What if the Messiah Doesn’t Arrive?

 

What happens if the Messiah doesn't arrive? The story is told about a pious Brooklyn shopkeeper in the 1940s, who due to financial stresses, kept his shop open on Shabbat. One day, a charismatic rabbi organized a march to greet the Messiah, and many began to believe that the redemption was near. The shopkeeper asked the local Rosh Yeshiva for advice on whether he should close his shop on Shabbat, to prepare for the Messiah's arrival. The rabbi, a graduate of one of the Lithuanian Yeshivot, told the shopkeeper that he need not worry, the Messiah wasn’t coming that weekend.  A student, overhearing the exchange, was puzzled by it; why was his teacher discouraging the shopkeeper from observing Shabbat? The Rosh Yeshiva responded that if the man closed his shop, and the Messiah didn't arrive, the disappointment would break his faith, and he would never entertain observing Shabbat again in the future.

 Too much hope is dangerous. Even the belief in the Messianic redemption, a foundation of Judaism, can be destructive; Maimonides cautions multiple times against speculating about when the Messiah will come. In his Letter to Yemen Maimonides writes the following about a false Messianic prediction that wreaked havoc in the Jewish community in Fez: “a pious and virtuous man and scholar by the name of Moses Al-Dar'i came from Dar'a to the province of Andalusia to study under Rabbi Joseph ha-Levi, of blessed memory, ibn Migash...People flocked to him because of his piety, virtue and learning. He informed them that the Messiah had come, as was divinely revealed to him in a dream....Many people became his adherents and reposed faith in him....When the majority of the people put their trust in him, he predicted that the Messiah would come that very year on Passover eve. He advised the people to sell their property and contract debts to the Muslims with the promise to pay back ten dinars for one, in order to observe the precepts of the Torah in connection with the Passover festival, for they will never see them again, and so they did. When Passover came and nothing transpired, the people were ruined as most of them had disposed of their property for a trifling sum, and were overwhelmed with debt.” Hope is intoxicating, and can blind one to reality; in this case, hope ravaged the community of Fez. 

At the same time, Maimonides emphasizes that we must never lose hope in the coming of the Messiah; we are always obligated to dream of redemption. Optimism should never undermine realism, but realism should never undermine optimism either.

Maimonides’ views on redemption are a powerful guide to life. A similar idea is found in Jim Collins’ book Good to Great. Collins describes what he calls the Stockdale Paradox, named after Admiral James Stockdale, who was the highest-ranking United States officer held as a prisoner of war in Vietnam. Stockdale was a POW for eight years, and endured torture, deprivation, and horrible conditions; dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these prisoners of war died during captivity. Stockdale courageously led the POWs in resisting their captor's demands, and gave strength and support to his fellow prisoners. Collins interviewed Stockdale, to understand what type of mindset was needed to endure such a difficult experience. When Collins asked who didn't make it out, Stockdale replied: "Oh, that’s easy, the optimists. Oh, they were the ones who said, 'We're going to be out by Christmas.' And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then they'd say, 'We're going to be out by Easter.' And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart.” Later in the same interview, Stockdale explains that he still retained his sense of optimism throughout: "I never lost faith in the end of the story, I never doubted not only that I would get out, but also that I would prevail in the end and turn the experience into the defining event of my life, which, in retrospect, I would not trade." Collins asked Stockdale how he could embrace a brutal reality while being so optimistic at the same time. Stockdale replied: “You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.” Collins writes that the paradoxical mix of optimism and realism that Stockdale exhibited is critical to building organizational excellence. And this lesson, which was first taught by Maimonides, is the healthiest way to approach all of life. We must be optimists and realists at the very same time, both at the worst of times and in the best of times. Life demands a two-track reality.

The Book of Bamidbar emphasizes this lesson. At the outset, there are careful and intricate plans, taking a census of the soldiers available for battle and setting up the camp to be ready to march into the land of Israel. These careful preparations culminate in a verse in this week's Torah reading, where it describes how the Ark of the Covenant being carried in front of the army, as God leads the Jews to victory.

And right in the middle of the Parsha, the plan falls apart. From here on, the Book of Bamidbar tells of complaints and more complaints. There is the fiasco of the spies, and the Jews are condemned to spend 40 years in the desert; this decree breeds frustration, leading to a rebellion.  The great plans of the beginning of Bamidbar quickly dissipate.

It would be tempting to see the book of Bamidbar as a tragedy; but that would be a mistake. The turning point of the book is punctuated by two unusual signs which look like upside down letter nuns; these signs are not found anywhere else in the Torah. The Talmud offers the fascinating comment that these punctuation marks are meant to divide Bamidbar into three separate books. But what is the meaning of this strange comment, and why should we see Bamidbar as a divided book? I would argue the Talmud is offering the insight that Bamidbar is different from an ordinary book, because it does not follow a narrative arc. The other books of the Torah have a clear narrative direction. Genesis is a tragedy which begins in the utopia of Eden and ends in the dystopia of Egypt bondage; in Exodus, the Jews are redeemed from slavery and become a kingdom of Priests. But in Bamidbar, the upside-down nuns come to remind us not to impose a narrative arc on the story, and see it as a story of tragic failure that follows a linear progression. Instead, we should recognize there are two themes that are meant to remain side by side throughout: the ideal plans and the failures of implementation. This dual vision reminds us that when you have big dreams, you will have even bigger disappointments; and despite these disappointments, there is still plenty of hope to go around. Bamidbar is not a tragedy, it is an as of yet unfulfilled dream.

This is why we have a holiday, Sukkot, to celebrate the events of the Book of Bamidbar, the 40 years of wandering in the desert; because even when you're stuck in the desert and have to live in a tent, if you are on your way to a bright future, you must celebrate.

The state of Israel lives a Bamidbar reality; it has both big dreams and big disappointments. The Zionist vision, from Herzl on, is of a state that would enable the Jews to live in peace and prosperity. But right now, it seems like the opposite is true: in the last two weeks alone there were rocket attacks on 70% of the country, propaganda attacks against its reputation, and attacks on ordinary Jews around the world for the “sin” of Zionism. Israel’s army is repeatedly forced into the ugly arena of war, where the only choices are to kill or be killed. Everyone feels desperate for a quick solution; and some throw their hands up in frustration, saying that Israel is no longer worth the effort. But they forget that we are obligated to carry a dual vision, grabbing hold of reality while embracing optimism.

This past week I visited Israel on a UJA mission. During our visits we saw a home that was destroyed by a rocket, an apartment that was firebombed during riots, and a Kibbutz where most of the members had evacuated. We learned about children who are so traumatized that they can no longer look at balloons, which are used by Hamas as incendiary devices; we heard people cry about their homes that had been destroyed. Reality at times felt bleak and too difficult to bear, and some of my colleagues compared our trip to visiting a shiva house.  Yet what was remarkable to me was how much optimism there was everywhere we went. We visited Kibbutz Nir Oz, which is 400-person community a mere 2500 feet from the Gaza border. During the conflict, the Kibbutz had been under attack from rockets, mortars, and even sniper fire. There, we had lunch with students from Kedma, a program that brings them to integrate into the Kibbutz and look after its older members; many study at a nearby college in Sderot. We spoke with Yogav, who came from Tel Aviv, and chose the Kibbutz instead of the comfortable life back home because he wanted to be a pioneer. We heard from Emily, who had made Aliyah from Austria and served in the Israeli army. She spoke to us about the difficulties during the war, of the constant sirens and the shells that landed in the Kibbutz. She told us how her parents in Austria called her constantly during the 11-days of battle, and that her mother had begged her to return home. But Emily explained that she stayed put because this is where she found her purpose, where she could help build a better future for the State of Israel. I was moved by these students’ optimism. Even while being bombarded by rockets, they still embraced hope.

The past two weeks have been tragic. In times like this, it is easy to lose hope; who can imagine the Messiah arriving right now? But that is the wrong way to look at things. Perhaps the Messiah hasn't arrived, but people like Emily and Yogav have. And that is true cause for optimism.

 

 

Winter, Christmas, and Chanukah

 

Winter brings a shiver to the soul. It is the season of hibernation and stagnation. The nights are longer, the air is frigid, and there are moments when the world feels unforgiving, dark and dreary. Winter can very easily become a season of discontent.

Both Judaism and Christianity have holidays right around the winter solstice, and both holidays have thematic connections to the season. In a remarkable passage in the Talmud (Avodah Zarah 8a), we are told about the origins of Saturnalia, the pagan predecessor to Christmas.  Adam, the first man, sinned and was thrown out of the Garden of Eden. It was fall, and he noticed that each day became progressively shorter and colder. Adam began to worry that "perhaps because I sinned the world is becoming dark, and will return to chaos and disorder." He fasted and prayed to be spared; and then the solstice arrived, and the days got longer. Adam, overjoyed with the realization that winter is not the end of the world, established a holiday to thank God. However, this initially well-meant holiday was eventually appropriated by pagans for idol worship. The Talmud teaches us that passing the winter solstice has a spiritual message: light will return, and man, despite his flaws, will be delivered from his distress. Winter is not endless, nor is it the end.

This message is transformative, because belief in a better future makes us more resilient. In a famous 1957 study, a professor at Johns Hopkins University, Curt Richter, tested the resilience of wild rats. Richter placed the rats in a bucket of water to see how long they would swim before giving up. Most would drown within 15 minutes. However, if the rats were “saved” by being taken out of the water before they would drown, they would swim for increasingly longer periods of time, and could continue swimming up to 60 hours. The possibility of being saved made the rats more resilient.

Hope is more than a warm fuzzy feeling; it provides all living beings with greater strength and determination. And each winter, as we pass the solstice, we learn to hope again.

But it is here where Chanukah's message is different. It tells of another type of hope, one that doesn’t depend on the memory of deliverance. Chanukah teaches us that the greatest miracles are products of the soul, which is strong enough to persevere even in the darkest moments. Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech of Dinov notes that Chanukah arrives just before the solstice, on the darkest, most hopeless night of the year. This is because the triumph of the Maccabees is a triumph of inner hope, of finding inspiration when none is apparent. The Maccabees should have given up before they started. How could a small group of men take on a powerful empire? What kept the Maccabees going was their own inner light, a refusal to despair despite the overwhelming odds against them.

The spirit of Chanukah can bend reality. Natan Sharansky tells of one Chanukah in the gulag when the guards confiscated his improvised Menorah. Sharansky declared a hunger strike; in an attempt to avoid bad publicity, the commanding officer in the camp, Major Osin, allowed Sharansky to light Chanukah candles in his office. As Osin stood by, Sharansky improvised this Hebrew blessing: "Blessed are You, God, for allowing me to rejoice on this day of Chanukah, the holiday of our liberation, the holiday of our return to the way of our fathers. Blessed are You, God, for allowing me to light these candles. May you allow me to light the Chanukah candles many times in your city, Jerusalem, with my wife, Avital, and my family and friends.” Then, Sharansky added, "And may the day come when all our enemies, who today are planning our destruction, will stand before us and hear our prayers and say 'Amen.'" Osin, hearing the end of the blessing, politely added in "Amen." While it would take many years before Sharansky made it to Jerusalem, this too was a Chanukah miracle: one courageous man so determined to hold on to his Judaism, that he managed to enlist a KGB Major to pray for his emigration.

Chronologically, Chanukah is the final holiday in the Jewish calendar - the last one established before the destruction of the Second Temple. It arrives at a moment when miracles are few and the Divine Presence is hidden; and it teaches a lesson for an age when deliverance is improbable. For much of the last 2,000 years, Jewish history has been an endless winter, a hopeless, barren terrain of exile. Yet, during this time, there has been an ongoing miracle of faith, the spirit of a remarkable people who never lost hope. And on the darkest night of the year, Chanukah reminds us of a hope that requires no promises, just the miracle of perseverance.

We Need Chanukah More Than Ever This Year

It is easy to dismiss Chanukah as relatively unimportant. In America, what has made Chanukah prominent actually diminishes its value; it is an also-ran holiday that only achieved importance as the Jewish counterpart to Christmas. But Chanukah has a universal message, one that is more meaningful than ever. Eight months into a pandemic, our morale is already wearing thin; and now we face a challenging winter, where we are forced indoors just as a new spike of cases arrive. Chanukah reminds us to never let hold of hope, no matter what.

“What is Chanukah?” It is surprising to see this question posed by the rabbis of the Talmud, as if the origins of the holiday were unknown to them. By the time the Talmud was written almost 2,000 years ago, the holiday was well known, and the story had been recorded in the  Book of the Maccabees in the Apocrypha. There had been a war of independence fought by Jewish rebels, the Maccabees, against the Seleucid Empire, and afterward the Temple in Jerusalem was rededicated. The celebration of this event was called “Chanukah,” the Hebrew word for dedication.

Yet if this were the rationale for Chanukah, the holiday should have disappeared once the Temple was destroyed. It would have been irrelevant. Why celebrate the rededication of a Temple that no longer existed? This is what the Talmud is wondering when it asks, “What is Chanukah?”

The Talmud offers an alternate reason for Chanukah. It tells of a miracle involving the menorah, the Temple’s candelabra. During the rededication, the Maccabees found just one jar of the High Priest's olive oil, enough for one night; but miraculously, the menorah remained lit for eight nights. With this explanation, Chanukah no longer depends on the rededication of the Temple. Yet this explanation prompts a question of its own: Why institute a holiday for a miraculous jar of oil?

The Talmud is actually reinventing Chanukah. For Jews in exile, this holiday celebrating a former triumph was transformed into a festival of hope, and the relatively unimportant miracle of the menorah now took center stage. One small jar of oil lasting for eight nights became a metaphor for a small community overcoming the odds against them. Jews in exile could take heart in the fact their Maccabees ancestors were able to overcome all odds; they were inspired to think that they could too. 

Hope is a puzzle; many observers are unclear as to what  value it has. To some, like  the Roman Philosopher Seneca, hope is a denial of reality, which prevents us from “adapting ourselves to the present”. Others see a value in hope as a useful myth, one that prods people to feel more confident, and to aspire to build a better future. This certainly is enough of a reason to be hopeful. But a Jewish theology of hope goes much further, and sees hope as part of the divine blueprint. Hope is based on the belief that the world is always taking another step in the direction of redemption. And even one small Menorah miracle can serve as a reminder of that blueprint.

For nearly two millennia, the ritual of lighting candles on the longest, darkest and coldest nights of the year gave an embattled people hope. And it is the very smallness of the ritual that makes it so powerful. Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chassidic movement said: “A little light pushes away a great deal of darkness.” The same is true of hope. Even a bit of hope gives us the strength to continue onward and pursue redemption.

Last December, paramedics were called to the home of an elderly couple in Lakewood, N.J. As they were taking the wife to the ambulance, they noticed that alongside the Chanukah menorah there was a burning wick embedded inside a half of a potato. When the paramedics asked what the potato was for, the husband explained that during the Holocaust, he was on the run from the Nazis, hiding in different locations. He had very little, but for Chanukah he was able to improvise a menorah from a potato, some oil and a wick. After his liberation, the man explained, he continued to light a potato Menorah, to remember the miracle of his survival.

This December, hope is on the horizon, with the first deliveries of covid vaccines. But there will be much worry and suffering to come before the end of this pandemic. Right now, the lesson of the Lakewood man’s Chanukah potato is especially useful: A little hope can go a long way, and a little light pushes away a great deal of darkness.

What's so Funny About the Jews?

Why This Tisha B'Av Must be Different: Short Remarks for Tisha B'Av Evening

This Tisha B'Av must be different.

There is a custom among some Chasidic Jews to play pranks on each other on Tisha B'Av. In many places to have the children throw berelach, little thistles during Kinot to lighten up the mood. Chasidic leaders felt that the Jews in Eastern Europe lived with too much difficulty and sadness, and a painful Tisha B'Av would do more harm than good.

These strange customs have a firm foundation in the themes of the day. Tisha B'Av has two sides to it. It is first and foremost, a day of mourning and grief. It is the day in which we remember not just the destruction of both Temples, but all of the catastrophes during the 2000 years of exile.

But aside from this, there is another side. Tisha B'Av is also a day of comfort. On the afternoon of Tisha B'Av, we recite a prayer, Nachem, to ask for comfort. We get up from our low chairs, put on our tallit and tefillin, and in these small comforts recall the Talmudic tradition that the Messiah will be born on Tisha B'Av.

Most years, it is more important to discuss the difficult side of Tisha B'Av. It is easy for us who are so comfortable to lose touch with the difficulties our ancestors endured. It is easy for us to become complacent and not search for a way to make the world better.

But this year, we must have a Chasidic Tisha B'Av. We have had enough difficulty and enough uncertainty. We do not need to be brought lower, to find greater sadness. Right now, we need to find as much comfort as we can, even on Tisha B'Av.

And the comfort that we have is in recognizing how far we have come. We need to recognize that the previous generations, whose tragedies we mourn, would have so much joy to see how far we have come. We have built a State of Israel, a miracle on the world stage. We have come so far.

Danny Gordis related an anecdote from the years of the intifada:

 But I’ll always remember what Siggy said to me one morning, in the midst of the intifada, as we were about to recite Yizkor.

It was a time in Jerusalem when life was sad, and often frightening…..That holiday morning, as I made my way out of shul for Yizkor (since my immediate family is all still living), Siggy, who sat not far from the door, grabbed my arm just as I was about to step outside.

“You’re going out for Yizkor?” he asked me. When I nodded, somewhat perplexed, he continued. “When we first got here, after the war, there wasn’t a single person who could go out for Yizkor.

Not a single one.” And then, he said, “Ba’u od milhamot venaflu od banim.”

“More wars followed, and more boys fell.  So for more years, no one could go out for Yizkor.”

He stopped for a moment, and I saw that his lips were trembling, ever so slightly. He pointed to the courtyard right outside our shul. “Ve’achshav, tistakel – kulam bahutz.” “And now, look!” he pressed me. “Everyone’s outside.” “Hamedina hazot nes.” “This country is a miracle.”

This year has so many of us feeling so low, after a 4-month battle with a horrible plague; but we can turn to Tisha B'Av for comfort. We can look at the arc of history, and recognize that we truly are the privileged ones. Even as we suffer, we are comforted by the fact that we already have overcome so much, and we will continue to do so in the future.

And we can be comforted that if the authors of the Kinot were here today, they would be smiling, even if it is Tisha B’Av.

Eddie's Kaddish

There are no words.