Cash Bail in Jewish Law – Shoftim 5778

Of the many problems that California is currently facing, bail reform is one that has recently been in the news.

That is because there is a bill, SB10, that has been going through the California State Assembly and is going to be up for a vote this week after numerous modifications over the past year.

The latest version represents a compromise that does not please everyone.  The law would eliminate the cash bail system.  Instead, each county’s court system would determine whether to incarcerate an accused criminal based on a pre-trial assessment of whether a person would be a risk to society or pose a flight risk.

If SB10 passes the Assembly, it will still need to clear the State Senate and then be signed by the Governor.

Let me state at the outset that I do not know whether this law will solve the problem.  But the problem certainly needs solving.

Even though all of us are experts on the judicial system due to our careful viewing of Law & Order, please allow me to review a few details.

Bail is the release from custody of an accused person before the trial.  

It originated in England in medieval times as a way to make sure that a suspect would show up in court.  It does not necessarily involve the payment of money.

Cash bail, which SB10 would eliminate, means that the court requires the accused to come up with a certain amount of money in order to be released.  If the money is not raised, then the accused remains incarcerated through the end of the trial.  If the money is raised, the accused is released on bail, with the money being returned after the trial is complete, minus fees. 

In the 8th Amendment, the Founding Fathers included the clause – “Excessive bail shall not be required.”  The Supreme Court has never determined what “Excessive” means.

Under current federal law, certain crimes are not subject to bail.  Suspects must be kept in jail before the trial.  This includes cases in which there might be a sentence of death or life in prison, certain drug offenses, and a few other categories.  A judge who determines that a suspect would pose a risk to his/her community or be a flight risk can also deny bail.

For all other crimes, there is a bail hearing.  Most states use the cash bail system.  Accused persons who are unable to afford the bail amount face a choice.  In states where it is legal, like California, they can go to a bail bond agency, which loans them the money in exchange for a payment, usually 10% of the total bail amount.  The bail bondsman then makes sure that the accused shows up in court.

A person who cannot afford the bail bond must remain in jail, even though bail has been granted.

There are a number of problems with the cash bail system.

Keep in mind, first of all, that under American law a suspect is innocent until proven guilty.  This means that when a person accused of a crime who is kept in jail, he is kept there as a legally innocent person.

The median bail amount in California is $50,000.  Only 1 in 10 can afford to pay it.  63% of those who are currently sitting in jail have not been convicted of anything.  They are waiting for trial or sentencing.  A person who is in jail awaiting trial is unable to work.  He (it is usually a he) typically loses his job, and possibly his home.  He is unable to support his family.  He has great difficulty meeting with his legal team and preparing his defense.

In contrast, a person who has the means to post bail can continue to work and has a much easier time of meeting with his lawyer and preparing his case.  The result is that for those convicted of the same crime, those who post bail, on average, receive a lesser sentence than those who have to remain in jail before the trial.

There is evidence, as well, that bail rates for black and Hispanic defendants are set higher than for white defendants who are charged with the same crime.

Finally, the prospect of spending a long time in jail awaiting trial encourages innocent people to plead guilty to crimes they did not commit.  This gets them out of jail, but it also gives them a criminal record, which can have a lifetime impact.

SB10 tries to address these issues.  As the bill itself states:

It is the intent of the Legislature in enacting this act to safely reduce the number of people detained pretrial, while addressing racial and economic disparities in the pretrial system, and to ensure that people are not held in pretrial detention simply because of their inability to afford money bail. (SB10, Sec. 2)

I do not know whether SB10 will achieve these goals.  I am trying to learn more about it, but am certainly no expert.  I encourage all of us to educate ourselves on this issue.

When trying to understand an issue of criminal reform, it can be helpful to look at other systems.  While not perfect, our Jewish legal tradition is rooted in principles of fairness and equity.  It turns out that Jewish law, or halakhah, has something to say about bail as well.

This morning’s Torah portion, Shoftim, is primarily about the justice system.  Moses instructs the Israelites, collectively, to establish and maintain just institutions of government.  In the second verse.  Regarding judges, he declares:

Lo tateh mishpat, lo takir panim, lo tikach shochad ki hashochad ye’aver einei chakhamim visalef divrei tzadikim.

You shall not skew judgment.  You shall recognize no face and no bribe shall you take, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and perverts the words of the innocent.  (Deut. 16:19)

These are the three principles of judicial fairness.  They appear numerous times in the Torah.  Usually, the Torah addresses them to judges specifically.  Here, Moses delivers these requirements to the Israelites collectively, as if to say that we all bear responsibility for the behavior of soceity’s officials.  We must make sure that those whom we appoint as justices and magistrates abide by principles of equality and fairness.

These three concepts present three aspects of judicial fairness.

Jewish law recognizes that judges are human beings.  A judge may not do anything in the court that would show favor to a wealthy person or an acquaintance.  Not only is a judge not allowed to take a bribe, for obvious reasons, a court is not allowed to charge fees to the plaintiffs in a case.  Mishnah Bechorot (4:6) states that “anyone who charges a fee to the litigants to judge – his judgment is nullified.”

The judge cannot allow anything to occur in the courtroom that might prevent a plaintiff from presenting the best possible case.

The judicial system the Torah describes is fairly uncomplicated.  In a real legal system, however, there are a lot more moving parts.  It is not difficult to imagine a flawed court that is comprised of well-intentioned, knowledgeable professionals of high moral character.

Regarding bail, the Talmud (BT Sanhedrin 78b) deals explicitly with the question of what to do with a suspect before the trial is held.  If it is a capital crime – in other words if the accused has been charged with murder – he must be jailed by the court until guilt or innocence can be determined.  In such a case, no bail is permitted.  If the accused has severely injured a person, and it is not clear if the victim will survive, he is also held in jail.  The reason is because the court does not yet know if he will need to be tried for murder or for injury.  Rashi explains that the accused is imprisoned out of a concern for flight-risk.  If the suspect injures another, but the injuries are not considered to be life-threatening, then he is released until the trial.  

The Mekhilta (Mishpatim, Ex. 21:19, 2), an early legal midrash collection on the book of Exodus, addresses the question of cash bail directly.  In the situation described in the Talmud, the accused is not permitted to post bail and go free.  He must remain incarcerated until the victim’s fate resolves.  

An entry under “Bail” in the 1906 Jewish Encyclopedia concludes as follows:

…as a rich man can readily give Bail and the poor man can not, the release of the prisoner on Bail would run counter to that other oft-repeated rule of the Torah, ‘One law there shall be to you.'”

Over the centuries, Jewish law has not traditionally employed incarceration as a punishment in the legal system.  It was basically used just for holding an accused murderer before trial out of concern for public safety and potential flight.

There are essentially three types of punishments that a Jewish court can administer.  For capital crimes, the punishment is death.  For sins, the court can administer lashes.  For civil and personal injury cases, there are fines.

One form of imprisonment that is mentioned in ancient sources is called the kippah.  It was a small cell in which a person would be imprisoned and fed meager rations until he died.  This could be used in a case in which a murderer was found guilty, but could not be sentenced to death because of a technicality.  There is no evidence that the kippah was ever actually used, though.

Dina d’malkhuta dina is an ancient concept that is applied in particular to monetary laws.  “The law of the land is the law.”  In order to participate in the economies of the societies in which they live, Jews need to adopt those society’s laws, including when they do not conform to Jewish law.

For most of the past two thousand years, Rabbis did not have the authority to issue legal rulings except in cases that were internal to the Jewish community.  Many of the discussions on criminal and civil law, therefore, are theoretical.  But there is a historical record of a cash bail system being utilized by a Jewish court.

Rabbi Yitzchak ben Sheshet Perfet, known by his acronym as the Rivash, was a 14th century Spanish Rabbi.  He wrote a teshuvah, a legal decision, that deals with a question of whether a debtor who could not pay off his debts could be incarcerated.  He rules that this would be forbidden under Jewish law.  But then he laments:

The truth is, in my own city, the judges’ custom is to imprison a person who is liable in this manner, according to an act of the community.  And they further enacted that even without being found guilty, any person can be held over a lawsuit, unless they pay collateral, and they call this a ruling of the court.  I did not want to allow this act to stand, because it is not in accordance with our Torah’s law.  And they said to me: this is in accordance with the “marketplace act” [a principle allowing new rules that make commerce smoother], because of swindlers, and so as not to bar the door in the face of borrowers. And I allowed their custom to stand. (Teshuvot HaRivash 484) 

In other words, in the Rivash’s day, Rabbinic courts were sending Jews to debtors prison and allowing them to post bail.  This was apparently the dominant practice in the area, and was deemed necessary by the leaders of the Jewish community to preserve the integrity of the marketplace.  Knowing that it was against the Torah, the Rivash reluctantly allowed it to stand.

The existence of the modern State of Israel has made the question of how to punish criminals in a Jewish legal system practical.  

Rabbi Haim David HaLevy, the former Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv, who died in 1988, wrote a Tehuvah in which he stated categorically that a person who is being charged for a capital crime should be incarcerated without bail under any circumstance.  Citing the Rivash, he concludes that “that for all other crimes, for which the punishment is monetary, we let them go [on bail] until the determination of the sentence.”  (Aseh L’kha Rav 3:48)

Like any legal system, Jewish law is not perfect.  Nevertheless, for more than three thousand years, it has strived to conform to principles of justice and equity that are rooted in the Torah itself.  As such, it has something to teach us today.

I would never suggest that state or federal law must conform to Jewish law.  We Jews should be nervous whenever a religious group tries to impose its beliefs on secular law.

But our ancient tradition has much to teach us concerning the establishment of societies and institutions that are guided by justice and equality.  We would be wise to improve our understanding of Jewish law as we try to determine the best way forward for our community, our state, and our nation.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Incarceration in Jewish Law: A Brief Overview

10 things you need to know about money bail

The Unclaimed Crown – Terumah 5778

Parashat Terumah is the first of two parashiyot that describes the design of the Mishkan, the portable Tabernacle that the Israelites build and then carry with them throughout their time in the wilderness.  It also describes the furnishings that resided within the Mishkan.

The Mishkan becomes a somewhat “permanent” temporary structure.  Even after the Israelites enter the Promised Land, it will take several centuries before the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple, to be built by King Solomon in Jerusalem, using the Mishkan as a model.

V’asu li mikdash v’shakhanti b’tokham.  “Build for me a Sanctuary that I may dwell in your midst,” God instructs Israel through Moses.  The Mishkan is the place where God’s Transcendent Presence becomes immanent.  The people can simply look to the center of the camp, see the clouds of incense hovering over the Tent, and know that God was there to protect them, bless them, and bring them prosperity.

Everything pertaining to the Mishkan, and later the Beit Hamikdash, is deeply symbolic.

In the ancient world, the belief was that when people sin, impurity becomes attached to the Mishkan, and specifically to the altar.  God’s Presence cannot remain in an impure Sanctuary.

That is where the priests come in.  By conducting the rituals, they cleanse the Mishkan and the altar of impurity, allowing God’s Presence to return, bringing blessings to the people.

This is true for the Mishkan in the wilderness, and later for the Beit Hamikdash in Jerusalem.

But something begins to change when the Rabbis come on the scene about two thousand years ago.

They take over from the biblical prophetic tradition, which tends to be skeptical of the automatic nature of the Temple rituals.  Prophets like Isaiah, Micah, and Amos recognize that while the priests conducted all of the Temple rituals with care and precision, people continues to behave with greed and callousness.  There must be more to being a people of God than merely offering sacrifices.

The Rabbis inherit and replace this countercultural prophetic tradition.  They interpret the Mishkan and Beit Hamikdash symbolically, deriving universal moral lessons from the specific rituals that were once conducted only by the priests.  Even before the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 CE, certain Jewish circles are starting to imagine a decentralized Judaism.  They embrace the ancient Temple symbols, but add them new layers of meaning that make them accessible to any Jew, in any place.

Three of the important pieces of furniture in the Mishkan are described in Parashat Terumah – the altar, the ark, and the table.  The altar, the mizbeaḥ, is where the sacrifices are performed.  The Ark, the aron, houses the tablets of the Ten Commandments and serves as God’s footstool in the Holy of Holies.  The table, the shulḥan, is where twelve loaves of bread are placed every week on Shabbat.

In describing each of these items, the Torah indicates that they are to have a zer of gold encircling the top.  It is not clear what a zer is.  Our English translation uses the word “molding.”  It is some sort of decorative gold rim around the top of the altar, ark, and table.  The Talmud (Yoma 72b) describes this zer as a crown, with symbolic meaning that extends way beyond mere aesthetics.

Rabbi Yoḥanan teaches: “There were three crowns on the sacred vessels in the Temple: The crown of the altar, and of the Ark, and of the table.”  Each of these crowns is available to be claimed by someone who is deserving.  For the crown of the altar, it is Aaron who is deserving.  He takes it, becomes the High Priest, and passes on the crown of priesthood to his sons after him.  The crown on the table is understood to represent kingship.  David is the deserving one.  He takes it for himself and passes it on to his children after him.  What about the third crown – the crown of the ark?  It still sits unclaimed, says Rabbi Yoḥanan.  Kol ha-rotzeh likaḥ, yavo v’yikaḥ.  Anyone who wishes to take it may come and take it.  What is this crown of the ark?  It is the crown of Torah.  Anyone is allowed to come and wear the crown of Torah.

The midrash continues: You might think that this third, unclaimed, crown is inferior to the crowns of kingship and of priesthood.  After all, nobody has taken it.  This is not the case.  It is in fact greater than both of them.  The Book of Proverbs states, “Through me kings will reign”  (Pr. 8:15).  The strength of the crowns of priesthood and kingship is derived from the crown of Torah, which is greater than them all.

This midrash undermines the old system.  Torah, that is to say, learning, has replaced the old dynastic systems of religious leadership.  This is one of the great legacies that the Rabbis have left to us: a meritocracy based on learning that is accessible to anyone who chooses to embrace it, regardless of lineage, wealth, or background.

This idea is developed further.  What does it mean to take the crown of Torah?  The Talmud again derives its answer through a creative analysis of the Mishkan.  We have already identified the ark as representing Torah.  It contains, after all, the Ten Commandments.  This ark, we read in the this morning’s Parashah, is constructed preciselt.  It is kind of like one of those Russian nesting dolls, with three compartments.  The middle compartment is a box made out of acacia wood.  It is sandwiched between an inner compartment and an outer compartment, each of which are made out of gold.

In other words, the exterior part, that is visible to the outside world, is gold.  But so is the inner part, the part that nobody sees.  In the Talmud, Rava teaches kol talmid ḥakham she’ein tokho k’voro eino talmud ḥakham.  “Any Torah scholar whose inside is not like his outside is not a Torah scholar.”

Torah is not meant to be merely an intellectual pursuit.  It is a living document, one that must transform the behavior of the one who studies it.

It Is Time To Do Something About Sexual Harassment – Noach 5778

Noah is described as a “righteous man, perfect in his generation.”  God singles him out to build the ark and collect animals of every species on earth to preserve life after the coming flood.  We take the Torah’s word for it.  Noah was indeed a righteous man.  But as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks claims, righteousness is not the same thing as leadership.

For one hundred twenty years, Noah builds an ark according to God’s specifications.  In all of that time, we do not have a single record of a conversation with his neighbors.  Noah does not try to change God’s mind.  He does not try to convince anyone to change their ways.  He does nothing to try to avert the flood that he knows is coming or save any lives other than the ones God commands him to save.

Can you imagine Abraham or Moses being so complacent?

Noah’s lack of leadership raises questions about his righteousness.  In what way, exactly, is he so righteous?  In an age in which all life on earth has become thoroughly corrupt, perhaps it is sufficient to maintain one’s own personal moral integrity.

Does this make Noah innocent?  Is it enough to be righteous in one’s own personal domain while everyone else is wicked?  The ambiguity is reflected in a Talmudic argument.  One Sage argues that to behave properly in a society that has lost its way reflects a person of extremely high moral character and strength.  Another Sage argues that Noah’s righteousness is only in comparison to his own generation.  In Abraham’s time, Noah would be merely average.

The question goes deeper than this.  Noah is a bystander.  Does this make him innocent?  Or, is there no such thing as an innocent bystander?

The recent revelations by numerous victims of sexual assault and harassment by Hollywood movie producer Harvey Weinstein have shed light on a pervasive problem.  A couple of weeks ago, Rose McGowan publicly revealed that Weinstein had raped her in 1997 when she was 23 years old.  Her revelation opened the floodgates for dozens of other women who shared that they had also been assaulted and raped by the media mogul.

It did not stopped there.  Millions of women have been using social media to share their own tragic experiences of being assaulted, harassed, and raped – some going into detail, and others by responding with the hashtag #metoo.

We are now facing evidence that millions of victims have kept silent out of shame and embarrassment for abuse that was not their fault.

As far as we have come in establishing equal rights for all people regardless of gender, we have to ask ourselves honestly if there are still cultures of misogyny and patriarchy embedded in our social institutions that allow someone like Harvey Weinstein to commit these horrible crimes over and over again for years, without ever being held accountable.  The answer is clearly yes, and the outpouring of stories indicates that it is not limited to Hollywood, but permeates every aspect of our culture.

It has emerged that plenty of people knew about Weinstein’s crimes, but nobody said anything until the floodgates opened.  How terribly heartbreaking.

Sometimes, I find as I study Jewish texts that I stumble upon a passage that speaks so clearly about the present situation that it feels like it cannot have been a coincidence.  This week, as I learned Talmud with my friend and colleague Rabbi Philip Ohriner, we came across a passage that seemed eerily relevant (BT Shabbat 54b-55a):

Rav, and Rabbi Ḥanina, and Rabbi [Yonatan], and Rav Ḥaviva taught…: Anyone who has the capability to protest [the sinful conduct] of the members of his household and does not protest, he is apprehended [ and punished] for [the sins of] the members of his household; the people of his town, he is apprehended for the people of his town; the whole world, he is apprehended for the whole world.

In other words, we bear responsibility for the actions of the people around us.  Note that they are careful to say that this is the case when we actually have the power to make the protest.  It is not difficult to imagine that someone might not be in a position to raise his or her voice.  The Talmud then shares a story.

Rav Yehuda was sitting before Shmuel [his teacher] when a particular woman came and cried before Shmuel [about an injustice that had been committed against her], and [Shmuel] paid no attention to her.  Rav Yehuda said to Shmuel: Doesn’t the Master [i.e. you] hold: “Whoever stops his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard” (Proverbs 21:13)?  [Shmuel] said to him: Big-toothed one (i.e. you have a sharp, keen tongue), your superior, [i.e., I, your teacher] will be punished in cold water.  The superior of your superior [i.e. my teacher] will be punished in hot water.  Mar Ukva sits as president of the court.

To summarize, a woman comes before a respected Rabbi to complain about a wrong that has been done to her.  We do not know what this injustice is.  We can only imagine.

In rabbinic literature, the scene of a woman bringing an injustice before a rabbi is not uncommon.  She is representative of someone without power.  Someone who is not able to get justice for herself.  So she turns to a respected religious authority.  In this story, Shmuel, the respected religious authority, ignores her.

Rav Yehudah, his student, observes the entire episode, and is shocked.  Bringing a verse, he basically asks his teacher, “how can you pretend not to hear the cries of this powerless woman before you.”  For a student to rebuke his master in this way is quite courageous.

Shmuel accepts the rebuke, admitting that not only is he fit for punishment, but Mar Ukva, the most senior Rabbi of the time, is fit for even greater punishment.

Here the story ends.  We do not know what happened next.  Did Shmuel go chasing after the woman to hear her complaint?  Probably not.  Did Shmuel or Mar Ukva receive any punishment or consequences for their dereliction of moral duty?  I doubt it.

This is a description of a society with injustices that are so embedded that the rabbis themselves, the ones who are supposed to be the moral consciences of the community, do not even see them.

How sadly fitting for the current conversation.  It is the complaint of an unnamed woman that sparks this episode.  But take note whose experiences are included, and whose are ignored.  The Talmud, a book written by men for a male audience, does not share her perspective.  What is her complaint?  Could it be that she has come to report a case of sexual harassment or rape?  Quite possibly.  How much courage did it take for her to even bring her case to the Rabbi?  How did she feel when he refused to listen to her?  Will she come back the next time she suffers an injustice?

What was she thinking when she got home?  If she was married, did she tell her husband what happened?  Her friends?  Her daughter?  Her son?  Her parents?

If the #metoo comments of this past week are at all indicative, she probably felt shame and embarrassment, and likely told nobody.

Although two thousand years have passed, we still live with a societal plague of our own making in which sexual harassment is passively or actively encouraged.

Rav Yehudah had the courage to speak out against his teacher’s indifference.  Shmuel had the willingness to admit to making a mistake.  But neither of them took it any further.

As the Talmud clearly teaches, if we have the ability to protest and remain silent, we are guilty.  In 2017, this is something that all of us can effectively do something about.

As a male, I have to consider all of the ways in which my life has been made easier due simply to my gender, in subtle ways in which I was not even aware at the time.  I have to listen to the stories of women who have experienced discrimination, harassment, and abuse – often made possible by institutionalized power imbalances.  And I have to suspend my temptation to reject or judge their experiences.  It is not my place to do so.

We parents have to teach our kids very explicitly to be able to say no to things that make them uncomfortable, and to always respect another person’s request to be left alone.  As kids get older, we need to teach them that consent must be explicit.  If I do not bring this up with my children, I am guilty.

In the workplace, and in social situations, it is not enough for me to simply respect other people’s boundaries.  I have to be an upstander.  If I see someone else crossing the line, I have to do something.  If I do not, I am guilty.

I think that there is a real opportunity to change the way that our society treats sexual harassment, discrimination, and rape.  The laws are mostly in place.  But the change that needs to happen now has to come from us.  We have the ability to make it happen.

Cultivating the Ability to Say “I Love You” – Yom Kippur 5778

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, once said:

I came into the world to show another way, to cultivate love of God, of Israel, and of the Torah, and there is no need for fasting and mortification.”

Now don’t get too excited.  I do not think he was saying we should not fast on Yom Kippur.  But he is suggesting that the cultivation of our ability to love is the most important thing we can do.  How do we cultivate love?

Today’s Torah reading does not offer much guidance.  It describes the ritual that Aaron, the High Priest, performed on behalf of the Israelites on Yom Kippur.  It goes into all of the technical details of washing, dressing, offering sacrifices, and even sending a goat off into the wilderness.  All of this so that the Tabernacle could be purified of the sins that had accumulated over the course of the year.

The High Priest had a crucial role to play, and only he could play it.  In describing the ritual, the Torah speaks matter-of-factly.  We gain no insight into the internal emotional state of the High Priest as he performs the rituals.  But it must have been a terrifying and exhilarating experience.  I imagine that many High Priests might have been motivated by their love for the Jewish people.

The single hint of what Aaron could have been feeling appears in the opening words of the reading.  “The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of Adonai.”  (Lev. 16:1)  The language is cold and factual, but it draws our memories back to the tragic deaths of Nadav and Avihu, six chapters earlier.

Is this a detail that we need?  After all, it does not add anything to the procedures.  Perhaps, as our Mahzor suggests, it is a warning to remind the High Priest of what is at stake if he is not careful to perform the ritual exactly as prescribed.

Or maybe the Torah is trying to remind us that the individual who performs this ritual on our behalf bears his own burdens and struggles.  “After the death of the two sons of Aaron” brings us back in time to the moment and its aftermath when Nadav and Avihu were inexplicably struck down.

Moses steps forward to take charge.  Explaining the tragedy, he comes off as something of a “know it all.”  His grieving brother’s response?  Vayidom Aharon.  “Aaron was silent.”

Moses instructs a couple of cousins to remove the bodies.  He tells Aaron and his sons that, due to their position, they are not permitted to engage in public mourning.  He instructs them to continue the sacred offerings, as if nothing has happened, reviewing in detail all of the procedures.  Then, when Moses sees Eleazar and Itamar, Aaron’s remaining sons, doing something which he thinks is improper, he scolds them.  That is a step too far.  Aaron ends his silence, pushing back against his brother’s cold, by-the-book attitude.

Moses relents.

Aaron needs something from his brother in that moment, and he does not get it.  Moses shows no compassion, no acknowledgement that Aaron has just experienced the worst loss a parent can suffer.  Surely Moses loves his brother, but he fails to look beyond the garments of the High Priest to the suffering person underneath.  What would have comforted Aaron?  What would have reassured him that his brother, his family, and indeed the Israelite nation, loved him?

We do not know.  The Torah is silent.

As human beings, we are social creatures.  Included in our basic core requirements, in addition to food, clothing, and water, is our need to be loved.  And not only romantic love, but the love between parents and children, siblings, other relatives, friends, and even God.

When a person knows that he or she is loved and accepted unconditionally, that person is better able to return love, feels more settled, and is more willing to take risks with the knowledge that love is not on the line.  And when that person suffers a loss, as Aaron did, he is able to move through the stages of grieving with more resilience.

One of the unconscious mistakes that most of us make is assuming that we know what other people need from us.  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is not necessarily the best advice, as each of us wants different things.

Centuries after Aaron performed the ritual in the Tabernacle, the High Priest would conduct a similarly intricate series of rituals in the Temple in Jerusalem.  As in earlier times, the purpose was to bring about atonement on behalf of the Jewish people.  Over the course of the year, the people’s sins accumulated, polluting the sanctuary.  God’s Presence could no longer remain in a polluted sanctuary.  The atonement rituals served as a spiritual cleansing, enabling God’s Presence to return.

The Talmudic Tractate, Yoma, goes into great detail about the rituals of Yom Kippur.  In the fifth chapter, it describes the incense offering.  (Yoma 5:1)  The High Priest places the specially formulated incense on hot coals in a metal pan so that the entire chamber of the Holy of Holies fills with smoke.  He then exits the Holy of Holies, walking backwards.  When he reaches the outer chamber, the High Priest pauses to recite a short prayer.  The Mishnah emphasizes that the High Priest would not pray for too long, so as not to alarm the people who are waiting for him outside.

It is known that a priest who alters the recipe for the incense, or who is not himself fit, can be struck dead on the spot while in the Holy of Holies.  If such were to occur, the regular priests waiting outside would have a problem, as none of them are permitted to enter the sacred precincts while the High Priest is in the Holy of Holies.  Maimonides reports that many Second Temple priests perished while conducting the Yom Kippur ritual .

After completing his duties and emerging safely from the Holy of Holies, the High Priest throws a big feast for his loved ones to express his gratitude that no tragedy has befallen him.  (Yoma 7:4)

The Talmud (Yoma 53b) relates a particular incident that occurs one year.  A certain High Priest is inside the Holy of Holies, reciting his prayer after the incense offering, but he is not coming out.  His fellow priests are worried.  Maybe he needs help?  Maybe he fainted?  Maybe he has been struck dead by a bolt of lightning!?

After speculating on the increasingly gruesome possibilities, they finally agree to enter.

Just at that moment, the High Priest emerges, triumphant.

“Why did you take so long to pray?” they ask him.

“What are you so worried about?” he responds.  “After all, I was praying for you and for the Temple to not be destroyed!”

Angry, they respond, “Well, don’t make a habit out if it.  You know what the law says; ‘He would not extend his prayer, so as not to alarm the Jewish people.'”

Clearly, there is a failure of communication.  The High Priest is convinced that he is doing the right thing for the people.  He loves them.  He is praying for their survival, and for the survival of the Holy Temple.  “Everything I did, I did for you,” he seems to be saying.  What could be wrong with that?

He has miscalculated.  In fact, his prayer is somewhat self-serving.  He prays for the people, and for the temple to not be destroyed.  He, of course, has a personal interest in the continued functioning of the Temple.  He assumes that everyone else wants the same.

It turns out, the people want something different.  “But what you did for us is not what we wanted you to do for us.”

What do they want?  He is their beloved High Priest, their religious leader.  They are worried about him.  They want his presence, not his prayers.  They are looking for a more intimate relationship than what he has offered them.  He does not seem to understand their needs – much as Moses fails to understand Aaron’s needs in his moment of loss.

This is one of the major stumbling blocks in relationships.  We do not pay the right kind of attention to what the people we love need.  Different people need to be loved in different ways.

Let’s each think for a moment about someone who loves us, either now or in the past.  It could be or have been a partner, a parent or child, a relative, or a friend.  Let’s ask, “How do I know that this person loves or loved me?”

The marriage and family counselor Gary Chapman wrote a well-known book called The 5 Love Languages which he has subsequently expanded into a small empire.  (I am indebted to Rabbi Laurie Matzkin for making this connection.)  His basic premise is that there are five essential ways of communicating love of all kinds.  Every person has a primary emotional language that determines how they best receive love.

Chapman argues that by knowing which is our own primary love language, and which is the primary love language of our partner, child, parent, or friend, we will be able to both give and receive love in a fuller way, and will have deeper, more fulfilling and compatible relationships.

If we are having difficulties in a relationship, it may very well be the case that the two individuals are not speaking one another’s love language.

The five love languages are, in no particular order:  “Words of Affirmation,” “Quality Time,” “Receiving Gifts,” Acts of Service,” and “Physical Touch.”  I will briefly summarize each of them.

Someone who responds best to “Words of Affirmation” likes to receive unsolicited compliments and kind words.  Saying “I love you,” sincerely of course, leave this person feeling great.  Conversely, this person takes insults very hard.

A person whose primary language is “Quality Time” appreciates nothing more than full, undivided attention.  Put the cell phone on mute, turn off the TV and be present with this person for focused conversations or shared activities.

Some people blossom by “Receiving Gifts” that reflect care and thoughtfulness.  Don’t mistake this for greed.  A meaningful gift could be a flower plucked from the garden.  Marking birthdays and anniversaries with a gift are important for those who speak this language.

Those whose primary love language is “Acts of Service” appreciates it most when things are done for them.  Washing the dishes, performing other household chores, or relieving a burden are received as expressions of love.  On the other hand, laziness and not following through communicate to this person that he or she does not matter.

Finally, some people communicate love through “Physical Touch.”  Hugs, a pat on the back, holding hands, or simply sitting close to another person are received as acts of love.  When a child who is feeling bad comes over to sit in a parent’s lap and nuzzles their neck, it is probably a good indication that “Physical Touch” is that child’s primary love language.  When a person who speaks this language does not experience physical contact, it can be lonely and insecure.

We all speak each of these languages, but for most of us, there is one that is dominant.

So… which do you think is your primary love language?  Think back to how you answered the question about how you knew you were loved.  “Words of Affirmation,” “Quality Time,” “Receiving Gifts,” Acts of Service,” or “Physical Touch.”

Chapman identifies three questions to help us figure it out.

1.  How do I typically express my affection for other people?  Our natural inclination is to express love in the way that we hope to receive it.  That is why the High Priest expresses his love for Israel by praying that they and the Temple will not be destroyed.  In Chapman’s language, we might say that the High Priest’s language is “Acts of Service.”

2.  What do I most complain about to my loved ones?  This could indicate that I am feeling abused in my primary love language.  The people complain to the High Priest that he was not there with them.  Their primary love language is “Quality Time.”

3.  What am I most likely to ask for from my loved ones?  The thing that we most often request from our friend, partner, or family member is likely connected to the thing that would most likely make us feel loved.  A spouse who insists that her partner mark her birthday with some sort of present or special activity speaks the language of “Giving Gifts.”

Knowing this about ourselves, and about each other, can make a tremendous difference in our relationships.  I may hate to do the dishes… with a passion.  But if I know that my spouse’s love language is “Acts of Service,” then by doing the dishes, I am actually saying “I love you” to her.  It even makes me feel differently about doing the dishes.  And my partner feels loved.

When we love another person, we want to make that person happy.  We want that person to feel secure, and to know that our love for them is unconditional.  Knowing which language to speak is key.

Can we apply this paradigm to God?  What is God’s primary love language?

Ahavah, the Hebrew word for love, means something different in the Torah than the word love means to us today.  The concept of ahavah is wrapped up in covenant.  In the Shema, we recite V’ahavta et Adonai Elohekha b’khol levavekha uv’khol nafshekha uv’khol me’odekha.  “You shall love the Lord your God with all of your heart, with all of your soul, and with all of your might.”

The Torah is not talking about an emotional feeling.  It is talking about actions.  How do we express our love for God?  Through actions.  By teaching our children, reciting words of Torah at home and on the road, at night and by day.  By putting up mezuzot on our doorposts and wrapping tefillin on our arms and our heads.  These are concrete deeds which express our relationship as individuals and as a people to God.

So we might say that God speaks the language of “Acts of Service.”  Through our actions, through performance of mitzvot, we express our love for God.

God has a different way of expressing love for us.  The language is all over our prayers.  How do we know that God loves us?  “Gift Giving.”  In the morning service, we recite Ahavah rabah ahavtanu.  “You loved us with a tremendous love.”  How?  Through the gift of Torah.

In the Torah’s covenantal language, God gives us the Promised Land, along with peace, security, and prosperity.  But is this all we want?  After all, the rabbis insist that we should strive to serve God not for a reward, but for God’s own sake.

In a more spiritual sense, what we long for is “Quality Time.”  In today’s Amidah, we say vatiten lanu Adonai Eloheinu b’ahavah… “You have given us in love, Adonai our God, this Shabbat day for holiness and rest, and this Yom Kippur for pardon, forgiveness and atonement…”  The ability to experience a sense of holiness in time comes through the weekly gift of Shabbat, as well as the annual cycle of holidays, each of which offers a unique opportunity to relate to God.

In Biblical and Temple times, the Yom Kippur ritual is what enabled God’s Presence to remain or return into the people’s midst.  With the knowledge that God was with them, the nation felt safe and protected.

The rituals of the Temple have been replaced by synagogue worship and personal teshuvah.  It is now we, individually, who long to feel the Presence of God in our lives.

As the 20th century theologian Martin Buber describes using the language of I-Thou, it is when we can fully encounter another person with our entire being that we experience God.  I would suggest that this can only happen when we are feeling loved, and are able to express love to someone else in the language that they understand.

In this new year, to experience God more fully, let’s strive to experience each other more fully.

Let’s figure out our own love language.  And them, let’s pay attention to our partners, parents, children, and friends to learn how to better express our feelings to them in the language that they will understand.

May we be sealed in the book of life for a year filled with the cultivation of love, both expressed and received, for God, for Torah, and for each other.

Judaism and Science Need Each Other

Shabbat, April 22, 2017, 26 Nisan 5777

 

At this moment, in Washington D.C. and in cities around the country, Marches for Science are taking place.  This movement identifies itself as a “diverse, nonpartisan group [that] …champions robustly funded and publicly communicated science as a pillar of human freedom and prosperity.”  It “call[s] for science that upholds the common good and for political leaders and policy makers to enact evidence based policies in the public interest.”

The march offers us an opportunity to consider the relationship between science and religion.

I find that people make a lot of assumptions about Judaism’s position vis a vis science, and draw certain conclusions regarding what I must believe as a Rabbi.

It is not a secret that, for the past century or so, Jews have been drawn to study the world around us.  Our people has been awarded a vastly disproportionate share of Nobel Prizes in science-related fields, including 41% of Nobel Prize winners in economics, 28% in medicine, 26% in physics, and 19% in chemistry.  This, despite comprising less than .2% of the world’s population.

It is safe to say that Jews have an affinity for science.

When I was in middle school in the 1980’s, the Orthodox Jewish Day school that I attended sponsored a Shabbaton one weekend.  I remember a conversation that I had with one of the Rabbis from the school.  Looking back, I suspect he was the product of an earlier generation of education.  He insisted that the world was a bit less than six thousand years old.  So I asked the obvious question.  “What about dinosaur fossils?”

“God put them in the earth to test us,” he responded.

I was not convinced.

While there may be some corners in the Jewish world in whcih science is shunned, the vast majority of Jews, from secular to Orthodox, enthusiastically embrace the mutual compatibility of religion and science.

But it has not always been the case.  Rabbis in ancient times expressed conflicting attitudes about science.  They often criticize the Roman Empire.  Despite its sophisticated culture, architecture, roads, bridges, and aqueducts, it is morally rotten and ethically hypocritical.

They even express discomfort with medicine.  The Talmud (BT Berachot 10b) praised the Biblical King Hezekiah’s for suppressing a book called Sefer Refuot, the Book of Remedies.

A disagreement between medieval commentators captures our tradition’s ambivalence.  Rashi explains that the Book of Remedies was full of prescriptions for medications that effectively treated all sorts of maladies.  Because they were healed, people were no longer turning to God in prayer.  Efficacious medicine was causing people to lose their faith.  So King Hezekiah hid it away.  And the Rabbis praise him for it.

Maimonides understands the passage differently.  He (who it should be noted, was a physician) explains that the Book of Remedies was quackery.  It was full of false charms that had no healing potential.  So King Hezekiah suppressed it to protect the people from nonsense, possibly even idolatrous, beliefs.  That is why the Rabbis of the Talmud praise him.

For thousands of years, Jewish culture has placed a tremendous focus on the mind.  Education is one of our most important values.  For thousands of years, knowledge and wisdom have been valued more highly than physical strength.

But up until the modern era, that did not, for the most part, include science.  There are a number of literary genres that developed over the centuries: halakhah – legal writings, aggadah – exegesis, mysticism, commentaries,  liturgy, poetry – both secular and religious.  But there never developed a tradition of Jewish scientific writing.  Until the Enlightenment, there were barely any original works of science written by Jews.

There were certainly some outliers, Maimonides being the most well-known of them.  A Rabbi, doctor, philosopher, and community leader, Maimonides voraciously consumed every kind of learning he could get his hands on.  It goes without saying that he received the best Torah education available.  But he also wanted to learn Greek wisdom and science.  This kind of learning was not available within the walls of the Jewish academy, so he had to seek it elsewhere.  Maimonides went through the typical program for an educated person of the twelfth century.  As a teen-ager, he studied mathematics, astronomy, logic, and physics.  He then went on to metaphysics, ethics, politics, theology, and medicine.  Throughout his life, he studied Arabic philosophy, theology, and legal writings.  He regularly corresponded with the great thinkers of his day.

This kind of embrace of all forms of knowledge was looked down upon by mainstream religious thinkers.  It eroded faith and took students away from the study of Torah, they feared.  But Maimonides was enamored with rationalism.  He sought to combine the study of the natural world with the study of Torah.  He tried to explain Torah using the metaphysics of Aristotle, seeking to reconcile them as much as possible.  Knowledge of the world and its Creator are to be found in nature no less than in Sacred writings.

There was one major Aristotelian principle that Maimonides rejects: Aristotle’s belief in the eternity of the universe.  But in his Guide for the Perplexed, Maimonides writes that he is open to being convinced otherwise, if someone can bring him empirical evidence.  If a scientific proof is found to contradict Torah in some way, he explains, it means one of two things.  Either the scientific proof is incorrect and needs to be revised, or our understanding of Torah is incorrect and needs to be revised.

What is the purpose of studying the world around us?  What should human beings do with our scientific discoveries?  There are a number of possibilities.

We can employ science to make life more pleasurable.  This is a sort of utilitarian argument.  We harness and manipulate our world in order to enhance human pleasure.

We could study science purely for its own sake.  The conceptual joy of learning, without applying our discoveries.

Or, we can turn science into a religion.  Ethics are expressed by Natural Law itself.  Society should imitate nature.  This can lead to outcomes which most of us would find horrifying.  Nazi ideology saw itself as implementing Darwinian survival of the fittest.  Its warped pseudo-science led to the Holocaust.

At the end of the day, Maimonides feels that science ought to be subservient to Torah.  Learning about the natural world should lead a person to greater knowledge of God, and greater piety.  The Torah concerns itself, ultimately, with truths that are higher than science.

While there were some Jewish thinkers who followed Maimonides’ embrace of philosophy and science, Jews for the most part did not pay much attention to it.

In Europe, it was the Church which expanded the study of empirical science.  Why did Judaism not embrace science during this time period?  First of all, Jews were kept out of the universities.  As an exiled people living an often precarious existence, there were not too many opportunities for precocious students to embrace secular studies.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when modern science began, increased antisemitism turned Jews inward.  Mysticism had also become hugely popular throughout the Jewish world.  It emphasized that the fundamental truths about God and the cosmos are not to be found in empirical reality.

It was in the late nineteenth century that a radical shift took place.  The universities were opened up.  Jews began to write our own history.  Zionism emerged, awakening the prospect of Jewish self-determination.   Jewish interest in the world around us exploded.  After prizing knowledge and wisdom for millennia, and developing tools for critical thinking in every generation, Jews were ready to study the sciences – with fervor.

Science and Torah should never be seen as mutually incompatible.  Quite the opposite.  They need each other.  Science’s purpose is to explain what is.  Torah’s purpose is to tell us what ought to be.

Science cannot tell us what to do with knowledge.  It is morally neutral.

The study of of nuclear physics tells us how to capture the energy contained within an atom.  But it can’t tell us what we should do with it.

If Darwin is concerned with “the Origin of the Species,” than Torah is concerned with “the purpose of the species.”

For thousands of years, we have been developing answers to that question.  As human beings, we are here to be stewards of the earth.  We are here to recognize the image of God that is inherent in every person.  We are here to care for one another.  As Jews, we are here to follow the mitzvot.

Learning more about God’s creation creates more tools with which to fulfill our purpose.  That means we must embrace science, and direct the knowledge we gain to solving the problems in our world.

Just last month, the Rabbinical Assembly of Conservative Judaism overwhelmingly passed a resolution calling for full funding for research on climate change, as well as scientific and medical research.  In addition, the resolution called “upon all governments to …utilize only science-based evidence for environmental and energy policies.”

This is certainly consistent with Jewish thinkers since Maimonides, and reflects the vast preponderance of Jewish religious thinkers today, spanning every movement in Judaism.

 

Bibliography

Maimonides: The Life and World of One of Civilization’s Greatest Minds, by Joel L. Kraemer.

“Rethinking Ethics in the Light of Jewish Thought and the Life Sciences,” by Norbert M. Samuelson, The Journal of Religious Ethics, Vol. 29, No. 2 (Summer, 2001), pp. 209-233.

“Science,” by Hillel Levine, in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought, ed. by Arthur A. Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr, pp. 855-861.

 

The Lesson of the Tower of Babel: Unity with Humility – Noach 5777

The bulk of this morning’s Torah portion describes the flood.  Humanity has become so corrupt that God regrets having created the earth, and decides to wipe out almost all life.  Representative samples of each species are gathered together and entrusted to Noah, who builds the famous ark to serve as a shelter during the deluge.

After the waters subside, life emerges from the ark and begins anew.  Hopefully, humanity has learned a lesson from the experience.

Several generations pass.  Humans multiply, and eventually find themselves living in Mesopotamia, where they embark on a scheme which nearly results in a calamity as serious for humanity as the flood: the construction of the Tower of Babel.

The entire passage is described in just nine eloquently-crafted verses.  (Gen. 11:1-9)  We learn that all of humanity has settled in a valley in the land of Shinar, also known as Mesopotamia, Babylonia, and Iraq.  Everyone speaks the same language.  Together, they decide to make bricks, with which to build “a city and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world.”

At first glance, it sounds like a pretty good idea.  Everybody gets along.  They are united in a shared vision.  There do not seem to be any major disputes.  Many people might wish things were a bit more like this today.

Yet, there seems to be a problem with this giant public-works project.  God comes down to look at the tower that the humans are building and reacts with disapproval.  “If, as one people with one language for all, this is how they have begun to act, then nothing that they may propose to do will be out of their reach.”  (11:6)

God confounds their speech so that the humans do not understand one another, and scatters them over the face of the earth.  The project grinds to a halt.  The story ends by explaining that the city is called Bavel, or Babel, because it is where the Lord “babbled” the speech of the whole earth.

That is the basic story as it appears in this morning’s Torah portion.  Our inclination might be to sympathize with humanity.  After all, has there ever in history been a time during which everyone agreed?

But the Torah is very deliberate.  If it tells us that there is something wrong with what these humans are doing, then there is something wrong with what these humans are doing.  The reason is not easily apparent, and so it is up to us to dig deep to figure it out.

Jewish tradition is in agreement that the generation of the Dispersion, Dor Haflagah, as that generation is called, was in the wrong.  The Mishnah, from the second century, declares that members of that generation do not have a place in the World to Come.  The Rabbis of the Talmud (BT Sanhedrin 109a) concur, but have trouble agreeing on the specifics.

The school of Rabbi Shilah, located in Babylonia not too far from where the Tower of Babel once stood, offers a novel explanation.  In the ancient world, people believed that the world as we know it was surrounded by water, both below the earth, and above the sky.  The humans wanted to build a tower that was high enough that they could cut holes in the firmament, presumably to have access to water.  The Talmud reports that when this theory made its way to the West, that is to say, to the land of Israel, the scholars laughed and made fun of it, suggesting that if that was their intent, it might have made more sense to have built the tower on top of a mountain, rather than at the bottom of a valley.

Rabbi Natan suggests that they built the tower as an expression of some sort of idolatrous belief and practice.

Rabbi Jeremiah claims that the people of Bavel were not quite as united as the Torah makes it seem.  One third of them want to build a city and tower in which to live, perhaps to escape a future flood.  Their punishment is to be scattered across the land.  A second third wants to build the tower to worship idols.  They are the ones whose tongues are confounded by God.  The final third intends to use the tower to wage war against Heaven.  They are transformed into apes, spirits, devils, and night-demons.  Ouch!

But what of the tower itself?  After all, significant progress is made before God takes notice.  The tower is quite substantial.  Rabbi Yochanan says that the bottom third sunk into the ground, The top third burnt up, but the middle third is still standing.

Other midrashim add colorful details to the legends.  Genesis Rabbah describes how those who wanted to rebel against God planned to place a giant statue on top of the tower with a sword in its hand pointing a challenge directed at the Heavens.  I imagine it looking kind of like the Titan of Braavos, for you Game of Thrones fans.

I’ll mention one final midrash.  Someone made some calculations and determined that the flood occurred 1,656 years after creation.  The people of Babel come to the conclusion that this is a built in feature of the firmament, the giant expanse of water suspended over the sky.  Once every 1,656 years, the firmament totters, and the waters of chaos above break free and inundate the world.  To prevent it from happening again, they decide to build four giant pillars to support the heavens – one in each of the cardinal directions.  The Tower of Babel is supposed to be the pillar of the East.

This final midrash sounds appealing, actually.  All of humanity becomes aware of an impending natural disaster that will have catastrophic effects for life on earth, albeit not for one thousand years.  So they join together to invest massive resources into a technological solution to prevent the deluge.  We are in desperate need of that kind of long-range planning.

The problem, from the midrash’s perspective, is that the people have removed God from the equation.  The periodic flooding of the earth happens on its own, and is not the result of God’s actions.  In fact, just a few chapters earlier, we read of God’s promise, symbolized by the rainbow, never to destroy the earth by flood again.  Their sin, therefore, is a lack of faith.  They have placed nature above God rather than God above nature.

So what was the sin of the Tower of Babel that provoked God so greatly?  We have just heard numerous suggestions, and believe me, we have only scratched the surface.  Whenever the Rabbis offer this many explanations for something, it means that they have absolutely no idea whatsoever.

But to me, all of these “sins” share a basic feature.  “Come, let us make a name for ourselves,” they declare.  Humanity, collectively sees no limits on itself.  Whether the people want to overthrow God, build a monument to themselves, or reverse the forces of nature – they lack basic humility about their place in creation.

Perhaps a lesson to be learned is: God is God, and we are not.

There is still something appealing, however, about the unity that exists at the outset of the story.  Is cooperation and a universally shared vision inherently problematic?  I cannot believe that the story of the Tower of Babel is disparaging the idea of humanity collectively working together.

I would like to think that we, as a species, have it within us to both have some humble respect for our place amidst creation, as well as come together to solve problems and challenges that affect us all.  Some of those problems are of our own making.  Others are external.  But we all make our homes on the same planet, and we eventually have to pay the cost of our collective hubris.

We face numerous challenges that can only be solved through joined effort: challenges of inequality and oppression, environmental destruction, climate change, and on and on.  We live in a scattered world, in which we do not all speak the same language.  Even when we share a vocabulary, we often are not speaking the same language.

Perhaps the Tower of Babel can inspire us to, humbly, find a way to come together.

How to Disagree – Rosh Hashanah 5777

Resh Lakish and Rabbi Yochanan were the best of friends.  Their lives were intertwined from the Study Hall, to the home, and to their graves.  (BT Bava Metzia 84a)

Before they meet, Resh Lakish is an outlaw.  One day, as he is walking next to the Jordan River, he sees what he thinks is a beautiful woman in the water.  He enthusiastically removes his weapons and armor and jumps into the water.  To his surprise, the bathing beauty turns out, upon closer inspection, to be none other than Rabbi Yohanan.

“You are too pretty to be a man,” Resh Lakish declares.  “This beauty is wasted on you.  You should be a woman.”

With a sly look at the highwayman, Rabbi Yohanan responds, “But I have a sister.  And she is even more beautiful than I.  If you will repent of your wicked past, you can marry her.”

Reish Lakish eagerly agrees.  So Rabbi Yohanan brings him into the Beit Midrash and teaches him Torah and Mishnah, and transforms Resh Lakish into a great scholar.

They become brothers-in-law, study partners, and best friends.

One day, they are arguing a point of law in the study hall, and things get a little out of hand.   In a moment of frustration, Rabbi Yohanan brings up Resh Lakish’s past as a brigand.  The insults fly back and forth, and before they know it, they are refusing to speak with one another.  Rabbi Yohanan’s anger and hurt swirls about, invoking the spiritual realm.  As sometimes happens with holy men in Talmudic stories, this causes Resh Lakish to fall gravely ill.

Resh Lakish’s wife, Rabbi Yohanan’s sister, visits her brother in desperation, hoping his spiritual intervention might save her spouse.  “Please, my brother, pray for my husband, if only for the sake of his children, your nephews.”

Yohanan refuses.  “Your children can become orphans.  God will provide for them.”

“If not for the children’s sake, then, save him for my sake.  Don’t allow me to become a widow!”

“God takes care of widows,” he stubbornly insists.

Resh Lakish, without his friend to intercede on his behalf, dies.

Rabbi Yohanan, bereft of his friend, falls into a deep depression.  The Rabbis from the Study Hall are so concerned that they send Rabbi Elazar, a mild-mannered scholar, to console him.

Elazar sits by Yohanan’s bedside, and they begin to study together.  Every time Yohanan makes a statement, Elazar nods enthusiastically in agreement, and offers additional arguments to support him.

Yohanan is exasperated.  “Whenever I used to make a statement to Resh Lakish, he would have twenty four objections to me, to which I would have twenty four responses.  That is how we would deepen our knowledge of the law.  And you tell me, ‘Oh, here is something that supports you.’  I don’t need you to tell me that.  I already know that I am right!”

In despair, Rabbi Yohanan rends his garments in mourning and is overcome with weeping.  “Where are you, O son of Lakish?  Where are you?”  He cannot be consoled.

Seeing that there is no remedy for his heartbreak, the Rabbis of the Study Hall pray to God for mercy, and Yohanan dies.

This rich and tragic Talmudic story conveys so well, with deep emotion, Jewish values of machloket, disagreement.

We, as individuals and as a society, are in deep need of guidance when it comes to dealing with those who think differently than us.  Rosh Hashanah offers us an opportunity for taking stock of how we interact with one another in our homes and in our society.  With an election looming, it is an especially important time for us seek productive ways to address disagreement.  Perhaps our tradition can be a source of wisdom.

Let us be careful not to play the revisionist game and claim that there was a glorious time when human beings used to speak to each other with respect and honored opponents who held differing opinions.  And let us not be so naive as to suggest that Jewish culture, in contrast to all other traditions, has always tolerated other ideas.  It is simply not true.

But there is a well-developed idea within our intellectual history that portrays how human beings ought to treat those with whom we disagree.

The goal is not just the intellectual pursuit of Truth, but also the practical implementation of rules for society.  How can we live together when we disagree so fundamentally about how we should live?

The pursuit of truth and peace is best achieved through a blend of vigorous disagreement and mutual respect.  For us Jews, these are deeply held values that are the products of our own unique history.

For 2,000 years, we exercised our minds.  We perfected the art of seeking theoretical analyses of Biblical passages.  We debated the interpretations of the interpretations of the interpretations.  In great depth, we studied laws that had not been implemented for hundreds of years, and for which there was no hope of actual implementation.

As a result, we Jews got really good at reading texts and arguing about ideas.  Perhaps this was the result of our being an exiled people.  Without political autonomy, and no ability to exercise power beyond the confines of our small communities, we turned inward.  We expressed our power on the page and in the study hall.

If we could not fully implement our vision of what life ought to be in the world, we were at least free to develop a vision of the ideal in our minds.  In so doing, we held on to four primary principles of machloket, argument.

1.  Passionate argument is a good thing.  It makes us sharper, and it brings us closer to the truth.

2.  We must respect our opponents, even when we disagree with them.

3.  We can only claim to be in pursuit of truth if we are willing to be convinced by our adversaries’ arguments.

4.  Even when we cannot agree, we still need to find a way to live together.

If we could introduce these four principles into our current relationships, we would have a far more cohesive society.

The tragic story of Rabbi Yohanan and Resh Lakish introduces the issues with great humanity.  The situation begins to decline in the Study Hall.  In a moment of weakness, Rabbi Yohanan takes what, until that moment had been an intellectual disagreement, to heart.  Instead of offering a logical counterargument or accepting defeat, he insults his friend.  He knows exactly where to strike so that it will hurt the most.  He drags up Resh Lakish’s sordid past.

Never mind that Resh Lakish has done teshuvah, that he has left that world long behind.  In bringing it up, Rabbi Yohanan makes a power move, as if to say, “I may have lost this argument, but I am still more pious, holy, and wise than you.”

How often have we heard that?!  Resorting to name calling?  Dredging up personal attacks to avoid engaging with ideas?

Rabbi Yochanan holds the grudge, refusing to intervene to save his friend.  Even his sister cannot break through his stubbornness.

Only when it is too late does Rabbi Yochanan discover what he has done.  He realizes the value of argument.  With Resh Lakish as his intellectual jousting partner, Yochanan was sharpened.  He gained a deeper understanding of truth.

It is remarkable how relevant this ancient story is to our time.

At the extreme are ISIS and their ilk, who seek to create a world in which all who do not share their vision are killed or enslaved.

But there are plenty of other ways, permeating every layer of our civilization, in which we are becoming more polarized.  Our openness to even hearing the opinions of those who disagree with us seems to be waning.  This is a disturbing and dangerous trend.

The current presidential election campaign has been the most in-your-face example of this.  But then again, isn’t every election ugly?  This year is perhaps not an aberration, but a culmination of the building polarization of the past couple of decades.

We might point to the rise of certain consumer technology tools that have fed the flames of this divide.  The popularity of Twitter, with its short, truncated format, lends itself to oversimplification and name-calling.  The extreme ease of passing along internet memes through various forms of social media enables the ugliest characterizations and rumors to circumnavigate world with lightning-fast speed.

I do not mean to sound like a luddite, but there is a terribly harmful side to the miracle of instant communication.

Quite disturbing has been the trend over the past few years to suppress speech at, of all places, college campuses.  There have been numerous efforts to disinvite speakers – many of which have won.  Lecturers have been spat upon.  Speakers have been shouted down to such a degree that they could not continue.  Campus newspapers have been defunded.  Universities have drafted speech codes, the violation of which can result in professors losing jobs or students being expelled.

The evidence reveals that it is perpetrated by both the left and the right, sometimes in response to one another.  Students and professors have reported feeling that they have to self-suppress out of fear of repercussions.

These trends are creating pockets of like-minded thinkers who never have to face ideas that challenge them.  In the tragic story, it is the replacement of the feisty Resh Lakish by the “yes man,” Rabbi Elazar, that – quite literally – kills Rabbi Yochanan.  We should read it as a warning.

When we do permit ourselves to hear other perspectives, do we truly listen with open minds?

The next story is about the famous schools of Hillel and Shammai (BT Eruvin 13b).  It teaches us about the importance of respecting our opponents.

Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel once got into an impassioned argument over a matter of Jewish law.  One school says, “The law is in agreement with our view,” while the other claims, with equal certainty, “The law is in agreement with our view.”

Three years pass without any progress.  One day, a Heavenly Voice suddenly booms across the study hall: Elu v’elu divrei Elohim chayim hen.  “These and these are the words of the living God.”  V’halakhah k’veit Hillel.  “But the law is in agreement with the rulings of Beit Hillel.”

“But how can this be?” the Talmud asks.  If “both are the words of the living God,” what entitles Beit Hillel to determine the law?

The Talmud answers, “Because they were kindly and modest, they studied their own rulings and those of Beit Shammai and were even so humble as to mention the opinions of Beit Shammai before their own.”

We draw two lessons from this remarkable story.  The first, elu v’elu divrei Elohim chayim.  “These and these are the words of the living God.”  Strangely, the Talmud does not ask how it is possible that both Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai could be correct.  It is a given.

This should remind us that, as sure as we might be of our rightness, someone else is just as sure of theirs.  It’s not to say that there is no such thing as truth and everything is whatever a person says it is.  But indeed, there is often more than one solution to a problem.

I learned this lesson from my tenth grade Algebra 3/Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Evanson.  One would think that in a field like math, there is a right and a wrong answer.  But Mr. Evanson was much more concerned with how we solved a problem than in the answer we came up with.  What excited him was seeing different ways of approaching the challenge.  I learned that, even in math, there is often more than one way to arrive at the truth.

So what made the difference?  Not superior logic or better proofs.  It was intellectual openness and respect for difference.  That is why we follow Beit Hillel.  Hillel taught his students to learn from and honor their adversaries.  If I have to state my opponent’s arguments before my own, it means that I have to pay close attention and have an open mind.

Beit Hillel teaches us another lesson: we should always be willing to be proven wrong.  A Mishnah begins Elu d’varim she’chazru Beit Hillel l’horot k’divrei Beit Shammai.  “These are the matters about which Beit Hillel changed their minds and taught according to Beit Shammai.”  And then the Mishnah goes on to list a number of laws.  (Mishnah Eduyot 1:12)

The Mishnah does not need to tell us this.  It could just state the outcome.  Indeed, the Mishnah usually states the majority opinion, along with significant minority opinions.  But to cite opinions that are later abandoned is unusual.

Maimonides explains that it is to be lesson for us.  “For when these honored, pious, generous, and distinguished scholars of the School of Hillel saw that the view of those who disagreed with them was to be preferred to their own, and that others’ deliberations were more correct – they agreed with the others and retracted their view.  How much more should other people, when they see that the truth lies with their opponent, incline to the truth and not be stubborn…”

And he goes on to say that “even if you are able to use proofs to buttress your position, but if you know your friend’s position is correct and that your proofs to the contrary are only due to his weakness in argument, or because you are able to pervert the truth, accept his version and forsake further argument.”

Maimonides nails it.  How often is it that we hang on to a position out of stubbornness and ego?

Wouldn’t it be refreshing to occasionally hear a politician say, “My opponent is right.  After considering all the facts and the arguments, I have concluded that my earlier position is wrong.  And now I think differently.”  A candidate who had the humility and the courage to say that would probably earn my vote.

But what about when there is no resolution – when two sides are firmly entrenched in their positions about how society should function?

A Mishnah tells how Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel disagree about several areas of personal status law.  While it might not seem so today, in the ancient world, this was a huge deal.  It could mean the difference between a child being legitimate or illegitimate, which could have life-long implications affecting marriage and social acceptance.

The two schools disagree with one another.  Nevertheless, the Mishnah concludes, “even though the one invalidated and the other validated, Beit Shammai did not refrain from marrying women from Beit Hilllel, and Beit Hillel did not refrain from marrying women from Beit Shammai.”  (Mishnah Eduyot 4:8)

As much as each side “knew” that it was correct, they shared a higher value.  “We are one people.  Even if we can’t come to an agreement, we will still find a way to live together.”

This is such a lovely example.  Because the way the Mishnah finds to express their shared value is in the most intimate way possible.  Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai joined their houses together.  They intermarried with one another.

This would be like the Montague’s and the Capulet’s getting together to throw an engagement party for Romeo and Juliet.

While we may not be able to change the polarization that plagues our world, in this new year, we can begin to take small but significant steps in our own lives, drawing upon the ancient wisdom of our tradition.

Judaism treasures machloket.  Vigorous questioning and challenging of each other offers us the surest path to truth.

In doing so, however, we must always maintain the dignity of our opponents, honoring them even when we disagree.

We also have to be open to being convinced.  If we are not willing to change our minds, than we cannot claim to be seeking truth.

And finally, we have got to remain sincerely committed to living together in peace, despite our differences.

In this new year, may we have the courage and humility to argue, listen, and respect one another with open minds and open hearts.

Shanah Tovah.