Category Archives: Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons)

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March 9, 2013

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Do Jewish And Love It – Vayakhel-Pekudei 5773

This morning, we read the double portion of Vayakhel-Pekudei. It describes the building of the Tabernacle. We hear a lot about the chief craftsman – Betzalel. There is even a major university in Jerusalem named after him, The Bezalel School of Art and Design.

But we don’t hear so much about his number two guy – Aholiav. He is mentioned only five times in the Torah, once at the beginning of last week’s Parshah, and four times in this week’s double portion.

Here is what we know about him: Aholiav was the chief assistant to Betzalel. His father’s name was Ahisamach, from the tribe of Dan. He was an expert carver, designer, and embroiderer in blue, purple, and crimson yarns, and in fine linen.*1* That is pretty much it in the Torah. And the Rabbis don’t have much more to add.

The Talmud*2* cites a midrash about one of Aholiav’s descendants. When King Solomon was building the Temple in Jerusalem nearly four hundred years later, he recruited a lot of top talent. One of the artisans mentioned is named Hiram from Tyre. This is a different Hiram than the well-known King Hiram from Lebanon. Hiram of Tyre is described in the Book of Chronicles*3* as being “skilled at working in gold, silver, bronze, iron, precious stones, and wood; in purple, blue, and crimson yarn and in fine linen…” His mother is from the tribe of Dan, and his father is a Tyrian.

The midrash notes that Hiram’s mother and Aholiav both come from the same tribe, Dan. And, they both share common skills in artistry. The lesson is then drawn that a child should never abandon his or her parent’s trade.

Elsewhere in the Talmud*4*, we are taught: “Happy is a person who sees one’s parents in an exalted trade. Woe to a person who sees one’s parents in an inferior trade.”

The Torah Temimah, Rabbi Barukh Epstein’s turn of the twentieth century commentary that weaves together the Torah and the oral tradition, ties these two midrashim together:

“When [a peson’s] parents seize on to a nice trade, s/he too will seize on it. And so to when [a person’s parents] seize on to an inferior trade, s/he too will seize it. Therefore, happy is one who sees his/her parents in an exalted trade, because s/he will consequently seize upon something similar.”*5*

The Torah Temimah is not saying that children have to follow their parents into business. No, the burden is not on the child to follow his or her parents’ examples. The burden is on the parents to be the example for their children. And the result, according to the midrash, is “ashrei,” happiness.

So much of our path in life is set into motion by our upbringing. Our parents are our moral, intellectual, and emotional role models. Whether we embrace their example, or reject it, we will always be responding to what we experienced growing up.

A son who sees his mother making ethical decisions in business is much likelier to make decisions ethically himself. Similarly, if a person’s father lied and cheated, his daughter is far more likely to behave similarly.

This is also true when it comes to transmitting our Jewish tradition. The big question everyone in the Jewish world wrestles with today is continuity. How do we ensure that the next generation is going to continue to identify Jewishly and affiliate with the Jewish community?

And so, the money pours in. Lately, the trend is towards trans or post-denominationalism. The big bucks have gone towards Jewish day schools, summer camps, and free trips to Israel for young adults. Spend the vast amount of resources on creating Jewish experiences for young people, the thinking goes, and they will continue to affiliate when they start to have families of their own. Maybe it will work.

At the local level, although we don’t quite have the big bucks, we are also concerned with the questions of Jewish continuity. When I speak with parents before their children’s Bar or Bat Mitzvah, this is by far the number one goal that they express for their kids.

For decades, synagogues have invested their energy in children’s programming: religious school, youth groups, Shabbat youth programs. And these things are important. We have to provide engaging religious and educational opportunities for kids in our synagogue.

But that, in and of itself, is not going to achieve the desired outcome. Pouring all of our religious commitment into our kids is not going to make them better Jews. It is not likely to produce a deep and lasting faith, or a life-long commitment to Judaism.

The model cannot be totally kid-centered. When it is, the message it sends is that as soon as you have your Bar or Bat Mitzvah, or for some, graduate high school, then you are done.

When we pour all of our efforts into kids, it means that there is nothing left for adults except to repeat the pattern with their own kids.

The solution for Jewish continuity is not to create more and more programs and educational opportunities for children. These things are certainly important, but are ultimately hollow if we don’t do something else.

The solution lies with all of us: We have to do Jewish things, and we have to love it.

This has been my driving goal for our Purim celebration. Growing up, Purim was always a kid-centered holiday. It was great fun dressing up, eating lots of junk, running around, and making a lot of noise. But when you outgrow that, what is left? My goal for Sinai has been to take back Purim from the kids. The adults have to have fun. Because you know what, if we are having fun, the kids are going to have fun too. And they are going to expect to have fun when they grow up.

The same is true for Pesach, in just over two weeks. When there are a lot of kids around a seder table, there is pressure to cater to them. To skip the adult-level conversations and hurry up to the meal. But when we do that, we are not doing the kids any favors. Children need to see adults engaging in the seder at an adult level. And they need to be welcomed to participate at that adult level when they express an interest. That leaves a powerful impression, a more powerful impression, I suspect, than a seder that is only about games and exclusively kid-oriented activities.

It is also true with regard to the daily practice of Judaism. When Jewish ritual is normative in a household, and embraced positively, that leaves an impression.

To a parent who asks “what can I do so that my kids will be Jewish when they grow up?” my answer is “Have Shabbat dinner at home every week, and make sure that you enjoy it.”

When children see the adults in their lives embracing Jewish life in meaningful ways, that becomes a model for themselves.

Imagine a child complains “why do I have to go to Hebrew school? It’s so boring.”

If the answer is “I know it’s boring, but you’re going because I had to go when I was your age,” what do you think that child is going to take from the experience?

Think about how different the lesson would be if the answer is: “because learning is a really important part of Judaism, and religious school is where you go to learn. I am learning by reading such and such a book, or taking such and such a class.”

So many Jewish adults today ended their formal Jewish education right after their Bar or Bat Mitzvah. So many parents never had a chance to engage formally as adults with our rich tradition.

If we want our kids to embrace Jewish life as adults, the answer is not forcing them to do it as a necessary rite of passage. We have to embrace Jewish life ourselves, and then we can invite our kids to join us.

If the midrash connecting Aholiav and Hiram is true, I would imagine that the children of the tribe of Dan saw their parents engaging in fine craftsmanship from a young age. They saw adults having meaningful conversations about metalwork and embroidery. They saw uncles and aunts, neighbors, and elders showing and admiring one another’s work.

The young Danites attended formal and informal classes where they learned the basics of artistry, and then entered into apprenticeships as teen-agers, before finally opening up shops of their own as master craftsmen.

By creating such a culture, the great great great great great grandson or nephew of the number two artisan in the construction of the Tabernacle was privileged to serve as one of the primary architects of King Solomon’s Temple.

 

*1*Exodus 38:23

*2*BT Arachin 16b

*3*II Chronicles 2:13

*4*BT Kiddushin 82b

*5*Torah Temimah on Exodus 31:6

 

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March 2, 2013

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Ki Tissa 5773 – Oy For The Extra Soul

וְשָׁמְרוּ בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת־הַשַּׁבָּת לַעֲשׂוֹת אֶת־הַשַּׁבָּת לְדֹרֹתָם בְּרִית עוֹלָם.  בֵּינִי וּבֵין בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אוֹת הִוא לְעֹלָם כִּי־שֵׁשֶׁת יָמִים עָשָׂה יְהוָֹה אֶת־הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֶת־הָאָרֶץ וּבַיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי שָׁבַת וַיִּנָּפַשׁ. *1*

…uvayom hashevi-i shavat vayinafash

“It shall be a sign for all time between Me and the people of Israel. [For in six days YHVH made heaven and earth,] and on the seventh day He ceased from work and was refreshed”

On its surface, this passage is connecting the observance of Shabbat to the Creation of the universe. The idea that God spent six days working, and then as the final act of Creation, ceased all labor and rested, is the origin of the human need to rest. As it often does, the Torah speaks in anthropomorphisms, ascribing to God the word vayinafash. It means more than just “then He rested.” There are other words for that. The word nefesh conveys the idea of soul, or vitality, or essential character.*2* Robert Altar translates the expression as “on the seventh day He ceased and caught His breath.”

A midrash reads something else into this word: vayinafash. Something happens during Shabbat, when we observe it, that is a contrast from our experiences during the other six days of the week.

In the Talmud,*3* Resh Lakish teaches that “The Holy Blessed One gives a person an additional soul (neshamah yeteirah) on the eve of Shabbat, but at the end of Shabbat it is taken away. [How do we know this?] As the Torah says: shavat vayinafash – “He ceased from work and was refreshed.” keivan sheshavat – once that day has ceased, vay avdah nafesh – woe, that soul is gone.

Reish Lakish is pointing to a legend that teaches that we gain an extra soul on Shabbat. That extra soul attaches itself to our seven-day-a-week soul and remains with us for all of Shabbat. When it leaves on Saturday night, we are sad. So the word vayinafash really is a contraction of vay – “oy!!” and nefesh – the soul.

Oy for the loss of the extra Shabbat soul.

Rashi adds that the extra soul enables us to fully enjoy the eating, drinking and relaxation of Shabbat. Food tastes better. The rest is more rejuvenating. And when that special time is over, it’s kind of sad.

It’s like when the last day of a vacation arrives (the kind of vacation that includes relaxing on a resort). We don’t want it to end. We don’t want to go back to work and school, and cooking and cleaning up after ourselves. But every vacation must end. Oy!

Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk, the Kotzker Rebbe, understands the passage a bit differently. He takes the midrash of vayinafash as a lament: “oy for the soul.” But it is not at the end of Shabbat as the extra soul is departing that it happens. It is at the beginning of Shabbat.

Here is how he imagines it: as Shabbat enters us on Friday evening, we are aroused from our foolish slumber and given extra clarity. We look back to the previous six days, and with this new insight, recognize all of those moments that we were not devoted to Torah study or spiritual practice. And then, we cry, “Oy. Woe, that soul that was lost! Woe for all the time wasted in useless endeavors.”

How many minutes spent on Facebook? Or watching TV? Or procrastinating?

How much more time could have been spent with partners or spouses, or friends? Or reading with children? Were there times when we could have been learning Torah? Or performing gemilut chasadim, lovingly helping others?

As Shabbat begins, and we set the distractions aside, we are made painfully aware that our time could have been better-spent.

And so, we are left with two different interpretations of vayinafash. Either it’s the end of Shabbat, and the soul is lamenting the loss of its partner and anticipating the loneliness it will face in the coming week. Or, it’s the beginning of Shabbat, and the newfound awareness instills in us a sense of regret for how poorly we have treated our souls during the previous week.

Either way, “oy!”

Thank God, Rabbi Simchah Bunim has a more positive take on it. He would have us live in the moment. As soon as a person begins to rest on Shabbat, ovedet nafsho “vay” shelah. A person’s soul loses its “oy.”*4*

Shabbat is a taste of the world to come. True Shabbat rest means being fully in the moment. Not regretting the past, nor anticipating the future. Just being present. And when we can do that, all of our “oy’s” float away. I like that.

So which is it? What is Shabbat for us? Is it a temporary opportunity to experience spiritual joy, and heightened sensuality? Is it a painful reminder of how much time we spend not engaged in fruitful endeavors? Or, is it a respite from the difficulties and burdens of life? Probably a bit of all three.

A challenge that many of us face here in the South Bay is that we don’t know how to observe Shabbat. I think that there are a lot of people that recognize a need to slow down and take a break from all of the busy-ness of our lives. A lot of people are longing for spirituality, and would love to be able to have a Shabbat like the midrash describes. A Shabbat on which an extra soul attaches to ours. When food and drink really do taste better. When we get to have rest that is truly rejuvenating.

A barrier for some is, quite simply, not knowing how to do it. Not knowing the prayers to recite around the Shabbat table on Friday night, or how to sing the Shabbat zemirot, the special Sabbath songs. Or, having kids who resist any sort of limits placed on their actions.

In neighborhood Jewish communities, there is a Shabbat feeling that permeates the streets. When we lived in New York, we would pass dozens, maybe even hundreds, of people on our way to and from synagogue. The shul did not have a weekly sit down kiddush, because people in the community would regularly invite each other over for Shabbat lunch, and spend the whole afternoon together. Kids could easily go over to friends’ homes.

Life in the suburbs makes this a whole lot more difficult. Most of us do not have neighbors who are observing Shabbat. The atmosphere in the streets of San Jose does not experience a palpable shift on Friday evening. Few, if any, people in our community are hosting Shabbat lunches in their homes.

So we have brought Shabbat experiences into the shul. For the last several years, we have made a concerted effort to provide a full Shabbat lunch almost every week. We say the berakhot together before the meal, and always sing Birkat HaMazon afterwards, for those who choose to stay long enough. And sometimes, we sing zemirot. For kids, we have brought in books, games, and sports equipment, to make this a fun place to be, and gain positive Shabbat memories. This creates an opportunity, for those who choose to embrace it, to celebrate Shabbat together, and not feel like we are on our own in our homes, longing to have some sort of experience, but not having the resources to do it.

But I still think there is a longing for more. I know there is a longing for more. More opportunities for our souls to lose their “oy’s” by being truly present in the moment. And I think that we can find more of those opportunities together in our shul.

Opportunities to spend Shabbat together: singing, talking, learning, resting. Waking up to become aware of the extra soul.

Shabbat has the potential to transform our entire lives.

That is part of the idea behind havdallah. After the three stars appear in the sky, and Shabbat is technically over, we try to hang on for a few more minutes. So we invoke the senses one last time, hoping that the extra soul will stick around a bit longer.

Havdallah is about beginning the new week with Shabbat still part of us. It sends a hopeful message that we can enter the days of creation without forgetting what we are here for. This week can be the week when the additional soul stays with us. The week when we remember to be spiritually aware in every moment, and when this awareness adds that special spice that makes our food taste better, our rest more rejuvenating, and our love for each other stronger.

This Shabbat can be the Shabbat when the “oy” leaves our soul, and does not come back.

 

 

*1*Exodus 31:16-17

*2*Nahum Sarna, JPS Torah Commentary:Exodus, p. 202.

*3*BT Beitzah 16a, Ta’anit 27b

*4*Itturei Torah III, 256.

 

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February 23, 2013

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Purim 5773 – Vashti, Esther, and Breaking the Rules

The Book of Esther is unusual as one of only two books in the Hebrew Bible named after a woman (Ruth is the other). But Esther is not the first woman whom we meet when we unroll the Megillah scroll.

Those familiar with the basic storyline of Purim know that, before Esther, we are first introduced to Queen Vashti. In chapter one, while King Ahasueros is playing host to a party that has lasted for more than half a year, Vashti is hosting her own women’s banquet in the royal palace. In his drunken state, the king sends his seven eunuchs to fetch Vashti and bring her before him and all of his guests wearing her crown. Vashti refuses to obey the king’s command, and Ahasueros becomes infuriated.

He turns to his closest advisors for counsel on the proper legal response for someone who has disobeyed the king’s order. Memukhan, one of the advisors, steps forward and warns the king that Vashti’s refusal will make all wives throughout the Persian empire begin to hate and disobey their husbands. So he advises the king to order Vashti’s banishment and replacement, and the king complies.

This important episode sets the stage for Esther’s elevation to the royal harem, a position from which she will be situated to heroically save her people in their time of need. But we should not overlook Vashti’s prominent role in the first chapter. The problem is that she has no dialogue. We never hear her voice.

Who is Vashti really?

As many of you know if you have been to our Megillah reading over the past few years, or if you saw the Purim video that my wife Dana and I made, there is a special place in my heart for Vashti. Her story is so ridiculous and over the top that the door is wide open for creative interpretation.

Ancient rabbinic depictions of her are ambivalent. One midrash describes her as wicked, and traces her lineage to Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian king who destroyed the first Temple and sent the Israelites into exile.

Another midrash explains that when the king summons Vashti to come wearing her crown, he intends for her to be wearing nothing else. A critical version of this midrash describes the king’s request as punishment for Vashti having previously forced Jewish women to work naked in the fields. A more sympathetic version of the midrash praises Vashti for resisting her husband’s immodest demands.

In more recent times, feminist readers have found a hero in Queen Vashti. She is a strong, proud woman who stands up to the king with her emphatic refusal to submit to his demeaning command. Her strength strikes terror into the King’s advisors, who worry that all of the women in the empire will follow Vashti’s brazen example and defy their husbands.

When the boorish King banishes her at the recommendation of his drunken male advisors, Vashti marches out of the palace proudly, head held high. She leaves behind her legacy as a proto-feminist martyr.

In contrast, Esther seems passive – she allows herself to be taken into the harem and she obediently does what her uncle Mordechai tells her. She becomes queen based on her looks, not her brains.

Adele Berlin, author of the illuminating and scholarly JPS commentary on Esther, understands Vashti and Esther’s characters differently. To really understand these figures, we need to know something about ancient Persian society.

It was completely inappropriate for husbands to participate in drinking banquets in the presence of their wives. This explains why Vashti hosts a separate banquet for the women. When Ahasueros summons her to appear at his party to show off her beauty before all of his guests, he is the one breaking the rules. In so doing, he places the queen in an impossible situation – she has to either lower herself to the level of a concubine or a slave, or, she has to disobey the king.

Vashti, who is a heroic figure, even if she does not actually rise above the norms of her society, chooses to disobey and suffer the consequences. She defends existing social norms by insisting that the queen should not be put on display. In refusing, she maintains her dignity as her husband loses his. Adele Berlin describes Vashti as playing the role of “the strong-willed royal woman.”

But really, Vashti represents all people whom society places in impossible situations. Do what is asked of you and stay repressed, or suffer the consequences if you try to step out of your role of powerlessness. Perhaps that is why we don’t hear her voice. She does not want to maintain her position in the social order, but she does not have the power to break out of her situation. Think of the billions of people in the world who struggle to break out of societies in which women are repressed, or children don’t receive decent education, or people are trafficked as slaves. People without basic rights have a tough time challenging the status quo.

That is why Esther is the real hero of this story. She has that rare ability to break all the rules, and be adored for it. Whereas Vashti refuses to appear before the king when she is summoned, Esther shows up uninvited. Vashti is punished for her disobedience, while Esther is rewarded for her boldness. And nobody seems to recognize that she has broken the rules. Achashverosh and the rest of Persian society are so enthralled by Esther that they will follow her anywhere. The King gives her everything she asks for, and the Jews rise from obscurity into prominence on Esther’s coattails.

“Breaking the rules” is how we have celebrated Purim ever since. Raucous merriment is the norm, and typical social rules are (mostly) set aside for one day. The bar is brought up on the bimah. Our costumes give us the opportunity to don our alter-egos, and the partying is unmatched by any other holiday in the Jewish calendar. It is even considered acceptable, I regret to say, to make fun of the Rabbi – but I do not recommend it.

As we celebrate Purim this year, I invite us to consider the strength of character of Queens Esther and Vashti. What might they have to teach us? Perhaps a few of us will even take on Vashti as our alter-ego for the day, and give her back her voice.

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February 16, 2013

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Terumah 5773 – Our Life Can Be The Spelling Of An Answer

In Parshat Terumah, God begins to give Moses the detailed blueprints for the mishkan, the Tabernacle, or portable sanctuary that the Israelites will build and carry with them in the wilderness. The section is introduced by a fundraising appeal, identifying all of the precious stones, metals, fabrics and other materials that will be used. Then, we read the famous line v’asu li mikdash v’shakhanti b’tokham. “Make for Me a sanctuary that I might dwell amongst them.”*1*

And then, a final instruction before the details:

“Exactly as I show you – the pattern of the Tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings – so shall you make it.”*2* v’khen ta’asu.

The commentator Rashi asks a question. Why, immediately after telling Moses “Make Me a sanctuary…” does God declare “…so shall you make it”?

The Torah is usually so conservative with words. Doesn’t this seem redundant?

To answer the question, Rashi cites the Talmud. It is not redundant, after all. In fact, it is a separate commandment, l’dorot, he explains, “for the generations.” If, God forbid, one of the numerous vessels or holy items that the Israelites are about to build becomes damaged or lost at some point in the future, these blueprints here in the Book of Exodus must be followed precisely, and in exactly the right sequence, when building the replacement.

The Chassidic master Rabbi Simchah Bunim takes this explanation in a different direction.  He applies the idea of following a process systematically, in the right order, to us today, even though we do not have a Tabernacle.

In every generation, when Jews set out to do holy work, we must do it systematically, recognizing that spiritual growth happens mi-madrega l’madrega, from one step to the next. There is no elevator. We can’t skip steps in the spiritual journey.

Even though Reb Bunim lived in early 19th century Poland, his comment is especially applicable today.

We live in a an increasingly impatient era. Things that used to take a long time now happen in an instant.

Until the invention of the telegraph, for example, if a person wanted to communicate with someone far away, he or she would have to hand write a letter and physically send it with another person. It could take months for a message to reach its recipient. Now, communication is instantaneous.

Until just the last two decades, if I wanted to learn something about an obscure topic, I had to go to the library and actually open books. Now, in the era of Google and Wikipedia, I have instant results in my pocket.

If I want to buy something, I don’t even have to go to the store any more. I can order a case of my favorite cereal at 3 o’clock in the morning.

Instant gratification certainly has its benefits. But I fear that we have also become a less patient society. Things are expected immediately, whether we are talking about work deadlines, a new purchase, or research.

But when it comes to serving God, patience is a virtue. Reb Bunim’s teaching reminds us that there is no such thing as instant gratification in the religious life. Rather, progress is slow as in the metaphor he uses of ascending one step after the next, in order. No skipping.

Despite the impatience of modern life, we still understand that reaching goals takes a lot of systematic effort.

If you want to become a good cook, you can’t just open a cookbook and create a gourmet meal. Learning to handle a knife, understanding how different flavors complement one another, and mastering sauces only comes through experience, and many failed attempts.

The same is true of learning to play a musical instrument. Nobody is going to pick up an instrument for the first time and be able to play the song in his mind that inspired him to pick it up in the first place.

What about starting an exercise regimen? Whether the goal is to lose weight, or increase strength and endurance, it is going to take serious commitment. It will take regular workouts, and lots of time.

Whenever we start something new, there will always be a gap between our goals and what it will take to reach them. Progress requires us to go in a certain order. It is impossible to master more difficult techniques before mastering the basics.

And so, we know and accept that anything worth mastering requires a serious commitment. So why would we expect this to be any different when it comes to religion?

Think back to Reb Bunim’s staircase. To get up to the next step requires a large expenditure of energy. Then, we plateau for a while. That is what happens for someone trying to master a skill, and it can also be true in the spiritual life. There are times when we don’t feel connected. When performing mitzvot does not feel like serving God. This can be discouraging. In an age of so much impatience, we are tempted to look for shortcuts.

I worry that organized religion today has succumbed to the era of instant gratification. We plan shul activities as if they are stand-alone events. When planning anything for the synagogue, I am always asking myself, “what is going to attract somebody to this program.” We have to think about marketing and advertising to attract people to religion. Shuls nowadays need to have slick websites, and Facebook pages. We have to be able to get our vision and mission out there, so that the general public will get what we are all about in five seconds or less.

The pressure is on for our religious services to be spiritually moving for everyone who walks through the door.

But spirituality is not something that we consume in single servings. Our innate human curiosity about what is out there, and where we come from, and what the purpose of our lives is, is not going to be answered in one program.

We are all spiritual beings. But to be engaged in these questions requires a lifelong commitment. It is like learning to master an instrument. The more we play, the more music we can create. And the more complicated the music we create, the more variables come into being.

Journeying down the spiritual path will only lead us to more questions. But they are precisely the questions that make our lives matter.

In Man is Not Alone, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel writes “our life can be the spelling of an answer.”*3*  So we should not be discouraged. Whatever step each of us finds ourselves on, we can strive to reach the next step.

For someone, that may be learning how to read Hebrew to keep up in the service. For someone else, the next step might be taking some time to meditate on the meaning of certain prayers.  In other aspects of Jewish life, it might mean trying to increase the amount of charity that a person gives. Or it could mean finding opportunities to volunteer.  Maybe the step for someone is starting to introduce kashrut into his or her life. Maybe for someone else it is trying to cut back on gossip.

Notice that some of the examples I gave were in the ritual sphere, and some were more in the ethical sphere. Being on a spiritual journey requires us to recognize that everything we do has to do with God.

When the Israelites received the instructions to build the Tabernacle, they were given something special. It was not only at Mount Sinai that our ancestors could experience something spiritual. They were invited to be engaged with God wherever they went, at every moment.

And here we are thousands of years later, also invited to be engaged with the questions that matter, and to strive to have the patience to take the next step up the staircase.

*1*Exodus 25:8

*2*Exodus 25:9

*3*Abraham Joshua Heschel, Man Is Not Alone, p. 78.

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January 19, 2013

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Bo 5773 – Pharaoh, Lance, and Us

This week, we are going to talk about someone who was larger than life. Someone who was at the top of his field. His competitors couldn’t touch him. He was invincible. Anyone who dared challenge him would be trampled underfoot.

And then, even when indications began to accumulate that he was not who he had claimed to be all this time, he continued to persist.

When some of the members of his team began to question his invincibility, he responded with threats, stubbornly holding out.

Finally, when the evidence could be ignored no longer, he backed down, admitting that he was not the person whom he had claimed to be.

But was the concession sincere? Did he mean it? Has he really come down from his high podium out of genuine contrition? Or, is it merely an attempt to shake off the feeding frenzy that has been attacking from all sides? Is he a changed man, or will he revert to his old ways?

Any guesses who we are talking about?

Actually, it’s two different men: Lance Armstrong and Pharaoh. Two people who were lured by the promise of fame and wealth. Of prestige. Of knowing that there is nobody else in your field who can touch you.

It turns out that these are extremely powerful forces. They can lead a person to set aside ethics, break the law, lie, and even abandon friends and family.

Of course, we have a role in all of this as well, just as the Egyptian people had a role in Pharaoh’s stubbornness. Lance Armstrong would not have achieved what he did without us: the fans, and the consumers.

His story of overcoming cancer was inspiring to millions. His charity did so much good. His unimaginable comeback in leading the US Postal cycling team to win seven consecutive French Open titles was simply astounding.

As it turns out, Lance Armstrong was using performance enhancing drugs for years. Through bribery and lying, he avoided being caught by drug testers. He threatened anyone who confronted him, including friends and teammates. He lied under oath.

Until recently, it all paid off. Lance Armstrong brought incredible prestige and money to the sport of cycling. He made a hundred million dollars or more in product endorsements and prize money. And he became one of the most popular sports figures in the world.

Never mind that it is so unbelievably unlikely that a person could accomplish what he accomplished without using performance enhancing drugs. Come on. Did we really think he could do something so impossibly unlikely on his own? Apparently we did. Or we wanted to. We wanted it all to be true. We love our heroes, so we are willing to overlook the ugliness.

But we also love to see our heroes come crashing down. We get a sick kind of pleasure when we witness the fall of someone who has achieved greatness to a level at which we can only dream. That’s why Lance Armstrong’s interview with Oprah this week has drawn so much attention.

“He wasn’t that good after all,” we can now tell ourselves. But are we any better off now that Lance has fallen from his podium? No.

I’ll leave it to others who follow these things more closely to do the close analysis. I hope that Armstrong’s extremely public admission of guilt is the beginning of a long process of teshuvah, of repentance. While public opinion will pass its own judgment, only time will tell if he is ready to become a new man. And only God and Lance will know if he has truly changed his neshamah, his soul.

Pharaoh shares much with Lance. Granted, there is a big difference between being an athlete and being the King of the most powerful empire in the world. The stakes, in terms of human lives, are much greater in Pharaoh’s case.

But Pharaoh, also, is addicted to power, prestige, and wealth. In his world, he is no mere human. He is the living embodiment of the sun god, and thus cannot concede to any challenge, whether that challenge comes from Moses, or from the Lord of the Universe.

Pharaoh’s pursuit of wealth and power and his single-minded desire to retain it, leads him to trample on the lives of the Israelites. He has ordered their enslavement, decreed the murder of their male children, increased their workload, and refused to let up even a little. Why? Greed and power. These slaves built him the garrison cities of Pithom and Rameses. His drive for wealth has eclipsed any smidgen of an ethical sensibility or human compassion.

But it is not all on Pharaoh. He believes what everybody is saying about him: that he is the sun god; that he is all-powerful; and that he deserves it. Pharaoh’s “fans,” so to speak, have reinforced all of the unethical behaviors of which he is guilty. And they have benefited too, with a slave underclass to make their lives a bit cushier.

Years of sycophancy have made Pharaoh hard-hearted towards Moses’ cry of “Let me people go.”

So God brings ten plagues of evidence to demonstrate that Pharaoh is not divine. Towards the end, his people are convinced. They abandon him, and urge their king to let the Israelites leave. The Egyptians have finally begun to appreciate their slaves as human beings, and especially Moses, the Prophet of the true God of the Universe. As this morning’s Torah portion tells us, “The Lord disposed the Egyptians favorably toward the people. Moreover, Moses himself was much esteemed in the land of Egypt, among Pharaoh’s courtiers and among the people.”*1*

God’s plan, from the beginning of the Book of Exodus, has been to demonstrate to Pharaoh that no human being is that great. But the message is not only directed at him. God is clear that all of Egyptian society is complicit in the oppression of the Israelites. The sin is not only Pharaoh’s, and the punishment is not alone for him to bear. The lesson that God has set out to impart is directed as much to the Egyptian people as it is to Pharaoh. And through them, to the rest of the world.

What is that lesson?

Ultimately, it is a lesson of humility. As humans, we need to know our limits. We are not gods. We are not superior to one another. We are not immune to norms of basic human morality. And none of us are above the laws of a just society.

This message is timeless. For there will always be those who do not see themselves as being subject to typical norms of human behavior. Whether we are talking about politicians, business people, entertainers, or professional athletes.

But we also can’t just sit back and take silent pride in the moral failings of public figures.

We need to remember that we are an integral part of this system. Without a public to care about their lives, there would be no famous people. There is a part of me that feels bad for those celebrities whose egos and faults are reinforced and strengthened by the public’s attention. I cannot imagine how difficult it wold be to live ethically, to be one’s best self, under such scrutiny.

I hope that Lance Armstrong is sincere. I wish him the strength to face the consequences of his actions, and to correct the harm that he has caused.

And I hope that we can take a sober look at ourselves, and acknowledge how we contribute to a society that pushes people to allow greed and the quest for money or power to inflate the ego and suppress good behavior.

*1*Exodus 11:3

 

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January 5, 2013

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Ki Tov Hu – Shemot 5773

When my sister in law had her first child, she called up my wife and asked her, “Isn’t my baby the most beautiful baby you have ever seen?”

To which my wife responded, “No. My baby is the most beautiful baby ever.”

Of course, they are both right. To every mother, her baby is the most beautiful, and she would do anything for that child.

This is a phenomenon that goes all the way back to the beginning of the book of Exodus. The Israelites are enslaved in Egypt. Pharaoh and the Egyptians have been oppressing them. After trying, unsuccessfully, to compel the midwives to murder any male child born to an Israelite, Pharaoh issues a more specific decree: all Israelite boys are to be thrown into the Nile.

Then, in chapter two, the camera zooms in from the wide angle lens to focus in on one particular baby boy: “A certain man of the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw how beautiful he was, she hid him for three months.”

And so begins the story of Moses. A couple of problems with our text.

First, as illustrated by the interaction between my wife and sister in law, there is nothing extraordinary about a mother looking at her newborn baby boy and noticing how beautiful he is.

Second, there is also nothing unusual about a mother trying to defy a horrific decree by keeping her son in hiding.

As Nachmanides says: “All women love their children, beautiful or not, and they would all hide them to the best of their ability; there is no need to say that he was beautiful to explain why she hid him.”*1*

The universality of a mother and father’s love of her or his child is a given, across all time and culture. So why would the Torah take the time to mention something so obvious?

Naturally, there are a number of commentaries from our tradition that give us additional insight into Moses’ birth. The Torah states, Vatere oto ki tov hu – “When she saw how tov he was…”*2* What does tov mean in this context? The Talmud offers five explanations*3*:

“Rabbi Meir says: His name was Tov” Remember that he does not receive the name Moshe until the Egyptian daughter of Pharaoh rescues him from the Nile River. Tov was his birth name.

“Rabbi Judah says: His name was Tuviah” – This answer is similar to the first one, with two additional letters, yud, heh. These are letters from the name of God. It is common for biblical names to incorporate the Divine name.

“Rabbi Nehemiah says: [She foresaw that he would be] worthy of prophecy” – That is to say, Moses’ mother saw something in him that was not typical. Guided herself perhaps through prophecy, she saw God’s presence in this child in a way that made her confident he would be saved if she took extraordinary measures, which might explain why she sent him off in a basket down the Nile River.

The Talmud’s final two explanations are based on another appearance of the word tov in the Torah: Va’yar elohim et ha’or ki tov*4* – “And God saw that the light was tov.”

The word tov appears seven times in the account of creation. It indicates God’s satisfaction that each of those things that are declared tov have been made complete. The Talmud’s fourth explanation builds on this.

“Others say: He was born circumcised” Circumcision is the perfection, or completion, of the male body. So when Moses’ mother sees him and declares him to be tov, it means that he came out circumcised.

Finally, the last explanation is by the Sages: “At the time when Moses was born, the whole house was filled with light — it is written here, ‘And she saw that he was tov,’ and elsewhere it is written: ‘And God saw that the light was tov.'” Moses came out glowing. He was glowing with potential, a new creation. Like the light that God created and separated from darkness on the first day, Moses’ birth heralds the dawn of something new.

Moses is certainly an extraordinary human being. He deserves to have a a story recorded in the Torah about his birth. But the truth is, every child born is beautiful, tov, in all of these senses. Beautiful, complete, perfect, blameless. A continuation of creation. But more than just tov in the present, in that miraculous moment of coming into being. A new human being is also tov in the sense of containing the potential for redemption.

That is why we welcome Elijah the Prophet at a Brit Milah or a Simchat Bat ceremony. Elijah, Jewish tradition teaches, will announce the coming of the Messiah and the redemption of the world. Every baby who is born has the potential to bring the world closer to redemption.

This is why, in our family, we tell our children “I can’t wait to see who you will become.”

This past week, the children of Newtown went back to school for the first time. Our nation is still going through a process of soul-searching after the tragedy at Sandy Hook elementary school. Those twenty children, all of them tovim: beautiful, perfect creations, contained within them so much potential for goodness in our world.

The tragedy has opened up a conversation about violence in our society, gun control, mental health services, violent video games, eroding moral values, and more. These are important conversations to have. While the connections between any one particular policy issue and different outcomes is often difficult to establish, there is a widespread sense that we are off course, and not doing enough to protect and cultivate the tov in our children.

Many faith communities are getting involved in these issues, including among American Jews. The leadership of Conservative Judaism, representing all of the various bodies of the movement, have recently reiterated its call for tighter regulations of the sale of guns and ammunition through adoption of common sense gun policies.

I am skeptical, given our fractured society, whether anything will be done.

But I want to come back to Nachmanides, who stated the obvious, declared, and I’ll take the liberty of making a couple of slight adjustments “All men and women love their children, beautiful or not, and they would all protect them to the best of their ability…”

We may think we are doing the best we can in our own sheltered communities. But we are part of a much larger society, in which the evidence would suggest that we are falling short of Nachmanides’ assumption. We are not protecting our kids to the best of our ability. And that has to change.

When Moses was born, light filled the room. When his mother saw it, she saw his beauty, his potential, his ability to bring goodness into the world, and she declared him tov. Every child fills our world with light. It is up to us to recognize it and build a society in which it can shine.

*1*Commentary on Exodus 2:2

*2*Exodus 2:2

*3*BT Sotah 12a

*4*Genesis 1:4

 

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December 22, 2012

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Connecting the Dots – Vayigash 5773

We would expect Joseph to be furious with his brothers. Several parashiyot ago we hear them say “come now, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; and we can say, ‘A savage beast devoured him.’ We shall see what comes of his dreams!”*1*

It is only thanks to Reuben and Judah’s desperate intervention that Joseph is sold into slavery instead.

Even though things eventually turn out pretty good for Joseph, just try, for a moment, to imagine what it must have been like for him when his brothers threw him into that pit so many years ago. Imagine the insults they must have shouted. The taunts. The hatred.

Even if, physically, Joseph comes out on top, I can’t imagine the emotional trauma that a younger brother would experience when his older siblings abuse him like that. We would expect that rejection to stick with Joseph throughout his life.

That is why his reaction to his brothers in this morning’s Torah portion is so remarkable.

When he finally reveals himself, listen to what he says: “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you… God has sent me ahead of you to ensure your survival on earth… it was not you who sent me here, but God…”*2*

Just contrast Joseph’s attitude to the brothers’ attitude years before. They are extremely short-sighted. They are thinking only in the moment. Here is this annoying little brother of ours. He thinks he’s so great. Just look at that ornamented tunic that he is always prancing about in. Father loves him best.

The brothers are stuck in their own anger, in the moment. When they act, they don’t consider the repercussions.

Not so Joseph. He is focused on the big picture. If there are any leftover emotions of anger, or desire for revenge, we do not see them.

Instead of his brothers comforting him and apologizing to him, it is Joseph who is doing the comforting! They don’t even have a chance to apologize. He absolves them of guilt, explaining their horrible behavior as God’s plan. It had to happen that way so that Joseph could be brought to Egypt, become vizier to Pharaoh, and save their lives.

The entire Joseph story is marked by peaks and valleys. Joseph rises to the top, and then is cast down, only to rise again in most remarkable fashion. We see this pattern repeat itself in his father’s house, Potiphar’s estate, and Pharaoh’s court. Throughout, Joseph sees the active hand of God in his life. We, the readers, do not see God’s direct intervention in Joseph’s life at any point in this story.

It is Joseph himself who connects the dots. He chooses to see a pattern in the random events that befall him. That pattern points to a Divine purpose. A purpose that is first foretold in his boyhood dreams of his brothers bowing down to him. Now we discover that those dreams have been fulfilled, in the most extraordinary way.

Unlike the rest of the Book of Genesis, in which God’s hand is much more apparent, the Joseph saga is like the world we know. We, like Joseph and his brothers, choose how to see the peaks and valleys of our lives.

Are they a series of random dots, ultimately patternless and meaningless. Are we alone to make decisions by ourselves? When outside forces impinge on our lives for good or for bad, are they essentially random and unpredictable?

Or, do we connect those dots in a way that points to a purpose for our existence? Do we see the things that happen to us in the context of Jewish history? Do Jewish beliefs, traditions, and practices help us contextualize the blessings and tragedies that we all face? In short, is God involved in a purposeful way in our lives?

*1*Genesis 37:20

*2*Genesis 45:4-8

I got some ideas from a D’var Torah called Unanticipated Consequences, by Rabbi Marc Wolf, Vice Chancellor and Director of Community Engagement for the Jewish Theological Seminary

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December 8, 2012

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The Miracle of the First Night – Chanukah 5773

Imagine that you were with the Maccabees. You have been fighting for three years against the Greeks for religious freedom, for the rights of Jews living in their homeland to practice their religion and customs according to their ancient traditions. Finally, you and your fellow soldiers have recaptured the Temple in Jerusalem. As you walk through the ruined and defiled grounds, you see the refuse of idolatrous sacrifices polluting the sacred space. The holiest items: the altar, the special table that stood outside the Holy of Holies, and the menorah, the seven branched candelabrum, are strewn about, shattered and soiled.

It is time now to reinstate the way of life that you have been fighting for these past three years, to rededicate the Temple. Time to reinstitute the daily worship of God. First and foremost among those rituals, the daily lighting of the menorah.

But there is a problem. You need fuel – oil. And not just any oil will do. You need special, purified olive oil to do it properly, but there is none to be found. There is, however, lots of defiled oil. Large open vats of it, in fact.

So now you are faced with a dilemma. What to do? You could just get some of the defiled oil and use that. After all, getting the menorah lit and starting up the sacrifices is the main point, isn’t it? Why not just use the regular stuff for the time being?

But that will not do. What have you been fighting for these past three years? For your ancient laws and traditions. No. It must be done properly. We cannot compromise our standards.

So you and your fellows begin to look around among the refuse. After hours of searching, a child runs up, excited, clutching a container of oil. The wax seal is embossed with the symbol of the High Priest, indicating that the olive oil inside is pure, and fit for Temple use.

This small discovery raises another dilemma. There is enough oil to light the daily offering once. But it is going to take at least another week before more purified oil can be prepared. You could use this oil, but you will face the exact same situation again tomorrow. The rededication of the Temple will fizzle out after only a day.

Someone speaks up with a rational proposal. “Why bother lighting a flame that is bound to burn out before the Temple is rededicated? Let’s wait a week for the olive oil presses to ramp up production. Then, we’ll have all the fuel we need. We can start up the daily offerings without having to worry about what to do tomorrow. It’s been three years. What is one more week?”

But that is not what you decide to do. You light the menorah on the spot – right then and there. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring. There are no guarantees. But right now, in this imperfect moment, when we have no assurance that we will be able to complete the rededication of the Temple, we can take advantage of the opportunities before us, and light the lights.

So that is what you do. The soldiers gather around, and watch as the newly instated priest breaks open the seal on the jar of oil, fills the cups in the menorah, and kindles the flame.

You are probably familiar with the miracle that comes next. After one day, the light still burns. It continues to burn, defying everyone’s expectations, for seven additional days. Finally, a new batch of oil is ready, and the daily offerings can continue.

So what is the miracle of Chanukkah? That the small amount of oil, which was only enough for one day, burned for eight days? That is what we are taught. But truth be told, it’s kind of weak.

The Rabbis ask a question. Technically, the miracle only lasted from days 2 through 8. Perhaps, therefore, if Chanukkah is meant to celebrate the miracle of the oil, it should only be celebrated for seven days. There was no miracle on the first day, because there was enough oil.

Rabbi David Hartman suggests that “the miracle of the first day was expressed in the community’s willingness to light a small cruse of oil without reasonable assurance that their efforts would be sufficient to complete the rededication of the Temple.”*1*

In fact, that is the real miracle. We tell the story of Chanukkah, and we just kind of rush through our explanations of the oil burning seven days longer than it should. But for the Maccabees who had to make the decision about what to do, they were stepping out into the unknown.

They acted, even though there was no guarantee of success, no sure knowledge of how things would turn out in the end.

Miracles require human agency. They require courageous decisions by committed people who are not assured of a positive outcome.

Most of us, when considering whether to undertake an action whose completion is not guaranteed, tend to not start. That is the rational approach, after all. Why waste the effort?

But sometimes, the decision to act, especially when the outcome is unknown, leads us down new, unexpected paths, and opens doors that we could have never foreseen.

That is the miracle of the first day of Chanukkah. That this ragtag group of Maccabees took advantage of the opportunities that were presented to them in that moment, in the form of a small vessel of oil. “The Hanukkah lamp burned for eight days because of those who were prepared to have it burn for only one day.”*2* Their action opened doors for future miracles. Not just the miracle of the oil. But the miracle of Jewish independence, and ultimately, the miracle of Jewish survival for the next two thousand years, until the present day.

Like the small vessel of oil that, overcoming all logic, refused to burn out, we the Jewish people, who have always been small, have stubbornly held on to our way of life no matter what opposition we faced. And here we are today. The miracle of Jewish survival is a product of our people’s willingness, through the generations, to step out boldly into the unknown even though the future was uncertain.

But we do not need to look only to the grand sweep of history to find this. We face it every day. How often do we not act because the outcome is uncertain, or because we think our actions are futile? For example: The persistence of poverty, in the poorest countries of the world as well as in our own city, is so overwhelming that it seems like no action that we take could make a dent. Many of us choose inaction, excusing ourselves with the knowledge that nothing we do will make an impact.

If there is a lesson from our tradition, and especially from Chanukkah, it is that we never know what the future will hold. Offering up an unknown outcome as an excuse for present complacency is just laziness. We have to be Maccabees, who responded to the opportunities that the moment presented.

Tonight, we light the first flame of Chanukkah. Fortunately, for us, Chanukkah candles come in boxes of 44, just enough to get us through eight days. But as we light that first flame, let us go back to the original Chanukkah, when the future was uncertain and the present demanded us to be courageous, and stand up for our ideals and our way of life. Let us light the first light.

*1*David Hartman, “Trusting in a New Beginning,” in A Different Light: The Hanukkah Book of Celebration, ed. Noam Zion and Barbara Spectre, p. 195.

*2*Ibid, p. 196.

 

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October 20, 2012

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The Cooperation of Sun and Rain – Noach 5773

I find it amusing how companies that produce baby toys use the theme of Noah’s Ark so much. You know, an old guy in a big wooden boat and two of every animal. It makes one wonder if the folks who use that imagery have ever actually read the story of Noah’s Ark. It does not paint a pretty picture. And it is certainly not a baby story.

There is an important thread running through this morning’s Torah portion, Parshat Noach, that captures the essence of the human condition, as well as God’s most basic hope for humanity. It is a theme that is revealed in God’s decision to wipe out life on earth, in God’s promise to Noah never to do it again, and in the later story of the Tower of Babel. What does God want from us? What is our purpose in being here? Parshat Noach teaches that the primary obligation of humanity is to build a society that enables every one of its members to flourish. That is what we are here for.

Ten generations after creating the world, God looks at it and is filled with regret. Humanity has corrupted the earth and filled it with violence and lawlessness.

And so God decides to wipe out all life and start over.

What is different before and after? How can God be certain that the near universal corruption that characterizes Creation 1.0 will not reemerge in Creation 2.0?

As commentator Robert Saks describes it, Creation 1.0 is a “pre-legal world.” There are no laws, no external rules telling people how to distinguish between good and bad. God expects people to just kind of know for themselves. Perhaps the quality of having been created in the Divine Image was supposed to have enabled us to figure things out on our own. It finally reaches the point at which the entire world has become inundated by evil. God regrets having made humanity. God’s entire assumption about life on earth, that human beings would know, by some internal moral barometer, how to behave, is flawed. The Divine Image in which every person was created seems to have been repressed.

This is not a judgment and punishment of the world. There is no language of that. The text of the Torah does not dwell on human wickedness, and God does not send them any warnings. While we might be happier if people had been given a chance to mend their ways, that is not the purpose of this story. God is sad and regretful. So God decides to wipe away life on earth. As in, with an eraser. Think of it as reformatting the hard drive.

But there is a problem. There is one man who is righteous, the only one in the entire generation. It is not so much that God saved Noah. According to Saks, God sees Noah and “knows that [God] will have to distinguish between the guilty and the innocent.”*1* Indeed, this will become the major ethical question of the new world that is about to emerge.

So God instructs Noah to build an ark for himself, his family, and representatives of every species of animal on earth. What is an ark? Basically, it is a floating box with no rudder, sails, or helm.

Once Noah and the others enter the ark, God seals it from the outside, and promptly forgets about them. In the ark, they are in a different dimension than the rest of the world, so that when the waters of chaos rush in to erase the earth, those in the ark are not part of it.

Eventually, after the floods have risen to submerge the highest peaks, God remembers Noah, and causes the waters to gradually recede.

When Noah emerges from the ark, he immediately offers a sacrifice to God. God then pledges to never again doom the earth because of human beings. “So long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night shall not cease.”*2* God is not going to erase creation again, even though human beings are imperfect. This is incredibly significant. In the new world order, God has given human beings a certain amount of security in knowing that the earth will be here for the long haul. God strikes a covenant with Noah. A covenant is a solemn promise that establishes a permanent relationship between two parties. That is what God is offering humanity – a permanent relationship.

But of course, there are some stipulations. Human beings will have some obligations in this new world order. Among them, we have to establish rules. The Torah states it in the most basic of terms: “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in His image did God make man.”*3* This poetic verse is the basis of civilization. There is a fundamental equality between every human being, and we humans have an obligation to create societies with rules that we enforce to protect that fundamental equality.

That is God’s plan for humanity. That we should learn to live together in such a way that the part of us that is made in the Divine image can flourish.

We saw what happened when there were no external rules. That was the state of things before the flood. Humanity embarked on a destructive path that could not be sustained.

We are given the first clue that something is different as soon as the animals take their first steps on dry land. Instead of coming out as they had entered, l’minehu, as different species. when the animals emerge from the ark, they come out l’mishp’choteihem, as families.*4* Instead of highlighting the distinction, the separateness, between the different species, the Torah nows emphasizes family relationships. The new world order will depend on people coming together as families, as cultures, and as communities with their own traditions. This is highlighted in the story that comes at the end of the Parshah, the Tower of Babel. It is the origin myth of the diversity of human culture. After banding together to try to build a tower to the heavens and overthrow God, God confounds peoples’ speech and scatters them across the earth.

We might be tempted to see this as a punishment for rebellion. But the scattering of humanity has its positive side too. Because it results in the development of different languages, and different cultures. And families that pass on traditions. And human societies in different parts of the world that are unique and special.

Today, we are living in the same world: post-flood, post-diluvian, if you want the fancy word. Our society is struggling to find that formula of laws and traditions that will enable every human being to flourish, to bring out that aspect of each of us that is made in the Divine image.

This all goes back to the covenant that God made with Noah, which is really a covenant with humanity.

The viability of a covenant is dependent on memory. Every covenant needs a sign. The sign of this covenant, of course, is still with us. It is used in all of those baby toys I mentioned earlier. God placed a keshet in the sky, a rainbow. It is interesting that the purpose of the rainbow is not to remind humans about anything. God says that the rainbow will remind God of the promise not to wipe out the world again. For humans, then, seeing the rainbow is a reminder of God’s promise. It reassures us that the world will continue to follow the rules of nature, and that we are free to continue our efforts to flourish.

What is it about a rainbow that makes it such an appropriate sign for this covenant?

Think about how God created the world, and then wiped it away. We read at the beginning of Genesis that the world was filled with primordial waters of chaos. God pushes these waters out of the way in order to make space for the world, and for order. When God decideds to erase that world, God releases those waters of chaos that have been held at bay. The new promise is to never do it again.

So what is so special about a rainbow? Think about how a rainbow is formed: through the cooperation of sun and rain. Of light and water.

It evokes balance, with everything in its proper place.

As Jews, we have a particular way of fulfilling our part in God’s covenant with Noah. At the very end of this morning’s Parsahah, we meet Abraham, whose children eventually become the Jewish people and receive the Torah, entering in a special covenant with God at Mount Sinai. Through living by our Torah, we fulfill that vision that God shared with Noah after he walked out on dry land: that human beings could create societies in which they truly respected the holiness of everyone.

May sun cooperate with rain. May people love and respect differences. May the vision of a rainbow-infused world become a reality.

 

*1*A Commentary on the Book of Genesis, Robert D. Saks, p. 53.

*2*Genesis 8:22

*3*Genesis 9:6

*4*Genesis 8:19

 

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September 26, 2012

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Living with Uncertainty – Yom Kippur 5773

I am going to talk today about uncertainty, of living in a world that is often unpredictable.
We live our lives with so much uncertainty.  It is like a demon at the bottom of a pit, raising its ugly head in the hopes that we will fall in.
Think about all of the things in our lives about which we are unsure.
Our finances.  If we experienced a major personal disaster, such as an illness or the loss of a job, how long could we hold out?
The environment.  Will our planet be able to sustain us in the coming decades?
The future.  Are we handing over a world to our children that will afford them the same  opportunities to pursue their dreams?
And we face uncertainty about our souls.  Are the paths we have chosen for ourselves the right ones?  Have we made good decisions in love, in career, in community?  Or, are we holding on to regrets about the paths we did not choose to follow?
As we live life, most of us push these uncertainties, these self-doubts, out of the way.  They inhibit our ability to do all of those mundane things that are demanded of us day in and day out:  going to work, dropping kids off at school, grocery shopping, and so on.
But the demon of uncertainty is there, mouth open, always waiting.  It rears its head unpredictably, sometimes in the middle of the night when we cannot sleep, sometimes in those emotionally vulnerable moments when we question ourselves, and sometimes during the High Holidays.  This is the season when we face our fears, when we face the reality of our own mortality.
It is a time when we cannot help but address the many uncertainties in our lives.  Both the material, as well as the spiritual.
The question we must answer is how to live with it.
There are really two options.  Uncertainty can lead us to fear, or it can lead us to hope and meaning.
There once was a time when the collective uncertainty that we face could be addressed, once a year on Yom Kippur.  It was a time when the relationship between God and the Jewish people could be restored.
This morning’s Torah portion describes the ritual of the High Priest on Yom Kippur.  When we read it closely, we find that there are certain details about Yom Kippur which seem to be missing.  There is no mention of any sort of self-reflective process of teshuvah.  For that matter, there is no role for the individual Israelite.  Everything is dependent on the High Priest doing his job properly.  If he does, atonement is accomplished.  It is automatic.
It did not matter what an individual Israelite did to prepare for Yom Kippur.  Everything was in the hands of the High Priest.  As long as he performed his duties, Israelites could live with certainty.
Gradually, things changed.  The Mishnah, composed nearly two thousand years ago, records the procedure as it was practiced in the days of the Second Temple.
One of the important parts of the Yom Kippur service was the ritual of the scapegoat.  Here is how it worked:  A male goat was selected by lot.  It would then be designated by tying a crimson strip of wool cloth between its horns.  The Priest placed his hands on the goat and confessed all of the sins of the nation over it, transferring them to the poor creature.  Then, a designated man would lead the goat off into the wilderness.  When he arrived at the fateful spot, he would push the goat off a cliff to its demise.
A second century Sage, Rabbi Ishmael,*1* reports that a scarlet wool cloth was tied to the door of the sanctuary.  When the goat reached the wilderness, the red cloth would turn white in an ancient version of a status update.
Apparently, people would wait around the Temple on Yom Kippur, watching the red cloth with anticipation.  If it turned white, they would rejoice, for it meant that God had forgiven their sins.  But if it did not turn white, they would become distraught.*2*
This was a new development.  It raised the possibility that the people’s sins might not be forgiven, even if the ceremonies are all performed correctly.  Atonement was no longer automatic.
A legend remembers that, way back in the days of Shimon HaTzadik, an early Rabbinic figure, the cloth would turn white every year.  After he died, it would sometimes turn white, and sometimes turn red.  Still later, in the forty years before the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, it failed to turn white at all.*3*  The cloth had become something of a moral barometer of the Jewish people.
Of course, with the destruction of the Temple, all of the Yom Kippur rituals ceased.  A transition to a post-Temple Judaism was needed, along with a shift into a state of exile, a state of national and personal uncertainty.  Not only did Jews not know what the future had in store, they did not know for sure where they stood with God.
These legends about the scapegoat and the mysterious wool cloth illustrate the Rabbis’ creative understanding of life’s ambiguities.  They recognized, as we do, that our physical and spiritual existence is fraught with uncertainty.  We do not know where we stand with God.  There is no ribbon that changes colors for us, like a Divine mood ring.
Instead, on Yom Kippur, each one of us becomes a High Priest.  Our ritual worship in synagogue replaces the ritual in the Temple.  Instead of the fate of the Jewish people being determined collectively, we are dealt with as individuals.  In our mahzor, the prayer Unetaneh Tokef describes how each one of us is personally judged by God, based on evidence collected in the Book of Remembrance that our deeds have written.  The sentence is handed down:  Who will live and who will die, who by a long life, and who will come to an untimely end, who will be at peace, and who will be troubled, who will be impoverished, and who will be enriched.
But the verdict is not shared with us.  We go into the year knowing that destiny waits, but not knowing what that destiny will be.
We are told that our actions still matter, that righteousness can avert the severity of the decree against us.  Teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah.  Repentance, prayer, and charity can alter our fate.
Yet we still leave the experience of Yom Kippur with uncertainty.   We don’t actually know.
Every year, we come to synagogue, and we pray, and if we are lucky, we are granted  moments of insight.  We resolve to do better, to be better.  And if we are blessed with strength and courage, we come back the next year having improved, at least a little.
But the direction of our prayers is one-way.  God does not tell us whether our pleas for mercy have been accepted.  There is no red cloth that we tie to the door of the ark.  We have to take it on faith.
I struggle with this uncertainty all the time; of not knowing whether there is anyone listening to my prayers, of not knowing whether the effort to behave righteously matters, of not knowing whether there is a God who cares whether I follow Jewish law.
It is tempting to respond to the absence of proof, to the silent echo that answers our prayers, by turning away from religion.
But this is a mistake.  Religion is not here to tell us how the world works.  It is not here to offer us certainty as to what will be.  That is the realm of science.  Too often are the two confused.
Neither is religion here to promise order in a disordered world.  The great twentieth century Jewish psychologist Erich Fromm wrote that “the quest for certainty blocks the search for meaning.”  And he goes on to say  “Uncertainty is the very condition to impel man to unfold his powers.”
Judaism offers us a way to live with uncertainty.  It instills in us a sense of awareness and gratitude, a sense of appreciation for the blessings that are so easy to take for granted.  It teaches us that the things we enjoy in this world are gifts, not givens.
Religion is here to teach us to hope for a time in which the suffering in the world will end.  And it teaches us that we are the ones who can bring that hope closer to reality.
It is not that teshuvah, tefilah and tzedakah result in a more lenient decree.  They are the ultimate acts of faith.  In the face of not knowing what will be, we act with righteousness anyways.  That is what it means to live a life of hope.
A comment I hear a lot goes as follows:  “I like that Judaism focuses on action, and it doesn’t tell you that you have to believe in God.”
Well, that’s not exactly true.  Nowhere in the Torah do we find a positive commandment to believe in God.  We do find a lot of commandments about how we are expected to behave.  The reason we are not told explicitly to believe, is that the Torah takes it for granted.
What the Torah does ask us to do, numerous times, is to walk in God’s ways.  As the Prophet Micah famously declares:  “He has told you, O man, what is good, And what the Lord requires of you: Only to do justice, and to love goodness, and to walk modestly with your God.”*4*
This is the great act of faith in the modern age: to live a life walking in God’s ways, even though this often means walking against the currents of society, and despite not knowing with certainty whether it matters.  Every Jewish act that we are asked to perform falls into one of these three categories: justice, goodness, and humility before God.
That is the Jewish response to uncertainty.
So how will you deal with the unknown, with the precariousness upon which our lives are balanced, with the doubts we experience?
Take a step in God’s ways.
Give more tzedakah this year than you gave last year.  Volunteer to help the needy in our community.  Attend a shiva minyan for a mourner.  Refrain from passing along gossip when you hear it.  Come to shul on Shabbat.
It is the morning of Yom Kippur.  We are halfway through our fast, through our Day of Atonement.  We will spend the rest of the day reciting prayers that substitute for the ancient rituals of the High Priest.  At some point, later on, the decree that has been issued will be sealed.  We will stand together during Neilah, the final service, tired and hungry, as the gates of Heaven prepare to close.  It is the final chance to change.  An unsettling moment, but a beautiful moment.  Rich with uncertainty for the coming year, and pregnant with hope.

*1*Mishnah Yomah 6:8
*2*BT Yoma 67a
*3*BT Yoma 39a-b
*4*Micah 6:8