Groups have been pressuring city councils throughout the Bay Area to pass ceasefire resolutions on the war between Israel and Hamas. Not only do these resolutions tend to be extremely one-sided, the rhetoric that surrounds them often crosses the line into antisemitism.
The following is a letter that I sent to on December 8, 2023 to San Jose Mayor Matt Mahan and each of the ten city Councilmembers urging them not to take up a resolution on the war between Israel and Hamas.
December 8, 2023
200 E. Santa Clara St. San José, CA 95113
Dear Mayor Mahan and San Jose City Councilmember,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to you as the Rabbi of Congregation Sinai in San Jose, District 6, a position I have held for the past sixteen and a half years. As we approach the 70th anniversary of Congregation Sinai, I reflect on the active and proud role our congregation has played in the civic life of San Jose and Silicon Valley.
The purpose of this letter is to express my deep concerns about the current atmosphere of fear and uncertainty within our community following the terrorist attacks by Hamas on October 7.
I was recently reflecting on the daily experiences of the approximately 40 children in the Sinai Nursery School when they come to school. Before they reach their classrooms to be lovingly greeted by their teachers, they must first pass by an armed security guard and be admitted through three locked doors. I suspect their situation is unique among the children in our city.
As you know, organized pro-Palestinian groups have been pushing local city councils in the Bay Area to pass resolutions calling for a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas. At the city council meeting on Tuesday, December 5, you already witnessed a sample of the anger and animosity which has characterized these meetings.
I am not writing to debate the merits of a ceasefire, but rather to share the lived experience of Jewish residents in San Jose. Over the past two months, we have been feeling unmoored in our beloved city. Members of my community are afraid to openly express their Jewish identity, and we have had to intensify the already substantial security measures at our synagogue. This not only incurs significant time and expense, but also exacerbates the feeling that we are under siege.
I respectfully implore you to refrain from introducing any resolutions concerning the Middle East conflict to the San Jose City Council. These resolutions have no impact on decisions made by the Israeli government, Hamas, and other involved parties. However, their local impact is tangible, fanning the flames of antisemitism in our community and increasinganimosity among residents of our shared city. Similar resolutions in Richmond, Oakland, and San Francisco have provided platforms for vitriolic antisemitism and explicit endorsement of terrorism.
My community is scared already. Please do not make it worse.
Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions. We would be happy to have you join us for for Shabbat (Sabbath) services.
What is the number one public health challenge in America?
Loneliness.
That is not something that we typically associate with health.
Dr. Vivek Murthy became the Surgeon General of the United States in 2014. Dr. Murthy spent his first several months visiting communities large and small, urban and rural. He met with health care professionals and farmers, small business owners and teachers. Of course, he heard all about heart disease and diabetes, cancer, drug and alcohol addiction, the opioid epidemic and obesity. These were expected.
But what surprised him was to encounter, over and over, that people were experiencing loneliness and isolation in profound ways.
Now in his second stint as Surgeon General, Dr. Murthy’s department released, this past April, a general advisory for our nation entitled Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation.
What is loneliness? First of all, it is subjective. We experience it when there is a gap between the social connections that we desire and those that we have.
Aloneness and Loneliness are not the same. It is possible to be alone in a crowd, just as it is possible to spend large amounts of time by oneself and feel socially fulfilled.
Consider your own life. If you have felt lonely at some point in the past year, and if you are comfortable doing so, I invite you to raise your hand…
A related, objective term is “social isolation.” This refers to having few social relationships and roles, group memberships and interactions with others.
Social isolation has been increasing in the United States for the past half century, and especially over the past twenty years. For example, between 2003 and 2020, the average number of hours adults spent by themselves increased by 24 hours per month. Time spent engaging, in person, with friends decreased from 30 to 10 hours per month. Even within households, we spent 5 fewer hours per month interacting with our family members.
This is bad for us. Decades of research has found connections between loneliness, social isolation, and health outcomes.
Lacking social connection puts a person at about the same risk of early mortality as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day and is a greater risk factor than drinking 6 alcoholic drinks a day, physical inactivity, obesity, or exposure to air pollution.
Those with poor social relationships are associated with having a 29% increase in risk for heart disease and 32% increase in risk of stroke. Similar links exist with hypertension, diabetes, cognitive decline, and dementia.
It should come as no surprise that those who are more socially isolated are more likely to experience depression and anxiety, to become addicted to opioids, and self harm.
Gun violence is exacerbated by loneliness and isolation.
Loneliness also brings an economic cost. First, the obvious: healthcare and social services. But there are other expenses. Children who are isolated have lower academic achievement. Workers experiencing loneliness are less productive in their jobs. One study found that loneliness led to increased rates of stress-related absenteeism, costing employers $154 billion each year.
There is one additional harm that bears mentioning. The terrible political and social polarization plaguing us is directly related to the loneliness and social isolation that has exploded over the past decades. Loneliness drives us to extremes.
How did we get here?
For most of human existence, survival required membership in deeply integrated social communities. Our prehistoric ancestors formed tribes for mutual protection from outside enemies as well as to meet basic needs, i.e., food, clothing, and shelter. Religious beliefs, moral codes, meaning, and purpose all emerged out of this collective social orientation.
Now, we can survive day-to-day without ever sharing air with another person. I can work remotely. I can have all my food, clothing and cleaning supplies delivered to my door. I can consume an endless amount of entertainment from the comfort of my sofa. And I can even complain to my therapist about my lack of a social life from the comfort of my laptop.
In his final book, Morality, published in 2020, the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l, points to the beginning of the Enlightenment, approximately 400 years ago, as the moment when humans began to shift the way that we perceive ourselves in relation to our communities.
Instead of existing as part of a collective “We,” individuals began to think of themselves as a unique, sovereign “I.”
Without going into a social, political, religious, and economic history of the past four hundred years, it is safe to say that the quest for meaning and purpose in life is now something that we each must figure out on our own. This has not always been the case.
In his 1961 inaugural address, President John F. Kennedy famously challenged, “And so, my fellow American: ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” It was a call for children and adults to do something to contribute to the public good, to selflessly give of themselves for the collective “We.”
His challenge presupposed a shared national identity and system of collective values.
Can you imagine a national politician putting out a similar call today?
By the way, the continuation of the speech included this line: “My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.”
I think we know, deep down, that we need each other, that we are better off when we face life’s challenges together, and that our society is more cohesive when we embrace a shared set of values.
But now it is not uncommon to ask, “What does my Judaism mean to me?” That is a lonely question that would have been considered absurd until very recently.
Facebook is less than twenty years old. Newer still are Instagram, Snapchat, Tik Tok, X—human beings around the world have never been more connected. Ironically, we have also never felt so alone.
Think for a moment about some of the terms we associate with social media: Influencer; My personal brand; Followers, The selfie.
While presented as tools to bring people together, these social media apps prey on our attachment to self and need for validation. But the result is that we feel inadequate. Do we feel more or less connected to fellow human beings after scrolling through our feed for an hour?
So many of our face-to-face encounters have been replaced by screen time. Our social muscles are atrophying. Even when we are together, we are distracted. It is so disheartening to look around a restaurant and see families, friends, and colleagues mesmerized by their phones, oblivious to the person sitting across from them. Is this the purpose for which we are created?
Our tradition teaches that Rosh Hashanah, the first of Tishrei, coincides with the day on which humanity was born. After creating the first human in the Garden of Eden, God declares, lo tov heyot adam levado. “It is not good for a human to be alone.”
So, God makes all the animals off the ground and the air, bringing them to Adam, one by one. But no fitting helper can be found. It is then that God casts a sleep upon the human and forms a woman out of its side. Now identified by gender, the man and the woman find companionship in each other.
Humanity’s very first experience is loneliness. The Torah unambiguously declares it lo tov, “not good.” Its remedy, the solution provided by God, is human companionship.
Our present epidemic is not how we are meant to live, neither from a biological perspective, an evolutionary perspective, nor a religious perspective.
Turning to our Rosh Hashanah liturgy, we find the theme of loneliness woven throughout. In our Torah portion, after God remembers Sarah and blesses her with a child, she orders Abraham to banish Hagar and Ishmael.
Cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.
Genesis 21:10
This is not mere physical exile, but social excommunication. Hagar and Ishmael can no longer be part of the family. When their supplies run out in the wilderness, Hagar, depressed, abandons her son, thinking “Let me not look on as the child dies.” Hagar’s loneliness is answered when God sends an angel to announce that God has heard the cry of the boy “where he is.”
Our Haftarah tells the story of another barren woman. As the story begins, Hannah is teased and tormented continuously by Peninnah, her rival wife. Her tone-deaf husband, Elkanah, tries to console her:
Hannah, why are you crying and why aren’t you eating? Why are you so sad? Am I not more devoted to you than ten sons?
I Samuel 1:8
The Bible does not dignify Elkanah’s selfish words with an answer. Hannah prays, silently moving her lips while weeping. Even the priest Eli looks right past her. He scolds her as a drunk. Only then does Hannah recite her first words out loud.
Oh no, my lord! I am a very unhappy woman. I have drunk no wine or other strong drink, but I have been pouring out my heart to Adonai. Do not take your maidservant for a worthless woman; I have only been speaking all this time out of my great anguish and distress.
I Samuel 1:15-16
That must have taken a lot of courage: to speak up for herself, to own her sadness and loneliness, and to share it with a stranger. Now Eli really does see her. He prays for God to grant her wishes. As Hannah leaves, she eats and she is no longer downcoast. A moment of empathy, of being seen, has made all the difference.
These stories evoke our own loneliness. How have we been forgotten? Does God hear our prayers? Is there a remedy for our own loneliness?
Look around the room. We come to shul. We sit side by side. We sing in harmony (or something resembling harmony). We catch up. We wish each other a good year. Amidst the angst and uncertainty that fill our lives, we come together to share our loneliness. And suddenly we are not so lonely. All of us recognize, at some level, that the only way to celebrate the new year is together.
It should not surprise any of us to learn that people who are involved in religious communities are less lonely, and experience higher levels of social support and integration. In other words, Shul is good for your health – emotionally, psychologically, maybe even physically. (Although we might want to take it easy during Kiddush.)
To reverse our loneliness epidemic, Rabbi Sacks suggests that we need to shift our focus back from “I” to “We.” How do we begin?
In one experiment, participants were given a sum of money. Half were told to spend the money on treats for themselves. Half were told to spend the money on a person in need. The subjects were asked questions before and after to measure their relative levels of happiness. Which group do you think was happier at the end of the experiment?
It was the group that spent the money on someone else. Taking those few moments to think “What would make another person happy,” increased their own happiness. We experience the greatest joy when we stop thinking about ourselves.
Instead of turning to “Self-Help” to work on what is wrong with us, how about trying “Other-Help?” What if, every day, we consciously do one thing solely for another person’s benefit.
There is a particular concept in Judaism that Rabbi Sacks suggests could help us reframe our relationship to community: the brit, or covenant. A covenant is different than a contract. In a contract, I am me and you are you. Contracts deal with tangible things and specific responsibilities. I agree to pay you five thousand dollars, and you agree to give me a car in working order. When we complete our responsibilities as outlined by the contract, we never have to see each other again. A covenant is different. It establishes a relationship. Fundamentally, it calls on the parties of the covenant to be loyal to one another. It transforms you and me into we.
As Jews, we are quite familiar with this idea, at least conceptually. Covenant is how we describe our relationship with God. Our brit establishes mutual loyalty, care, and compassion; not only between God and us, but between and among one another. If I am not responding to the needs of my fellow Jew, I am not being faithful to the covenant. Meaning in is found by sharing a common set of stories and values that tell us where we come from, who we are, and what our purpose is.
Rabbi Sacks argues that it is our mutual loyalty to one another and to God which forms the basis of morality. Living covenantally asks me to give up some of my need to self actualize and self authenticate, to set aside my self interest and prioritize the other. The goal of any society should be to prioritize the well-being of all its members, and to serve the common good, rather than the interests of a select few. If I am to belong to that society, those must be my priorities as well.
Covenants can exist at varying levels. At the smallest, a marriage is a covenant between two people who make a commitment of loyalty and care to one another. As the Torah explains after the creation of man and woman: v’hayu l’vasar echad. “They become one flesh.”
Ostensibly, the Jewish people are covenantally committed to mutual care and compassion. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh, goes the saying. “All of Israel are surety for one another.” How well we live up to that ideal is debatable.
Do we have a national covenant that binds Americans together in loyalty and mutual responsibility? At the moment, it does not seem like we do.
Rabbi Sacks even posits the existence of
a covenant of human solidarity that binds all [eight] billion of us alive today to act responsibly toward the environment, human rights, and the alleviation of poverty for the sake of generations not yet born.
Jonathan Sacks, Morality, 313-314
How different our world would be if humanity truly saw itself committed to this shared vision. Perhaps that is the meaning of the words of Zekhariah that conclude the prayer Aleinu, originally recited only on Rosh Hashanah.
Adonai shall be ruler over all of the earth. On that day, Adonai will be One and the name of Adonai, One.
Let us each take the steps within our power to bring that day closer.
This year, may we dedicate ourselves to cultivate compassion and empathy, to truly see one another, and to put other before self. May we, together, be worthy of a year filled with health, happiness, meaning, and growth. L’Shanah Tovah.
One of my personal favorite mitzvot appears in this morning’s Torah portion. It is called hashevat aveidah – the return of a lost item.
I love it so much because I know what it is like to lose something that is important to me, and to despair about ever getting it back.
When someone, out of the blue, brings that lost item back to me, the feeling transcends the mere restoration of an item of value. It is a reminder of the potential goodness in a random stranger. What a gift to be able to be that stranger for someone else.
Parashat Ki Teitzei is notable for containing the most number of mitzvot, commandments, of any portion in the Torah: 74. Like many of the Torah’s law codes, the topics range widely, covering ritual obligations, business law, criminal law, as well as personal and family ethics.
One of these laws is hashevat aveidah. This is how it is introduced:
If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow.
Deuteronomy 22:1
The Torah continues to specify that we have an obligation to take the lost animal home and care for it if the owner cannot be immediately identified or located. It then expands beyond animals to include garments, or any other item that we may find.
Twice, the Torah emphasizes that we are not allowed to remain indifferent, using the expression v’hit’alamta mahem – which literally means “and hide yourself from them.” If I find a lost item, I must return it.
A corollary mitzvah follows this one, also with instructions to not “hide yourself from them.”
If you see your fellow’s donkey or ox fallen on the road… you must help him raise it.
Deuteronomy 22:4
I have always liked these two mitzvot. Being part of the covenanted community of the Jewish people means more than just treating one another properly. Our obligations extend to one another’s possessions as well. Consider for a moment what these mitzvot are saying. I incur an obligation simply for my discovery of an item, even when I do not know to whom that item belongs. I am obligated to a mystery person such that I commit a sin if I do not step up.
I recently discovered a commentary by a medieval Spanish sage, Rabbi Baḥya ben Asher. Rabbeinu Baḥya, as he is known, wrote a commentary on the Torah that offers allegorical, midrashic, and mystical interpretations. In his discussion, Rabbeinu Baḥya offers three explanations for these commandments to take responsibility for the property of our neighbors.
First, he cites the Talmud. The Torah repeats Hebrew words hashev teshivem, “Return you shall return.” This does not merely emphasize our obligation to return a lost object. It conveys that we must keep returning it, even 100 times in a row, if necessary.
Imagine my neighbor has a donkey that keeps wandering on to my property. As many times as it wanders over, I must still make the effort to bring it back home, however annoying or inconvenient it might be. That is a fairly conventional midrashic interpretation.
Rabbeinu Baḥya then explains that this kind of behavior is midarkhei haḥesed v’haraḥamim – among the ways of kindness and compassion. This is how people who are all descended from the same human ancestor ought to treat one another. We each have an interest in the success and well-being of one another, he says. As such, we must go beyond the obligation to merely care for the “things” belonging to our neighbor. It is not just about stuff. If I find myself in a position in which I have the ability to protect another person from financial loss, I must do so. I may not “hide myself.”
The principal behind this responsibility, says Rabbeinu Baḥya, is v’ahavta l’re’ekha kamokha, which we usually translate as “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” But here, Rabbeinu Baḥya understands it as “You shall love that which is your neighbor’s as if it were your own.” It is quite an extension of the principle.
His second explanation is a theological one, focusing on the warning against “hiding yourself.” He notes that it is easy to look the other way and pretend not to have seen a wandering donkey, or a lost item. Who is going to know?
The answer is “God knows.” And just as we are commanded to return that which is our neighbor’s, God will one day return that which is ours. That is to say, God will return our souls to our bodies. And here, Rabbeinu Bahya goes into a description of the Jewish concept of the resurrection of the dead, which will occur after the coming of the mashiaḥ. The point is, how can we expect God to return our souls to us if we fail to return that which is our neighbor’s?
The third explanation is the one that most took me by surprise. Rabbeinu Baḥya notes that these mitzvot in Parashat Ki Teitzei are a reiteration of mitzvot that first appear in the the book of Exodus, but with a significant distinction. Where Deuteronomy uses the word aḥikha, “your brother,” to describe the person whose donkey has wandered off and gotten into trouble, Exodus uses the word son’ekha, “your enemy.”
That is a pretty significant difference. What does it mean? At first, we might think that this merely indicates that it does not matter whether or not I like the owner of the donkey. I am still obligated.
Rabbeinu Baḥya suggests that there is a deeper lesson to be learned. If I assist my enemy with their fallen donkey, they may come to see me differently, and my enemy may transform into my brother. The assistance I offer may be the very thing to cause the hatred to be forgotten and the love that unites us to be remembered.
What an inspiring—and difficult—observation.
I suspect Rabbeinu Baḥya may be talking about more than just a wandering donkey. When there is conflict, it can be really hard to be the one to take the first step at reconcilliation. Our egos get too involved. How often do we get into fights with other people when we forget the reason for the conflict in the first place, and it becomes all about the hatred, the negative feelings which are reinforced every time I hear that person’s name.
What would be so terrible about swallowing my pride and taking that first step to do something that helps out my enemy? Perhaps that is the very act to shatter the hostility.
As we prepare for the new year, this is the time when we are supposed to be examining our relationships, reviewing our deeds. We engage in teshuvah, repentance. Our tradition teaches us the only way to do teshuvah for sins between ourselves and another person is to appease that person directly.
Rabbeinu Baḥya offers us an approach to repair broken relationships. Swallow my pride, do not wait for them to apologize first. After all, they are probably waiting for me to apologize first. Just take the first step. Perhaps this will be the year that my enemy becomes my friend.
Exactly one year ago, a particularly awful scene descended on Jerusalem. It was the evening of Tisha B’Av, the day of mourning for all of the tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people throughout history, especially the destruction of the First and Second Temples
Men and women gathered together at the Egalitarian Section of the Kotel, the Western wall, to observe the holiday by chanting Eichah, the Book of Lamentations. This is the site designated as Ezrat Yisrael, the courtyard of Israel, by the Israeli government, where men and women can gather together in worship. It is located underneath Robinson’s Arch, just South of the main plaza in front of the Kotel. The service was organized and hosted by the Conservative movement.
Suddenly, hundreds of young yeshiva students, breached the area. They forcibly took over, cursing and screaming at the worshippers. They put up a mechitza, a barrier to separate men and women, and began singing songs of devotion to Jerusalem.
Just a month and a half ago, as several families celebrated Bar and Bat Mitzvahs at the Egalitarian Kotel, a similar scene recurred. Again, services were interrupted by a group of hardline Orthodox extremists. The students overran the worshippers, took over the site, tore up siddurim, and shouted insults at the worshippers, calling them “Nazis” and “Christians.” One hooligan was even caught on camera blowing his nose into a page from the siddur with God’s name written on it.
During both episodes, the police charged with security at the Kotel area stood by and watched.
The latter incident drew particularly fierce criticism from many circles, including Prime Minister Lapid, who personally called one of the young people who was celebrating his Bar Mitzvah.
As this year’s observance of Tisha B’Av nears, these two Chilul Hashem’s, desecrations of God’s name, haunt us. As we celebrate Shabbat this morning here in San Jose, in Israel, the fast has already begun.
The Rabbis explain that the second Temple was destroyed on account of sin’at chinam, the senseless hatred of Jew against Jew. Indeed, the historical record indicates that there were numerous factions of Jews living within the walls of the besieged city of Jerusalem. Josephus reports that they fought against each other even more fiercely than against the Romans.
It is certainly true that we can be our own worst enemies.
The Jewish Torah reading cycle is constructed so that this morning’s parashah, Devarim, always occurs right before Tisha B’Av. The Torah portion begins with the words:
These are the words which Moses spoke to all of Israel on the other side of the Jordan
Deuteronomy 1:1
The introduction seems innocuous enough, but most of the commentaries explains that Moses is issuing words of tokhekha, rebuke. He has gathered the Israelites together just before they are to enter the Promised Land. Knowing he will not be going with them, he delivers a series of warnings, essentially pleading with them to stay the course and not screw up when he is gone.
Maybe it’s the era in which we are living, but I tend to favor the carrot over the stick as a way to influence behavior. On the surface, though, Moses, and God, offer far more criticism of the Israelites than praise.
Throughout Deuteronomy, Moses tries to influence the Israelites’ behavior by pointing out all of their past mistakes, telling them how they are going to continuing screwing up, and threatening them with punishment if they do not do better.
Doesn’t he know that members of the most effective teams, not to mention successful marriages, give each other at least five positive comments for every negative one?
According to a number of commentators, however, Moses hides more positive messages within his words of admonishment.
The Vilna Gaon, the great eighteenth century Rabbi, claims that the expression el-kol-Yisrael contains Moses’ essential message. All we have to do is add an extra letter lamed. Kol – kaf, lamed – meaning “all,” should actually be read as k’lal – kaf, lamed, lamed – meaning “entirety,” as in k’lal Yisrael. Moses is appealing to the Jewish people in its absolute entirety, assembled before him in body and in spirit. He tells us that unity should reside amongst us, that we should be umah achat, k’lal Yisrael — one nation, the Jewish people in its entirety.
Of course, whenever someone appeals for unity, they usually have in mind that it is their opponents who are to blame for causing division; that their opponents are the ones who ought to change, to conform to our own vision of what things should look like. If we look at those who were overrunning the Kotel, that is exactly the kind of language that they are using under the mantle of K’lal Yisrael. But when I look at that scene, I see one group of people minding their own business and another group of people trying to forcibly change the other. So we seem to have a disagreement on what it means to be a unified Jewish people everywhere around the world.
Again focusing on the expression el-kol-Yisrael, the Hassidic Rebbe, Simchah Bunim, declares that “the words which Moses spoke” were fitting “to all of Israel,” that is to say, to each individual person according to their own qualities and level, understanding and comprehension, everyone according to their own measure.
Simchah Bunim, like the Vilna Gaon, also sees this as an inclusive statement. But rather than focus on the totality of the nation, in which the individual is subsumed within the collective, he highlights the uniqueness of each person. Moses, as the greatest of our teachers, reaches every single person in a way that is uniquely suited to their own personality and capability. The message of Torah is too important to risk leaving anyone behind.
This is a view which recognizes and accepts difference. Unity does not mean that everyone must conform to the same ideal. Unity means that everyone has access to the Torah, according to their own capabilities.
A later Chassidic teacher, Reb Yehudah Leib Eiger, brings the universal and the individual together. Yehudah Leib, also sees Moses’ rebuke being directed to K’lal Yisrael, the collective totality of the Jewish people.
But then he explains that the k’lal is holy and exalted. Creation itself depends on the unity of the Jewish people. If k’lal Yisrael were to become detached from holiness for even one moment, the world would return to tohu vavohu – primordial chaos.
So there is much at stake in Jewish unity.
Then he offers an incredibly uplifting message. He suggests that being part of the k’lal should be a great consolation to every sinner amongst the Jewish people. For even though I may be filled with sins, full of imperfections, I am never disconnected from the source, as long as I am part of k’lal Yisrael.
Of course, he describes all of us. To be human is to be full of sins. But we really on each other, k’lal Yisrael, to hold each other up, give each other hope, and sustain the world.
Today is actually the ninth of Av. Since we do not fast on Shabbat (except for Yom Kippur), we delay our observance.
Even though we are pushing off the fast until tonight and tomorrow, perhaps we should be toning things down a bit from our regular Shabbos joy. The Talmud considers this question and offers a definitive answer. If the ninth of Av occurs on Shabbat, a person may eat and drink as much as one needs, even putting on a meal as lavish as that of King Solomon in his day. (Taanit 29b)
Reb Yehudah Leib Eiger explains that the Talmud’s reference to King Solomon’s table contains a hidden message. In building the First Temple, King Solomon introduced an element of redemption to the world. The Temple was the conduit, the pipe, through which salvation flowed into the world. Modeled on King Solomon’s table, our feasting on Tisha B’av, when it falls on Shabbat, also can serve as an awakening of redemption for the world.
Our traditions considers a Shabbat on which Tisha B’av falls to be the absolute holiest Shabbat of the year, for it offers a flame in the darkness. It reveals the good that is usually hidden within the sorrow.
But we should not think about this as some magical quality that is the result of the vagaries of the calendar. It is a message for us to be that light, to find that spark amidst the darkness in our world.
In the end, we each have to choose to be part of k’lal Yisrael.
On a day when there is so much disunity not just in the world, but even among the Jewish people; on a day when we know that there is so much antisemitism in the world, and when Israel at this moment is fighting Islamic Jihad in Gaza; our prayer is that we should be able to heed Moses’ message: first of all to be a k’lal Yisrael, a united people; but also to recognize that a k’lal is comprised of lots and lots of individuals. Our primary focus should not be on judging our neighbors, but should be on working on ourselves, and taking strength from our neighbors.
If we do that, maybe we can serve as that conduit to bring redemption to the world. I pray that we merit, that we become deserving of being k’lal Yisrael, of being a united people of Israel.
Mi va’esh u’mi va’mayim. Who by fire and who by water?
We are halfway through what is already one of the worst fire seasons around the globe. More than 2.2 million acres have burned here in California so far, exacerbated by drought. Large swaths of land around the Mediterranean burned. In July, the town of Lytton, British Columbia, in Canada, reached a record 121 degrees Fahrenheit and literally burst into flame.
Less than one month ago, Hurricane Ida wreaked devastation from Louisiana to the Northeast, leaving at least 115 people dead and causing more than fifty billion dollars in damage.
Two months ago, record rainfall in Western Europe caused massive flooding, killing at least 220 people, and washing away an entire town in Germany.
Mi va’esh u’mi va’mayim. Who by fire and who by water?
The most urgent issue facing humanity is our imbalanced relationship with the earth. It outweighs every other concern: Covid, freedom, democracy, racism, poverty, education, and Israel.
Our out of balance relationship with the earth puts our species at risk of extinction. If that happens, nothing else matters – at least from humanity’s perspective.
Every one of us must do better when it comes to the ways that we utilize the earth’s resources. And since none of us can do everything, we can direct our efforts towards those issues which seem most urgent to us and which we have the greatest capacity to influence.
There are so many ciritical issues, including for those who do not believe human beings cause climate change. Much of the western United States is in extreme drought conditions. Microplastics are everywhere, from the deepest seas to the highest mountains. Humanity’s encroachment into unoccupied areas, called WUI, the Wildland Urban Interface, puts people at greater risk from disasters like fire. The oceans are acidifying.
I plead with all of us. Pick at least one thing that you care about and do more than you are already doing.
Who is to blame for how things have gotten to be the way they are?
You may recall a famous ad that appeared regularly on television in the 1970’s. The scene opens with a Native American man paddling down a bucolic river in a canoe. His hair is in braids and he is wearing a leather “Indian” outift. The camera turns to the water. A single piece of trash floats by. Now we see an industrial nightmare. Large factories, container ships, and pollution spewing smoketacks dwarf the small canoe.The Native American drags his boat to the shore, where more trash litters the ground. As he begins walking, a voiceover proclaims:
“Some people have a deep, abiding respect for the natural beauty that was once this country.”
He is now at the side of a busy highway. As the traffic zooms past, a driver carelessly throws a bag of rubbish out the window. It lands, scattering garbage across our hero’s feet. The voiceover continues:
“And some people don’t.”
As the camera zooms in on the Native American’s face, a single tear rolls down his cheek and we are admonished,
“People start pollution, and people can stop it.”
This ad, which came to be known as the “The Crying Indian,” is considered by the Ad Council to be one of the “50 greatest commercials of all time.”
By every measure, it was super effective.
Part of a campaign by a nonprofit organization called Keep America Beautiful, it helped lead to the reduction of litter by 88% across 38 states. But that was not the real goal of “The Crying Indian.” As they say: follow the money.
The nonprofit Keep America Beautiful was not founded, as its name might suggest, by a bunch of do-gooder hippies. It was created in the 1950’s by the American Can Company and the Owens-Illiniois Glass Company, which were later joined by the likes of Coca-Cola and the Dixie Cup Company.
The goal of Keep America Beautiful was to oppose the influence of environmentalists. Prior to its founding, packaging was typically reusable. If you bought a Coke, you paid a deposit and then returned the bottle so that it could be sterilized and reused. In the 1950’s, as the plastics industry was taking off, bottlers and container manufacturers began to aggressively – and successfully – push single use packaging.
In the 1960’s and 1970’s there were increasing moves to enact legislation to limit the production of throwaway containers. So Keep America Beautiful began to sponsor ad campaigns like “The Crying Indian.”
The cynical strategy was based on the simple economics of supply and demand. If we want to do something about litter, we basically have two options: focus on the people who make the stuff or focus on the people who use the stuff. The suppliers, or the demanders. Supply or demand.
“The Crying Indian,” with its final message, “People start pollution, and people can stop it,” places responsibility on the demand side of the equation.
The suppliers of all of this packaging would shrug their shoulders and say, “we are just giving our customers what they want. It’s not our fault.”
In fact, it was their fault. Through a decades-long marketing strategy, they shifted public consciousness to center all of the blame and responsibility on the demand side. The result is that there were few limits placed on supply. The companies avoided having to pay the costs of pollution and disposal, and they earned billions and billions of dollars while the plastic accumulated.
I go to Costco and discover apples on my shopping list. Organic apples. But those apples come in a plastic clamshell. Now I, the consumer, am stuck with this piece of plastic that I do not want, but that is now my responsibility to deal with.Does it go in the trash or the recycling bin? Well, it’s got the triangle thing on it, but I recently heard that those triangle thingies are not reliable. Plus, the third world countries to which we used to ship all of our plastic are starting to say, “no thank you. We don’t want your trash.” As it turns out, much of that plastic heading for recycling was just being dumped in open air landfills.
Who is the manufacturer of that plastic clamshell? Who knows. What is their legal responsibility? Nothing whatsoever.
It is because Keep America Beautiful‘s ad campaign worked. Our economy does not include the price of disposal in the cost of manufacturing. The suppliers are off the hook.
By the way, the Indian who appeared in the ad was an actor who went by the name “Iron Eyes Cody.” His real name was Espera De Corti. He was a second generation Italian American.
What is your personal carbon footprint? How much CO2 and methane do your actions put into the environment? This is a question many of us have asked ourselves in recent years.
I can easily go online and find a website that will ask me to estimate the number of square feet in my home, my annual vehicle mileage, the number of airplane flights I take per year, and so on. Enter all the data, click next, and presto – my carbon footprint!
Where did the idea for the carbon footprint come from? Follow the money.
The ad agency Ogilvy started the campaign in 2005 on behalf of its client, British Petroleum. Just like “The Crying Indian,” BP wanted to keep the moral responsibility for oil production on the demand side rather than the supply side of the equation.
So BP encourages us to calculate our carbon footprint and then offers suggestions for how we can reduce it, knowing that we will not actually follow through in any economically substanative way. Meanwhile, BP will be there for us to supply all of the oil that we demand.
For its part, BP has made no effort to reduce its own carbon footprint. Quite the opposite – it has continued to expand its oil drilling, including a current multi-billion dollar project called “Thunder Horse” to construct an oil platform 150 miles south of New Orleans in the Gulf of Mexico. When all eight wells are completed sometime this decade, it will produce 250,000 barrels of oil and 200 million cubic feet of gas per day.
But it is our responsibility. After all, BP is just meeting our demand.
This strategy has been used over and over again – by the petroleum industry, tobacco companies, sugary beverage producers. “It’s not our fault. We are just giving the people what they want.”
But it is their fault.
Or maybe not entirely.
One of the most prominent sections in our Mahzor is the Vidui, the confessional. We recite Ashamnu and Al Chet. For the sins we have committed, forgive us and pardon us. We strike our chests in contrition.
Both of these prayers are alphabetical. The Ashamnu lists a single verb for each letter. Al Chet is a double acrostic, with two sentences per letter. We recite a litany of sins. Some are specific actions, while others are general attitudes of selfishness or duplicity.
All of the verbs end with -nu, which is the 1st person plural. We did all of these things. Surely not! I have definitiely screwed up a lot this past year, but I’m not that bad. I didn’t commit every sin on the list. For example, I know with certainty that I did not charge interest to anyone in 5781. I categorically reject that characterization.
We Rabbis will often explain this expression of collective guilt as a way to provide cover, to help those of us who might actually be guilty of one of these sins to face up to it.
Or maybe, in another sense, we actually are accountable for each other’s sins. These confessions are not personal admissions. We, as a collective entity, take responsibility for all that has happened in the lives of our congregation.
Or perhaps we, as Jews, take collective responsibility before God for all that the Jewish people have done.
Or if we widen the lens further, perhaps humanity is in some sense collectively responsible for all that we do as a species.
After all, we cannot avoid the consequences of each others’ actions. This has been made devastatingly clear during the Covid pandemic. Maybe the language of guilt and innocence is not the most helpful paradigm. Maybe it would be more constructive if we framed it this way:
There are actions that individuals and groups take which impact the lives of others. That is an unavoidable fact. When that happens, like it or not, we become responsible.
Humanity is responsible for humanity’s relationship to the earth.
As much as we might like to assign blame, the fire and the flood certainly don’t care whose fault it is.
Whether from a theological, ethical, or self-interest perspective, we are responsible for treating the earth appropriately.
Unfortunately, traditional Jewish law is somewhat deficient as a source of practical guidance. The basic categories developed two thousand years ago, at a time when there was no awareness of an interdependent global environment. Human beings did not know about chemicals that could not be seen or that could dissipate into the upper atmosphere.
Also, Jewish law tends to focus on the actions and responsibilities of individuals, not governments or corporations. In other words, on the demand side of the economic equation.
Nevertheless, our present situation is not entirely without precedent. In his twelfth century law code, Maimonides includes a section called Hilkhot Sh’khenim, Laws of Neighbors. He addresses a situation in which a person wants to build a feature or conduct business on his property that produces pollution that would travel beyond its borders.
If a person constructs a threshing floor in the midst of his (property), or builds an outhouse, or does work which raises dust, particles of earth, etc., he must move far enough away so that the pollution does not reach his neighbor and cause harm. Even if the pollution is carried by the wind, he is obligated to move far enough away…
Rambam, Laws of Neighbors 11:1
Jewish law deals with directly identifiable harm. And we can see from the examples that Maimonides gives that the pollution in question is all what we would characterize as “natural” byproducts.
But when the harm is indirect, such as plastic in the ocean or CO2 in the atmosphere, Jewish law has no explicit prohibition. And the earth itself has no standing to sue.
I wonder, if he was writing today, what other forms of pollution Maimonides would have included in the law.
The lack of specific legal precedents does not mean that Judaism is ambivalent. A famous midrash expresses humanity’s ideal relationship with the natural world.
When God created the first human beings, God led them around the garden of Eden and said: ‘Look at my works! See how beautiful they are — how excellent! For your sake I created them all. See to it that you do not spoil and destroy My world; for if you do, there will be no one else to repair it.’
Midrash Kohelet Rabbah on Ecclesiastes 7:13
Notice a few details. Human beings are the purpose of creation, but the world still belongs to God.
Detail two – All of the beautiful and excellent things in the world can be destroyed, but the damaged world itself will continue to exist.
Detail three – there is nobody else to repair it. We are on our own here. God will not step in to save the earth from our mismanagement.
Let’s take this a step further. In the Torah’s language, adam, humanity, is created in God’s image. That is a theological statement.
A scientist would ask if homo sapiens is fundamentally different than any other species. The answer is no and yes.
Every living thing is comprised of the same chemical materials, and is formed and behaves according to its DNA encoding.
We share the same survival instincts as all life forms, from the great whale to the spot of mold on a rock. We are drawn to that which helps our particular genetic material reproduce and repelled by that which puts it at risk. Most animals know instinctively that fire is dangerous and it is best to run away from it. We would call this “biological knowledge.”
On the other hand, homo sapiens is the only species that can understand how the combination of dry conditions, heat, heavy winds, and a lightning storm increases the chances of a forest fire. A philosopher or scientist would call this “explanatory knowledge” – the ability to tell stories or develop formulas or ideas that explain why things are the way they are.
Those explanations may or may not be true, but they do enable a human being to approach a choice and consider, for example, “What is the ethical thing to do?” Religion, science, the arts – these are all made possible by humanity’s capacity for explanatory knowledge.
This is what makes us unique among living creatures on earth, if not the universe. Shifting back to theological language, we might say that our capacity for explanatory knowledge is what it means to be made in God’s image.
That capacity has made it possible for us to develop civilization and technology, to learn how to live in environments in which our bodies could not survive with biological knowledge alone.
This quality has enabled us to spread out across the world, to reach a global population of nearly 8 billion people, to harness the natural resources of the planet such that humanity has thrived beyond what its mere biology would allow.
This quality is also what puts our continued survival on the planet at risk. And it is the quality that makes us the only ones who can restore the balance and save ourselves.
Whether from a theological or a scientific perspective, we are the ones who must radically change directions. Can we do it?
This afternoon, we will read the story of Jonah, the most successful prophet ever.
Although he tries to escape his mission, Jonah eventually realizes that there is no avoiding God. Reluctantly, he marches off to the giant metropolis of Nineveh, a city so large it takes three days to walk across. He climbs up on his soap box and proclaims, “Forty days more and Nineveh shall be overturned!”
The people respond immediately. They declare a fast, and put on sackcloth and ashes. When word reaches the king, he gets off his throne and he joins them, ordering everyone to participate, humans and even animals. God sees and forgives. Disaster is averted.
Can you imagine?
An entire society, top to bottom: the rich, the poor, the politicians, people of all ethnicities and religions – everyone recognizes the danger, accepts responsibility, and fully commits to change – overnight.
If only.
My children are really worried about whether the planet is going to be livable when they are adults.
While it would be nice to hold the greatest polluters accountable, I am afraid that it is up to humanity collectively, and us individually.
If you are in a position to make a difference on the supply side of the equation, you are our best hope. If you can influence the decision makers in government or are in government, or if you are in a position in your company to change policies and practices to be a better environmental steward, our children and grandchildren are counting on you.
Most of us are on the demand side of the equation. Whatever you are already doing, do more. If you can, install solar panels on your roof. Get rid of your gasoline powered car. Ride your bike or take public transit more. Rip out your lawn. Buy less stuff. Eat less meat. Move into a smaller space. Protect undeveloped land from human encroachment. We each have capacity, and we know best what we are capable of. Let others know what you are doing and celebrate each other’s actions. That is how we will make a difference.
May we be worthy of the trust given us by God to take care of this beautiful world with all of its excellent creations.
When the Sofer was here last weekend to complete our new Torah scroll, he pointed out something that I had not thought about before. He asked, when in the Torah do Abraham and Isaac talk to each other?
The answer is, only during the story of Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac, which we read this morning.
Abraham receives the call from God, a test, to “take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights that I will point out to you.” (Genesis 22:2)
With alacrity, Abraham sets off on the journey, a donkey, two servants, Isaac, and wood for the sacrifice. On the third day, Abraham leaves the two servants with the donkey and continues up the mountain. He places the wood on Isaac’s shoulders, and himself carries the knife and the flint.
We now hear Isaac’s voice for the first time.
Avi – “Father”
And Abraham responds, hineni v’ni – “Here I am, my son.”
Hinei ha’esh v’ha’etzim, v’ayeh haseh l’olah – “Here are the flint and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering?”
Elohim yir’eh lo ha’seh l’olah b’ni, Abraham answers – “God will see to the sheep for the burnt offering, my son.” (Genesis 22:7-8)
And they continue on together.
That’s it, the only dialogue between Abraham and Isaac in the entire Torah.
The angel comes to stop Abraham at the last minute. Indeed, God does see to the sheep for the burnt offering. Abraham looks up and sees a ram with its horns caught in a thicket, which he offers up in place of Isaac.
In reward, God reiterates the blessing to Abraham. His descendants will be as numerous as the stars in heaven and the sand on the seashore. They will seize the gates of their foes, and the nations of the earth will bless themselves by them.
Since ancient times, Jews have read the Akedah as highly significant. Although it might seem surprising to us, it is traditionally portrayed positively, the ultimate test and proof of Abraham’s faith, a test that he passes with flying colors.
But the scene ends on an ominous note — depending on how we read it.
Abraham then returned to his servants, and they departed together for Beer-sheba; and Abraham stayed in Beer-sheba.
Where is Isaac? He is neither seen nor heard from.
Midrashim suggest a few possibilities. Abraham thinks to himself, “Everything I have is due to my commitment to Torah and mitzvot. I must ensure thay my offspring always maintain their faith.” So he sends Isaac off to study in the Yeshiva of Shem (Noah’s son). (Genesis Rabbah 56:11)
Another midrash claims that Abraham partially slaughtered Isaac on the altar. So Isaac goes off to the Garden of Eden to recuperate for the next three years.
Other midrashim connect the Akedah directly to Sarah’s death, which follows at the beginning of the next chapter. In one legend, Sama’el, otherwise known as Satan, frustrated that Abraham passed God’s test of faith, goes to Sarah and asks her,
“Do you know what has just happened? Your old husband has taken the lad Isaac and sacrificed him on the altar. He cried and and wailed but there was nobody to save him.” Hearing this, Sarah herself began to cry and wail, three long gasps like the tekiah of the shofar, and three broken howls like the shevarim. Then her soul departed.
Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer 32:8
Even though the Akedah is traditionally seen as a “win” for Abraham, we still find notes of discomfort – a recognition of its painful and potentially alienating repercussions — if not for Abraham, then for Isaac and Sarah.
But I would like to come back to our initial question? Do we really think that this was the only conversation that ever occurred between Abraham and Isaac?
Of course not.
Yes, old Abe was surely an intense guy, but I imagine they might have gone out to throw the ball around at some point.
Maybe, just maybe, they would get together from time to time over a beer and laugh about that time when Dad almost sacrificed his son.
And while the conspicuous absence of any reference to Isaac coming down from the mountain does seem ominous, we might be overreacting.
Is it possible that Abraham and Isaac had a more normal relationship than we generally assume; that the Torah’s story of their three-day father-son camping trip might not be representative of their relationship?
After all, we know only what is shown to us on the outside.
We make a lot of assumptions about the meaning of a story like the Akedah. How much do our assumptions mirror our own concerns and viewpoints rather than describe what [quote unquote] happened? This is true as well of our relationships with one another. We do not know what happens behind closed doors, or closed tent-flaps, as the case may be.
We have spent much of the past year and a half physically-distanced. We cannot yet understand the full impact of this isolation. But let’s acknowledge for a moment some of the difficulties we have faced behind closed doors.
Much of our interactions have been by way of a two dimensional screen. We catch only partial glimpses of one another, and reveal just a fraction of ourselves, superimposed on a fake background of a tropical beach. The ability to mute ourselves or turn the camera off at will provides a further means of creating distance. Even when we have been together, we see just half of one another’s faces. We have been unable to see out of town family and friends. People who have been ill have had to spend their time in the hospital alone. Those who have lost family members have been unable to say goodbye in person. There are those who have experienced forced isolation with a sigh of relief. The removal of the pressure of social interactions has come as a blessing. Others have found their stress and anxiety levels rising. Parents have struggled to support their children, who have had to attend school from home and stay apart from friends. Often, we have been at a lost as to what to do when we see our children falling behind in schoolwork, withdrawing from friends, and suffering. We have coped with stress in ways both healthy and self-destructive.
Human beings are often quick to judge. Quick to come to conclusions based on what we see on the surface. But just as when we read the Akedah, our judgments of others are just as if not more likely to be a reflection of ourselves than an accurate depiction of the other. Let’s keep in mind: A person who appears confident could be terrified. A friend who seems happy could be suffering. Someone who seems normal may be experiencing abuse at home.
To really see another person requires that we set aside our ego, that we be open to learning something we did not already know and could have no way of knowing. This is difficult under normal circumstances, and even more so lately.
We do not know what goes on behind closed doors, whether the physical doors of a home, or behind the doors into the soul of another person.
What we encounter of each other is limited, but God sees what is beneath the surface, perceives that which is hidden and invisible from one another. God remembers all of the forgotten things, taking note of that which we do not see, which we fail to take into account.
This day of Rosh Hashanah is a celebration of grandeur, of Creation and renewal. But as we celebrate such grandeur, we turn inward, to the innermost parts of our selves, the parts that are hidden from each other, that may even be hidden from us. In the poetic language of the mahzor, however, all is revealed before God, for God is fundamentally different.
Atah hu yotz’ram, v’atah yode’a yitzram, ki hem basar va’dam – It is You who are their Creator, and it is You who knows their inclination, for they are flesh and blood.
This expression comes in the context of describing how God is waiting, every day of our lives, for us to turn in teshuvah. Each one of us is imperfect and mortal, our origin is from the dust and our end is to return to the dust. And the infinite God knows our innermost thoughts and feelings. The God of the universe, who surely has bigger, more important things to worry about, pays attention to the souls of each one of us. As we pray repeatedly during these holy days, God’s nature is forgiving and understanding, always willing to give us another chance.
Perhaps that is a lesson we might take to heart. The qualities we ascribe to God are those ideal qualities that we aspire to in ourselves.
We do not know what is going on beneath the surface. What happens inside homes, between family members. Behind the computer or smartphone screen. But it is safe to assume that there is an entire world. Each human being is an olam katan.
So before we pass judgment on what we think we see, let’s make that extra effort to be compassionate, just as we ask God to do. To try to understand, with patience. To give each other the benefit of the doubt, a second chance, a third chance.
With so much alienation and distance between us, we need each other more than ever. May this new year be a year in which we open our eyes and open our hearts to one another.
I will admit, I have been feeling a bit down Jewishly. It feels like we have taken a beating these last few years. Jews have been murdered while praying in synagogues.
Extremes on the political left and right have been asserting themselves more boldly. Strangely, they seem to find common cause in some of the same ancient stereotypes and lies: Jews are moneygrubbing, control the media and the banks, have dual loyalty, profit on the suffering of the poor, prey on children, etc.
During the recent fighting between Israel and Hamas, anti-Israel protests frequently spilled over into Jew-hatred, in which Jews are held collectively responsible for the actions of the state of Israel. Jews were physically attacked in New York and Los Angeles, not to mention cities all over Europe. Synagogues and Cemeteries have been vandalized.
The FBI just released its data on hate crimes in 2020. Of all crimes that targeted someone because of religion, 57.5% were against Jews.
Antisemitism shares much in common with other forms of hate: racism, anti-Muslim bias, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, and so on. But as the most ancient form of hatred, it also has unique characteristics.
I worry that these trends have caused many of us to hunker down, to even internalize some of the criticism.
With notable exceptions, it feels like we have been less willing to put ourselves out there.
Is there a solution? We are not going to change the minds of those who already hate us. But in reality, they are a small, albeit loud number.
The majority is simply unaware. In a recent poll, 46% of Americans could not identify or could barely identify the term ‘antisemitism.’
But this is not a sermon about antisemitism. This is a sermon about Jewish pride.
I am proud of what the Jewish people have given the world. I am proud of who we are as a people. This Rosh Hashanah, I would like to share with you why. I would encourage you to answer the following two questions yourself:
“Why do I choose to be Jewish?” “What makes me proud to be Jewish?”
The late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks would often say “that non-Jews respect Jews who respect their Judaism, and non-Jews are embarrassed by Jews who are embarrassed by their Judaism.”
I cannot stop other people from Jew-hatred. But I can stand up and declare “I will not let it change how I feel about myself and my people.”
I do not believe in triumphalism. It is possible to be proud of one’s own people and history, its impact on the world, without denying the greatness of other cultures and religions and their positive influences on human civilization.
In fact, Judaism’s message is not meant for all humanity. It is a covenant with the Jewish people only. God does not prescribe a singular way of worship, nor claim that there is only one path to truth. God loves diversity. I appreciate and give thanks for what other peoples have given humanity.
Let’s start with origins. Egypt: 1300 BCE. Ramses II is the greatest Pharaoh of the greatest dynasty the world has ever known, now at its peak. Under his reign, Egypt is a military powerhouse, expanding its territory and influence. He directs the building of vast monuments, temples, and storehouses.
Living in Egypt are a poor, stubborn, and moody group of foreigners called the Hebrews. They have been brutally enslaved by the Egyptians and put to work building the storehouses of Pithom and Ramses.
If we ask an observer the following question: “Which of these two groups, the Egyptians or the Hebrews, is more likely to still be around in 3,300 years? What would the answer be?
Our ancestors gave the world the original model of freedom from tyrrany. The Exodus from Egypt is our people’s birth story. It has inspired countless freedom movements around the world.
Rooted in both the creation of the world and the exodus from slavery, Judaism gave the world the sabbath, a day on which we do not exert our control over nature, or over other people.
The Torah introduced monotheism to the world, replacing a world view that saw the gods as the personifications of nature waging a constantly recurring amoral and selfish battle.
The God of the Torah acts with justice and mercy. The Torah introduced the idea that all human beings are created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.
With this spark of divinity residing within every person, Judaism brought a recognition of the value and dignity of every human life, whether rich or poor, free or oppressed, citizen or stranger.
The God of the Torah commands, transmitting Divine law through Moses the lawgiver. Underlying this concept is the recognition that something outside of humanity is the ultimate arbiter of justice. Morality is not relative. There is such a thing as good and evil, and humans have the ability to tell the difference between the two. But it is not always obvious or easy.
Moses knew what to say to our ancestors when they were about to leave Egypt. Three times he predicts that their children will come to ask them about the rituals of Passover. And he tells them to “explain to your child on that day, ‘It because what the Lord did for me when I went free from Egypt.'”
Forty years later, as those very children are poised to enter the Promised land, Moses again tells them, “And you shall teach them to your children and you shall speak of them when you dwell in your home and when you go on your way, when you lie down and when you rise up.”
From the very beginning, our secret for survival was the transmission of our story and our knowledge from each generation to the next.
We did not build great colosseums, amphitheaters, or pyramids. The physical evidence for the existence of our Biblical ancestors is scant and relatively unimpressive compared to the architectural marvels constructed by the great Empires of the ancient world.
But where they left behind colossuses of stone and themselves disappeared from the earth, we have a living Torah that parents still pass down to their children.
The word Torah means instruction. It comes from the same root word as teacher, morah, and parents, horim. This is not a coincidence.
When I talk about Judaism to groups of non-Jews, I love showing them a page of Torah in which the commentaries surround the sacred text in the middle: Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Nachmanides, and others, disagreeing passionately with one another over the meaning of Torah.
It suggests that while the truth might be right in front of us, its discovery can only come through exposure to different ways of thinking. No human being is capable of understanding the Divine will, and we should never be too confident in our own knowledge – but it is possible to get closer to Truth.
Jews have always treasured learning. It is amazing to me that, when I study 2,000 year old writings of the Talmud and midrash, I join thousands upon thousands of other Jews who are studying these same ancient words on a daily basis.
Not just university professors or old rabbis with long beards; common Jews, eager to understand how our ancestors related to the same texts that we hold sacred today.
Every seven years, Jews fill Madison Square Garden, not for a concert or a basketball game, but to celebrate the completion of learning the entire Talmud, one page at a time.
This democratizion of learning seems rather unique.
You are undoubtedly familiar with the statistics – 22% of Nobel laureates have been Jewish.
Albert Einstein said:
The pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, an almost fanatical love of justice and the desire for personal independence—these are the features of the Jewish tradition which make me thank my stars that I belong to it.
To be Jewish is to belong to a people. As much as we argue and fight with one another, the Jewish sense of belonging is special.
The word Yisrael applies to several things. It is the acquired name of the Patriarch Jacob. It is the word that describes the Jewish people. And it refers to the land promised to our ancestors. It means “the people that struggles with beings Divine and human and stays in the game.” That sounds about right.
We are an incredibly diverse bunch – we come from different lands and speak different languages. We have different skin colors. We welcome those who choose to join the Jewish people as full members, but we never proselytize.
Despite such diversity, we have a shared identity that uniquely connects us. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh. All of Israel are interconnected with one another.
Judaism does not foster an extreme individualism, in which each person is alienated from the other. Nor do we promote a total collectivism, in which the uniqueness of each person is subsumed under the identity and interests of the group.
We freely quote the proverb of Hillel the Elder, but I must admit I never really gave much thought to its profundity before. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I.”
It expresses the tension between autonomy and responsibility for others. Where is the line demarcating the border between self interest and duty to others? It is in this tension that human dignity can be found.
I love that the Jewish concept of charity is tzedakah. It is not a voluntary act of generosity, but a matter of tzedek, justice. It is a commandment incumbent upon every one of us. We cannot escape our responsibility towards one another.
We are a people of memory. Much of that memory has to do with mourning past tragedies: the destruction of the first and second Temples; multiple expulsions; the Crusades; blood libels; the Spanish inquisition; the Chmielnitsky massacres; pogroms, and the Holocaust.
These are not just distant events. We tell them as our stories. These happened to people in our own communities, to our families, to us.
We do not allow ourselves forget, but neither do we allow ourselves to be buried by our history.
For nearly two thousand years, we were a scattered, diaspora people. 75 generations of Jews directed their prayers towards a country of Israel that did not exist.
We always prayed and dreamed for a time when things would be better. We continued to struggle with God and humanity with stubbornness and hope. We maintained a sense of humor throughout.
The establishment of the modern state of Israel, after the catastrophe of the Holocaust, is a testament to that historical optimism. It has brought new opportunities and challanges for the Jewish people that for 2,000 years were merely theoretical.
Rabbi Doniel Hartman applies the term “the troubled committed” to those, mainly American, Jews who are lovers and supporters of Israel while at the same time are deeply disturbed by “the enduring gap between ideals and reality.”
I am proud of the thriving democracy Israel has developed, its incredible flourishing in spite of so many forces working against it. I am proud that Israel is a technological giant, that it managed to be the first nation in the world to bring widespread Covid vaccinations to its people, that it is always among the first to send delegations of aid workers when disaster strikes impoverished countries. And so much more.
These are examples of the best of what a country founded on Jewish values can achieve.
And I am extremely troubled by Israel’s unequal treatment of Palestinians and continued occupation of the West Bank. The blessing of Jewish power must be guided by righteousness, and I worry that this is not always the case.
The failure to always meet its ideals is not a reason to abandon the first Jewish state in nearly 2,000 years. We can take pride in what Israel has acheived and support it to better live up to its potential.
Because to be Jewish is to acknowledge the world as it is, while living with hope for what it could be.
On the High Holidays, we appeal to God to forgive our sins and inscribe us in the Book of Life, to remove our sorrows and troubles and bless us with prosperity. Superficially, we are asking God to intervene in whatever physical fate awaits us in the year ahead.
When the holiday is over, what do we think is going to be different? Will our destiny somehow be changed because we spent hours upon hours in prayer?
What happens to me physically in the upcoming year will depend on some combination of three factors: what happens in nature, what other people do, and what I do.
Of those three, I only have any control over the last one. The possibility of teshuvah, of repentance, is a fundamentally optimistic approach to being human. It is the Jewish approach. Each of us can change, at any time.
Judaism believes in free will. Moses explains that in front of each of us there is a path of life and blessing, and a path of death and curse. While God has a preference for which path we take, the choice is ours.
In another metaphor, The Talmud teaches that humanity was created with the yetzer hatov and the yetzer hara, the good and the evil inclination. But the evil inclination is often misunderstood. The Rabbis recognize that “were it not for the evil inclination, no one would build a house, get married, have children, or engage in business.”
The struggle for every one of us is to direct the yetzer hara, the ego-driven aspect of ourselves that always wants to expand and grow, towards the service of the good.
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov asks “If you are not a better person tomorrow than you are today, what need have you for a tomorrow?”
For thousands of years, Jews have prayed for the coming of the Messiah. But we are not looking for God to send someone to miraculously save us from all of our troubles. What we are really striving for is to build a world that is worthy of saving. So to answer the question, “when will the Messiah arrive,” the Jewish answer is “Not yet.”
I could go on, but those are some of the reasons I choose to be choose.
I do not anticipate that the pressures facing the Jewish people are going to let up in 5782.
This moment calls for us to remember who we are. Let’s each ask ourselves:
“Why am I proud to be Jewish?” And then act like we mean it.
May this year be one of strength and renewal for us and the Jewish people.
May we be inspired by the commitment of past generations to live with hope and faith as we face the opportunities and challenges of the present.
May we be worthy of transmitting all of that which makes us proud to be Jewish to future generations.
Last Shabbat, the Jewish world lost one of its great teachers, thinkers, and advocates, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks of Great Britain. Rabbi Sacks was an Orthodox Rabbi, a philosopher, theologian, and politician. He was one of the most recognized and respected Jewish thinkers in the world.
Rabbi Sacks served as the Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth from 1991 to 2013. In 2005, he became a Knight Bachelor for “services to the community and inter-faith relations.” In 2009, he was granted the title Baron and given a life peerage with a seat in the House of Lords.
Rabbi Sacks emphasized the study of knowledge in all of its forms, both from within and outside of Judaism. He utilized the terms Chockmah and Torah to describe the pursuit. He wrote,
Chokhmah is the truth we discover; Torah is the truth we inherit. Chokhmah is the universal language of humankind; Torah is the specific heritage of Israel. Chokhmah is what we attain by being in the image of God; Torah is what guides Jews as the people of God. Chokhmah is acquired by seeing and reasoning; Torah is received by listening and responding. Chokhmah tells us what is; Torah tells us what ought to be.
Jonathan Sacks, Future Tense (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 2009), p.221
In his drashot, Rabbi Sacks was as likely to cite Shakespeare as Rashi. He had a gifted ability to communicate the universal truths of human existence, drawing deeply on the wellsprings of Torah and Jewish teaching,
He was committed to interfaith work, often appearing on British television as a commentator to wide audiences. “No one creed has a monopoly on spiritual truth,” he wrote in his book The Dignity of Difference. Rabbi Sacks was noted for his deeply held embrace of both particularism and universalism, although he backtracked after receiving criticism from Haredi Jews. He believed that Judaism had something to say, and had an important role to play, in fixing the problems of the world.
In my work as a Rabbi, people sometimes share articles or drashot with me that they read and find to be meaningful. I cannot think of another person whose teachings have been shared more than Rabbis Jonathan Sacks’.
At his funeral this week, Gila Sacks delivered an emotional eulogy for her father. She said about him, “He taught us that the world is to be challenged, and that there is no such thing as an unsolveable problem.”
The best way to honor a great teacher is to share his teachings. So I turned to one of Rabbi Sacks’ drashot on this morning’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah.
Over the course of three parashiyot, God blesses Abraham numerous times. The blessings essentially come down to two promises. One, Abraham will inherit the entire land of Canaan. And two, Abraham will be the father of a great nation, a nation that will be a blessing to the world.
In fact, each of these blessings occurs five separate times over the course of the previous two Torah portions.
As this morning’s reading begins, however, Abraham’s prospects are not looking good. Over the course of Chayei Sarah, Abraham takes important actions that are the first steps towards the fulfilment of God’s blessings.
The first to be addressed is land. Sarah dies, and Abraham must prepared for her funeral. The problem is that he is a foreigner in Canaan, with no land to his name. He turns to the Hittites, living in Hebron, with a proposal. Ger v’toshav ani imachem. “I am a resident alien among you, please let me purchase land to bury my wife.”
Abraham is in a difficult situation and he knows it. As a foreigner in a highly tribal society, it is nearly impossible for him to own land. The Hittites, who seem to respect Abraham, offer him the opportunity to bury his wife wherever he chooses.
Abraham knows what he wants, and he asks for Ephron to sell him the cave of Machpelah. Ephron offers to give Abraham the field with the cave so that he can bury Sarah. But gifts can be rescinded. So Abraham asks again to purchase the land at whatever price Ephron names. Ephron slyly tells him the cost, “A piece of land worth four hundred shekels of silver-what is that between you and me?”
Abraham pays the money, and the land becomes his. To emphasize the legally binding nature of the transaction, the Torah ends the story with a summary of the contract.
So Ephron’s land in Machpelah, near Mamre—the field with its cave and all the trees anywhere within the confines of that field—passed to Abraham as his possession, in the presence of the Hittites, of all who entered the gate of his town.
Genesis 23:17-18
Notice the details – the land is described by location, along with the trees growing on it. Abraham is identified as the new owner. And the witnesses are specified. The deal is accomplished in public, before the entire town.
Then the story concludes with Abraham burying Sarah. By performing an action on the land, he takes formal possession of it.
The importance of this story cannot be overstated. This is the first fulfillment of God’s blessing of Abraham
The Torah turns to the next part of the blessing. Abraham knows that it can only be fulfilled through Isaac, but things do not seem to be moving forward on that front. At this point, Isaac is at least 37 years old. He is unmarried and still living at home. “Failure to launch,” would be an apt description.
So Abraham sends his servant to Aram-Naharaim, outside of the land of Canaan, to find a wife for Isaac from among Abraham’s kinsmen.
As with the land negotiations, it is not easy. The servant, acting as Abraham’s proxy, embarks on the long journey, bringing ten camels laden with treasures.
Upon arrival, he meets Rebecca, and bestows lavish gifts of gold and silver jewelry upon her, her brother Laban, and her mother. As with the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah, this is an expensive transaction. And he must deal with deception as well. When the servant indicates that he would like to return with Rebecca, her mother and brother try to delay. When the servant insists, they put the question to Rebecca herself, who agrees to leave immediately.
As before, external politeness hides distrust and greed. In the end, Abraham gets what he wants, but the price is dear.
Noteworthy in both of these stories is God’s absence. There are no conversations with angels, prophetic encounters, or appearances of mysterious wells. Neither Ephron nor Laban have scary dreams in the middle of the night warning them of what will happen if they do not give Abraham what he wants.
These are stories of struggle and persistence, of taking charge of one’s fate in a way that has permanent implications for the future.
At the beginning of Chayei Sarah, the prospects of God’s blessings to Abraham being fulfilled are bleak. By the end, events are set in motion. Rabbi Sacks writes that
“yes, Abraham will have a land. He will have countless children. But these things will not happen soon, or suddenly, or easily. Nor will they occur without human effort. To the contrary, only the most focused willpower and determination will bring them about. The divine promise is not what it first seemed: a statement that God will act. It is in fact a request, an invitation from God to Abraham and his children that they should act.”
“…Now, as then, the divine promise does not mean that we can leave the future to God…. Faith does not mean passivity. It means the courage to act and never to be deterred. The future will happen, but it is we – inspired, empowered, given strength by the promise – who must bring it about.”
Jonathan Sacks, Covenant and Conversation, pp. 126-127
One of the special qualities of Hebrew, especially Biblical Hebrew, is its ambiguity. Exacerbating this ambiguity is the absence of vowels, which were not developed in written form until about 1,100 years ago. As a result, words have more than one possible interpretation. The Biblical narrative relies upon this multiplicity of meaning to express itself.
The Talmud teaches that there are seventy faces to every letter of the Torah. In other words, perspective matters. The same word simultaneously expresses multiple meanings and truths, depending on the lens through which a leader perceives it. It is a powerful metaphor for us about the nature of Truth, one to keep in mind before we become too confident in ourselves and our opinions.
A particular challenge presents itself with regard to the pronunciation and meaning of the name of God.
In the Book of Deteronomy, Moses recounts the previous forty years of travelling through the wilderness to the Israelites, who are camped on the Eastern Bank of the Jordan. Parashat Va’Etchanan opens with a particularly personal and emotional memory. Moses recalls how he begged God to allow him to finish what he started.
O Lord GOD, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness and Your mighty hand, You whose powerful deeds no god in heaven or on earth can equal! Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan, that good hill country, and the Lebanon.
Deuteronomy 3:24-25
In his recollection, Moses blames the Israelites for God’s negative response to his appeal. “The Lord was wrathful with me on your account and would not listen to me.” (Deut. 3:26)
Moses initiates his request with a somewhat uncommon invocation of God. It appears just three times in the Torah, and always to introduce a personal appeal to God.
It is a formulation that might even be impossible to pronounce, as I will attempt to explain. I invite us to look in our texts at Deuteronomy chapter 3, verse 24, page 1005 in the Etz Chayim chumash. We are focused on just the first two words. How should we read these words?
אדני יהוה
According to tradition, a Torah reader would pronounce the words Adonai Elohim. But the letters and vowels do not read that way. Our translation, from the Jewish Publication Society, reads “O Lord God.”
Let’s see if we can break it down. The first word is relatively easy. Alef Dalet Nun Yud – Adonai – אֲדֹנָי. It means “My Lord.”
Adonai is a generic title that one might use when addressing someone one wishes to honor. It could be used to address a King, religious figure, or someone with a lofty title. A student might address a teacher with Adoni. It might also be used by a shopkeeper speaking with a customer, or a busdriver to a rider. Or, it could be used to address God.
The second word is more difficult. The letters are straightforward Yud Hei Vav Hei – יהוה. Otherwise known as the tetragramaton – the four letter name of God.
Bible scholars think that it was pronounced Yahweh in Ancient times. If that is true, Moses then would have begun his prayer Adonai, Yahweh – “My Lord, Yahweh.”
What does Yud Hei Vav Hei mean? Without vowels, it is impossible to say for certain. The three letter root is Hei Vav Hei which means “to be.” Grammatically, it could be in either the kal or hif’il conjugation, and could be either present or future tense. Possible meanings, therefore, could be something like “He who is,” or “He who will be,” “He who causes to exist,” or “He who will bring into existence.” I suspect that the ambiguity is intentional, and that all four meanings are implied.
God is in a constant state of existence and coming into existence, as well as causing all that exists to come into being. It is a theologically rich, philosophical, transcendent understanding of the nature of God and the universe.
Jewish tradition, however, holds that we, first of all, are not allowed to pronounce God’s name; and second, we do not even know how to pronounce it..
This extreme concern with saying or inscribing God’s name did not exist in Biblical times through the first part of the Second Temple Era. The Bible makes no mention of a substitute ever being used for Yud Hei Vav Hei. It was pronounced and written regularly in sacred and secular contexts, such as in letters, legal documents and contracts. Parts of the Tetragramaton are incorporated into many Biblical names that we still use today. Think of Eliyahu – Elijah. It was normal and acceptable to refer to God by name.
But what about the third commandment? Later in this morning’s parashah, Moses repeats the Ten Commandments. The third commandment states that one may not “swear falsely in the name of Yud Hei Vav Hei your God.” This does not mean that one may not say the name. The third commandment refers specifically to a courtroom, in which it is forbidden to lie when swearing a formal oath, invoking the Divine name.
Nowhere does the Torah forbid a person from expressing the name Yud Hei Vav Hei out loud, as written. So when did it happen?
The practice of substituting a different word for God’s name in speech and writing seems to have developed during the latter part of the Second Temple Era. Substitutions for God’s name are already found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. Some of the scrolls even use a different alphabet, writing out the four letter Divine name in proto-Hebrew, the ancient script.
The Talmud (BT Yoma 39b) records that Second Temple priests, when offering the Priestly Blessing to people, stopped using the correct pronunciation of God’s name when Shimon HaTzaddik died. If the Talmudic account is accurate, that would have been in the late fourth century BCE, the beginning of the Hellenistic era. From that point on, the priests switched to Adonai. Eventually, even the memory of how to pronounce God’s name correctly was lost.
The Rabbis are quite concerned with the casual writing and pronunciation of God’s name, as were early Christians. Christian copies of the Septuagent, the Greek translation of the Bible, translate Yud Hei Vav Hei as Kyrios, which means “Lord,” the same as the Hebrew, Adon.
Why is it so important to not pronounce God’s name? Not referring to someone by his or her name is a sign of respect. Although it is not as common as it used to be, it was not long ago when children would never refer to an adult by his or her first name. It was always, Mister or Mrs. followed by the last name.
It is still not generally acceptable for a child to refer to his or her parent by a first name. The Talmud (BT Kiddushin 31b) relates how the Sage Rava, whenever he would teach a lesson that he had learned from his father, would refrain from stating his father’s name out of respect. Instead of citing “Rav Ashi,” his father’s actual name, Rava would say, in Aramaic, Aba Mari – “Father, My Lord.”
To this day, we usually pronounce Yud Hei Vav Hei as Adonai during prayer or ritual Torah chanting. Most English translations are based on this word but substitute “My” with “The.” Instead of saying “My Lord,” evoking a personal, intimate relationship, we say “The Lord,” a declaration of God’s universality and uniqueness.
In casual conversation, though, “The Lord” is too sacred. Jews substitute the word Hashem for these four letters. Hashem means, simply, “the name.”
In our particular passage, we have the word Adonai spelled out, followed by Yud Hei Vav Hei. But, we do not say Adonai Adonai. “My Lord, My Lord.” Instead, we say Adonai Elohim, “My Lord, God.”
Are you confused?
Now we come to the vowels. The vowel symbols were not developed until a little over a thousand years ago, by the Masoretes. When it came time to putting vowels on a word whose pronunciation was both unknown and forbidden, they had a problem.
The solution they came up with was to use the vowels from the word that they actually wanted the reader to say. Since Yud Hei Vav Hei is typically pronounced Adonai, it gets those vowels.
יהוה
+
אֲדֹנָי
=
יְהֹֹוָה
If I were to read it as written, it would say Yehovah. That is where the word Jehovah comes from. The letter “J” in German is pronounced “Y.”
You might notice that the vowel under the alef of Adonai looks different than the vowel under Yud. They are actually the same vowel. For reasons we will not go into right now, it has to be modified when it appears underneath an Alef. Trust me.
In most places in the Torah, this is how the Divine name is written with vowels.
But in our case, we do not pronounce it Adonai. We pronounce it Elohim. We are going to need different vowels.
יהוה
+
אֱלֹהִים
=
יְהֹֹוִה
If we read it as written, it would be Yehovih.
Our tradition embraces the idea that words can express multiple ideas at the same time. When we read this passage, we are supposed to think of both the written Yud Hei Vav Hei and the spoken Elohim.
The commentator Rashi explains the phrase with two simple words of commentary: Rachum badin. Merciful in judgment.
Our tradition understands each name of God as representing different aspects of the Divine. Yud Hei Vav Hei is mercy and Elohim is judgment.
In turning to God, Moses opens Adonai Yahweh. “My Lord, The One who is constantly becoming and bringing everything into existence.” God has judged him, and decreed that he will not be allowed to enter the Promised Land. But the God of judgment is also the God for mercy. Moses appeals for mercy in judgment. Change the verdict. Let me finish what I started.
The answer, sadly for Moses, is “No.” But he does not give up. His message to the children of Israel is that they, if they remain faithful to God, can complete what he started. He finds hope in disappointment.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Jeffrey Tigay, The JPS Torah Commentary: Deuteronomy. Excursus 4, pp. 431-432.
Since 2012, the United Nations has conducted an annual World Happiness Report.It ranks 156 countries by the collective happiness of their populations using weighted metrics derived from per capita GDP, degree of social support, healthy life expectancy, freedom to make life choices, generosity, and perception of corruption.According to the 2018 World Happiness Report, America ranked 18th in the world, but we have been on a downward trajectory over the past decade.Israel was 11th, if one can measure such a thing.
Of course, this has nothing to do with happiness as each of us experiences it individually.
Am I happy?
How do I get it?And what is it?Perhaps it is a chemical release that we can measure through neurobiology.Maybe it is a feeling of purpose in life, or the awareness of being wanted.Perhaps happiness is something we experience when we indulge our appetites.
One of the recurring themes in this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Re’eh, is simchah – happiness, or joy.The Hebrew root sin, mem, chet occurs exactly one time each in the Books of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers.It appears twelve times in the Book of Deuteronomy.Seven are in Parashat Re’eh.
All seven occurrences contain similar elements.The Israelites are told to rejoice when they bring various kinds of voluntary and mandatory offerings to the Temple.
Here is one example, describing the observance of the holiday of Shavuot:
V’samachta lifnei Adonai Elohekha… You shall rejoice before the LORD your God with your son and daughter, your male and female slave, the Levite in your communities, and the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow in your midst, at the place where the LORD your God will choose to establish His name.(Deuteronomy 16:11)
You, or rather, the Israelite, must gather together with all of the members of his household: his wife, children, and servants.Plus, he invites the poor and dispossessed to join with him. They are all to assemble “at the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish His name,” that is to say, the Temple in Jerusalem.There, they are to bring a freewill offering from the recent harvest, as an observance of Shavuot.
Note that it is not God who is doing the rejoicing.It’s people – us.This is not the case in other books of the Torah, which emphasize the burning up of meat to send up a pleasing odor to the Lord.In Deuteronomy, we worship God by celebrating together and creating a mood of festivity among ourselves. When Israelites brought one of these offerings, they did so as an acknowledgement and expression of thanks for the blessings that had been provided by God.
The parashah implies that the recipe for true simchah requires several things: for us to be together, for us to share our bounty with the poor, for us to eat and drink, and for us to acknowledge that any blessings we get to enjoy in this world are ultimately gifts from God, and not merely the products of our own efforts.
Finally, by emphasizing that all of this must take place in the Sanctuary, and on specific occasions, the Torah channels our expressions of joy into sacred contexts.After all, there can be danger in unbounded releases of happiness.Parties can get out of hand.
Does the destruction of the Temple and the ending of sacrifices mean that we no longer worship God with simchah?
The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chasidism, placed a great emphasis on the idea of simchah as the central component of Judaism.He offered an alternative approach to Jewish life, which in his day was so focused on intellectual achievement that it had lost the essence of what it meant to be Jewish.
All joy, even its lowest forms, originates in holiness and is a gift from God.The Baal Shem Tov especially liked the following story from the Talmud.
Rabbi Beroka Hoza’ah used to frequent the market at Lapat where Elijah [the Prophet] often appeared to him. Once he asked [the prophet], “Is there anyone in this market who has a share in the world to come?”
[Elijah] replied, “No…” While [they were thus conversing] two [men] passed by and [Elijah] remarked, “These two have a share in the world to come.”
Rabbi Beroka then approached [the two men] and asked them, “What is your occupation?”
They replied, “We are jesters, when we see people depressed we cheer them up; furthermore when we see two people quarrelling we strive hard to make peace between them.”(BT Ta’anit 22a)
One would imagine that the marketplace of a major Persian city would be filled with worthy people.Scholars, merchants, philanthropists, civic leaders – many passersby who should merit a place the world to come.Yet the only people worthy enough are the jesters.
The Baal Shem Tov’s great grandson, Rebbe Nahman of Breslov constantly strove to find ways to serve God with simchah. Of his many beloved stories and teachings, the most well-known is: mitzvah gedolah lihyot b’simcha tamid.“It is a great mitzvah to be in a state of joy always.”(Likutei Moharan, II 24)
It sounds nice, and makes for nice lyrics to a niggun, but it is kind of a strange thing to say.We usually think of happiness as something which we strive to achieve.But a mitzvah?! A commandments?! Perhaps we might suggest that a life lived according to the Torah can lead a person to happiness.But to suggest that there is a requirement to be happy seems unrealistic.
And even more far-fetched is the notion of tamid, always. Can anyone achieve a constant state of happiness. And if so, could the rest of us stand to be around such a person?
Rebbe Nachman knew this well.He personally suffered from severe mood swings and depression.He lost two children, and his wife died when he was thirty five.He remarried almost immediately, contracted tuberculosis, and died at the age of thirty eight.So what does Rebbe Nahman mean when he talks about simchah?
He teaches that it is in a person’s nature to be drawn to marah shechorah, black bitterness, and atzvut, sadness, from the travails of life.We all suffers afflictions.It would seem to demand all of our efforts to achieve a constant state of joy.
Every one of us has a lev nishbar, Rebbe Nachman continues, a broken heart.This broken heart is not something to suppress, nor is it something to wallow in, as that can lead us further down the path of black bitterness.He advises instead that we should dedicate a fixed time each day during which to break our hearts and engage in honest conversation with God.Then, we can be freed up to experience joy.
Indeed, Rebbe Nachman did this.We have preserved many of Rebbe Nachman’s own spontaneous prayers that he recited in his daily conversations – or battles, as he described them – with God.Embrace the brokenness and sadness, and then be freed up for joy.
Rebbe Nachman advised his chasidim to sing, and to dance.He encouraged silliness, and lightheartedness.“Finding true joy is the hardest of all spiritual tasks,” he taught.“If the only way to make yourself happy is by doing something silly, do it.”(Advice, Breslov Research Institute. p. 254) Rebbe Nachman fervently believed that our spiritual joy could make an impact in the real world.
Shortly before Purim in 1803, Rebbe Nachman arrived in the town of Terhovitza, in Ukraine, for his annual visit. (Likutey Moharan, Volume II, #10, p. 115) Czar Alexander I had recently issued an ukase, a decree instructing the issuance of “Enactments Concerning the Jews.”This would eventually lead to laws for mandatory conscription and compulsory secular education.
Rebbe Nachman introduced one of his teachings by stating: “When, God forbid, there are decrees affecting the Jewish people, through dancing and hand-clapping these decrees can be mitigated.”
After he completed the lengthy and intricate lesson, Rebbe Nachman remarked: “This is what I said!We are hearing news of decrees against the Jews.But the days of Purim are near and Jews will dance and clap, and thereby mitigate the decree!”
At the Purim festivities that year, Rebbe Nachman danced even more fervently than usual.“I have delayed the decrees for twenty-odd years,” he reflected afterward.
The decrees did not come until almost twenty five years later, in 1827, sixteen years after Rebbe Nachman’s death.
I don’t know if we have come any closer to defining simchah, but Parashat Re’eh and Rebbe Nachman offer paths to achieving it. In the Torah, Simchah is experienced when we join with other people, including those without the means, to express gratitude for the gifts we have been given.Spiritual simchah, expressed at holy moments and locations, is worship of God.
For Rebbe Nachman, it is the highest form of worship.And even though life is difficult, unfair, and filled with sadness; and even though some people’s physical and psychological burdens seem to far exceed those of others, our ultimate task in life is to cultivate a state of constant joy.This can only be done by acknowledging the sadness.Maybe it is the black bitterness itself that makes true simchah possible.
Mitzvah gedolah lihyot b’simchah tamid.“It is a great mitzvah to be in a state of joy always.”
Rebyehoshua 