adar. Since Jewish tradition teaches that Moses was born (and died) on Adar 7, that would have been the day of his circumcision. Rashdiaper cites a well-known midrash in which, upon losing his foreskin to his father Amram’s flint knife, a miraculously precocious Moses cries out in Aramaic: “Olyha osesma atwha etha ellha aveha ouya oneda ota ema—Holy Moses, what the_____ have you done to me?” To which God responded: “My son, you have taken your name in vain. So from this time forth, that name shall not be heard on this day.”
But the contemporary Hasidic master, Reb Yosef of Berent draws a different lesson. He teaches: “A mayse, a story of when Rav Rehtse of Kiryat Shlumpkin came to Babylon from the land of Israel after drinking 27 kabim of potent Persian wine. The Babylonian sages saw him staggering from the synagogue and inquired: ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ To which Rav Rehtse replied, ‘I’m Patrick Murphy O’Sullivan, you shmendricks. What’s it to you?’ From this, the Sages concluded: No matter how much of a putz he is, a man may always change his name if it behooves him to do so.”
What do we learn from this story? The Berenter Rebbe concludes: “In connection with this teaching, I have heard that given his recent confirmation troubles, on account of the ‘Jewish lobby’, Chuck Hagel is now considering changing his name to Chuck Bagel. Apparently, he is tired of his opposition’s ‘schmeer tactics.’”
Happy Purim,
Rabbi Dan
Posted: February 18, 2013, 11:34 pm
Hard-line atheists and religious fundamentalists are not really so far apart as either side would like to believe.
I thought about this as I listened to astrophysicist Adam Frank on a recent episode of the public radio show, “To The Best of Our Knowledge”. Frank is an unapologetic atheist. He is also the author of Constant Fire: Beyond the Science and Religion Debate. He does not believe in God—but unlike more strident and simplistic non-believers, he refuses to reduce religion to an atavistic and irrelevant body of fanatical doctrines and practices. Adam Frank told the interviewer: “When you say science and religion to people, the first thing they think of is Richard Dawkins arguing with a southern evangelist about evolution, and that (argument) has gone on for so long and it just sucks all the air out of the room. You know there is absolutely nothing interesting that is going to happen in that debate.”
Why, exactly, is that old debate so stale and boring? Because each side comes across as a kind of parody of itself. On the one hand, there is an arrogant and fanatically-materialistic scientist, and on the other, an arrogant and fanatically-pious preacher. The two think that they represent polar opposites—but in fact, on the critical issue of how to read Scripture, they completely agree. Both are simplistic literalists. The fundamentalist takes the Bible as God’s word, dictated letter by letter, and concludes (to quote a bumper sticker): “God said it. I believe it. That settles it.” The atheist reads it exactly the same way—and on this reading, dismisses it as utter nonsense.
But progressive people of faith—and open-minded scientists—will acknowledge that there is another way, which is to interpret our religious texts non-literally. We see our traditions as full of irony, paradox, humor, and, above all, metaphor. We read God-language as poetry rather than as (bad) science. The truth of our sacred texts is not literal or historical; it is spiritual and psychological. I, for one, do not know if Moses ever actually lived. Nor do I care. His physical existence is irrelevant to my faith. Moses is my teacher because, as the foremost character in my tradition’s great story, he informs me how to live and lead. Or, as Rabbi Lawrence Kushner puts it: “Torah is not true because it happened. Torah is true because it happens—to us.”
The philosopher Paul Ricoeur suggests that there are three stages in a progressive approach to faith and holy texts. First we believe on a literal level. Then, as we learn more about science and history, our sacred “myths” are broken. But later still, as we reach maturity, we can once again embrace our traditions’ stories—precisely as myths, which define and bring beauty to our world. As Ricoeur puts it, “Beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again.”
Neither the fire and brimstone fundamentalists nor the strident atheists believe in my God, who is the Source of both science and the spirit. She is a lot more complicated and ambiguous than many would like. She does not speak in one voice or language. What She asks of me is not always clear. My calling, as a person of progressive faith, is to learn and live this.
Posted: February 18, 2013, 11:27 pm
Make for me a sacred place, so that I may dwell within you.
(Exodus 25:8)
It has long been said that it is better to give than to receive. Apparently, the latest social science confirms this ancient truth. Psychologist Liz Dunn recently published some revealing research in the journal Science. In her study, she gave envelopes containing money to students at the University of British Columbia and told them that by day’s end, they had to either spend the money on something they wanted or purchase a gift for someone else. When Dunn interviewed the students later, the results were clear: those who gifted others were significantly happier than those who kept the money for themselves.
In this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, God asks the Israelites to bring gifts, which will be used in the construction of the mishkan, the portable sanctuary that they will carry through the desert for the next forty years. God tells Moses: “Accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.” And the people respond with extraordinary generosity, bringing forth beautiful fabrics, tanned skins, fine wood, oil for lighting, precious stones and, above all, gold, which will be used to cast the sacred vessels.
Why does God request such offerings? Lest one think that the Holy One needs a luxurious dwelling place, the Rabbis point to the wording of Exodus 25:8: “Let them make for me a sacred place, so that I may dwell among them.” God does not ask for a sanctuary in order to dwell in it; instead, God suggests that through the building process—which invokes the people’s generosity—God will dwell among them.
In other words, God asks for our gifts because God knows that the very act of giving opens the heart of the giver and thus creates the possibility of intimacy. When we share what we have with others, we raise ourselves (the name of the portion, Terumah—a donation—comes from a Hebrew root meaning “to lift up”) in holiness. Through giving, we draw upon our own higher angels and invite the Divine into our lives.
In other words, it really is better—healthier and holier—to give than to receive.
In that spirit, I will end with Rabbi Yael Levy’s poetic interpretation of the portion:
Bring me gifts of what you love,
Gifts of beauty, radiance, and joy.
Bring me gifts of what you value - what you hold most precious and dear.
And make for me a sacred place that I might dwell within you.
Know that it is not your gold and silver I desire,
Nor your dolphin skins, copper, or jewels.
What I am asking for is your generosity,
Your willingness to give.
For I am seeking intimacy:
Make for me a sacred place by opening your heart
And lifting up the work of your hands.
Create a space for my presence
By honoring your beauty and offering your gifts.
And while I am present in the boundless, the spectacular, the transcendent, the grand,
My desire is to live among you
In the intricacies of your everyday.
So please,
Light your lamps,
Set your tables,
And invite me in.
Posted: February 10, 2013, 6:22 am
“Be here now. Be somewhere else later. Is that so difficult?”
(David Bader, Zen Judaisim)
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
(Henry David Thoreau, Walden)
I love the quote from David Bader’s very funny satirical little book, Zen Judaism. With its Yiddish-inflected sensibility, it is both humorous and wise. Be present where you are. It shouldn’t really be so hard.
And yet, apparently, it is. Henry David Thoreau famously left town and lived in a stripped down cabin on Walden Pond for two years in an effort to live mindfully. He realized that this is very difficult, indeed. All too often we are here, physically, without being fully present, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
Our weekly Torah portion, Mishpatim, acknowledges this challenge of mindful living.
In Exodus 24:12, God says to Moses: “Come up to Me on the mountain and be there, and I will give you the stone tablets with the teachings and commandments.” Why does God add those words, “be there” (v’h’yeh sham)? If Moses is on Mount Sinai, where else would he be?
Menahem Mendel of Kotzk answers: “From this apparent redundancy we learn that even with one who strains himself to ascend to a high mountain top, and is indeed able to reach the summit—it is nevertheless possible that he is still not there. Even though he may be standing on the very peak itself, his head may be elsewhere.”
If, as the Kotzker Rebe observes, it is this hard for Moses to be fully present on Mount Sinai, then, as the Rabbis would say, kal va’chomer—all the more so—for us, in our daily lives. Indeed, since the time of Moshe Rabbeynu and, for that matter, Henry David Thoreau, distractions have multiplied exponentially. Today, if you want to get off the constantly-demanding grid of email, Twitter and cell phones, you have to go a lot farther than Walden Pond.
Or not.
You can always just turn everything off. A great deal of Jewish life is designed to help us focus on what really matters. Saying blessings focuses our attention on our surroundings. Prayer and meditation exercise our mental mindfulness muscles. And Shabbat is all about turning off the external distractions and being fully present in the moment.
You can always just turn everything off. A great deal of Jewish life is designed to help us focus on what really matters. Saying blessings focuses our attention on our surroundings. Prayer and meditation exercise our mental mindfulness muscles. And Shabbat is all about turning off the external distractions and being fully present in the moment.
Start small. Focus. Pay full attention, to family and friends, here and now, even if just for a little while at first.
Be here now. Be somewhere else later. Is that so difficult?
Posted: February 4, 2013, 5:48 pm
After a week of intense fog and thick inversion, the scene at Mt. Sinai from this week's portion, Yitro, may seem unexpectedly familiar:
As morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud settled upon the mountain. . . while Moses approached the thick cloud where God was.
Of course the Torah is speaking metaphorically here. God does not actually live behind a cloud on a mountain somewhere on the Sinai Peninsula. But God is, more often than not, hidden from us. Veiled. Shrouded. A Mystery.
For those who seek absolute clarity, who like things black and white, this can be deeply frustrating. But as many spiritual seekers have noted, it is precisely God's mysterious nature that allows for subtlety, complexity and paradox in human life. If God was too obvious, in plain sight, then faith would be too simple.
So, too, with our rites and rituals that strive to bring us close to the Holy One of Mystery.
Sometimes, we lament that there are parts of our service that we do not understand. We may be frustrated with the Hebrew, unfamiliar with the choreography of Jewish prayer, or just perplexed by certain traditions and practices. Needless to say, much of this can be ameliorated with some simple explanation, translation, and a commitment to regular attendance and learning.
But not all of it.
Some of the experience will always be a little murky and unclear. Beyond rationality. In other words, a mystery. Like the Mystery it attempts to approach. We are not alone here. In his blog post, "A Beginner's Guide to Becoming Episcopalian"(http://tertiumsquid.com/) Gordon Atkinson notes:
"Here's the deal: do you really want to go to a church for the first time and understand everything that's going on? Do you really want to walk into the most sacred hour of the week for an ancient spiritual tradition and find no surprises and nothing to learn or strive for? Do you really want a spiritual community to be so perfectly enmeshed with your cultural expectations that you can drop right into the mix with no effort at all. . .
I do hope you'll give this a little more effort than that. Because something wonderful can happen when you stop trying to figure out what you should be doing in a worship service. When you admit to yourself that you don't know what's going on, you'll just sit and listen. Because that's really all you can do. And that's actually a very nice spiritual move for you to make."
God is behind the cloud--as She should be.
Sometimes the hiding is what makes for the joy of the finding.
And sometimes, as Iris Dement sings below, it is enough to just "let the mystery be."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlaoR5m4L80
Posted: January 28, 2013, 5:17 am
Spiritual progress is rarely linear. In life, unlike in the movies, there are no simple “happily-ever-after” endings or instant and enduring transformations. Instead, we take a few hard-won steps forward, fail and fall back, and then, hopefully, regain the lost ground and continue to forge our way, intermittently, ahead.
Nowhere is this painstaking journey more clearly portrayed than in this week’s Torah portion, Beshallach. We experience the ecstasy of the Exodus, the long-awaited liberation from Egyptian bondage, and the miraculous passage through the Sea of Reeds. Then we grumble about the food and water. Just one chapter after the exultant Song at the Sea, we are whining to God and Moses, “If only we had died by the hand of the Eternal in the land of Egypt, when we ate our fill of bread.”
The Israelites shuttle wildly between fear and faith, hope and despair, cowardice and courage.
Sometimes we do, too.
Life is like that.
Our challenge is to remember that even the failures are part of the journey that will eventually take us toward the Promised Land. There are no shortcuts. As Torah teaches, “Now when Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the Philistines, although it was nearer.” Instead, we walk a way that frequently winds back upon itself. The path that God chooses for us leads us into daunting obstacles that test and sometimes even turn back our progress. It is hard, confounding, and frustrating.
It is also sacred.
Rabbi Yael Levy reminds us of this in her poetic commentary, with which I will leave you:
How do we leave the narrow places?
The hardened hearts?
The constricted minds?
How do we go forth from habits
From behaviors, from beliefs
That are so old, so ingrained,
We think this is who we are?
The Israelites were led the long way around—
By way of the wilderness,
By way of the sea,
Because it is so difficult to leave what has been,
Even when what has been is painful,
Even when what has been is no longer of service,
Is no longer true.
Our ancestors stood at the shores of the sea.
Frightened and desperate,
They cried out.
They wanted to run, to hide, to turn back,
But they stepped forward
And the waters opened
And together they walked across the sea on dry ground.
. . . And then, moments later,
Fear crept back.
Doubt, despair, desperation took hold,
And the Israelites raised their voices and cried.
Our ancestors sang with joy and wonder
And they stumbled in doubt, bitterness and fear.
Their journey brings us to the edge of the sea
Again and again and again.
Posted: January 22, 2013, 6:46 am
I love Israel, madly, beyond all reason.
That’s the way it is with love.
Love—the kind of love I feel for this land and its people—is not rational. It’s visceral.
To love is to be in relationship, to feel a deep connection with the beloved. To hurt when the beloved hurts. To rejoice when the beloved rejoices.
And so it is for me with eretz Yisrael.
When Israel is in pain, I ache. When Israel is in danger, I fear. When Israel makes mistakes and shows poor judgment, I cringe. And when Israel demonstrates extraordinary virtue and restraint, acting as a moral exemplar despite the lousy neighborhood in which she dwells (as she often does, though the world is loathe to acknowledge this), I kvell.
I feel deeply the words of the medieval poet, Yehudah HaLevi, who was also in love with Israel: “My heart is in the east and I am in the uttermost west.”
Because I love Israel, I spend much of my life defending her against her fierce critics, some of whom are, otherwise, my friends and allies on the political left. I advocate for her, with my money and my life. I send my children to learn and live in Jerusalem. And I have made Israel my own home, when I was a student myself, and when I have been on sabbatical.
This is what one does for a loved one.
Every morning, I search the newspapers and websites for stories from Israel. I want to know what is going on in this beloved place, where the Jewish smells and sounds and faces speak straight to my heart.
I love the way, on Friday afternoons, the cashiers and passing strangers on the street wish me “Shabbat shalom” and then, on Saturday night, “Shavua tov.”
I love the falafel—vegetarian fast food, everywhere!—and I love the beautiful young men and women in uniform, risking their lives for me and for the Jewish people everywhere, to protect and defend our Jewish state. Our beloved home.
This part of my relationship is simple. It’s love.
But here’s where it gets complicated: one can love someone or something dearly without really liking it very much.
By way of example: most of us have family members who we love but don’t particularly like. That crazy cousin or uncle or niece or grandparent or brother or sister. . . whoever. . . . You love them and would do almost anything for them. You just don’t want to spend too much time with them.
That’s how it is with Israel and me. After seven visits, some for many weeks or months, I have come to realize that as much as I love Israel, I don’t really likeit very much.
There are, of course, some things Israeli that I like very much, indeed: the rural Galilee and Golan, falafel bars, Shabbat and holy days, Elite chocolate, paddle ball on the beach, the radio programming.
But mostly, I don’t likebeing in Israel, no matter how much I loveit. I feel a thrill when the plane lands in Tel Aviv and everyone on board—including me—applauds. But I also feel a deep sense of relief when I get on my flight back to my home in Boise, Idaho, which I both love and like.
I don’t blame Israel for my lack of “like.” I am not passing judgment on this beloved place. I know that many people like it very much. Indeed, I see my inability to like Israel as a personal shortcoming.
It’s just that Israel is, culturally, a terrible fit for me. It’s too small, too crowded, too constricted. I need more wildness, more privacy, more peace and quiet, and a lot more personal space than Israel and Israelis provide. I don’t have the stomach for confrontation and competition. I don’t like haggling and yelling and pushing and shoving—and if you don’t like these things in Israel, you don’t get very far. I like courtesy and stillness and order and respect for process. I like kindness to strangers. I like being able to yield in traffic to someone else without being taken for a sucker. I like being able to sit at a green light for a few seconds and having the person behind me wave politely instead of honking her horn.
I like America, and Boise, Idaho, in particular.
For most of my life, it has bothered me that, as much as I love Israel, I don’t really like it. But after this trip, I am starting to make my peace with this relationship. Israel is my family. It’s my first love. And if, as can be the case with family, you can love without really liking all that much—well, so be it.
Family will always be family, and blood is thicker than water. So it is with me and my beloved Israel. The fact that I do not like her very much does not in any way diminish my deep and abiding love for her.
Posted: January 9, 2013, 1:27 pm
This morning, we got in the car and drove to the airport, then went through security. Then we got on the plane. Our first flight that we are taking is twelve hours!
When we left Israel, it was very, very windy. Trees were blowing over.
Last night, before I went to bed, I said goodbye to everyone in my family. I was very sad to say goodbye to them, and it is hard to say goodbye. Tanya and Rosa came with us to the airport and they are going to Tel Aviv, so I said one last goodbye to them here at the airport.
On the plane, I’ve been watching Ice Age and The Avengers. I’ve been really enjoying it.
After me and Dada play chess on the plane, I will play a game on the TV.
I’m looking forward to seeing Mom and Rachel very much.
Posted: January 8, 2013, 2:02 am
First thing in the morning, we went to the Dead Sea to some hot springs there, filled with some water from the Dead Sea. I floated SO much! The water was very, very salty. I did swallow some and it got in my nose. That was very painful.
Then, after we got out of the hot springs, we dried off. Then me and my dad and Rosa went down to the Dead Sea. It was cold outside. When we got to the Dead Sea, we put some mud on each other.
Here is a picture of me and Rosa covered with Dead Sea mud. The mud felt rough when it was dry, and it felt smooth when it just got on my body. It was very fun!
Then me and my dad went into the Dead Sea and floated in it. I loved it so much! I really didn't want to stop!
I'm hoping that soon, I'll have another really fun time like that again.
Then we drove to Masada. It was very tall, and me and Dada and Tanya and Rosa all walked all the way up it. That was very hard! Masada was 350 meters high and there were over 700 steps. The Dead Sea is only 22 meters deeper! My legs were so sore, I would flop on the ground when I got to the top. The ruins up there were amazing! There were many things to climb, but I couldn't climb on them.
This is our last night in Israel. We will leave early tomorrow morning. So I said goodbye to everyone in my family: grandma, Aunt Betty, Uncle Jon, Aunt Julie and Josh and Dana. I will say goodbye to Tanya and Rosa in the morning.
The whole trip--I liked being with my family and having many people that I loved around me.
Then, after we got out of the hot springs, we dried off. Then me and my dad and Rosa went down to the Dead Sea. It was cold outside. When we got to the Dead Sea, we put some mud on each other.
Here is a picture of me and Rosa covered with Dead Sea mud. The mud felt rough when it was dry, and it felt smooth when it just got on my body. It was very fun!
Then me and my dad went into the Dead Sea and floated in it. I loved it so much! I really didn't want to stop!
I'm hoping that soon, I'll have another really fun time like that again.
Then we drove to Masada. It was very tall, and me and Dada and Tanya and Rosa all walked all the way up it. That was very hard! Masada was 350 meters high and there were over 700 steps. The Dead Sea is only 22 meters deeper! My legs were so sore, I would flop on the ground when I got to the top. The ruins up there were amazing! There were many things to climb, but I couldn't climb on them.
This is our last night in Israel. We will leave early tomorrow morning. So I said goodbye to everyone in my family: grandma, Aunt Betty, Uncle Jon, Aunt Julie and Josh and Dana. I will say goodbye to Tanya and Rosa in the morning.
The whole trip--I liked being with my family and having many people that I loved around me.
Posted: January 8, 2013, 2:00 am
Back in Jerusalem after a long and very enjoyable day at the Dead Sea and Masada.
I'm packing for an early morning trip to the airport, so again, am going to just post a few pictures. Jonah and I will both write more tomorrow en route.
I'm packing for an early morning trip to the airport, so again, am going to just post a few pictures. Jonah and I will both write more tomorrow en route.
Posted: January 8, 2013, 1:59 am
