The Optimism of Courage

My job is to inspire others. I scour the Talmud, Bible, as well as assorted periodicals, to find texts, ideas and anecdotes that inspire others.

But every so often, someone will turn to me and ask: “Rabbi, who inspires you?”. Although I may work in the inspiration business, at the end of the day, I too have a soul thirsty for inspiration.

People imagine that inspiration is best found among the learned and famous. Actually, that isn’t the case. The Talmudic sage Chanina said that he learned more from his friends and his students than he did from his teachers. My experience with inspiration is very much the same; it is often my congregants and students who inspire me the most.

Joanne, the most inspiring congregant I’ve ever known, died recently. She was a young woman in her 40’s, who’d battled a series of health problem that kept her hospitalized the vast majority of the last decade of her life. She inspired me with her resilience, fortitude and good humor. But most importantly, Joanne taught me about optimism.

Joanne was relentlessly optimistic. In her years in the hospital, her cheerful spirit warmed the hearts of everyone who met her. Members of the hospital staff became Joanne’s friends, and she became their confidante. An orderly who’d lost a child to suicide, found solace for the first time in years after speaking with Joanne. And throughout, her courageous spirit remained strong. When a doctor told her that she’d never be able to walk again, she immediately remarked “well, that’s what wheelchairs are for”.

Joanne taught me what optimism should be. Most people think optimism is all about the glasses; that is, either half empty glasses or rose colored glasses. Joanne taught me that optimism is much more than a positive perspective; it can be, indeed it must be, a defiant act of courage.

The optimism of courage goes beyond seeing the bright side of things – instead, it sees humor and hope as ammunition in the war against tragedy. All humans face the same adversary: the angel of death. Joanne heroically battled the angel of death with the only weapons she had, her smile and her optimism.

Joanne had wicked sense of gallows humor. Even while staring death in the eye, she could laugh. One day, in a heart to heart conversation, I mentioned to her that in my entire rabbinic career, I had never seen a case of tragic suffering like her own. A humorous remark or two followed, and somehow, by the end of the conversation, we were laughing together. But these jokes were more than shared laughter; actually Joanne was waging war, laughing in the face of the angel of death.

Joanne understood the optimism of courage. She will continue to inspire me for the rest of my life.

May her memory be a blessing for her family, and for happiness warriors everywhere.

Hello, Israel

I can be an annoying Rabbi.

Every week during Shabbat services, I harangue my congregants to say hello to visitors to the synagogue. I push, prod and cajole my members to greet any new faces. In my mind, a community that isn’t welcoming isn’t a true community.

Unfortunately, the art of being welcoming has been lost. We simply don’t feel comfortable making small talk with new faces. Greeting strangers is actually taboo in larger cities. Urbanites mumble a perfunctory hello to salesclerks, and don’t dare to make eye contact with strangers on the street. In row house suburbs, neighbors barely know each other’s names.

Perhaps we are too busy, or just too rude, to bother to say Hello. In our Blackberry-Laptop-Cellphone culture, we are always occupied with something or someone, except for the person standing in front of us. Human interactions have been compressed into an orderly row of e-mails. Communities are now “virtual”, anonymous megabytes masquerading as true companionship. Why say hello when you post your greetings on Facebook?

Living in a culture of remote controls and remote friendships leaves us hungry for true community. The Talmud relates that the great Rabbi, Yochanan Ben Zakai made a point of offering greetings to strangers. R. Yochanan’s greetings were not just an expression of one Rabbi’s sensitivity; they are a reflection of man’s existential need to connect with the people around him. Man, the social animal, needs to say hello to keep his soul alive. Indeed, TV shows that feature small towns like the fictional Mayberry, and friendly gathering places like the bar in Cheers, derive their popularity from our hunger for true community. The commuter who rides the bus with her face in a book and takes the elevator while averting other people’s eyes, can finally sit down, turn on the TV, and vicariously experience a much warmer place.

Israel is one place where old fashioned community values live on. The old proverb, “A stranger's just a friend you haven't met”, (immortalized in this Simpson’s episode) could be the national motto of Israel. People everywhere strike up conversations: taxi drivers, fellow restaurant patrons, people standing at bus stops. Israel feels like Mayberry, the country, a small town stretched over a small homeland.

The secret to Israel’s warmth might have to do with exile. Maybe, after being second class citizens, Jews are happy to finally belong. Maybe years of homelessness and wandering has made Jews into better hosts. Perhaps, Israel’s warm spirit is the giddy joy of a people delighted to be in a homeland they can truly call home.

On a trip to Israel last month, my wife and I happened upon a Mira, a jewelry maker with a store in downtown Jerusalem. Long after the necklace was chosen and the purchase made, we chatted with her, discussing our lives, families and values. It was another country and another language, yet nothing got lost in translation. We immediately connected, because in Israel, there are no strangers. We all come from the same shtetl, and are happy to finally be home again.

No, They Weren’t Animals

A distraught mother, being shoved onto a train to the death camp Treblinka, leaves her baby on the ground, hoping a stranger will save her. Franciszek Zabeki, a Polish railway worker, describes what happened next:

“In no time, an SS man ran up…seized the child by its feet, and smashed its head against a wheel of the wagon. This took place in full view of the mother, who was howling with pain.”

How do you describe someone who takes joy in splitting open the heads of babies? The horrific actions of the Nazis defy comprehension. It would seem natural to call the inhumane perpetrators of these killings “animals”. But it would also be wrong.

By calling the Nazis animals, we’re actually letting them off the hook. Animals are instinctive beings without free will. Animals are unable to choose between right and wrong, and cannot be held responsible for their actions. While the brutal murderers of the death camps were inhumane, they were still as human as you and I. Unlike animals, the Nazis could have chosen otherwise, because they had free will.

Free will is an intimidating idea. The 12th century Jewish philosopher Maimonides sharply opposed astrology, (a respectable discipline at the time) because he understood that the belief in astrology negated free will. A future that is already decided devalues personal initiative. In actuality, this subversion of responsibility is precisely what makes astrology attractive; with the right lucky stars, there’s no need to worry about hard work and difficult choices. That is why multitudes of people, from ancient times until today, continue to follow the zodiac, sure it will predict the course of their day. It’s much easier to suppose that our destinies are in the stars than to accept the responsibility placed into our own hands.

Responsibility is an annoying burden. We’d prefer to imagine that our failures have been forced upon us against our will. In the 12th century, a person could blame the stars for his faults. And, as science has progressed, so has our ability to craft ever more sophisticated excuses for our own failings. Criminals have already claimed diminished capacity due to the psychotropic effects of eating Twinkies or MSG. In a short while, DNA tests and CAT scans will be used to “prove” that criminals were compelled to act the way they did.

No doubt, a clever defense attorney could have crafted similar arguments for the Nazis, explaining that really they were helpless animals who killed because they had no choice. But the Nazis were not animals, and we have the pictures to prove it.

A photo album assembled by Karl Hocker, the chief assistant to the Commandant of Auschwitz, catalogued the lives of the S.S. officers stationed there. Hocker’s pictures capture the Nazi’s gentler side. Here, they kick back at a country resort, where they socialize with the female auxiliary of the SS, conduct sing alongs, and sun themselves on the porch. Of course, in a moment of holiday spirituality, they painstakingly decorate the Christmas tree.

What struck me about these photos was their utter banality. Here are jovial, good spirited people enjoying life, eating blueberries and drinking schapps. While viewing photographs of Hocker playing with his dog, I felt a twinge of empathy for him; he didn’t very seem different from me at all. Of course, if a time machine had dropped me into that very same photograph, Hocker wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot me dead. This regular, dog loving guy was a genocidal murderer.

Yes, the Nazis were regular people like you and I. They cried at funerals, loved music, and laughed at jokes. They were not animals at all. Yet despite being normal human beings, they made horrific choices. These average Joes chose to be genocidal murderers.

The idea that all of us stand one bad choice away from being as evil as the Nazis is a sobering thought. But the burden of personal responsibility means that we have to be ever vigilant in our pursuit of virtue, and remember that we can’t blame our mistakes on the stars, or on the Twinkies.

Continuity vs. Unity

Maintaining continuity and unity are the two greatest challenges facing the Jewish community.

Jewish unity is slowly disintegrating. Post –Shoah feelings of Jewish solidarity are now gone. Divisions over matters of religion and political affiliation have even lead to violence. Books like A People Divided: Judaism in Contemporary America and Jew vs. Jew: The Struggle for the Soul of American Jewry chronicle the growing tensions between Orthodox and non-Orthodox Jews in North America. In Israel, religion has been politicized, with religious and anti-religious parties stoking an atmosphere of mutual contempt. And of course there are the political tensions related to Israel’s foreign policy, which led to the assassination of Yitzchak Rabin. With the Jewish people seemingly breaking apart into warring tribes, Jewish unity is a serious problem indeed.

At the same time, Jewish continuity is perhaps a more serious danger. Simply put, North American Jews are disappearing into a fog of assimilation. Study after study deliver bad news about Jewish affiliation: a 50%+ intermarriage rate, a 50%+ rate of indifference to Israel, and an all around lack of interest in Judaism. But the news gets worse; every one of these studies show the rate of assimilation growing among younger Jews. If these trends keep up, soon there won’t be any Jews left to fight with each other.

A barrage of sermons has been aimed at the dual challenges of unity and continuity. For a Rabbi, speaking about continuity and unity is the rough equivalent of a politician talking about motherhood and apple pie. Indeed, for the last two decades I have shouted myself hoarse talking about these two problems. Yet, what I failed to reflect on all these years is that continuity and unity are often in direct conflict with each other.

Continuity and unity raise concerns that are as different from each other as homeless shelters and country clubs. On an instinctual level, the need for Jewish unity reflexively leads us to solve communal problems with acceptance and openness, while the concern for Jewish continuity instinctively leads us to emphasize standards and strengthen the core. (Of course I am well aware that openness and warmth help with outreach efforts to the unaffiliated; but fundamentally, continuity requires standards, and standards are inherently exclusionary.)

Conflict between the interests of Jewish continuity and Jewish unity arise over issues like intermarriage. On the one hand, Jewish unity demands that we treat all Jews like a member of the family. We would then want to reach out to any intermarried Jews, and make them feel welcome in Jewish institutions. At the same time, indiscriminate acceptance of interfaith families threatens Jewish continuity, because our communal embrace can be mistook for an acceptance, even an endorsement, of intermarriage as legitimate Jewish practice. Unity asks us to open our institutions, and even leadership roles, to intermarrieds; continuity demands we support the Jewish family and roundly condemn intermarriage.

This conflict shouldn’t be underestimated. Many of the debates in Jewish life, from what should be a day school’s acceptance policies to what sort of cultural and educational programs should be funded by our Federations, relate to the tension between unity and continuity.

The continuity vs. unity dilemma effects me, (an Orthodox Rabbi involved in the broader community), profoundly. I have a deep love for both Klal Yisrael, the Jewish people, and Torat Yisrael, the Jewish tradition. So what is the proper way for an Orthodox Rabbi to relate to a pluralistic, heterodox Jewish world? The unity vs. continuity dilemma is part of my daily life.

In actuality, the unity vs. continuity dilemma is an old one, and is actually enshrined in the Jewish calendar. Hanukkah is a holiday of Jewish continuity, celebrating the survival of the Jewish tradition in an era of assimilation. The Maccabees, the heroes of Hanukkah, ignore concerns about Jewish unity when they battle the Hellenistic Jews who supported the Seleucids. On the other hand, Purim is a holiday about Jewish unity. All Jews, without exception, are included in Haman’s decree of annihilation, and the heroine is a woman who uses her secular Persian name and marries a non-Jewish king. (Indeed, the Talmud records an opinion that Esther ate pork, the ultimate symbol of diminished Jewish identity). Unlike Hanukkah, Purim is a narrative about Jewish unity where all Jews work together, with a marginal Jew leading the way. Paradoxically, despite the enormous divergence in narrative, we celebrate both Hanukkah and Purim.

There is no simple formula for integrating continuity and unity. The easiest solution would be to pick one, either unity or continuity, and ignore the other. Indeed, some Jewish groups choose to do just that. However, those of us who remain absolutely committed to both Jewish continuity and Jewish unity are choosing a much more difficult course. We will be confronted by dilemmas, and at times be insecure in our decisions. Yet we can take heart in the fact that for generations Jews have celebrated both unity and continuity, and found the courage and ingenuity to preserve both.

Getting Back on Your Feet, Without a Leg to Stand On

Determination is inspirational, but true optimism is holy.

An example of both is Thomas Garber, who tells his own story in Newsweek:

I felt fine until I got home around 10:30, when my back began to ache. Neither a hot shower nor pain reliever brought any relief. By 11:15 the pain was so bad that my wife called 911. When the ambulance arrived, I stood up and walked over to the gurney. I have not been able to stand or walk since.

Five weeks later I returned to my home as a 48-year-old paraplegic.

Garber considered giving up. But with determination, he learns how to do everything again, including:

… You first learn how to sit up without passing out or falling over, because your center of gravity is so high and your blood pressure is so low (without any muscles contracting below the level of injury, there is nothing to pump the blood back to the heart). You discover how to use the restroom in ways that you never thought possible. You learn how to shave, shower, dress, and transfer to a wheelchair. You learn that negotiating curbs, sidewalks, and ramps is best in a wheelie position. You learn to drive a car using hand controls and spinner knobs, and bristle at the countless numbers of able-bodied individuals who insist on using handicapped parking spaces….

Garber’s story inspired me, and frankly, I can’t ever get enough of inspirational stories. Determination, courage and inner strength are qualities we all need to overcome obstacles. Life is tough, and the road to happiness requires true inner strength.

But what touches me the most about Garber’s story is his authentic optimism. Instead of cursing his shortcomings, Garber finds hope in appreciating what he has:

You remember the things you used to do and wonder if you'll ever be able to do them again. And just about the time that you're ready to give up, you look around and consider the needs of others who are even less fortunate. And you think to yourself, "You know, it could be worse."

I have learned that every day is a blessing, and an opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others.

Optimism is not founded on denial. It is not founded on naivete. It is rather founded on simple appreciation, the ability to be grateful for everything one has. True optimism is the ability to count one’s blessings.

And counting one’s blessings is of course a religious responsibility. The Talmud (Berachot 60b) reminds us how every moment we have to appreciate even the smallest aspects of our daily routine. The Talmud tells us how we are obliged to make a series of blessings in the morning, thanking God for all we are endowed with:

When he hears the cock crowing he should say: 'Blessed is He who has given to the cock understanding to distinguish between day and night'.

When he opens his eyes he should say: 'Blessed is He who opens the eyes of the blind'.

When he stretches himself and sits up he should say: 'Blessed is He who looseneth the bound'.

When he dresses he should say: 'Blessed is He who clothes the naked'.

When he draws himself up he should say: 'Blessed is He who raises the bowed'.

When he steps on to the ground he should say: 'Blessed is He who spread the earth on the waters'.

When he commences to walk he should say: Blessed is He who makes firm the steps of man'.

When he ties his shoes he should say: 'Blessed is He who has supplied all my wants'.

When he fastens his girdle, he should say: 'Blessed is He who girds Israel with might'.

When he spreads a kerchief over his head he should say: 'Blessed is He who crowns Israel with glory'.

But it’s not always easy to count one’s blessings. It is a battle to keep up an optimistic face, when all of a sudden, your list of blessings is a lot shorter. Under such circumstances, optimism is an act of faith, the ability to find the good in God’s creation.

Or, as someone once explained to Garber:

“Sorrow looks behind. Worry looks around. Faith looks up."

Don’t Sell People Short

You can encapsulate Judaism’s teachings on disabilities into one simple commandment:

Don’t sell people short.

This idea is expressed most directly in the first chapter of the Bible, which declares:

“And God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him”. (Gen. 1:2)

The Bible doesn’t hold back when describing humanity; it says that every person is a reflection of God. Like God, we are all endowed with creativity and spirituality. It is therefore our religious responsibility to appreciate the infinite in every human being, no matter what their physical limitations may be.

It is our religious responsibility not to sell people short.

It is easy to sell people short. The dangerous phrase “quality of life” is now misused to rationalize pulling the plug on the elderly and infirm, because their care has become too complicated. Even worse, the idea that one must have a certain “quality of life” has led to the romanticization of suicide, seducing people with serious illnesses to give up hope and “die with dignity”.

We repeat the mantra of ‘quality of life’ until we are confronted with evidence of the infinite soul that lurks behind physical limitations. The recently released movie “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly”, tells the true story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, a French journalist. Bauby is afflicted with Locked-In Syndrome, a condition that leaves him totally immobilized, with only the slightest control over his left eyelid. Yet even in this condition, he writes a powerful and inspirational book, by blinking his eye to an assistant. (It took an average of 2 minutes to blink each word).

While Bauby’s story is exceptional, it teaches a universal lesson: life is sacred. It is easy to consider Bauby, a young man who suddenly finds himself completely paralyzed, a pitiful being who is better off dead. Yet Bauby’s memoir reminds us of the infinite value of life, and that a being created in the image of God should never be underestimated.

For too long, we have sold people with disabilities short. Generations of people with disabilities were marginalized and ignored. For hundreds of years, the deaf were assumed to be ineducable, until Charles-Michel de l'Épée systematized sign language and opened a school for the deaf in 1755. His innovation allowed the deaf to receive proper educations, to succeed and excel. Similar innovations such as braille, prosthetics and special education strategies have transformed lives, and allowed people to more fully express their image of God.

I am extremely hurt when religious communities fail the disabled. Schools and institutions, more interested in avoiding inconvenience than in embracing challenges, give the disabled the run around. I understand why parents and advocates feel so let down when this happens; it’s forbidden for us to sell people short.

Yet at the same time, I can see inspiration everywhere. I am inspired by the parents and teachers who devote their lives to helping disabled children reach their potential. With patience, effort and creativity, they refuse to sell people short. Their efforts truly embrace the imperative of respecting everyone as beings created in the image of God.

I am even more inspired by the disabled themselves. They have to keep trying, in the face of profound challenges. They have to deal with prejudice and discrimination. But even more significantly, the spirit they bring to the world inspires us to remember the soul we all have inside. Love is the language of the soul. No matter what a person’s disabilities may be, their image of God shines through every time they give us a caring glance, a simple hug or a beaming smile.

And it’s in those moments we remember how important it is to appreciate every human being, and to never, ever sell people short.

(The previous article is set to appear in Exceptional Family, a magazine for parents of exceptional children, which is edited by a member of our synagogue, Aviva Engel.)

Hedgehogs, Heroism, and Foxes

Are you a hedgehog, or are you a fox?

The philosopher Isaiah Berlin divides thinkers into two categories: hedgehogs and foxes. A hedgehog only knows one dramatic way of engaging its enemies: rolling into a ball and pointing its barbs outwards. Similarly, “hedgehog” thinkers have one central idea or vision, around which all of their thought is structured. “Fox” thinkers, on the other hand, employ multiple approaches in a less than unified fashion. (Which resembles the fox, who employs a variety of strategies to hunt his prey.) This is an excellent metaphor for world of ideas; there are thinkers with one big idea, and big thinkers with lots of small ideas.

I’d like to extend this metaphor to the world of action as well.

There are hedgehog accomplishments, and fox accomplishments. In the Bible, many of the figures are hedgehogs. People such as Abraham and Moses transform world history through their remarkable faith and leadership. History books focus primarily on the activities of “hedgehogs”, including state builders like George Washington and David Ben Gurion.

However, most of us won’t be hedgehogs. For the rest of us, there is still the possibility of heroism, albeit, of a different sort: the heroism of “foxes”.

A fox doesn’t desire glory and grandeur. Indeed, he is content to know he doesn’t have to transform history by himself. Rabbi Tarphon’s statement in Pirkei Avot, that “It is not incumbent upon you to finish the task”, is the fox’s creed. The fox, aware of his limitations, humbly accepts that he cannot solve the world’s problems single-handedly.

At the same time, the “fox” has much to do. Rabbi Tarphon also reminds us that “but neither are you free to absolve yourself from the task”. The fox is not a quitter; he simply manages his expectations. In fact, because the fox does not desire an immediate triumph, he does not despair in the face of overwhelming odds. Instead of grand gestures, the fox slowly works at changing the world, one good deed at a time.

Indeed, the Torah is made for the heroism of foxes. With a scheme of 613 duties, the Torah is telling us that foxes make a difference. One small act of goodness may seem insignificant; however, an army of foxes, doing hundreds of small mitzvot, can perform the truly heroic.

All of us have been transformed by the deeds of foxes. I can recall how my seventh grade teacher complimented me on a good question; this gave me the confidence to pursue new intellectual vistas. Or how I enjoyed my grandfather’s jovial nature, and how he taught me to always interact with others in a cheerful manner. Usually, it is the foxes, the people who do little things like cook us chicken soup or teach us Talmud, that transform our lives.

Foxes can’t change the world overnight. But they don’t quit either. By changing one life at a time, foxes also accomplish the truly heroic, without fanfare and grandeur.

That's why I'm proud to be a fox.