Posts from Israel

 Below are my Facebook posts from Israel, in chronological order.

No. 1: Jerusalem

I am in quarantine, but I don't care. Every visitor to Israel has to isolate until they receive the results of their serological test. Hopefully, the results come soon.

But I really don't care either way. I look out my window, and in the distance I can see this scene. And as I look at it, I think about how many people in previous generations dreamed of just catching a glimpse of this view, just for a few seconds. People like Alana Zouda Yitzhak, who arrived from Ethiopia in 1991 as part of Operation Solomon. And his first night in Jerusalem, a reporter asked him for his reaction. He said the following:

“We can’t go downstairs, because we won’t find the room again,” he admitted with a grin. “But I don’t care what I will do here. I can say that I arrived here, and every hour I say, blessed be the name of God.”

I cannot agree more. Looking out my window I say, blessed be the name of God.

724You, Michele Bismuth, Marla Goodwin Zipper and 721 others

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No. 2: Ashkelon

Ashkelon bore the brunt of last week's attacks. This city of 60,000 was barraged with over 1,000 rockets last week, and has been under attack for years. The trauma affects everyone; even a door slamming can cause people to jump. Gitty, the wife of a Chabad Shaliach, told how children cannot look at balloons, which for them, is associated with incendiary devices from Gaza. Then we visited the home of Sigal Arielli, which received a direct hit. She was luckily in her mamad - in home shelter, which saved her life.

But despite the challenges, the human spirit can - and does - overcome. Gitty told me how her husband took an ice cream truck and gave out ice cream, so now they can find joy as they emerge from their shelters. Sigal spoke about the enormous support she has received from friends around the world; and the front of her house is now decorated with Israeli flags, a way of saying that she will rebuild, and so will all of Israel. #UJANewYork

115You, Lisa Schwartz-Steinmetz, Marla Goodwin Zipper and 112 others

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• Jennifer Wise Miller

  Am Yisrael Chai!

  

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No. 3: Lod

Our visit to Lod was the most difficult of our trip. We visited the area of the riots. We spoke to Jews and Arabs about the personal tragedy of the violence, and the damage done to the social fabric of the entire city.

The apartment pictured was burned, and nearly entirely destroyed - yet the family made it clear immediately that they would come back and rebuild. And on the wall hangs the one item that was not destroyed - a metal cutout decoration, with a prayer that says: "may joy, health, prosperity, blessing, and peace dwell in this house." Even after disaster, there are prayers and there is hope. And as our group leaves, we add our own prayers for this beloved country, which is rebuilding. May it be filled with joy, blessing, and peace as well. #ujanewyork

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No. 4: Returning Home

I'm home, but miss Israel already. What I will remember most about this trip is the value of solidarity. Here we were, a diverse group of 25 rabbis, who picked up at a moment's notice and flew off to Israel to be there for our Israeli brothers and sisters. At every stop we got the same response: "Thank you for coming". We found it hard to believe that people who were on the front lines of these attacks were grateful to a couple of American rabbis for visiting; but they were. It is sometimes overwhelming to struggle alone, and to suffer in isolation; just knowing someone else cares makes all of the difference. That is why we visited, and that is why our visit made a difference. And this is an obligation that all of us share, as part of the Jewish family: We must be there for each other. Even small gestures, like a visit to Israel or an Israel advocacy email make a big impact. We need to let our Israeli family know that even though we are thousands of miles away, no distance is too far for the human heart. #ujanewyork

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It Starts With the Truth

Many American Jews are now hiding their identity in public. Even in New York City, observant Jews are removing their kippah on subways and in the street. A spate of antisemitic attacks in the last two weeks have shaken the community; and all of these attacks are associated anti-Israel protestors. The connection between anti-Zionism and antisemitism could not be clearer; when people say they hate Israel, they hate Jews as well.

There is a direct line from anti-Israel hysteria in the streets to the cacophony of celebrity condemnation on instagram. Criticizing Israel is a fashionable form of virtue signaling, and that is why comedians like John Oliver have decided to jump on the anti-Israel bandwagon. They call what Israel is doing “war crimes”; and now, that slander sticks to every Jew, who are being accosted in the streets as accessories to the killings in Gaza.

The real problem behind these accusations is that they substitute catch phrases for the truth. John Oliver said there was no need for context and complexity; he knew what was right and wrong. Sadly, if he was looking for the truth, he didn’t look hard enough.

Much of the discourse assumes that somehow, Israel takes joy in civilian tragedies. But if you care about the truth, you would know Judaism's attitude towards bloodshed. It is a tradition that commands one to love the stranger, and not to rejoice when your enemy is killed. Every Israeli soldier is trained in a code of “purity of arms”, and carries a card affirming its values.

But if you care about the truth, you would know who deserves ultimate responsibility for the deaths of Gazans: Hamas.

Hamas has long waged war on its own citizens. Freedom House, an NGO which advocates for democracy and human rights, gives the Hamas government an 11 out of a possible 100 rating, or simply “not free”. Hamas regularly imprisons, tortures, and kills its political opponents. During this most recent conflict, Hamas was surprised at how much Israel knew about its internal movements, and how many of its own people were spying for Israel. And that is in large part because many Gazans are deeply disenchanted with Hamas’ despotic and violent rule. Hamas regularly uses children as human shields and hides military installations among civilians. They spend international aid on terror tunnels and rockets instead of taking care of their own population.

If you care about the truth, you would remember that in 2005 Israel disengaged from Gaza, and offered Gaza the opportunity to pursue its own destiny. But instead of building their own homeland, Hamas set out to destroy Israel. Since then, there have been six conflicts in just 16 years. And there would have been more, had Israel not thoroughly degraded Hamas's military abilities in several of the conflicts.

Simply put, if you care about the truth, you would recognize that Hamas is against human rights, against democracy, and anti-Semitic.

Disproportionality is another word thrown about by critics. But if you cared about the truth, this is what you would call "disproportionate". You might vehemently disagree with the evictions in Sheikh Jarrah. But if in response you shoot rockets at civilians, that's wildly disproportionate. Perhaps, those giving lectures and what is proportionate and what is not should talk about that first.

But what is not disproportionate is to destroy the rockets of an organization that wants to kill your children. It is not disproportionate to try to defend families who have to spend night after night in bomb shelters. It is not disproportionate to respond to an attack by destroying the enemy’s military capabilities.

By the critics' definition of disproportionate, the United States shouldn't have started a war with Japan over Pearl Harbor; they should have bombed one Japanese base. The Allies shouldn't have pursued the destruction of Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan after those enemies lost the military capability to attack. But there are times when an absolute victory is necessary to achieve security, especially against fanatical opponent that will continue to attack you at every opportunity.

Israel does everything it can to ensure civilian life. Yaakov Katz, the editor in chief of the Jerusalem Post noted last Wednesday that “the Israel Defense Forces has bombed over 1,000 targets in Gaza, many of them homes, buildings, tunnels & Hamas positions. The number of dead – which sadly includes civilians – is, according to Hamas, 227. IDF says at least 160 are terrorists. That means approx. 60 of the dead were civilians….over 1,000 bombs dropped on over 1,000 targets and 60 civilians killed. Every life should be protected, but now go tell me that the IDF is disproportionate.” Judgements about “war crimes” are being discussed without even giving the slightest thought to what has actually occurred. If we compare Israel's record to that of the United States and her allies in Afghanistan and Iraq, Israel's is as good or better. Yet none of the people worried about disproportionality have ever said a word about those wars.

Particularly disturbing is the practice of many media outlets. The reports about the war that emanate from Hamas and Israel are given equal weight; some seem to give the reports of Hamas priority. But it should be obvious that a group that is willing to murder both Israeli civilians and their own citizens for political gain would also be willing to lie to newspaper reporters.

But those who make quick judgments of right and wrong assume that the underdog is always right; John Oliver offered a variant of this thesis. More to the point, the assumption is that the Westernized country is always wrong. And it is because of these assumptions that the critics believe that Israel must always be wrong. It is a bitter irony that the state founded by a people persecuted for two millennia around the world is now the scapegoat for all the sins of colonialism.

If you care about the truth, you would abhor Hamas. If you care about the truth, you would support Israel. And if you care about Jews, you wouldn’t slander the Jewish State.

Sadly, Jews around the world now have to take cover because too many prefer virtue signaling to telling the truth.

It’s Time for the Anti-Selfie

The selfie has an elevated pedigree. For much of history, people did not have the ability to look carefully at their own image. One could see their reflections in water or on polished piece of metal or stone, but those reflections were imperfect and offered only a partial glimpse of what the person truly looked like.

The mass production of the mirror at the beginning of the fifteenth century revolutionized how people saw themselves. In “Millennium: From Religion to Revolution: How Civilization Has Changed Over a Thousand Years,” Ian Mortimer explains that the mirror played a critical role in the Renaissance and enabled people to recognize their own individuality. This new appreciation for one’s unique appearance impacted the world of art, which shifted its focus from religious scenes to portraits, often commissioned by the painting’s subject. By the mid-fifteenth century, the mirror gave rise to the self-portrait, which was adopted by distinguished artists like Albrecht Durer, Jan Van Eyck and Rembrandt. That first “selfie” was the expression of a budding appreciation for the individual. 

Jewish practice was also impacted by the mirror. The first discussions about them in the Talmud relate to crude mirrors that were also blades used to trim unwanted hair; for this reason the Talmud prohibits its use on Shabbat. In the Middle Ages, some rabbis prohibited men from using mirrors because they were too feminine, an exotic item that only women would use for grooming.

But as the mirror became commonplace, Halacha saw it as a symbol of human dignity. People would cover the mirrors in a house of mourning. This, according to Rabbi Moshe Sofer, is because the mirror contains the reflection of man’s divine image; and the Talmud says that with death, this Divine image is “overturned,” and all humans are reminded of their failures and frailty. In the mirror we can see ourselves and appreciate how we are created in the image of God; but during the week of Shiva the mourners cover up their mirrors, a way of saying that their own dignity is diminished.

Looking at one’s reflection is nothing short of intoxicating. But that can lead to a situation where  that image starts to control us. In Greek mythology, Narcissus, a beautiful but arrogant young hunter who spurns the love of others, is cursed. One day he drinks from a pool of water and immediately falls in love with his own reflection, which he tries to hug and kiss. He remains frozen until death, in pursuit of his own reflection. The legend of Narcissus is an allegory about self-love; but it’s also an allegory about the dangers of substituting an image for reality. Ovid, when narrating this story, says to Narcissus, “this that holds your eyes is nothing save the image of yourself reflected back at you.” An image isn’t reality, and when we take the ideal image too seriously, it can destroy us.

Rabbinic literature offers its own meditation on the Narcissus myth in a story told about “the Nazir from the South.” Nazirites would make a vow of holiness to not drink wine, avoid contact with dead bodies and let their hair grow out (At the end of one’s term as a Nazir, one must shave off all of their hair in the Temple). The Nazir's long hair was meant to foster a sense of independence; Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains the long hair symbolizes being insulated from society. The Nazir is meant to tune out all the noise around him and take a mirror to their own soul.

Yet even this holy ritual became more about image than substance. King David’s son Absalom is a lifelong Nazir; yet he takes pride in his long flowing hair, which becomes a symbol of his arrogance and rebellion. The institution of being a Nazirite was corrupted by those entranced with the dashing image of the outsider.

It is in this context that Talmud tells the story of the Nazir from the South, whose entire goal is to cut off his hair. The Talmud recounts:

One time, a man who was a Nazirite came from the South (who) had beautiful eyes and was good looking, and the fringes of his hair were arranged in curls. (The High Priest said) to him, “My son, what made you decide to destroy this beautiful hair of yours by becoming a Nazirite (who would have to cut off his hair at the conclusion of his vow)?” (The Nazirite) said, “I was a shepherd for my father in my city, and I went to draw water from the spring, and I looked at my reflection in the water. My evil inclination quickly overcame me…(and) I said to myself, ‘Wicked one! Why do you pride yourself in a world that is not yours? Why are you proud of a body fated to be worms and maggots? I swear... that I shall shave (my hair) for the sake of Heaven.’”

This young man offers a sharp contrast to the ordinary Nazir. For him, cutting his hair off is an act of holiness; he refuses to be intoxicated by a self-image that will destroy his soul. Unlike Narcissus, the Nazir from the South looks beyond the beautiful image in the water and remembers that life is short, there are promises to keep, and there’s more to life than having perfect hair. The Nazir from the South steadfastly refuses to fall in love with his own image.

The contemporary selfie is no artistic self-portrait, no profound exploration of self; it is usually just a form of image management. Instagram stars faithfully photoshop their photos before posting, and ordinary people go to great lengths to get the perfect shot, sometimes endangering their lives in the process. These selfies deceive others and distort the lives of their subjects. Too often, people live for their selfies, making themselves miserable in order to project an image of being absolutely happy.

It is time for the anti-selfie. As a child, I loved “The Wizard of Oz.” At the end, when Dorothy and her friends visit the great wizard, they find a grand man on a large screen who has nothing to offer. But as they discover the actual man behind the curtain, this simple man becomes a wizard, helping all of them with their problems. This is the lesson of the anti-selfie: we are best pulling back on all the layers of fake imagery to see what the person truly is; even if that looks less impressive, authenticity is far more inspiring.

Rabbi David Bashevkin has written about the importance of embracing one’s failures and notes in his biography that he “has been rejected from several prestigious fellowships and awards.” This should be the motto of the anti-selfie. Our greatest self is when we are someone who is real, warts and all. Authenticity and vulnerability, failures and struggles don’t project a perfect image, but they certainly make one into a better person. And that is the lesson of the Nazir from the South: We need to stop perfecting our image and start perfecting our souls; we need to embrace the anti-selfie.

When will God speak to me?

When will God speak to me? As a Yeshiva student in my early twenties, I was on a serious spiritual quest. I would pray intensely, and yearned to receive a response from God. I was looking for direction in making some difficult decisions, and wanted God to guide me; and I was also struggling with questions about faith, and I hoped that a divine revelation would banish my doubts.

I became interested then in the Goral HaGra, or the lottery of the Vilna Gaon, named for the 18th century Rabbi Elijah of Vilna. (It should be noted that this practice is far older than the 18th century, and quite controversial as well; Maimonides condemns this practice as a desecration of God’s name.) There are multiple versions of how to conduct this lottery, but the basic practice is to take a Tanakh and to turn pages at random in different directions seven times; then a verse is picked at random on the chosen page. That verse will offer clear guidance for what to do next.

The most famous use of the Goral HaGra occurred on December 17th, 1950. In January 1948, the Haganah had sent a group of 35 reinforcements to the kibbutzim of Gush Etzion, which were besieged by Arab forces. They were killed in an ambush, and buried in temporary graves. After the 1949 Armistice Agreements, the 35 soldiers were returned from Jordanian-controlled territory for burial in Har Herzl. However, when they were brought back, only 23 of the original graves were still properly marked; the remaining 12  were reburied in unmarked graves. The families of those 12 unidentified soldiers were extremely distressed. They turned to Rav Tzvi Pesach Frank, the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem, who referred them to Rav Aryeh Levin, the famed tzadik of Jerusalem, to ask him to use the Goral HaGra to identify the graves. Rav Levin initially said no, but after meeting the families, agreed to do so. The night of December 17th, Rabbi Levin, together with two representatives of the bereaved families, his son, and his son in law, gathered in a small Beit Midrash. They lit 12 candles, and recited Psalms. Then they began the Goral HaGra, selecting a verse in Tanakh to determine who was in each unmarked grave. And each time they did the Goral HaGra, the verse chosen contained the first name or last name of one of the unidentified soldiers. With this miraculous revelation, the graves could now be properly marked.

Sometime after I read this remarkable story, I faced a significant personal decision, and decided to try the Goral HaGra myself; and it was an abject failure. Each time, the verse seemed comically irrelevant, an absolute non sequitur. Not only did the Goral HaGra not give me guidance, it seemed to mock my very interest in it. Several times over the following months, I tried this method again, and each time, it failed. I was not going to hear the word of God by flipping the pages of a Tanakh. So where would I find my revelation?

Shavuot celebrates the moment of awe and trembling when God spoke to the Jewish people at Sinai. While prophecy has long disappeared, the quest to hear God’s word never stopped. Some sought to find revelation in the everyday. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch thought that our moral intuitions carry traces of the divine, and that, humanity and justice and all the spiritual and ethical qualities of mankind received their eternal confirmation through this Divine echo in man’s heart. Rav Chaim of Volozhin (1749-1821), was asked by another Rabbi to offer a ruling regarding an Agunah, a woman whose husband was assumed to have drowned, but there were doubts regarding the evidence. He felt compelled to find a way to release this woman from her marriage, and wrote, I have consulted with my creator, and saw it was my obligation to use all my might to find a solution for agunot; may God save me from mistakes. In his quest to help this Agunah, Rav Chaim heard God’s voice urging him to help her; he saw this moral imperative as nothing less than a divine revelation.

Everyday revelation can also be found in the ordinary and mundane, in what Rabbi Avraham Joshua Heschel calls radical amazement. It requires us to look at the world with wonder, and experience revelation in the song of a bird and the blossom of the tree. This is another form of everyday revelation; and even those who did not stand at Sinai can hear the voice of God, both in the world around us, and within our own hearts.

Perhaps the search for revelation can stop here, content with the knowledge that there is more than enough divine inspiration in the everyday. But many of us thirst for more. And sometimes, if we keep looking, we can experience the extraordinary. The Talmud refers to a divine communication called a Bat Kol. What does this term mean? The 12th century commentary Yad Ramah translates this as an echo, when one hears God’s voice indirectly. But the Bat Kol need not be an actual voice; sometimes there are coincidences that seem just a bit too remarkable to ignore, and are an extraordinary revelation. Yes, I know that mathematicians will tell you that you need to always expect the unexpected, and that life will always have random moments. But when you see the world with radical amazement, you see beyond the numbers, and recognize these coincidences as a moment when God is winking at you.

When I got older and moved past my Yeshiva student stage, I became much more of a rationalist, and I was no longer on a quest. But even rationalists can sometimes experience a coincidence that makes them pause; and so it was for me. My wife Lisa and I had struggled to have children into the third year of our marriage. One Friday night, after a long week, we chose to have dinner at home alone. During Kiddush, we heard a knock on the door. Outside was a young Chassidic man with his very pregnant wife. They had gotten stuck in traffic and had to get off the highway before Shabbat began. After finding their way to the local Reform Synagogue, they got directions to our home over a mile away. We had not been prepared for guests, but happily shared our home with our unexpected visitors. Lisa and I felt that taking in unexpected guests was our special obligation; after all, that Shabbat the Torah reading was about how Avraham and Sarah show exceptional hospitality to three strangers. It turns out that the three strangers who visit Avraham and Sarah are angels; and they are there to inform the old couple that they will finally have a child. Avraham and Sarah have a son one year later. And, as it turns out, after inviting in unexpected, pregnant guests, Lisa and I had twin boys ten months later. This young couple were not angels; but there is no doubt in our minds that they were malachim, messengers from God. We were hearing a divine echo.

When will God speak to us? First, we might want to consider how carefully we are listening, because a bit of wonder changes what one can hear.

For God’s Sake, Get Vaccinated

Should we get vaccinated for the coronavirus? Yes. Absolutely yes. Without a question: Yes. Jewish law gives the highest priority to safety and health and requires everyone to take advantage of this potentially life-saving shot. I wish that this short answer would be enough, and I could stop writing right here. 

Unfortunately, there is a great deal of vaccine hesitancy in the Orthodox community. This surfaced first in Lakewood, New Jersey, in 2008. A school was concerned that a substantial number of their students were not properly vaccinated, and received a rabbinic ruling that they could exclude students who were not vaccinated. This was then followed up with a public letter from a group of prominent rabbis and doctors urging the community to vaccinate their children. Since then, vaccine hesitation in the Orthodox community has led to several outbreaks of mumps and measles, with multiple hospitalizations and fatalities. Despite all of this, anti-vaccination views persist in parts of the Orthodox community; in May 2019, there was an anti-vaccination rally in Monsey, which was attended by hundreds of people. Today, the opponents of childhood vaccinations are now leading the campaign against the coronavirus vaccination, and they have been far more successful undermining confidence in this new vaccine.

The roots of vaccination hesitancy in the Orthodox community come from a skepticism about science in general, and medicine in particular. There is a longstanding opposition to all secular studies, including science; unfamiliarity with science ultimately leads to contempt and suspicion. But there is a second element, which is rooted in a comment to this week’s Torah reading by Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman (Ramban), a 13th century Spanish rabbi and commentator.  The Ramban writes that “When the Jewish People are in a state of spiritual perfection...they will have no need of doctors, nor will they have to follow medical procedures even as precautionary measures, `For I, God, am your healer.' ” The Ramban argues that hidden miracles are constantly possible; and if a person truly perfects themselves, they can live in a world of Divine healing, without doctors, medications and health insurance. The Ramban’s misgivings about medicine are misgivings about a natural world which is imperfect, accident prone and random; in his view, these flaws are due to our disconnection from God.

Even so, the Ramban recognizes that to rely on prayer is impractical, and at the end of his remarks counsels that one should not rely on miracles, and see a doctor when needed. (The Ramban was a doctor himself.) However, other rabbis take the Ramban’s view a step further, and say that one can refuse medical interventions and pray instead. Rav Nachman of Breslov, a 19th century Hasidic Master, writes that the only reason why a person would need to chase after medical therapies is because they lack faith, “and God forbid (that they search for therapies), but rather they should place their full trust in prayer and supplications.” The Avnei Nezer, who passed away in 1910, writes that one can refuse to consult with doctors or accept their advice because the opinions of doctors are unreliable, and one would be better off with prayer.

The roots of Orthodox anti-vaccination rhetoric begin right here, with a misplaced understanding of faith. In order to properly respond, one must first grapple with a fundamental question: Why shouldn’t we rely on prayer alone? Well, to start with, ignoring medical advice is impractical. There are religious groups, like Christian Scientists, who have relied exclusively on faith healing and refused medical attention. Sadly, Christian Science cemeteries are filled with children whose lives could have been saved with a simple prescription for penicillin. (Due to dwindling membership, the Christian Science Church reversed itself in 2010, and began to allow adherents to seek medical attention.) Any attempt by humans to live as angels will fail. For this reason, the Torah commands us to fence off roofs to prevent accidents, “so that you do not bring bloodguilt upon your house if anyone should fall from it” (Deuteronomy 22:8). This Torah passage declares: One must not ignore the realities of nature, ever. Even if our souls can soar, our bodies can’t fly.

Maimonides harshly criticizes those who think that prayer can be a substitute for medicine. He writes about those who want to heal with prayer alone that “according to their mistaken and idiotic imagining, if a hungry man assuages his hunger with bread and thus overcomes the “sickness of hunger,” shall we say of him that he has thereby forsaken his trust and belief in God?” Hunger is natural, and so is disease, and both demand a practical response. A man of God must not be a naive fool.

The simple reason to embrace modern medicine, and vaccinations in particular, is because they are effective. But I want to offer a different argument, that these vaccinations are profoundly spiritual as well. Rav Soloveitchik writes that God left creation incomplete so that humanity can fix the world, and thereby become God’s partner in creation. An incomplete world will have disease; it is our God given responsibility to cure those diseases. Medicine is holy work, an act that completes God’s creation. For this reason, Jews have always had a passion for medicine. Many medieval rabbis were also medical professionals, and they saw this as part of their religious calling. Joseph Shatzmiller in Jews, Medicine, and Medieval Society, tells of regions in Medieval Europe where less than 1 percent of the population was Jewish, yet Jews were over 50% of the doctors. There's a long Jewish history to the proud phrase “my son, the doctor,” and in part, this is because of the Jewish yearning to make the world a better place. We don't only connect to God through prayer; we can also connect to God through healing and compassion. The scientists, doctors, and nurses that cure disease are making the world a better place, and doing God’s work.

There is an old joke about a man who prays to God to save him from an incoming flood. Because of his deep faith that God alone will save him, he first ignores a canoe, then a motorboat, and finally a helicopter that offer to save him. After he drowns, the man goes up to heaven. He confronts God, and asks why God didn’t come to his rescue. God responds: “Of course I tried to save you. I sent you a canoe, a motorboat and a helicopter. You just didn’t take them.”

This past December God sent us a vaccine. I have been inspired by the pictures and videos of rabbis around the world saying prayers and blessings right before getting their shot, thanking God for goodness of their fellow man. And those prayers recognize God’s part in this man-made miracle. In the last year, an army of researchers, doctors, and nurses have worked tirelessly to vaccinate the world and save lives. They are doing God's work. So for God's sake, please get vaccinated.

Disabilities and Divine Eyeglasses

Can a disabled person be a spiritual leader? The answer might seem simple, but it’s not. The reason why it is a challenging question is because of this week's Torah reading, something I first realized when I confronted it directly.

On the weekend of Parshat Emor, in 2009, my synagogue held a unique Bar and Bat Mitzvah celebration. The celebrants were a group of 6 adults, most in their forties and fifties, who had never had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. They were residents at the Miriam Home, a Montreal institution which provides services for intellectually disabled adults. These Bnei Mitzvah had turned 12 and 13 at a time when developmentally disabled children were hidden away, and because of that, they had been excluded from a ceremony that every Jewish child takes for granted.

On Thursday morning we held a rehearsal to acclimate the participants. As the press cameras rolled, I took out the Torah, and began to call up the men to practice their aliyot. As part of the rehearsal, I read the Torah between aliyot. And then, there it was, right in front of me: the section that declares that a baal mum, a blemished Kohen (priest), cannot serve in the Temple. A Kohen who has a broken hand or broken foot, who is a hunchback or a dwarf, who is blind, lame, or has scurvy, cannot serve before God in the Temple. I was shocked. How could we read this passage on the very week we were honoring the disabled? I thought of using the time-tested Rabbinic technique of ignoring uncomfortable topics, and in my sermon, talk about something else. But the more I thought about it, the more I recognized that this coincidence was not a coincidence, and that I was being called upon to deal directly with this issue.

That Shabbat morning I offered a response, which concluded that the reason why the baal mum is disqualified from serving in the Temple is because the community would be too superficial to accept them. The real blemish of the baal mum is in the hearts of the average man, and the physical blemish on the Kohen does not diminish him at all in the eyes of God. The Torah is holding a mirror to the community and its inability to look past appearances.

I knew this was a radical approach, but that morning, it was obvious to me that it was the correct one. But this idea is controversial. Three years later, this very same issue was the topic of serious debate in Israel. Rav Benny Lau wrote an article in which he concluded that the Torah’s reason for disqualifying the baal mum is because they were once considered undesirable; however, if the attitudes of the community changed, so would the Halakhah. This article drew a sharp response from Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, who saw this argument as a deviation from standard Halakhic methodology.  Rav Lau responded, explaining that he was emphasizing that all too often, Halakhic stringency is applied to those with disabilities. In the end, both sides agreed about the importance of ethical sensitivity and respecting the integrity of the Halakhic system, and differed mostly on emphasis and nuance.

This debate was primarily about the Halakhic process, and how to apply it regarding those who are disabled. But what motivated me that Thursday morning was a different question: When a disabled person reads Parshat Emor, what is it saying to them?

The Zohar writes that the blemished Kohen is disqualified is because “holiness on high cannot dwell in a blemished place.” (The Magen Avraham explains that the Zohar’s view would bar a person with a physical blemish from serving as the chazan; however, he notes that the vast majority of Halakhic authorities disagree with the Zohar.) The Zohar’s perspective is both shocking and painful to those with disabilities. But a very different understanding of the Torah reading comes from the Rambam. In the Moreh Nevukhim (III:45), he writes:

“In order to raise the estimation of the Temple, those who ministered therein received great honour: and the priests and Levites were therefore distinguished from the rest. It was commanded that the priests should be clothed properly with beautiful and good garments, "holy garments for glory and for beauty" (Exod. xxviii. 2). A priest that had a blemish was not allowed to officiate; and not only those that had a blemish were excluded from the service, but also--according to the Talmudic interpretation of this precept--those that had an abnormal appearance; for the multitude does not estimate man by his true form but by the perfection of his bodily limbs and the beauty of his garments, and the temple was to be held in great reverence by all.”

The Rambam explains that the clothing and physical appearance of the Kohen were a question of aesthetics; they needed to dress well and look good to gain the respect of the multitude. The very use of the word “multitude” tells you everything you need to know about this passage; to the Rambam, the multitude are the uneducated masses who are unable to understand the deeper truths of the Torah. The Rambam is teaching us that a blemished Kohen is disqualified because the multitude won’t respect him. The disqualification of the blemished Kohen is a concession to the bitter reality that people judge others by their appearances.

And this reality remains true to this day. Multiple studies have shown that voters are deeply influenced by how a politician looks, so much so, it can often decide the winner. And this superficiality has gotten worse since the advent of TV. As Neil Postman notes in Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, William Howard Taft would never get elected today because of his appearance. Physical appearance plays a larger role today than it did 200 years ago.

The section on the baal mum challenges us to recognize our own spiritual blindness, and how we subconsciously diminish those with physical and intellectual disabilities. Throughout history, multiple societies have stigmatized, mistreated and even murdered the disabled. Due to social pressure, people with intellectual disabilities were often hidden away, their very existence treated as a secret. Up to just a few years ago there was little possibility for an intellectually disabled child to have a large, well attended, public Bar or Bat Mitzvah. It was considered dramatic when Vice President Hubert Humphrey spoke about his granddaughter having Down syndrome in the 1960s, and many look back at that as a turning point in changing people’s attitudes. But change has come very slowly. For too long, people simply couldn’t see the person beyond the disability.

I learned that Thursday morning how to see things differently. Human vision is clouded by the superficial and the subjective. There is a powerful verse in the Book of Samuel that says that “Man sees only with his eyes, but God sees into the heart.” Humanity’s perspective is shallow, limited by what our eyes can see. We all need a pair of Divine eyeglasses.

On that Shabbat morning in 2009, we celebrated a remarkable Bar and Bat Mitzvah. Nearly 700 people crowded into the synagogue to be a part of this event.  In front of us were six people whose hearts were full of joy and pride. We clapped each time someone was called to the Torah, said a prayer, or read a speech. Time and again, these belated Bnei Mitzvah got a standing ovation. In their restrained demeanor and gentle words we could see the long road they had taken in search of dignity, and all the struggles they had faced. And most of all, their faces radiated love; you could immediately sense the connection between the participants and everyone in the room. Everyone in the synagogue cried, smiled, and then cried and smiled again. It was a transcendent moment.

One of the participants turned to me and said: “Thank you for making my dream come true.” But it was not only her dream; it was everyone’s dream. That morning, an entire synagogue was able to see past superficial disabilities and appreciate the gifts of love, friendship, and community. And for a few short moments, we were all wearing Divine eyeglasses.

This week, when I read the Parsha, I will put on my Divine eyeglasses. I will see everyone around me differently, and give them the love and respect they truly deserve.