I have been feeling a bit addicted to technology lately, so I resolved to do something that I have not done in about two decades. I wrote a sermon completely by hand, without using anything whatsoever with a screen for ideas or research. I scanned it and am sharing the results below (I get the irony). Sorry if you can’t read my handwriting.
Monthly Archives: October 2016
Yes on Proposition 62 – Abolish the death penalty in California
In arguing against the death penalty, I must represent our Jewish teachings honestly.
The Torah does not categorically oppose capital punishment. After the flood, God instructs the children of Noah, “He who sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed.” Human beings must build societies governed by fairly-enforced laws. This includes legal execution for the most heinous crimes.
At the same time, Jewish tradition has been so concerned with fairness and equity in administering the death penalty, that it developed extremely stringent standards.
For a guilty verdict, two valid witnesses must first warn a person that he is liable to be executed if he carries out the act. He must next verbally acknowledge his understanding and then carry out the crime regardless! With these requirements, it is nearly impossible to get a capital conviction.
The Torah recognizes that humans are by nature imperfect, and that we are influenced by deeply-held biases. The Book of Leviticus warns us:
לֹא־תַעֲשׂוּ עָוֶל בַּמִּשְׁפָּט
לֹא־תִשָּׂא פְנֵי־דָל וְלֹא תֶהְדַּר פְּנֵי גָדוֹל
בְּצֶדֶק תִּשְׁפֹּט עֲמִיתֶךָ:
You shall not render an unfair decision:
do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich;
judge your kinsman fairly. (Leviticus 19:15)
To exercise the death penalty, we Californians have an obligation to ensure that it is done with justice and equity: without discriminating based on the location of the crime, the skin color of the victim, or the income of the accused. Unless we can rise to this responsibility, it is a punishment method that we should forego.
Two of our greatest Sages, Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Tarfon, worried so much that they might accidentally execute an innocent person that they famously declared: “if we had been members of the [court], no person would ever have been put to death.” (Mishnah Makkot 1:10)
We have had decades to figure this out in California, without success. The time has come to acknowledge the eternal imperfection of human justice. The best way to pursue righteousness and equity is by banning the death penalty.
On behalf of the Cantors and Rabbis of Greater San Jose, I urge us to approve Proposition 62 and reject Proposition 66.
May we have the wisdom to always see the Divine in each other. Amen.
Breaking the Stigma of Mental Illness – Yom Kippur 5777
There is a town in Belgium called Geel (Hyale), with a remarkable 700 year old custom of compassion.
Its origin lies in a legend about a seventh century Irish princess named Dymphna. When Dymphna’s mother died, her father went mad, insisting on marrying her. Dymphna fled to the continent. When he caught up to her in Geel, he beheaded her. Dymphna was sainted, and pilgrims began visiting the site of her martyrdom in search of miraculous cures, especially for mental illness.
A church was built in 1349, and later, an annex to house the visitors. Eventually, the townspeople began to welcome the mentally ill relatives of pilgrims into their homes as “boarders.” For the townspeople, it was an act of charity to open up their homes. “Boarders” stay with their hosts for long periods of time, as many as fifty, or even 80 years, becoming part of the family.
At its peak in the 1930’s, there were 4,000 boarders living amongst a local population of 16,000.
The residents do not use terms like “mentally ill,” “psychiatric,” or “patient.” Behavior that in any other part of the world would be considered odd or crazy, like people talking to themselves on the streets, is normalized in Geel.
This system does not take the place of medical treatment. There is a psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of town. What it does is treat people with dignity who would in any other community likely be hidden away or abandoned on the street.
Since the 19th century, Geel has been held up in psychiatric circles as the best way to address mental illness. It is an ideal model for integration and normalization within a supportive community.
Sadly, as the world has changed, Geel is changing along with it. As the result of the pressures of modern life, and the increasing medicalization of mental illness, there are today only 250-300 boarders left. But for the residents of Geel, this custom of compassion is an important part of their heritage.
Let’s try to imagine, for a moment, what it would be like if our community was so accepting and welcoming to those who do not conform to what we typically think of as normal behavior.
Psychiatric care in the United States used to center on institutionalization in asylums. People who were “crazy” were sent away to facilities that often had terrible conditions, where they received treatments that were often tantamount to torture. In 1972, the psychiatric hospitals began to close. This was supposed to be accompanied by investment of resources into community-based treatment centers. But the investment did not happen. As a result, many of those living with mental illness became homeless. This is a tragedy that persists to this day.
Unlike the example of Geel, there has been no normalization of mental illness. The mass shootings that we have seen over the past few years has prompted discussions of the need to invest more money and resources in mental health screening and treatment, but little has been done.
There is still so much fear and stigmatization. The truth is, members of our community live every day with mental illness, whether it affects them personally, or someone close to them.
But we don’t talk about it openly. We are scared of “strange” behavior. When someone exhibits signs of mental illness, we tend to back away.
Think about language that we toss around casually: crazy, cuckoo, nuts.
Mental illness is so much more widespread than we typically acknowledge. One out of every five adults in America experiences mental illness. One in twenty five live with a serious chronic condition.
1.1% of the adult population has a diagnosis of schizophrenia. 2.6% has bipolar disorder. 6.9% suffer from major depression. And 18.1% have an anxiety disorder.
Most signs of mental illness present themselves when we are young, with half of all chronic mental illness beginning by age fourteen.
We do not adequately treat mental illness. 60% of adults and 50% of youth aged 8-15 with mental illness did not receive mental health services in the last year.
There is a terrible price that we pay.
Depression is the leading cause of disability worldwide. It is estimated that serious mental illness costs America over 190 billion dollars per year in lost wages.
Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in America overall, and the second leading cause among those aged 15-34. It is estimated that 90% of those who die by suicide suffer from depression. As much attention as there has been to the mass killings, twice as many people die in America by suicide than by murder.
Rabbis give lots of sermons this time of year about teshuvah, repentance. It is a wonderful concept – truly one of Judaism’s most insightful principles. Every year, we engage in cheshbon hanefesh―self-reflection―examining our lives, and identifying ways we can be better. We reach out to those we have wronged and seek to make amends. We turn to God, confess our sins, and ask for forgiveness.
But what if there is no getting better?
Many of us live with mental health conditions for which there is no “cure.” No amount of cheshbon hanefesh is going to enable us to “fix” ourselves.
But that does not make us failures. “Depression is a flaw of chemistry, not character,” reads a Manhattan billboard.
The field of human psychology is just over a century old. Our understanding of mental illness, and our ability to treat it, ha experienced a sea change in that time. But that does not mean that our ancestors did not have any appreciation or compassion for those whose behaviors did not conform to social norms.
In the Bible, the best depiction of a major character suffering from mental illness is King Saul. Listen to how the Bible describes the onset of his condition: “Now the spirit of the Lord had departed from Saul, and a ruach ra’ah – an evil spirit – from the Lord began to terrify him.” (I Sam 17:14) Saul’s courtiers do not know how to address their king’s new state of mind, so they suggest searching for a musician to soothe him whenever the ruach ra’ah manifests itself. A search leads to David, who, among other talents, is a skilled lyre player.
Saul’s ruach ra’ah comes and goes. He has episodes of paranoia and mania interspersed with periods of normal function. Some modern readers have suggested that he might have suffered from a bipolar disorder, although we should be cautious about making a diagnosis based on a three thousand year old text.
Some time later, David kills the Philistine Goliath and then has to flee from Saul’s wrath. He winds up in the court of King Achish of Gat, Goliath’s home town. To avoid arrest, David pretends to be insane, scratching marks on the doors and letting his saliva run down his beard. Achish, afraid of this behavior, scolds his attendants. “You see the man is raving; why bring him to me? Do I lack madmen that you have brought this fellow to rave for me? Should this fellow enter my house?” (I Sam. 21:15-16)
Many of the Psalms, traditionally attributed to King David and his court, express the anguish of a troubled mind.
My soul is in anguish, and You, O Lord―how long?
Turn, Lord, set my soul free; save me for the sake of Your love…
I am weary with my sighing.
Every night I drench my bed, I soak my couch with my tears.
My eye grows dim from grief, worn out because of all my foes… (Psalm 6)
These sound like the words of a person living with severe depression.
In Rabbinic texts, there is much discussion about mental illness. The term that is used to describe such a person is shoteh. The shoteh, along with the deaf-mute, is generally not granted much legal status, as they are assumed to not understand what is happening around them.
But what constitutes a shoteh?
A single talmudic passage offers an inconclusive definition. “Who is a shoteh? A person who goes out alone at night; sleeps in a cemetery; and tears one’s clothing.” (BT Chagigah 3b) One Rabbi explains that all three behaviors need to be exhibited, while another Rabbi argues that just one is needed. Then, the Talmud suggests that there could be rational reasons for a person would go out alone at night, sleep in a cemetery, or tear clothing. The question is left unresolved.
Nearly one thousand years later, Maimonides is discussing laws pertaining to who may serve as a witness in court. A shoteh, someone who is mentally or emotionally unstable, is not considered to be obligated in the mitzvot, and thus cannot serve as a witness, he says. But who is a shoteh? As a legal scholar, a physician, and a community judge and leader, Maimonides offers a more nuanced, and I would suggest compassionate, way of looking at the shoteh.
First he describes someone who is unable to understand basic matters or recognize simple contradictions. He is describing what we might call someone with an intellectual disability, or low IQ.
Maimonides then writes about emotional instability. He says that is is not merely someone who “goes around naked, destroys utensils, and throws stones. Instead, it applies to anyone whose mind is disturbed and continually confused when it comes to certain matters, although he can speak and ask questions to the point regarding other matters.”
But his final comment is the most poignant. “This matter is dependent on the judgment of the judge. It is impossible to describe the mental and emotional states of people in a text.” (Edut 9:9-10)
Every person is unique. Someone might be capable and functional in some aspects of his or her life, but troubled in other aspects. Emotional instability might come and go. We cannot make categorical assumptions without even getting to know a person. We have to take the time to listen.
Pretty progressive for the twelfth century.
Today, we know that mental illness is not a punishment from God, and it is not something that can be cured with sacrifice or prayer. Whereas it was once attributed to possession by a ruach ra’ah, we now understand mental illness as being caused by chemical and/or physical processes in the brain.
And, there is often treatment that can reduce symptoms of mental instability and make it possible for someone living with a mental illness to flourish in ways that would have been unimaginable in previous eras. Someone who once would have been considered a shoteh, and not held accountable for his or her actions, can now have a family and a successful career.
While not perfect, we do a pretty good job of accommodating the needs of people who live with physical disabilities. The Americans with Disabilities Act, signed into law in 1990, “prevents discrimination and guarantees that people with disabilities have the same opportunities as everyone else to participate in the mainstream of American life.”
It has changed such basic things as how we design buildings. When our synagogue was built ten years ago, for example, we included a ramp to enable someone who uses a wheelchair or walker to come up to the bimah. Earlier this year, we installed railings to make it easier to walk up the steps to the bimah.
We do a reasonably good job of ensuring that our synagogue is a welcoming home for anyone with a physical disability.
But what about for someone suffering from a psychiatric illness?
One of the most meaningful parts of our weekly Shabbat services is the Mi Sheberach L’cholim, the prayer for the sick. Our practice is to invite anyone who would like to include the name of someone who seeks healing to form a line. Each person has an opportunity to recite the names of those who are ill. It is one of the most personal parts of the service for many of us, including me.
I recognize many of the names that are recited, and I am familiar with the illnesses that many of them face: cancer, chronic conditions, acute sickness, dementia. But have we created a culture in which we would think to include someone struggling with mental illness in our prayers for healing?
Would someone who is him or herself experiencing depression feel welcome to include his or her own name?
It would certainly be appropriate to do so. The language of the prayer acknowledges that there are physical and spiritual dimensions to healing. We pray for r’fuat hanefesh ur’fuat haguf―healing of spirit and healing of body―in that order.
Prayer is not a treatment for mental illness. It is not a substitute for medications that address chemical imbalances in a person’s brain. But religion, and a religious community, ought to be an important component in healing. Where better for someone living with depression to turn for support and acceptance than a house of worship?
We need to do better. Congregation Sinai needs to be a community in which those suffering with a mental illness can be open about their struggles. We need to break the stigma that leads so many of us to keep our struggles inside.
If you feel comfortable sharing your struggles with someone else, please take the courageous step and do so. For someone who feels embarrassed or self-conscious about opening up, knowing that there are others who have shared similar experiences can make a huge difference. It sends the message that “you are not alone.”
I have an anxiety disorder and Adult ADHD, for which I take psychiatric medications.
Over the past ten years or so, I have experienced occasional panic attacks. I get dizzy. The world starts to spin. The edges of my eyesight get blurry, and I worry that I am going to pass out. On some particularly bad occasions, I feel like I am having a heart attack, or at least, what I imagine a heart attack would feel like.
Scariest of all is when I have a panic attack while behind the wheel of a car. One of my triggers is driving over tall bridges. A few years ago, I was driving over the Golden Gate Bridge with my brother-in-law in the passenger seat and our kids in the back. Halfway across the bridge, I could feel an attack coming on. “Keep an eye on me,” I told my brother-in-law. As soon as we got to the other side, I pulled over to the shoulder and gave him the wheel.
A couple of years ago, I had a panic attack in the middle of the night. I thought I was having a heart attack. I woke Dana up, and asked her to keep an eye on me. I was upset with myself. “What is wrong with me? I should be able to just get myself under control. After all, this is all just in my head.”
Dana, in her wisdom, responded, “Your brain is the most complex organ in your body. What makes you think that you can just get it under control?”
Looking back, I realize that I had succumbed to the stigma of mental illness. I felt guilty for not being able to control something “that was just in my head.”
It is not “just in my head.” It is “in my head,” and that is not something to take lightly.
While real to me, my struggles are minor inconveniences compared to the serious mental afflictions that impact some peoples’ lives. I do not know what it is like to live with schizophrenia or a bipolar disorder.
But I can hold someone’s hand and listen.
This year, I ask that we make it a priority that our synagogue become a place in which those living with mental illness can find compassion, acceptance, and healing. I will speak of it more explicitly from the bimah. From now on, when I lead the prayer for healing, I will change the way that I introduce it to something like the following:
I am now going to recite the Mi Sheberach L’cholim, the prayer for healing for those with physical and mental illness. If you would like to include someone, or if you yourself are in need of healing, please come up and form a line to my right.
I ask that we commit to being there for each other with open minds and open hearts.
We all bring our tzarot, our troubles, to shul. Especially on a day like Yom Kippur, with its focus on sin, repentance, atonement, and mortality.
Yom Kippur is really a day for spiritual healing. In the Temple, it was the day when the High Priest conducted the rituals that restored the spiritual relationship between God and the Jewish people. Today, our prayers and our fasting accomplish the same.
Let this day, this synagogue, and this community, offer healing and comfort to all those who have brought their tzarot with them.
I would like to close with this prayer composed by Rabbi Elliott Kukla, of the Bay Area Jewish Healing Center.
May the One who blessed our ancestors bless all who live with mental illness, our care-givers, families, and friends. May we walk in the footsteps of Jacob, King Saul, Miriam, Hannah, and Naomi, who struggled with dark moods, hopelessness, isolation, and terrors, but survived and led our people. Just as our father, Jacob, spent the night wrestling with an angel and prevailed, may all who live with mental illness be granted the endurance to wrestle with pain and prevail night upon night. Grace us with the faith to know that though, like Jacob, we may be wounded, shaped and renamed by this struggle, still we will live on to continue an ever unfolding, unpredictable path toward healing. May we not be alone on this path but accompanied by our families, friends, care-givers, ancestors, and the Divine presence. Surround us with loving-kindness, grace and companionship and spread over us a sukkat shalom, a shelter of peace and wholeness. And let us say: Amen.
G’mar Chatimah Tovah. May we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a year of blessing and healing.
Self Absorption – Rosh Hashanah 5777
The story of the Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac, which we read every year on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, is so tantalizingly evocative, inspiring, and troubling. It is a carefully written literary masterpiece. Every year, we find new ways to read it.
“Some time afterward, God put Abraham to the test.”
What kind of test is this? Is it pass/fail? Is it a test for which God does not know the answer, or a test meant to impart some lesson?
Maybe it is like the test of the emergency broadcast system. “This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. Had the All-Powerful Supreme Ruler of the Universe actually wanted you to sacrifice your son, more information would have followed. This is only a test.”
Or, perhaps it is a test for us – the readers.
Of course, we know it is a test from the beginning. The actors in this drama have no such foreknowledge.
“Abraham.”
“Here I am.” Hineni.
“Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah. V’ha’aleihu sham l’olah on one of the heights that I will point out to you.”
Abraham hears this as “offer him there as a burnt offering.”
Before we get too upset, keep in mind that child sacrifice was not such a far-fetched idea in Abraham’s day. It was a widespread practice throughout the Ancient world, including in the Land of Canaan. We have biblical and other ancient literary references, as well as archaeological remains. As far as humans in ancient times knew, the gods liked it when people offered up their children. It probably did not sound all that strange to Abraham. So he complies with the request.
Without a word, Abraham gets up early, saddles a donkey, enlists two servants and Isaac, and chops some wood to serve as fuel.
On the third day, Abraham looks up and sees the mountain. He tells the servants to wait at the bottom with the donkey. He gives Isaac the wood to carry, and they set off to climb the mountain. He himself carries the firestone and the cleaver.
Suddenly, we hear Isaac’s voice, the only time that the Torah records father and son speaking together.
“Father.”
“Here I am, my son.”
“Here is the fire and the wood; but where is the sheep for the offering?”
“God will see to the sheep for His offering, my son.”
And the two of them walk on together.
No more words are exchanged. They reach the top of the mountain. Abraham, methodically, goes about his business. He lays out an altar. He places the wood on it. He binds Isaac and places him on top of the wood.
He reaches out his hand and takes hold of the cleaver in order to slaughter his son.
And suddenly a voice cries out: “Abraham! Abraham!”
It is an angel of the Lord from the heavens.
“Here I am.” Hineni.
“Do not reach out your hand against the lad, and do nothing to him, for now I know that you fear God and you have not held back your son, your only one, from Me.”
Abraham raises his eyes and he looks and ‘Behold! A Ram!’
―with its horns caught in the thicket. And Abraham takes the ram and offers it up as a burnt offering in the place of his son.
Abraham barely speaks throughout this story, and never once to God. Rashi, citing a midrash, imagines that Abraham might have had a few questions that did not make the final edit.
“I will lay my complaint before you,” he begins. “You told me, (Genesis 21:12) ‘through Isaac shall your seed be acclaimed,’ and then you changed your mind and said, (Genesis 22:2) ‘Take, pray, your son.’ Now you tell me, ‘Do not reach out your hand against the lad!'”
Abraham is understandably confused. God has promised that Abraham will be the father of a great nation, descended specifically through Isaac. We read about in just the previous chapter, and we chanted it yesterday.
Then, God seems to change the plan by asking Abraham to offer Isaac up.
Through it all, Abraham goes along.
Now, having done everything God has asked of him, despite the contradictions, Abraham is told not to follow through!?
The Holy One, blessed be He, says to him, [You misunderstood me.] When I told you, ‘Take [your son…,] I did not tell you ‘slay him’ but rather ‘bring him up,’ for the sake of love did I say it to you. You have brought him up, in fulfillment of my words — now take him down.’ (Genesis Rabbah 56)
The miscommunication hinges on the phrase v’ha’aleihu sham l’olah. An olah is a burnt offering. That is how Abraham hears it.
But it also means “go up” or “ascend.” A person who moves to Israel makes aliyah. Someone who is given an honor in synagogue receives an aliyah. In the midrash, God means for Abraham to bring Isaac up to the top of the mountain as an expression of love, not to be a sacrifice.
How could Abraham have misunderstood?
To answer this, we must identify the role of the angel in this story.
Imagine the critical scene in your mind, when Abraham has grasped the blade in his hand, and the angel comes to intervene. Picture it. Where are Isaac, Abraham, and the angel situated?
In almost every work of art depicting the Binding of Isaac, the angel is reaching out a hand and grabbing Abraham to prevent him from slaughtering his son. That image of physical intervention has entered our consciousness.
But that is not what the text says. The only intervention that takes place is verbal. “Abraham. Abraham.”
“Here I am,” he responds.
It is Abraham who holds back his own hand.
There is a vein within the Jewish mystical tradition extending into mussar thinking that understands angels as inert forces in our world. They are unable to act. It is righteous human action, or expressions of will, that activates these inert Divine forces.
Mussar understands the expression of the human will as it acts in the world to be our yetzer. The yetzer can be tov – good, or it can be ra – evil.
When we allow it to flow out of us, the yetzer is tov. But when it is stopped up inside, it becomes ra.
To expand on this―when my focus is external; when my concern is for the other; when the question I ask myself about the person before me is “what does this person need from me?”―That is when my soul opens up, and my yetzer flows out.
But when I am self-absorbed; when I am concerned for my own needs; when I am wrapped up in my own suffering― then I am unable to recognize the needs of the person facing me. My soul is stopped up, and my yetzer works its evil, rotting inside of me.
All that God or the angel can do is speak. Only Abraham can act to change the course of events in this story.
In the beginning, God calls out to Abraham and asks him to raise up his son in love. But Abraham, in this moment self-absorbed in his devotion to a god who might just be a projection of his own ego, hears the message differently. The yetzer hara has taken hold. Can Abraham break out of his self-absorption and release his yetzer hatov?
Abraham has other moments of greatness, when his yetzer tov flows out into the world. When he runs out of his tent to welcome three angels disguised as travelers, when he argues with God on behalf of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah―these are moments when Abraham has set aside his own self-concern to serve others, and in so doing, to activate God’s Presence in the world.
In this story, however, Abraham’s yetzer is stopped up. He is not able to activate the Divine potential that lies dormant. He does not see the suffering of his son.
Something happens on top of the mountain. The angel calls out twice. Abraham looks up. Not only does he see the ram, he sees his son, perhaps for the first time. That is the test. And he passes. He saves his son, substituting the ram.
Only then does God bless him.
We live in an epidemic of self-absorption. In former times, people lived in close quarters. It was not uncommon for three generations to reside under the same roof. We were thrown against each other in such a way that it was nearly impossible to find privacy, even in our own homes. Facing each other’s needs was inevitable.
Now, we are so spread out. Most households today have just one or two generations living under the same roof. Plus, the distance between our homes has grown, so we are farther away from our neighbors.
The membership of our synagogue is spread out over many square miles. We’ve gone to the opposite extreme. We have so much private space that we now find ourselves alone much of the time. If we want to be with other people, we have to actively do something to make it happen.
The internet offers the promise of connecting with each other across the physical divide. But how do we use it?
I might snap a selfie, or post the silly thing that my kid said. I’ll take a picture of my lunch and share it with the world. And then I’ll check to see how many “likes” I’ve received. Is this really connecting with other people, or might this perhaps be a manifestation of my self-absorption?
There is an inverse relationship between the amount of time we spend “connecting” online and the amount of time we spend “connecting” in person. It is getting steadily worse as the number of screen devices in our lives increases.
Our tradition teaches us that holiness is encountered in the relationships between people. The three dimensional relationships. God, as a latent force, is activated when we care for another person, placing that other person’s needs before our own.
And believe it or not, quantity matters.
The question is asked―If I have a thousand gold coins to give away, is it better to give all thousand coins to one person, or should I give one coin each to a thousand people?
I might think that it does not make a difference. What matters is the bottom line. The tax deduction is the same either way. Or, I might say that one coin is not going to do anyone any good, but one thousand coins will surely make a difference in someone’s life.
But that is not what our tradition says. It is better for me to give a thousand coins to a thousand people. Why? Because of the impact of one thousand face-to-face interactions on me.
The word v’natnu, meaning “and you shall give” is the longest palindrome in the Torah―vav nun tav nun vav. This teaches us that the blessings of generosity flow forward to the receiver and backward to the giver.
What are those blessings? Increased consciousness of the other. Holiness. Awareness of God.
What will it take for us to be less self-absorbed? Deliberate effort. We have got to train ourselves if we want to be able to resist the forces that drive us towards increased alienation. And just like the thousand coins, quantity matters.
It is one of the reasons why our synagogue is so important. Involvement in a religious community offers many ways to break out of self-absorption and see the other: attending Shabbat services, where we pray side-by-side, and then share a meal together; learning together at a Limmud La-ad, Lifelong Jewish Learning, program; taking time out to comfort a mourner by attending a funeral or a shiva minyan; delivering a meal and visiting with someone in our community who is ill; helping to serve lunch at a homeless shelter.
In this new year, let us each identify individual actions that we can take that will change the question from “what do I want?” to “what does the person before me need?”
The accumulation of many such actions can eventually unstop our hearts, release our yetzer tov, connect us with others in a world of increasing alienation, and activate the Divine Presence in our world.
Like Abraham, who at the critical moment, heard the Divine Voice calling, and woke out of his narrow-minded self focus to see his bound son suffering before him – we too can wake up.
Shanah Tovah.
Thanks to Rabbi Ira Stone for providing ideas that went into this D’var Torah.
How to Disagree – Rosh Hashanah 5777
Resh Lakish and Rabbi Yochanan were the best of friends. Their lives were intertwined from the Study Hall, to the home, and to their graves. (BT Bava Metzia 84a)
Before they meet, Resh Lakish is an outlaw. One day, as he is walking next to the Jordan River, he sees what he thinks is a beautiful woman in the water. He enthusiastically removes his weapons and armor and jumps into the water. To his surprise, the bathing beauty turns out, upon closer inspection, to be none other than Rabbi Yohanan.
“You are too pretty to be a man,” Resh Lakish declares. “This beauty is wasted on you. You should be a woman.”
With a sly look at the highwayman, Rabbi Yohanan responds, “But I have a sister. And she is even more beautiful than I. If you will repent of your wicked past, you can marry her.”
Reish Lakish eagerly agrees. So Rabbi Yohanan brings him into the Beit Midrash and teaches him Torah and Mishnah, and transforms Resh Lakish into a great scholar.
They become brothers-in-law, study partners, and best friends.
One day, they are arguing a point of law in the study hall, and things get a little out of hand. In a moment of frustration, Rabbi Yohanan brings up Resh Lakish’s past as a brigand. The insults fly back and forth, and before they know it, they are refusing to speak with one another. Rabbi Yohanan’s anger and hurt swirls about, invoking the spiritual realm. As sometimes happens with holy men in Talmudic stories, this causes Resh Lakish to fall gravely ill.
Resh Lakish’s wife, Rabbi Yohanan’s sister, visits her brother in desperation, hoping his spiritual intervention might save her spouse. “Please, my brother, pray for my husband, if only for the sake of his children, your nephews.”
Yohanan refuses. “Your children can become orphans. God will provide for them.”
“If not for the children’s sake, then, save him for my sake. Don’t allow me to become a widow!”
“God takes care of widows,” he stubbornly insists.
Resh Lakish, without his friend to intercede on his behalf, dies.
Rabbi Yohanan, bereft of his friend, falls into a deep depression. The Rabbis from the Study Hall are so concerned that they send Rabbi Elazar, a mild-mannered scholar, to console him.
Elazar sits by Yohanan’s bedside, and they begin to study together. Every time Yohanan makes a statement, Elazar nods enthusiastically in agreement, and offers additional arguments to support him.
Yohanan is exasperated. “Whenever I used to make a statement to Resh Lakish, he would have twenty four objections to me, to which I would have twenty four responses. That is how we would deepen our knowledge of the law. And you tell me, ‘Oh, here is something that supports you.’ I don’t need you to tell me that. I already know that I am right!”
In despair, Rabbi Yohanan rends his garments in mourning and is overcome with weeping. “Where are you, O son of Lakish? Where are you?” He cannot be consoled.
Seeing that there is no remedy for his heartbreak, the Rabbis of the Study Hall pray to God for mercy, and Yohanan dies.
This rich and tragic Talmudic story conveys so well, with deep emotion, Jewish values of machloket, disagreement.
We, as individuals and as a society, are in deep need of guidance when it comes to dealing with those who think differently than us. Rosh Hashanah offers us an opportunity for taking stock of how we interact with one another in our homes and in our society. With an election looming, it is an especially important time for us seek productive ways to address disagreement. Perhaps our tradition can be a source of wisdom.
Let us be careful not to play the revisionist game and claim that there was a glorious time when human beings used to speak to each other with respect and honored opponents who held differing opinions. And let us not be so naive as to suggest that Jewish culture, in contrast to all other traditions, has always tolerated other ideas. It is simply not true.
But there is a well-developed idea within our intellectual history that portrays how human beings ought to treat those with whom we disagree.
The goal is not just the intellectual pursuit of Truth, but also the practical implementation of rules for society. How can we live together when we disagree so fundamentally about how we should live?
The pursuit of truth and peace is best achieved through a blend of vigorous disagreement and mutual respect. For us Jews, these are deeply held values that are the products of our own unique history.
For 2,000 years, we exercised our minds. We perfected the art of seeking theoretical analyses of Biblical passages. We debated the interpretations of the interpretations of the interpretations. In great depth, we studied laws that had not been implemented for hundreds of years, and for which there was no hope of actual implementation.
As a result, we Jews got really good at reading texts and arguing about ideas. Perhaps this was the result of our being an exiled people. Without political autonomy, and no ability to exercise power beyond the confines of our small communities, we turned inward. We expressed our power on the page and in the study hall.
If we could not fully implement our vision of what life ought to be in the world, we were at least free to develop a vision of the ideal in our minds. In so doing, we held on to four primary principles of machloket, argument.
1. Passionate argument is a good thing. It makes us sharper, and it brings us closer to the truth.
2. We must respect our opponents, even when we disagree with them.
3. We can only claim to be in pursuit of truth if we are willing to be convinced by our adversaries’ arguments.
4. Even when we cannot agree, we still need to find a way to live together.
If we could introduce these four principles into our current relationships, we would have a far more cohesive society.
The tragic story of Rabbi Yohanan and Resh Lakish introduces the issues with great humanity. The situation begins to decline in the Study Hall. In a moment of weakness, Rabbi Yohanan takes what, until that moment had been an intellectual disagreement, to heart. Instead of offering a logical counterargument or accepting defeat, he insults his friend. He knows exactly where to strike so that it will hurt the most. He drags up Resh Lakish’s sordid past.
Never mind that Resh Lakish has done teshuvah, that he has left that world long behind. In bringing it up, Rabbi Yohanan makes a power move, as if to say, “I may have lost this argument, but I am still more pious, holy, and wise than you.”
How often have we heard that?! Resorting to name calling? Dredging up personal attacks to avoid engaging with ideas?
Rabbi Yochanan holds the grudge, refusing to intervene to save his friend. Even his sister cannot break through his stubbornness.
Only when it is too late does Rabbi Yochanan discover what he has done. He realizes the value of argument. With Resh Lakish as his intellectual jousting partner, Yochanan was sharpened. He gained a deeper understanding of truth.
It is remarkable how relevant this ancient story is to our time.
At the extreme are ISIS and their ilk, who seek to create a world in which all who do not share their vision are killed or enslaved.
But there are plenty of other ways, permeating every layer of our civilization, in which we are becoming more polarized. Our openness to even hearing the opinions of those who disagree with us seems to be waning. This is a disturbing and dangerous trend.
The current presidential election campaign has been the most in-your-face example of this. But then again, isn’t every election ugly? This year is perhaps not an aberration, but a culmination of the building polarization of the past couple of decades.
We might point to the rise of certain consumer technology tools that have fed the flames of this divide. The popularity of Twitter, with its short, truncated format, lends itself to oversimplification and name-calling. The extreme ease of passing along internet memes through various forms of social media enables the ugliest characterizations and rumors to circumnavigate world with lightning-fast speed.
I do not mean to sound like a luddite, but there is a terribly harmful side to the miracle of instant communication.
Quite disturbing has been the trend over the past few years to suppress speech at, of all places, college campuses. There have been numerous efforts to disinvite speakers – many of which have won. Lecturers have been spat upon. Speakers have been shouted down to such a degree that they could not continue. Campus newspapers have been defunded. Universities have drafted speech codes, the violation of which can result in professors losing jobs or students being expelled.
The evidence reveals that it is perpetrated by both the left and the right, sometimes in response to one another. Students and professors have reported feeling that they have to self-suppress out of fear of repercussions.
These trends are creating pockets of like-minded thinkers who never have to face ideas that challenge them. In the tragic story, it is the replacement of the feisty Resh Lakish by the “yes man,” Rabbi Elazar, that – quite literally – kills Rabbi Yochanan. We should read it as a warning.
When we do permit ourselves to hear other perspectives, do we truly listen with open minds?
The next story is about the famous schools of Hillel and Shammai (BT Eruvin 13b). It teaches us about the importance of respecting our opponents.
Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel once got into an impassioned argument over a matter of Jewish law. One school says, “The law is in agreement with our view,” while the other claims, with equal certainty, “The law is in agreement with our view.”
Three years pass without any progress. One day, a Heavenly Voice suddenly booms across the study hall: Elu v’elu divrei Elohim chayim hen. “These and these are the words of the living God.” V’halakhah k’veit Hillel. “But the law is in agreement with the rulings of Beit Hillel.”
“But how can this be?” the Talmud asks. If “both are the words of the living God,” what entitles Beit Hillel to determine the law?
The Talmud answers, “Because they were kindly and modest, they studied their own rulings and those of Beit Shammai and were even so humble as to mention the opinions of Beit Shammai before their own.”
We draw two lessons from this remarkable story. The first, elu v’elu divrei Elohim chayim. “These and these are the words of the living God.” Strangely, the Talmud does not ask how it is possible that both Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai could be correct. It is a given.
This should remind us that, as sure as we might be of our rightness, someone else is just as sure of theirs. It’s not to say that there is no such thing as truth and everything is whatever a person says it is. But indeed, there is often more than one solution to a problem.
I learned this lesson from my tenth grade Algebra 3/Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Evanson. One would think that in a field like math, there is a right and a wrong answer. But Mr. Evanson was much more concerned with how we solved a problem than in the answer we came up with. What excited him was seeing different ways of approaching the challenge. I learned that, even in math, there is often more than one way to arrive at the truth.
So what made the difference? Not superior logic or better proofs. It was intellectual openness and respect for difference. That is why we follow Beit Hillel. Hillel taught his students to learn from and honor their adversaries. If I have to state my opponent’s arguments before my own, it means that I have to pay close attention and have an open mind.
Beit Hillel teaches us another lesson: we should always be willing to be proven wrong. A Mishnah begins Elu d’varim she’chazru Beit Hillel l’horot k’divrei Beit Shammai. “These are the matters about which Beit Hillel changed their minds and taught according to Beit Shammai.” And then the Mishnah goes on to list a number of laws. (Mishnah Eduyot 1:12)
The Mishnah does not need to tell us this. It could just state the outcome. Indeed, the Mishnah usually states the majority opinion, along with significant minority opinions. But to cite opinions that are later abandoned is unusual.
Maimonides explains that it is to be lesson for us. “For when these honored, pious, generous, and distinguished scholars of the School of Hillel saw that the view of those who disagreed with them was to be preferred to their own, and that others’ deliberations were more correct – they agreed with the others and retracted their view. How much more should other people, when they see that the truth lies with their opponent, incline to the truth and not be stubborn…”
And he goes on to say that “even if you are able to use proofs to buttress your position, but if you know your friend’s position is correct and that your proofs to the contrary are only due to his weakness in argument, or because you are able to pervert the truth, accept his version and forsake further argument.”
Maimonides nails it. How often is it that we hang on to a position out of stubbornness and ego?
Wouldn’t it be refreshing to occasionally hear a politician say, “My opponent is right. After considering all the facts and the arguments, I have concluded that my earlier position is wrong. And now I think differently.” A candidate who had the humility and the courage to say that would probably earn my vote.
But what about when there is no resolution – when two sides are firmly entrenched in their positions about how society should function?
A Mishnah tells how Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel disagree about several areas of personal status law. While it might not seem so today, in the ancient world, this was a huge deal. It could mean the difference between a child being legitimate or illegitimate, which could have life-long implications affecting marriage and social acceptance.
The two schools disagree with one another. Nevertheless, the Mishnah concludes, “even though the one invalidated and the other validated, Beit Shammai did not refrain from marrying women from Beit Hilllel, and Beit Hillel did not refrain from marrying women from Beit Shammai.” (Mishnah Eduyot 4:8)
As much as each side “knew” that it was correct, they shared a higher value. “We are one people. Even if we can’t come to an agreement, we will still find a way to live together.”
This is such a lovely example. Because the way the Mishnah finds to express their shared value is in the most intimate way possible. Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai joined their houses together. They intermarried with one another.
This would be like the Montague’s and the Capulet’s getting together to throw an engagement party for Romeo and Juliet.
While we may not be able to change the polarization that plagues our world, in this new year, we can begin to take small but significant steps in our own lives, drawing upon the ancient wisdom of our tradition.
Judaism treasures machloket. Vigorous questioning and challenging of each other offers us the surest path to truth.
In doing so, however, we must always maintain the dignity of our opponents, honoring them even when we disagree.
We also have to be open to being convinced. If we are not willing to change our minds, than we cannot claim to be seeking truth.
And finally, we have got to remain sincerely committed to living together in peace, despite our differences.
In this new year, may we have the courage and humility to argue, listen, and respect one another with open minds and open hearts.
Shanah Tovah.
Shimon Peres, z”l: Did I bring more good to the world today, or bad? – Nitzavim 5776
The entire world this week mourns the passing of Shimon Peres, alav hashalom, who died Wednesday at 93 years of age. Many obituaries have been written in the past few days about him, which I encourage all of us to read.
Peres was involved in the creation, building and flourishing of the State of Israel more than any other person. As a young man, Peres was active in the Haganah and became a close advisor and protege to David Ben Gurion. He was responsible for breaking the siege and acquiring military equipment in the War of Independence. Peres built up the military during the early years of the state. He led behind the scenes diplomacy with France leading up to the 1956 Suez war. Then, he was in charge of creating Israel’s nuclear program in the 1960’s.
In the years after the Six Day War, Peres encouraged Jewish settlement in the West Bank, although he eventually came to see it as an obstacle to peace. He, along with Yitzchak Rabin, was an architect of the Oslo Accords, for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace.
Peres was an early and constant promoter of technology. He saw economic growth and cooperation as the path towards closer relations and eventual peace with other nations, including Israel’s enemies.
Shimon Peres served in the Knesset for nearly five decades, and held every major position in government, including Prime Minister and President.
In his last public interview, conducted on August 31, Peres spoke about the exercise of power.
You have to decide either to be a giver or a taker. The biggest mistake is if you’ll use the power to take. The greatest wisdom is if you give.
That, he explains, has been the secret to America’s great success. And it is has driven his approach to building stronger connections between Israel and other nations. Peres shared a story in which he was recently meeting with Vladimir Putin, whom he described as a very good friend. Peres rebuked him for being a taker rather than a giver.
“You behave like a czar,” [he] said…
“What did the czars do? They developed two cities, St. Petersburg and Moscow, as a showcase. Whatever you want, you will find there. The rest of Russia is like Nigeria covered with snow. Your people are dying. You don’t give them life. You think they’ll forgive you?”
“Why is America great?” I asked him. “Because they were givers. Why is Europe in trouble? Because they are takers. America is giving; people think it’s because they are generous. I think it’s because they are wise. If you give, you create friends. The most beneficial investment is making friends.”
“America had the guts to take the Marshall Plan, a huge piece of their GNP that they gave to this dying Europe. And in this way, they have shown that this is the best investment in the world.”
A cultural Zionist, Shimon Peres nevertheless believed strongly that Zionism had to be rooted in timeless Jewish values, and felt that the current generation had gone off track from that ideal.
But Peres was always an optimist. Respected by everyone across the political spectrum, he has been Israel’s chief visionary for peace for the last two decades. It was a hope that he never gave up.
Peres recently reached out to meet with Micah Goodman, a philosopher and teacher at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. Goodman is the most prominent writer on Jewish philosophy in Israel today. A few years ago, he wrote a best-seller entitled The Secrets of the Guide for the Perplexed about Moses Maimonides. (Only in Israel would a book like that be a best seller.) It was recently translated into English as Maimonides and the Book that Changed Judaism.
Peres wanted to meet with Goodman, whom he described as his teacher, to discuss Maimonides.
“I find myself in his apartment in Tel Aviv,” Mr. Goodman recalled. “He is wearing his jeans. He wants to understand Maimonides.
“He told me that before he goes to sleep he thinks to himself, ‘Did I bring more good to the world today, or bad?’ He kept a balance sheet. He was like a 16-year-old idealist. At 93.”
That question, “Did I bring more good to the world today, or bad?” summarizes the entire theme of the High Holidays. For a 93 year old man to retain that sense of mission and responsibility is incredible. Shimon Peres’ entire life is evidence that this question has always driven him, from earlier times when he was building up Israel’s capacity to survive and thrive, to more recent times when it had achieved power and found itself in a position from which it could strive for peace.
I suspect that the teaching by Maimonides to which Peres is referring is from the Mishneh Torah, in his section on Teshuvah. (Hilchot Teshuvah 2:1,3-4) Maimonides writes:
Each and every person has merits and sins. A person whose merits exceed his sins is [termed] righteous. A person whose sins exceed his merits is [termed] wicked. If [his sins and merits] are equal, he is termed a Beinoni.
The same applies to an entire country. If the merits of all its inhabitants exceed their sins, it is [termed] righteous. If their sins are greater, it is [termed] wicked. The same applies to the entire world.
Just as a person’s merits and sins are weighed at the time of his death, so, too, the sins of every inhabitant of the world together with his merits are weighed on the festival of Rosh HaShanah. If one is found righteous, his [verdict] is sealed for life. If one is found wicked, his [verdict] is sealed for death. A Beinoni’s verdict remains tentative until Yom Kippur. If he repents, his [verdict] is sealed for life. If not, his [verdict] is sealed for death…
And this is the teaching which I believe Peres found so inspirational:
…Accordingly, throughout the entire year, a person should always look at himself as equally balanced between merit and sin and the world as equally balanced between merit and sin. If he performs one sin, he tips his balance and that of the entire world to the side of guilt and brings destruction upon himself.
And so Peres, to his dying day, asked himself, “Did I bring more good to the world today, or bad?”
Is this a question that each of us can ask ourselves? Maybe it is only a question for great individuals. The rest of us can be free to go about our lives day by day, just trying to get by.
This morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Nitzavim, would suggest otherwise. It opens with Moses leading the Israelites through a covenant ceremony. He begins:
Atem nitzavim hayom kulkhem lifnei Adonai Eloheikhem. You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord you God
It is important to note that Moses begins with the general – “all of you.”
He then specifies the leaders: “your tribal heads, your elders and your officials.”
But then, to underscore the point that this message is not reserved for the elites in society, Moses continues: “all the men of Israel, your children, your wives.”
Finally, even those at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder are included: “even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer.” (29:9-11)
Moses goes on to specify that it is not just the generation about to enter the Promised Land that stands there. Rather, all of their descendants, up to and including us, are present to affirm the Jewish people’s covenant with God.
Parashat Nitzavim is always read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah. It is no accident. We are meant to hear this opening line. The word that stands out is hayom. Today. Moses’ instruction is delivered in the second person, in the present tense. He is addressing us, in this moment.
He then tells a story of sin, punishment, exile, and then return, invoking the word teshuvah seven times. The parashah ends with Moses’ exhortation to us: “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life…” (30:19)
The question that guided Shimon Peres’ life, “Did I bring more good to the world today, or bad?” can be traced back to Maimonides, and even further back to Moses in the Torah itself. It is a question not just for the great among us. But truly, it is a question that each of us must ask ourselves.
And not only as we approach the new year. It is a question for hayom. Today.
I wonder if we might take this lesson from the great Shimon Peres and make this a regular question that each one of us reflects on at the end of every day. “Did I bring more good to the world today, or bad?” Did I tip the scales of my own life towards merit, and thus save the world? When presented with the choice, did I choose life?
Shanah Tovah.
Rebyehoshua 