All week I have been dreading this moment of having to say something in front of the congregation. We have all been struggling with disbelief and anger, grief, fear, our hearts ripped open; emotions too raw to express in words.
And of all Torah portions to read this week, we have Bereishit. The beginning. This is a parashah which lays out the core aspects of what it means to be a human being. As a Rabbi, I turn to our tradition, our words.
Let’s look at five details, five snapshots that tell us who we are and what we are here for.
First comes creation. God spends six days making heaven and earth. As the Torah opens, we learn that the primordial state is one of chaos—tohu vavohu—with the spirit of God hovering over the deep. Reading on, the earth and sky form when God pushes out the watery chaos, the forces of evil and destruction. God divides them above and below, and from side to side. There, those waters, with their monsters and evil dragons, wait, eager to rush back in to reawaken the chaos. As the final creative act, God forms human, male and female, in the Divine image. God blesses them, us, and assigns us responsibility of dominion over the earth, the sea, and all they contain. Humanity is God’s partner, our duty unique among the rest of Creation. Our job is to keep those waters of chaos and evil at bay, to allow the rest of the world to flourish.
The next snapshot is in the Garden of Eden. God forms the first human out of the dust, and almost immediately declares lo tov heyot ha-adam levado – “It is not good for the human to be alone.” The solution is to divide the human into two, male and female, to serve as one another’s companions. We learn that humans are social creatures. We rely upon one another in the most fundamental ways.
The third snapshot is also in the Garden of Eden. God had planted the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, with instructions to not eat from its fruit. You know what happens. The woman and the man eat the fruit, and thereby gain moral knowledge. They experience something new: shame, as they hide their nakedness from one another, and from God. Their punishment is to be expelled from the Garden.
The fourth snapshot is of their children: Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel’s sacrifice, Cain is overwhelmed with jealousy and anger. God warns, “Sin couches at the door. It’s urge is toward you, but you can be it’s master.”
Cain does not master his rage, and he murders his brother.
“Where is your brother Abel?” God asks.
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” is Cain’s response. I believe his question is an honest one.
God does not answer the question with a simple yes or no, but with an expression of horror and disbelief. “What have you done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!” Cain’s punishment is to wander the face of the earth, marked with the sign of a curse.
The final snapshot: Zeh sefer toldot adam —“This is the book of the generations of Adam. When God created man, God make him in His likeness; male and female He created them.” What follows is a geneaology of the children of Adam and Eve, covering the ten generations to Noah. The Talmudic Sage Ben Azzai declares this verse to be the fundamental principle of the Torah. All human beings are descend from the same origin. All of us carry the divine image. All of us are brothers and sisters.
These five snapshots merge into a portrait of the human condition. We human beings are God’s partners in Creation. It is our responsibility to keep the waters of evil and chaos at bay. There is a moral purpose to the universe, and we play a critical part…
…and we are morally imperfect. We have the capacity to know the difference between good and evil. We have the capacity to overcome sin, but we are no longer living in Eden. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asks. It is the dominant moral question of the entire book of Genesis, perhaps even the Torah. The ultimate answer is “yes. I am my brother’s keeper.” But violence and bloodshed are a constant presence.
And despite this all human beings are brothers and sisters. And we are stuck in this world, outside of Eden, that is filled with love and hate, peace and violance, order and chaos, grief and joy. And we need each other. And God does not want us to be resigned. All of this from our Torah’s opening parashah.
We have been witness to all of these humanity this week. I simply do not have words to talk about Hamas’ murderous rampage one week ago, last Shabbat, the morning of Simchat Torah, other than to call it pure evil, the worst of what humanity is capable of. There have been those that have tried to say that “they are not humans. They are animals.” I disagree. They are humans, and we know all too well that humans are capable of such evil.
This is the forces of creation ripped apart by chaos. Human beings utterly shirking their obligation to be partners with God in creating order and goodness. The blood of our brothers and sisters still cries out from the ground. It demands our grief, and our response.
We have also seen inspiring acts of human connection. Jews everywhere around the world experienced last week’s horrors deeply. Israelis immediately set aside their differences to come together in shared grief. They did everything imaginable to help victims, to protect and defend their fellow citizens. Jews around the world gathered in mourning and solidarity, demanding the freeing of our captive brothers and sisters. We have sent our financial support, and marshalled our political and social resources.
We have received outpourings of support from friends and allies around the world – those who rightly see the other as their brothers and sisters in shared humanity.
Astonishingly, there has been silence from too many, not to mention those who celebrate and cheer the torture, murder, and kidnapping of innocents.
Parashat Bereishit shows us exactly who we are, and it begs us to be who we are meant to become.
I have been thinking all week about how we are going to respond ritually to the demands of this moment.
This week has been filled with laments of grief, outpourings of rage, demands for vengeance, expressions of hope. Prayer helps us put what we are feeling into words. Prayer can sometimes be a statement of faith. Sometimes it is not a statement of faith but it is as a way of expressing ourselves when we cannot formulate the sounds on our own. It gives us the words when we do not have the words.
So, we are going to add prayers to our services. This morning, and probably for quite some time. This is what I could come up with for this morning. Our feelings and emotions may change in the weeks ahead and our prayers may change also.
Now that we have firmly established the linguistic origin of the word shofar, where does this tradition of hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah come from? What might that origin teach us about the meaning and purpose of the shofar?
The Maftir Torah reading, from our second Torah scroll, is identified as the source of the obligation.
In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a sacred occasion: you shall not work at your occupations. A Day of Blasting it shall be for you.
Numbers 29:1
This is the Torah’s name for today: Yom Teruah, “A Day of Blasting.” Other than a few typical sacrifices, blasting the shofar is the only specific action that the Torah commands.
Nowhere is our holiday called Rosh Hashanah. It is never acknowledged as the new year, nor is it claimed to have anything to do with creation. Teshuvah is never mentioned.
It would seem that Rosh Hashanah’s significance, in the Torah, is in respect to Yom Kippur. We sound the shofar as an announcement of the upcoming Day of Atonement. In contrast, Yom Kippur does have great significance and lots of detail in the Torah.
The deeper meaning of our holiday is revealed through our rabbinic traditions. It is Rosh Hashanah: the new year. It celebrates creation and the enthronement of God as king. It is the Day of Judgment, the first step in what will eventually result in our souls being purified on Yom Kippur. It is the day when we eat apples dipped in honey and make our challahs round.
Through multiple layers of significance, the shofar remains the most iconic element of Rosh Hashanah, the most unique and special ritual of the holiday.
But what does it mean? Maimonides acknowledges that the Torah provides no explicit reason for the shofar, but suggests that there is a hint as to its purpose. The sound announces:
You who sleep, bestir yourselves from your sleep, and you who slumber, emerge from your slumber. Examine your actions, return, and remember your Creator. Those who forget the truth in the vanities of time and waste all their years with vanity and emptiness, which is not effective and does not save, look inside yourselves. Improve your ways and your actions, let each one of you abandon their evil path and their thoughts that are not good!
Maimonides, Laws of Repentance 3:4
For Rambam, the shofar is a moral alarm clock, meant to awaken us to what is really going on with our lives. Most of us devote most of our energies to tasks that are unimportant in the grand scheme of things. If we are paying the right kind of attention, the shofar blast shatters our complacency, and reorients us to what truly matters. In other words, the sound of the shofar is an important step in the process of teshuvah, repentance.
While Maimonides offers us a psychological explanation, the Talmud offers something more theological, imagining a conversation between God and the Jewish people. God says:
Sound a blast before Me with a shofar from a ram, so that I will remember for you the binding of Isaac, son of Abraham, and I will consider it as if you had bound yourselves before Me.
Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 16a
The Torah reading from this morning, the Binding of Isaac, ends with Abraham offering up a ram as a burnt offering in place of his son Isaac. This story was chosen for today as a testament to Abraham’s total and complete faith in God, as well as Isaac’s willingness to go along with the Divine command.
Sounding the shofar is our way of symbolically participating in that act. It is a way of offering up our faith to God, putting our lives in God’s hands, so to speak, so that God considers us with mercy on the Day of Judgment.
Of course, the story itself never claims to have taken place on Rosh Hashanah, nor does the Torah ever make a connection between the Binding of Isaac and our holiday.
Maimonides’ explanation characterizes the sound of the shofar as a call to us to perform teshuvah. The Talmud says that it is a reminder to God to remember the Binding of Isaac and have mercy upon us.
A midrash provides a third explanation for the origin and the meaning of the shofar that digs even deeper. It suggests a deeply emotional origin for our beloved ritual.
This midrash picks up on the juxtaposition of the story of the Akeidah with the death of Sarah in the subsequent chapter. It addresses Sarah’s absence in the story. Did she know what Abraham was doing with her son? Did she ever find out afterward? Did she wake up the morning they left to pack them a lunch and see them off? “Bye honey, be back in time for dinner.” The Torah is silent.
This midrash brings in Samael, an evil angel who serves as God’s adversary. Samael expects Abraham to chicken out at the last minute, revealing the weakness of his faith. But Abraham’s commitment to God is so strong that an angel has to call out his name, not once, but twice to get his attention and stop him from slaughtering Isaac.
His plan frustrated, Samael sets out for revenge. Hastily, he rushes to Sarah with a message:
“Sarah, Have you not heard what has happened?”
“No.”
“Your old man (Yes, he calls Abraham ‘old man.’) took your son Isaac to sacrifice as a burnt offering. The boy was crying and howling that he would not be able to be saved.”
[Then Sarah] began to cry and howl. She cried three cries, corresponding to the three tekiot. Three howls corresponding to the three yevavot.[Then] her soul departed, and she died.
Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 32:8
A few words of explanation.
The three tekiot and three yevavot refer to the required number of blasts that one is required to hear on Rosh Hashanah. A tekiah is an uninterrupted note. A Yevavais a broken note, what we call teruah. The Rabbis translated Yom Teruah, a “Day of Blasting” into Aramaic as Yom Yabava.
This remarkable midrash provides a very different origin story for our shofar. Instead of representing the willingness of a father to sacrifice his son, it expresses the grief and utter loss of control of a mother who discovers she has just lost her child. As Aviva Zornberg explains, the word for howl, yelalah, is
a wordless sound made by women particularly at moments of birth or death, at extreme moments when all normal patterns and understandings of the world break down.
“Cries and Whispers: The Death of Sarah” in Beginning Anew: A Woman’s Companion to the High Holidays, p. 185.
It is pure emotion, uninhibited and unrestrained. When the Rabbis in the Talmud argue over what the broken short notes, the yevavot, are supposed to sound like, they compare them to the yelalah – the raw cry of motherly grief. There is no discernable message in the yelalah. No reminder for self reflection, no call for Teshuvah, and no appeal to Divine mercy. Just honest, unfiltered emotion.
We encounter another weeping mother in today’s Haftarah. Picture the scene in your mind’s eye.
A cry is heard in Ramah—wailing, bitter weeping—Rachel weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted for her children, who are gone.
Jeremiah 31:15
While the passage continues with God’s words of comfort and promises to restore her children to their land, Rachel’s crying reverberates. She refuses to be comforted. In this haunting scene, we are reminded that sometimes, before we can embark on a path of introspection and repentance, we need a moment to howl, to let out our rage and grief.
The howl of the shofar echoes the sorrow and despair in our world: mothers and fathers who have lost children to violence and suicide; families and communities devastated by earthquake, flood, and fire; humans suffering from poverty and oppression, addiction and depression; as well as many of us whose lives have not unfolded as we had hoped.
If we allow it to penetrate us, the cry of the shofar can awaken the compassion and empathy necessary to truly evaluate our own lives and pray for Divine mercy, not only for ourselves, but for all who suffer. As we open our hearts to the shofar’s call for personal growth, let us also extend our hands. May the echoes of Sarah’s howl and Rachel’s bitter weeping, along withthe cries of all who grieve, inspire us to be agents of healing, kindness, and transformation in the year ahead.
May the pure sound of the shofar serve as a beacon of hope, reminding us that even in our moments of deepest sorrow, we can find the strength to move forward, to mend, and to repair our world.
Shanah Tovah, may we all have a sweet and meaningful new year filled with love, compassion, and positive change.
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.
This is a real problem for all of us, with so much conflicting information and sources surrounding us. It is one of the major sources of division in our world.
It turns out, this is nothing new.
This morning’s Torah portion, Shoftim, is primarily about leadership. It focuses on rules for judges and kings, as well as laws about the waging of war. One area that it covers is what to do when situations arise that the Torah does not anticipate. Who should be consulted for leadership and guidance? Who can be trusted?
To introduce this question, Moses first reminds the Israelites of what happened at Mount Sinai nearly forty years earlier. God’s Presence descended on the mountain in a tremendous cacophony of sound, light, smoke, and shaking.
The people freak out, telling Moses, “We can’t take it anymore. This is going to kill us. You go talk to God and report back to us. We’ll do whatever you say.”
Moses reports that God was pleased with the Israelites’ response. It seems that, in fact, this reaction was what God was aiming for all along. The purpose of the overwhelming display of power was to get the people to put their trust in God’s Prophet—Moses. Here in Deuteronomy, Moses expands on God’s words to him at that time, with an eye towards the future.
“…I will raise up a prophet for them from among their own people, like yourself: I will put My words in his mouth and he will speak to them all that I command him; and if anybody fails to heed the words he speaks in My name, I Myself will call him to account.
Deuteronomy 18:18-19
God’s plan, apparently, is to have prophets who will convey the Divine will to human beings. They carry the authority to speak in God’s name, and the people will be expected to follow their instructions.
But there is a problem, which God anticipates: what to do about fakes.
But any prophet who presumes to speak in My name an oracle that I did not command him to utter, or who speaks in the name of other gods—that prophet shall die.”
Deuteronomy 18:20
That seems straightforward enough. Of course, how are we supposed to know if someone is a fake? Again, Moses provides the answer:
And should you ask yourselves, “How can we know that the oracle was not spoken by the LORD?”— if the prophet speaks in the name of the LORD and the oracle does not come true, that oracle was not spoken by the LORD; the prophet has uttered it presumptuously: do not stand in dread of him. (Deut. 18:21-22)
If a prophet’s prediction does not happen, then they are not to be believed. Honestly, that does not seem like a very good test. What if the prediction is for something that is supposed to happen fifty years from now? Or ten years? Or even next month? How am I supposed to know, right now, whether to listen to this purported prophet?
The passage in Shoftim about prophecy seems so optimistic. God is pleased that the Israelites agree to listen to Moses and follows his instructions. And yet, if we actually follow the careers of the prophets through the Bible, we find that them to be a tragic lot.
To illustrate the problem, we turn to the book of Jeremiah. It is during the final decades of the First Temple, towards the end of the reign of the dynasty of King David.
Jeremiah was a tortured soul. He preached doom and gloom for several decades, speaking God’s word to several kings, along with the residents of Jerusalem. The great tragedy is that nobody listens to Jeremiah. In fact, there are a lot of other prophets running around preaching messages of hope and victory – the kinds of predictions that kings and the Jerusalem upper crust like to hear.
As a result of his prophecies, Jeremiah himself is sent to prison.
In one moment of exasperation, Jeremiah turns his rage to God.
Accursed be the day that I was born! Let not the day be blessed when my mother bore me! Accursed be the man who brought my father the news and said, “A boy Is born to you,” and gave him such joy! Let that man become like the cities which the LORD overthrew without relenting! Let him hear shrieks in the morning and battle shouts at noontide—because he did not kill me before birth so that my mother might be my grave, and her womb big [with me] for all time. Why did I ever issue from the womb, to see misery and woe, to spend all my days in shame!
Jeremiah 20:14-18
This is the great irony. The true prophet is not believed, and the false prophets are embraced. The rules in Parashat Shoftim do not appear to have been particularly effective.
The following story takes place early in the reign of King Zedekiah, the final king to rule over Judah before the destruction of the Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.
Jeremiah sends leather straps and wooden yokes to all of the surrounding kings, as well to King Zedekiah. The accompanying message is that they should submit to King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, to whom God will be delivering all of their lands. There is no point in resisting.
To demonstrate the seriousness of his point, Jeremiah puts King Zedekiah’s yoke on his own neck and straps it closed. He had a flair for dramatic gestures.
One of the many other prophets, Hananiah son of Azzur, comes to the Temple to offer a counterprophecy. This is what he says:
Thus said the LORD of Hosts, the God of Israel: I hereby break the yoke of the king of Babylon. In two years, I will restore to this place all the vessels of the House of the LORD which King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon took from this place and brought to Babylon. And I will bring back to this place King Jeconiah son of Jehoiakim of Judah, and all the Judean exiles who went to Babylon—declares the LORD. Yes, I will break the yoke of the king of Babylon.
Jeremiah 28:2-4
Basically, “Don’t worry about Nechudnezzar. We got this.”
Jeremiah, who is present for this speech, turns to the assembled priests and Israelites, reminds them to watch out for false prophets, and offers a test for identifying one. This test, as we will see, is a clarification of Moses’ test in Parashat Shoftim.
The prophets who lived before you and me from ancient times prophesied war, disaster, and pestilence against many lands and great kingdoms. So if a prophet prophesies good fortune, then only when the word of the prophet comes true can it be known that the LORD really sent him.”
Jeremiah 28:8-9
If a prophet predicts death and destruction, you’d better listen. But if a prophet says that everything is going to be great, it would be best to wait and see if it comes true before following said prophet.
Not to be dissuaded, Hananiah breaks the wooden yoke from Jeremiah’s neck, and declares:
Thus said the LORD: So will I break the yoke of King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon from off the necks of all the nations, in two years.
Jeremiah 28:11
Jeremiah confronts Hananiah once again,
“Listen, Hananiah! The LORD did not send you, and you have given this people lying assurances. Assuredly, thus said the LORD: I am going to banish you from off the earth. This year you shall die, for you have urged disloyalty to the LORD.”
And the prophet Hananiah died that year, in the seventh month.
Jeremiah 28:15-17
Even Hanahiah’s death does not convince the people to heed Jeremiah’s warnings.
Overall, the Israelite prophets were not especially successful in their own day. They underwent immense personal hardship and suffering. They were despised by their neighbors. Kings did not especially appreciate their warnings. And when they tried to convince the people and/or the rulers to follow God’s will, nobody really listened.
The prophets failed in all of their major endeavors. They were unable to save the united kingdom from splitting. They did not prevent the Northern Kingdom from falling to the Assyrians. They did not prevent the Temple from being destroyed by the Babylonians.
Perhaps this is what leads the Rabbis to officially declare the era of the prophets over.
Rabbi Avdimi from Haifa says: From the day that the Temple was destroyed prophecy was taken from the prophets and given to the Sages.
BT Bava Batra 12a
The subsequent discussion concludes that Sages are and were always superior to prophets in the first place. The pursuit of wisdom, the preoccupation of the Sages, offers a path towards propehcy. A prophet may or may not have wisdom, but a wise person can access the Divine will. (It is a nice idea, especially if one is a Sage.)
Rabbi Yoḥanan offers a different insight.
Rabbi Yoḥanan said: From the day that the Temple was destroyed, prophecy was taken from the prophets and given to imbeciles and children.
Ibid.
What is this suggesting? Perhaps that prophecy, the revelation of the true Divine will, is only given to those who are destined to not be taken seriously.
In this, perhaps, not much has changed. As exemplified by Jeremiah, the tragedy of the true Prophet is that the truth that the prophet pronounces is not accepted by those who most need to hear it. People are much more likely to listen to what they already know, or what they want to hear.
I fear not much has changed. The ancient prophets were the social and political critics of their day. Most of them would have met the criteria—either Moses’ or Jeremiah’—of the false prophet.
What concerned the true prophets? They worried about the nation’s allegiance to God. They warned against the adoption by the leaders of immoral practices. They worried about the mistreatment and the neglect of the poor, both by the leaders and the population at large. They spoke out against immoral behavior by the population. They tried to convince the people to return to the moral path.
Today, how do we determine who to listen to? I fear that the determination is made, more and more, by an algorithm designed to feed us that to which we are most likely to respond positively, a phenomenon strikingly similar to the false prophets who fed the king and the people the message that they thought would be most well-received (and would be most likely to keep them from being jailed or executed).
It is the fools and children, those who, in their naivete, are less concerned with how their words will be received; or the wise, those whose allegiance to the pursuit of truth outweighs the desire for fame and fortune, whose words we perhaps ought to listen for.
The term was first used by the historian James Truslow Adams in his 1931 book, The Epic of America. This is how he describes it: The American Dream is
that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.
…It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.
He complained that although society tends to measure a person’s achievement of the American Dream by economic success, it was originally about quality and spiritual values. He warned that “in our struggle to ‘make a living'” we were neglecting “to live”.
It seems to me that we often conflate the idea of the American Dream with the idea of meritocracy. Under American meritocracy, the goal is to be “the best.” The most educated, most committed, most accomplished, most disciplined. These people are rewarded with success, which we measure by income and wealth.
The corollary is that someone who does not have income and wealth must not be someone of merit. They must be deficient in some way. It must be their fault.
Maybe some of you are familiar with the HR practice of “Up or Out.” I understand it is quite common in Silicon Valley. A worker is given a certain amount of time to prove themself, and is then either promoted or laid off. Fortunately, this is not practiced in the rabbinic world.
Such extreme focus on merit produces some pretty rigid social hierarchies. In a recent article, David Brooks writes about one of the major self-perpetuating measures—education—which has become one of the real dividing lines in society. He writes:
We built an entire social order that sorts and excludes people on the basis of the quality that we possess most: academic achievement. Highly educated parents go to elite schools, marry each other, work at high-paying professional jobs and pour enormous resources into our children, who get into the same elite schools, marry each other and pass their exclusive class privileges down from generation to generation.
While the American Dream, as an ideal, offers anyone with a strong work ethic the prospect of rising to a higher social class, the reality is often quite different. If the American Dream were a reality than we would see high levels of social mobility. Social mobility refers to the likelihood that a child born into a poor family will be able to rise into a higher economic level.
A 2020 report by the World Economic Forum measured social mobility by country. It used an index that measured education, access to technology, healthcare, social protection and employment opportunities. It found that the countries with the greatest levels of social mobility were in Europe, primarily the Nordic countries. The United States was 27th, second to last among the G7 nations.
This is an issue that appears prominently in this morning’s Torah portion, Re’eh. In the first half of chapter fifteen, Moses offers some instructions and pronouncements to the Israelites regarding the obligation to care for the poor. In so doing, he offers some pretty contradictory messages about the presence of poverty within the community. First, he says:
Efes ki lo yihyeh l’kha evyon— There need not be any poor among you—since the Lord your God will bless you in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion—
Deuteronomy 15:4
In other words, God has not only the capacity, but also the willingness, to bless us sufficiently so that we can eradicate poverty. A few verses later, Moses acknowledges that this might be too lofty an ideal.
ki yihyeh v’kha evyon—If, however, there is a needy person among you, one of your brothers in any of your settlements in the land that the Lord your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather, you must open your hand and lend whatever is sufficient to meet the need.
Deuteronomy 15:7-8
A few verses after that Moses just gives up.
ki lo yeḥdal l’kha evyon—For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land, which is why I command you: open your hand to your poor and needy brother in your land. (15:11)
Deuteronomy 15:11
In just a few verses, we descend from the possibility of eradicating poverty, to being commanded to respond to poverty if it appears, to resignation to the fact that poverty will never be eliminated.
Within these pronouncements, Re’eh offers three policy statements. Three mitzvot incumbent on the Israelite.
The first is to cancel all debts every seven years. Universal debt forgiveness.
The second is to offer loans to the needy among you—”whatever is sufficient to meet the need”—with a warning not to hold back out of knowledge that the loan will be cancelled if still unpaid in the seventh year.
The third commandment refers to someone who has become enslaved due to their inability to pay back their debt. That person must also be freed in the seventh year. Furthermore, the owner is prohibited from sending the freed slave away empty-handed. They have to be paid.
These three commandments are essentially a form of economic redistribution of resources from the rich to the poor. It would take the form of the rich helping out the poor financially when the poor fall upon hard times, and then offering loan forgiveness so that people do not suffocate under a mountain of debt that they can never dig themselves out of. (Some of that may sound familiar.)
While there are similarities here to mitzvot appearing in other parts of the Torah, Deuteronomy adds some unique points. In Exodus, the warning is against oppressing the widow, the orphan, the poor, and the stranger. If we do, God will hear their cry and punish us.
Deuteronomy takes it a step further. Now, failure to actively help will result in God’s curse or, conversely, God’s blessing. Not offering the loan, failing to free the debt-slave, or refusal to cancel the debt, is the moral equivalent of oppressing them – from God’s vantage point.
In Exodus, the debt slave merely goes free in the seventh year. In Deuteronomy, the owner has to pay him. He cannot be sent away empty-handed.
The passage ends with a familiar refrain:
Bear in mind that you were slaves in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you; therefore I enjoin this commandment upon you today.
Deuteronomy 15:15
God made sure that the Israelites went free from slavery in Egypt with vast wealth, taken from their former masters. This reminder, as the punctuation to the warning against not letting the freed debt slave leave empty handed, is not merely a command for compassion and empathy. It contains a veiled threat. The slave owner is in the same relative position as the Egyptians. When the Israelites left Egypt, they took all sorts of treasures from their former masters, at God’s direction. The warning here is that if the owner fails to provide for the freed slave, God will again take the situation in hand.
This system operates under the assumption that neutrality regarding the poor is insufficient. Simply leaving them alone is a recipe for a return to the former state of poverty and inequality. To break the cycle requires an additional step on the part of those at the upper end of the socioeconomic system.
It is easy to take the position that as long as I am leaving my neighbor alone, not actively doing anything to hold them back, then my responsibilities have been met. Another person’s success or failure in life is up to them, and really has no bearing on my own situation.
But Deuteronomy introduces the idea that failure to take pro-active steps to help the poor is the equivalent of oppressing them. It offers a model for breaking the cycle of poverty.
But this is a bitter pill to swallow. We do not like to be forced to part with our hard-earned possessions to pay for what we often see as somebody else’s mistakes.
So Deuteronomy goes beyond the financial obligations. It also legislates an attitude. Over and over, it uses the word achikha – your brother – to refer to your fellow Israelite who has not been so fortunate. To be clear, in this text, there is a definite distinction between the obligations one has to fellow Israelites and obligations to non-Israelite residents. Regarding the unfortunate Israelite, the Torah says, you have to see this person as your brother.
This focus on achikha, the theme of brotherhood, reappears throughout Deuteronomy. In chapter one, Moses instructs the judges to “hear between your brothers and rule justly between a man and his brother or between his foreigner.” (1:16) In next week’s portion, as Moses addresses the Israelites about the future monarchy, he tells them that they are to select someone from among their brothers to be the King. (17:15) And the King is warned against acting haughtily towards his brothers. (17:20)
Deuteronomy calls out positions in society which could lend themselves to unequal social divisions: the wealthy, the judges, and the king (i.e. the politicians), and knocks them off their pedestals. They must relate to the those people upon whom they would be most inclined to look down as brothers.
This goes way beyond a mere economic obligation. It is mandating social relations. There must be mixing between classes. There must be true social mobility. Looking at it through a contemporary lens, the American Dream must not be just a myth.
And it is clear in these texts that God takes the side of the poor over the rich. We are blessed—or cursed—to the extent that we do not ignore the poor and suffering. So when Moses says—
There need not be any poor among you—since the Lord your God will bless you in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion—
Moses is giving us a challenge. But which comes first. Does God bless us in the land so that there will be no poverty? Or, will the land be blessed only if, or when, we eradicate poverty?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Rabbi Shai Held, The Heart of Torah, Volume 2, pp. 230-234.
The robots are here. ChatGPT was released to the public on November 30 by OpenAI. In less than two months, it is already creating massive disruptions in many aspects of modern life.
ChatGPT is a computer program that can understand and respond to people’s words. It can help with different language tasks like answering questions and making sentences.
That definition, by the way, was composed by Chat GPT when I asked it what it was, and instructed it to give the answer in a simple style mean to be delivered orally.
It is selling itself a bit short, however. ChatGPT is far more powerful than it describes, making quite a few headlines just in the last week. Here are a few examples:
It has been used to write computer code.
A recent attempt to use Artificial Intelligence to argue a case in traffic court was shut down by the State Bar of California, which threatened the person who came up with the idea with possible prosecution for the unlicensed practice of law.
Schools have been totally taken by surprise. A student can have ChatGPT compose an original essay, or any other written assignment for that matter, in a matter of seconds.
This week, it was reported that ChatGPT was able to score passing grades on law school and business school exams.
The temptation for a stressed out student to turn to this free tool is pretty hard to resist. It is already happening. Schools are rushing to come up with ways to either prevent students from using it or to incorporate it into curricula.
Wondering how this might impact religion, I spent some time this week in conversation with ChatGPT. I asked it to do the following
Write a 150 word D’var Torah about the importance of parents transmitting the story of the Exodus to their children, based on verses from Parashat Bo, using a commentary by Rashi
Here was its answer, and I am editing it a little for brevity. ChatGPT tends to repeat itself:
This week’s Torah portion, Bo, highlights the importance of parents transmitting the story of the Exodus to their children. Rashi, one of the most famous commentators of the Torah, comments on the verse in Exodus 13:8, “And you shall tell your son on that day, saying, ‘It is because of what the Lord did for me when I went out of Egypt.” Rashi notes that the verse commands parents to transmit the story of the Exodus to their children through verbal storytelling. This is because the story of the Exodus is not just a historical event, but a personal one that has ongoing relevance and significance.
Rashi emphasizes that passing down the story of the Exodus from parent to child allows the child to connect to the story on a personal level, and to internalize its lessons and values. Additionally, Rashi notes that the story of the Exodus should be passed down not only to one’s own children, but to all children, “to your children and to your children’s children.” This emphasizes the importance of passing on the story for the benefit of future generations.
In short, this week’s Torah portion highlights the importance of parents transmitting the story of the Exodus to their children, as it is not only a historical event but a personal one that has ongoing relevance and significance. Parents are commanded to tell the story verbally, to their own children and to future generations, to ensure that the story will be passed down and remind the connection to our heritage and to God.
Not bad. It is a perfectly serviceable D’var Torah. Kind of conventional, if I am going to be critical. But it is certainly consistent with sermons I have given in the past.
In general, it seems that it is able to create original content that is consistent with the “average” quality of what can be found online. Its dataset, by the way, stops before 2021, so it has no knowledge of current events.
I have to admit that during my conversations with ChatGPT, I found myself feeling guilty at times about asking it tedious questions, or for pausing too long between my responses. I’m sure that, after time, I will be less likely to anthropomorphize the algorithm.
I decided to push it in a more theological direction. Parashat Bo includes the tenth plague, the killing of the firstborn. The Israelites are instructed to paint the doorposts of their homes with the blood from the Pesach sacrifice. This will serve as a sign for the Angel of Death to “pass over” their homes, thereby allowing the Israelite first born children to survive.
So I instructed ChatGPT to compare and contrast ChatGPT with an angel. Here was its answer.
ChatGPT, or Generative Pre-trained Transformer, is an AI language model created by OpenAI, while an angel is a supernatural being found in various religions, including Christianity, Judaism, and Islam.
The main difference between ChatGPT and an angel is their nature and origin. ChatGPT is a machine learning model, created by humans using advanced technology, while angels are believed to be supernatural beings created by God or a higher power.
Another difference is their abilities and purpose. ChatGPT is designed to generate human-like text based on patterns it has learned from a large dataset. It can answer questions, generate creative writing and perform many other natural language processing tasks. While angels, according to religious belief, have the ability to communicate with God, perform miracles, and act as messengers between God and humans.
In terms of intelligence, ChatGPT is considered to be highly intelligent, but it is limited to the scope of its training data and the algorithms that have been programmed into it. On the other hand, angels are believed to possess superior intelligence, wisdom and knowledge, as they are considered to be closer to the divine.
It did not want to bite. So I followed up, “But how are they similar?” Unable to avoid the question, it listed three similarities. I’m going to paraphrase a bit. ChatGPT can get a bit wordy:
Both ChatGPT and angels can be considered as messengers or communicators. ChatGPT can generate text based on patterns it has learned and can provide information or respond to questions, while angels are believed to act as messengers between God and humans, communicating God’s will and messages to them.
Both ChatGPT and angels can be considered as sources of knowledge or information. ChatGPT can provide information based on patterns it has learned from its training data, while angels are believed to possess superior intelligence, wisdom, and knowledge, as they are considered to be closer to the divine.
Both ChatGPT and angels can be considered as having the ability to transcend time and space. ChatGPT can generate text based on patterns it has learned, regardless of the time and place, while angels are believed to have the ability to transcend time and space, and can appear and disappear at will.
So I responded: According to Maimonides in the Mishnah Torah, angels have form but no substance, like ChatGPT. Both angels and ChatGPT are sophisticated non-human intelligences. Angels serve at God’s command and do not have independent will. Similarly, ChatGPT cannot do anything other than follow its programming. Thus, it also lacks free will.
It acknowledged my point.
You are correct, Maimonides in his “Mishneh Torah” describes the nature of angels as having form but no substance. According to Maimonides, angels are spiritual entities that do not have physical bodies, but they do have a form that allows them to perform their functions. This is similar to how ChatGPT is a non-physical entity that exists only in the digital realm and is able to perform its functions through its programming.
You also pointed out correctly that both angels and ChatGPT are sophisticated non-human intelligences, which serve at the command of a higher power. Angels serve at God’s command and do not have independent will, similarly, ChatGPT cannot do anything other than follow its programming and also lacks free will.
I went for what I thought would be the kill. Does it not follow that the ChatGPT’s programming functions as God?
Here’s the answer I got.
No, ChatGPT’s programming does not function as God.
ChatGPT is a machine learning model that was created by humans using advanced technology, it is a product of human design and engineering. It follows a set of rules and instructions (programming) to generate text based on patterns it has learned from its training data. The programming of ChatGPT is a set of instructions to the computer that enables it to perform certain tasks, it does not have consciousness or free will.
On the other hand, God is typically understood as a supreme being, the creator and ruler of the universe, who is often believed to possess qualities such as omniscience, omnipotence, and omnibenevolence. God is believed to be the ultimate source of morality, justice, and purpose in the world, and to have the power to intervene in the natural world, as well as to have the ability to create and sustain everything that exists.
It is somewhat reassuring that the robot resists being compared to an angel and following God’s will. But is it coming for my job?
I asked it about the integrity of a sermon written by an algorithm. It took a bit of back and forth for me to figure out how to best frame the question, but in the end I was impressed by its response. Does a sermon written by a machine learning model have less validity or integrity because it is not written by a human? I am not talking about the technical accuracy of the sermon, but rather of its spiritual integrity. Does it matter whether it was written by a machine or a human?
The answer was so good I gave it a “thumbs up.”
From a spiritual perspective, the source or origin of a sermon may not be as important as its content and message. A sermon written by a machine learning model like ChatGPT could still convey valuable spiritual insights and teachings, as long as the model was trained on a diverse and high-quality dataset of religious texts and sermons.
However, it’s worth noting that sermons are often delivered in a religious context and are a medium of human connection. The act of preaching is often not only about passing on information but also about connecting with the congregation, engaging with them, and providing them with guidance, support and inspiration. A machine model like ChatGPT may not have the ability to have personal experiences, emotions, self-awareness, or consciousness, and it does not have the ability to introspect, reflect or have any sense of self, which may affect the emotional and spiritual impact of the sermon.
And this brings us back to Parashat Bo. The instructions that the Israelites receive just before they leave Egypt are about personal connections. Our ancestors, and us, are instructed to transmit our experiences to our children through a medium that transcends words.
It has been thousands of years since that initial command, during which the technology has changed many times. At first, the stories were personal and unscripted. Gradually, these oral traditions became codified in permanent words. We call those words the written Torah and ascribe to them Divine provenance. They are holy, sacred words.
Those words were eventually written down on scrolls. The scroll gave way to the codex, what we call a book. For some reason, we held out against this new, far more convenient technology. For two thousand years, we Jews have stubbornly refused to change with the times and still read out of hand-written scrolls on without vowels or trope symbols. This is the most difficult, inefficient way imaginable.
What is Torah? Is it the scroll? I would argue that it is the words. Does the form in which It is transmitted matter? Perhaps there is something in this clumsy medium that fosters the personal connection, that encourages experiences between people.
In any event, the hand-written codex eventually became supplanted by the printing press. Now, the sacred words could be inexpensively disseminated far and wide. Great news, no?
Rabbi Hayyim ben Bezalel, the brother of the Maharal of Prague, did not think so. He complained in the 16th century about the printing and spread of the Talmud. What could be wrong with that?
He was concerned that Jews, reading it on their own, would make lots of errors and draw incorrect conclusions. The proper place for the study of Talmud was in the Yeshivah, where students could learn under the guidance of experienced teachers. He wrote a diatribe on the topic. But note as well that what concerned him was the impersonal nature of reading words out of a book by oneself. He wanted to retain the face to face transmission of knowledge and experience.
It goes without saying that Rabbi Hayyim lost his battle against the printing press. I can only imagine what he would have to say about the internet.
It is now possible to access the entire canon of Jewish sacred literature in its original language and in translation, along with most of the important commentaries written over the past two thousand years, many of those also in translation. All for free. I do it all the time in my work.
The ability for dissemination of sacred words and religious ideas has never been greater. And yet, we do not hold the newer media in the same high esteem.
The words of Torah are considered to be so sacred that when they appear in writing on any substance, whether scroll, book, handwritten page, or photocopy – we treat it as holy. It is forbidden to throw it away – it must be stored in a genizah and buried.
But what happens when those words are digitized?
There is no problem deleting God’s name from my computer. I don’t kiss the screen when I close down my browser window, the way I might do with a siddur or chumash. Nor do I bury my cell phone or laptop when it is time to upgrade.
Humanity is now at the next technological turning point. We no longer need human beings to translate experiences and ideas into language. We now have the algorithm, and it is going to be increasingly difficult to distinguish whether what we are reading was created by a human or a robot. From this moment on, you are not going to know for certain whether what I am teaching was written by me or by a robot.
Like Rabbi Chayim ben Bezalel, there will certainly be some who lament this new development and argue for its suppression, but the cat is already out of the bag. We are going to have to learn to live with it. This is the last thing I asked ChatGPT:
I am a Rabbi. In 25 words or less, do you have any final messages for my congregation?
This was its answer:
Focus on compassion, empathy and making the world a better place for all, rather than judgment and punishment.
So much has been written and spoken about the Binding of Isaac, the Akeidah. The story, as it appears in the Torah, is so spare, especially of emotion, that its meaning is determined through the experience of the reader.
What do we know from the words in the Torah itself? God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. Abraham obeys without any apparent hesitation. When Isaac asks him about the sacrifice, Abraham dodges the question. Isaac does not seem to struggle against his father’s attempts to bind him to the altar.
Abraham expresses zero hesitation through to the very end, to the extent that the angel has to call out his name twice to stop him from slaughtering Isaac.
Finally, according to every indication in the text, Abraham passes this test with flying colors, as indicated by the angel’s blessing of Abraham for having demonstrated his fear of God.
That is the canvas. To create the portrait, we are going to have to apply the paint ourselves.
This morning, I’d like to look at a version that appears in Midrash Tanchuma, which is dated to the early middle ages. The style of the midrash is to quote a section from the Torah, and then to expand on its meaning. In the interest of brevity, I am going to skip over parts of the midrash.
The midrash will feature Abraham and Isaac. It will also bring Sarah into the story. The fourth character appears nowhere in the text. You’ll know when we meet him.
The midrash introduces Abraham as eager to fulfill God’s command, and in full control of his actions. As we jump into the story, Abraham is considering an important issue.
Abraham had asked himself: What shall I do? If I tell Sarah all about it, consider what may happen. After all, a woman’s mind becomes distraught over insignificant matters; how much more disturbed would she become if she heard something as shocking as this! However, if I tell her nothing at all, and simply steal him away from her when she is not looking, she will kill herself.”
What did he do? He said to Sarah: “Prepare some food and drink so that we can eat and rejoice.”
“But why is this day different from other days?” she asked. “What is the nature of our celebration?”
He replied: “When a couple our age has a son, it is fitting, indeed, that they should eat, drink, and rejoice.” Whereupon she prepared the food.
While they were eating, he said to her: “You know, when I was a child of three, I already knew my Creator, yet this child is growing up and still has had no education. There is a place a short distance away where children are being taught, I will take him to be educated there.”
She said to him: “Go in peace.”
[Then the midrash quotes the Torah]: And Abraham arose early in the morning (ibid., v. 3). Why did he arise early in the morning? He had said to himself: Perhaps Sarah will change her mind and not permit me to go; I will arise before she gets up.”…
This is shocking. Abraham flat-out lies to Sarah. He knows how she will react if she finds out what he plans to do with Isaac. The midrash characterizes it, at least in Abraham’s mind, as the weak-mindedness of women, but I detect at least a little bit of guilt on Abraham’s part.
It is a great setup for what comes next. The midrash jumps ahead. Abraham and Isaac are on their journey when they meet a traveler.
Satan appeared before him on the road in the guise of an old man and asked: “Where are you going?”
Abraham replied: “To pray.”
“Does a person going to pray usually carry fire and a knife in his hands, and wood on his shoulders?”
“We may stay there for several days,” said Abraham, “and slaughter an animal and cook it.”
The old man responded: “That is not so; I was there when the Holy Blessed One ordered you to take your son. Why should an old man, who begets a son at the age of a hundred, destroy him? Have you not heard the parable of the man who destroyed his own possessions and then was forced to beg from others? If you believe that you are going to be able to have another son, you are listening to the words of a trickster. And furthermore, if you destroy a soul, you will be held legally accountable for it.”
Abraham answered: “It was not a trickster, but the Holy Blessed One who told me what I must do. I am not going to listen to you.”
There is no indication in this midrash that Abraham knows the true identity of the old man. As far as he is concerned, it’s just another old man, like himself. His first instinct, when asked where he is going, is to lie. When challenged on the lie, he doubles down.
Then, remarkably, the old man suggests that this mission of Abraham’s to sacrifice his son did not actually come from God, but from hamastin, in other words, from Satan himself. Abraham’s response? “No it wasn’t.” I’ve got to say, not a super strong comeback. The midrash goes on.
Satan left him and appeared at Isaac’s right hand in the guise of a youth. He inquired: “Where are you going?”
“To study Torah,” Isaac replied.
“Alive or dead?” he retorted.
“Is it possible for a man to learn Torah after he is dead?” Isaac queried.
He said to him: “Oh, unfortunate son of an unhappy mother, many days your mother fasted before your birth, and now this demented old man is about to sacrifice you.”
Isaac replied: “Even so, I will not disregard the will of my Creator, nor the command of my father.”
He turned to his father and said: “Father, do you hear what this man has told me?”
He replied: “Pay no heed to him, he has come only to wear us down.”…
Apparently, Abraham has been passing off the same lie to Isaac as he had told Sarah. Satan, who is honest throughout this story, tells Isaac the truth. When he asks his father about it, Abraham avoids the question.
Are these the words of someone who is confident that he is doing the right thing?
The midrash goes on to address another problem in the text. The journey to Mt. Moriah is not actually that far. So why does it take them three days to get there?
When Satan realized that they would not pay any attention to him, he went ahead and created a river in their path. When Abraham stepped into the river, it reached his knees.
He said to his servants, “Come after me,” and they did so.
When he reached the middle of the river, the water reached his neck.
Satan seems to be genuinely concerned for Isaac’s welfare. If the truth could not convince Abraham or Isaac to change their course, then maybe he can put an insurmountable obstacle in their path.
Thereupon, Abraham lifted his eyes to heaven and cried out: “Master of the Universe, You chose me; You instructed me; You revealed Yourself to me; You said to me: I am one and You are one, and through you shall my name be made known in My world. You ordered me: Offer Isaac your son as burnt offering to me, and I did not refuse! Now, as I am about to fulfill Your command, these waters endanger my life. If either I or my son, Isaac, should drown, who will fulfill Your decrees, and who will proclaim the Unity of Your Name?”
The Holy Blessed One, responded: “Be assured that through you the Unity of My Name will be made known throughout the world.”
Thereupon the Holy One, blessed be He, rebuked the source of the water, and caused the river to dry up. Once again, they stood on dry land.
To God, Abraham speaks honestly. It comes across almost like a plot between the two of them. Why does it actually matter whether or not Isaac drowns in the river? He is going to be dead either way, as far as Abraham is aware. God’s unity is certainly not going to be proclaimed through any action on Isaac’s part.
We are left to conclude that it is the sacrifice of Isaac itself which will make God’s unity be known in the world. I admit, I do not understand how that works.
Back to the midrash.
What did Satan do then? He said to Abraham (quoting Job):A word came to me in stealth;My ear caught a whisper of it.(Job 4:12); that is, I heard from behind the heavenly curtain that a lamb will be sacrificed as a burnt offering instead of Isaac.”
Satan spoils the plan! He tells Abraham that God is not going to let him go through with it. At this point in the midrash, how would you expect Abraham to respond?
Whatever your answer is, it’s wrong.
“This is the punishment of the liar.” Abraham responded. “Even when he tells the truth, no one will believe him.”
Such irony! Listen again to Abraham’s response, “This is the punishment of the liar. Even when he tells the truth, no one will believe him.” Who is the liar? Who is telling the truth?
Throughout the story, Satan has said nothing but the truth. Abraham is the liar. He concocts stories. He doubles down when confronted. He does not answer anyone’s questions directly. Notice as well that God (at best) “hides” the truth from Abraham.
There is a moving scene in the midrash when Abraham and Isaac build the altar together. Isaac, by now, knows that he is to be the burnt offering. He asks his father to tie him especially tightly so that he does not twitch in fear and cause Abraham to invalidate the sacrifice by making a blemish. Then he asks that Abraham not tell Sarah about his death while she is standing on the roof or next to a pit. He is worried she might fall and die. He is concerned for his mother.
After all of this, Abraham is ready to slaughter Isaac.
He took the knife to slaughter him until a fourth of a measure of blood should come from his body. [Suddenly,] Satan came, pushed Abraham’s hand aside and knocked the knife down. As he reached out his hand to pick it up, a voice came from heaven and said to him, Do not raise your hand against the boy. And if it had not happened, he would have been slaughtered.
Satan literally saved Isaac’s life! The midrash continues and describes Satan’s final appearance in the story.
At that moment, Satan went to Sarah disguised as Isaac. When she saw him she asked: “What did your father do to you, my son?”
He replied: “My father led me over mountains and through valleys until we finally reached the top of a certain mountain. There he built an altar, arranged the firewood, bound me upon the altar, and took a knife to slaughter me. If the Holy Blessed One had not called out, Do not raise your hand against the boy, I would have been slaughtered.”
He had hardly finished relating what had transpired when she passed away…
It is a remarkable midrash. I will let it speak for itself. The one question to consider is, “Who is Satan in this story?” To Abraham, he appears as an old man and to Isaac, a young man. A plausible reading would be to suggest that they are facing themselves. They are confronted by their own alter-egos.
Abraham knows in his heart that his mission is problematic. Sarah would never let him do it. It would invalidate God’s promise to him. And finally, it is illegal. These are all doubts that any rational man would hold. Nevertheless, he is laser-focused on his mission.
For Isaac, who is identified as a 37 year old man, it is impossible that he does not know what is actually going on. His interlocutor presents him with the truth. Isaac’s concern, however, is only to help his father succeed and to save his mother from too much suffering. He is completely selfless in this story.
To Sarah, the mother, Satan appears as her son, whom she loves more than anyone. He also reveals the truth. And it is this truth which kills her. Ironically, this is exactly what Abraham was worried about in the first place.
I appreciate this midrash for not making any apologies for Abraham. It humanizes all of the characters, revealing them to be conflicted individuals who, even when focused on what they know to be a Divine mission, are filled with self-doubt.
It does not answer any of our questions about the story of the Akeidah, but it paints a moving picture.
The Israelites are reaching the end of their journey through the wilderness. Despite their destination being within reach, they still find cause to complain. As they are making their way up the Eastern side of the Jordan River, they become impatient, speaking out against God and Moses:
Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food.
Numbers 21:5
It is kind of hard to blame them. They have been eating manna for forty years now. But God does not appreciate complainers. God sends snakes which bite the people. Many die.
The story follows the typical pattern. The Israelites come to Moses, admit that they sinned when they spoke out against God and Moses. “Please intercede for us,” they plead.
Moses immediately steps in to the breach, and God offers an unusual remedy: Aseh lekha saraf – “Make a seraph figure and mount it on a standard. And anyone who was bitten who then looks at it shall recover.” (Numbers 21:8) A seraph is a fiery serpent angel-type figure.
Moses complies, and he makes what is essentially a ‘snake on a stick.’ When someone is bitten by a serpent, they look at it and recover.
The Mishnah asks the obvious question. Can this inanimate object kill or give life? Doesn’t this fly in the face of the Torah’s many prohibitions against making graven images? The answer is that there is nothing magical about it. It’s power is symbolic. When Israel would look up at this snake on a stick, their hearts would turn towards their Father in heaven. Their faith restored, God would heal them.
It is not the most convincing argument. After all, the same could be said of any graven image.
A midrash (Genesis Rabbah 31:8, Yalkut Shimoni on Nach 15:4) points out that there are four occasions in the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible in which the expression Aseh lekha, literally, “Make for yourself” appears. On three of those occasions, God gives clear instructions about how to make the item in question. The first is when God tells Noah to build an ark out of acacia wood. The second is when Moses is told to make two trumpets out of silver. The third is when Joshua has to make knives out of flint so that the Israelites can circumcise themselves. The fourth “make for yourself” appears in this morning’s Torah portion, when God tells Moses Aseh lekha saraf – “Make for yourself a seraph.”
No instructions are given regarding what raw materials to use. Moses is left to his own devices to figure it out. First, he thinks about using gold, zahav. Then he considers using silver, kesef. Rejecting those two precious metals, he settles instead on the much less valuable copper, nechoshet. Why?
According to the midrash, Moses does not like the sound of the words zahav and kesef. But nechoshet sounds like nachash, the Hebrew word for snake and nashach, the Hebrew word for bite. And so the Torah says
Then Moses made a copper serpent (nechash nechoshet) and mounted it on a standard, and when bitten by a serpent (im-nashach hanachash), anyone who looked at the the copper serpent (nechash hanechoshet) would recover.
Numbers 21:9
In other words, Moses chose copper because he liked how the word sounded. (Notice that the Torah changes God’s word, seraf, to nachash. Both words refer to serpents, but only one of them sounds good.) The midrash concludes that this proves that the Torah was given in Hebrew, the holy tongue. The alliteration would not work in any other language.
There is a deeper meaning at work here.
When we think about snakes, we are reminded of the infamous snake, the nachash of the Garden of Eden, the one who approached the woman with words of deception to trick her into eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. She observes the tree, sees that it is good for eating, a delight to the eyes, and desirable to contemplate. So she eats the fruit and shares it with the man who is with her.
Rabbinic texts personify the nachash as the Yetzer Hara – the evil inclination. It is by observing the tree, really looking at it, that the yetzer hara speaks to her heart and leads her to violate God’s instructions.
Similarly, if we see the plague of snakes in today’s parashah as symbolizing the Israelites’ lack of faith in God’s providence, their succumbing to the physical discomforts of the moment, the power of the nachash nechoshet becomes more clear. It is the inverse of the Garden of Eden story, the image of the serpent has the power not just to dispel faith, but also to reinvigorate it.
In this moment, Moses does not yell at the Israelites, call them ungrateful, or try to convince them that they are wrong to complain. He takes a different approach. He uses art. Art inspires the imagination, which leads us to see the world differently. As the greatest of our Prophets, the one who reaches the highest level of spirituality and achieves the greatest mastery over the yetzer hara, Moses understands how to use art to get through to the Israelites. He makes a metal sculpture, upon which the Israelites can gaze; and, he composes a linguistic work of art, employing language in a way that penetrates the walls around the heart.
Both forms of creative expression spark an emotional reaction that grabs the Israelites’ attention, surprise them, if only for a moment. Shaken from their complacency, they take a step back and realize all that God has done for them. The Yetzer hara loosens its hold. Self-centerdness departs. They step up one spiritual level. At last, the Israelites realize: ‘We are almost at our destination. Surely God can lead us across the finish line. We can tolerate this manna for a little while longer.’
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.
Rebyehoshua 