Abraham the Zionist

Israel has become a taboo topic in some synagogues. Before Rosh Hashanah, Daniel Gordis wrote an article entitled “If I Had a Sermon,” about the struggles many rabbis had including Israel in their High Holiday sermons:   If you were a rabbi of a congregation in the US, you’d be stressing now. Because there is a ton to do, and because if your sermons are not written, you know that you need to get cracking..…To add to the complexity, you’d have, among other decisions to make, a difficult decision about Israel. Should I speak about Israel? Can it be done without creating divisiveness? Many rabbis think not. In fact, Israel’s a topic that many rabbis say they avoid speaking about from the pulpit.   Rabbis are afraid to talk about Israel from the pulpit! While this is not true of Orthodox congregations like my own, it is a worrying trend for anyone who cares about the American Jewish community.   Gordis outlines a model sermon, one which he argues would allow a rabbi to talk about Israel without triggering an angry debate. Love is complicated, he explains; and loving a country is no less so. One can love, and love passionately, something of which they are critical. Israel does not have to be perfect to be beloved; profound disagreements with her political leadership don’t have to occasion a total divorce. The Bible simultaneously honors and criticizes its own heroes. We should be willing to do the same with Israel.   This is an important lesson; it is impossible to see clearly if one paints reality in stark black and white polarities. If all of our Israel education is mythical, young Jews will be unprepared for the messy, complex reality that the modern State of Israel is; learning that Israel is flawed will provoke a crisis of faith. At the same time, detractors often mistake the forest for the trees, fixated on endless, bitter criticisms that lack objectivity. How is it that the same young American Jews who attend rallies against Israel have next to nothing to say about the conduct of the American military in Afghanistan? The self-righteous sloganeering surrounding Israel is often the product of oedipal obsessions.   An endemic lack of nuance certainly leads to angry debates; but that isn't the primary reason why Israel is such a contentious issue for American Jews. Instead, we have missed a major change in our community.   Today's arguments over Israel begin with commitments held and withheld. American Jews, specifically young Jews, are substantially less attached to Israel than their elders. The 2020 Pew Research Center survey of Jewish identity in the United States found that... among Jews ages 50 and older, … just 10% say that caring about Israel is not important to them. By contrast, among Jewish adults under 30, …one-quarter (27%) say it’s not important to what being Jewish means to them. This is where Jewish criticism of Israel begins; people who don’t care about Israel will be far more likely to criticize her. This change in attitude is part of a larger apathy. For example, the survey found that “Three-in-ten Jewish adults under the age of 30 (31%) say it would be “not at all” important for their future grandchildren to be Jewish, which is significantly higher than the share who say this in any other age group.” The drop in young Jews’ identification with Israel goes hand in hand with a decline in commitment to Judaism in general. At the same time, there is another element involved in this loss of identification. A small group of younger, progressive Jews, assert that although they are Jewish, they are no longer “Zionists,” or even, are “anti-Zionists.” Some of these contemporary anti-Zionists take inspiration from anti-religious anti-Zionists of the past, such as Communists and Bundists. But others claim to make a religious case for anti-Zionism.   In the late 19th century, as Zionism was becoming a mass movement, two religious groups stood in opposition to it: Reform and Haredi Jews.   In actuality, Haredi Jews are not true anti-Zionists; they too desire a return to Zion, but want to wait for the arrival of the Messiah. They see Zionism as a lack of faith, a heretical desire to replace the Messianic redemption with a man-made enterprise. This concern was exacerbated by the fact many of the early Zionist leadership were secular, whose religious lifestyles the Haredim held in disdain.   Despite this, most Haredim today are not anti-Zionists; representatives of Agudath Israel were signatories to Israel’s Declaration of Independence. And even Haredi anti-Zionists worry about the safety of the people of Israel; only a small fringe group, the Neturei Karta, march in pro-Palestinian rallies.   For 19th century Reform Jews, Zionism was a painful challenge. Jews in Western countries were engaged in a struggle for equal rights; and they had to battle against the antisemitic canard that Jews couldn’t be trusted to be loyal citizens because they longed for a state of their own. In the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, the Reform Movement declared: “We consider ourselves no longer a nation, but a religious community, and therefore expect neither a return to Palestine… nor the restoration of any of the laws concerning the Jewish state.” Zionism was considered a betrayal of patriotism; Jews, petitioning for rights that were long denied to them, did not want to appear as anything but loyal citizens. (A few decades later the Reform movement did adopt Zionism, and some of the most influential Zionists, such Abba Hillel Silver, were Reform rabbis.)   Today’s anti-Zionists take inspiration in an ideology shaped by long forgotten challenges, and offer an alternative Judaism devoid of any national identity. But this is bound to fail; a Judaism without Zionism is impossible.   Abraham becomes a Jew and a Zionist at the same time. The first command he receives is “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you.” Abraham's religious journey begins with a pilgrimage to Israel! Israel is an ever-present theme in the text; when Abraham and Sarah abandon Israel in search of food, it is seen by some, such as the Ramban, as a “major sin.” Their entire lives focus on the dream of building a nation in the land. When Sarah dies, the Bible depicts the intense effort Abraham makes to bury her in Israel; as Ibn Ezra notes, the purchase of a burial plot for her marks the beginning of the future Jewish State.   Genesis makes it clear that Zionism is central to Abraham's new religious mission.   Generations of Jews would follow in Abraham's footsteps. Instead of hairsplitting arguments about "the spiritual essence of Judaism," they turned their hearts towards Zion. Israel was a part of their prayers, part of their Tanakh, part of their studies and stories. At the Seder, they sang l’shanah habaah b’yerushalayim”, “next year in Jerusalem," with all of their hearts.   They simply couldn't imagine a Judaism without Zionism.   Jews who knew little else still heard the call of lech lecha, and from the furthest reaches of exile would find their way home, just as Abraham and Sarah did so many generations before.   And they never let go of the dream of Israel, even in the worst of times.   Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau, in his autobiography, tells the remarkable story of how he survived the Holocaust as small child; for much of the time, his older brother Naftali Lau Lavie heroically protected him. Rabbi Lau relates an episode that occurred at the end of the war in Buchenwald. Naftali was being taken away from Buchenwald, and he didn’t expect to survive. He ran over to his younger brother Yisrael Meir, who was then just seven, and had received virtually no Jewish education because of the war. Rabbi Lau describes their conversation:   (My brother) came to me and said, 'They're taking me away. I see no way out of this Gehinnom (hell). This is the end of the world.' …'You're going to be left alone now,' .. 'But you still have friends. Maybe a miracle will happen and you'll survive. I just wanted to tell you: There's a place called Eretz Yisrael. Repeat after me: Eretz Yisrael.'   I repeated the words, which meant nothing to me. Naftali said: 'Eretz Yisrael is the home of the Jews,' …. 'You're not going anyplace else. Only to Eretz Yisrael. We have an uncle there. Say that you're Rabbi Lau's son, and tell them to find your uncle. Goodbye (my brother). Remember: Eretz Yisrael.'   Remember Eretz Yisrael. Remember Eretz Yisrael.   For two thousand years, that is exactly what Jews did. We were determined to get back home.   Just like Abraham the Zionist.

Noah, Jonah, and Life After Catastrophe

 

The stories of Jonah and Noah are deeply intertwined. The very name “Jonah” itself suggests a link; Jonah in Hebrew is “Yonah,” or dove, which is the type of bird that Noah sent out of the ark to see whether the flood was over. Thematically, there are contrasts and parallels. Noah is commanded by God to take refuge in a boat, as protection from God’s wrath; Jonah defies God’s command by fleeing in a boat from God’s mercy. There are multiple other similarities, including how characters offer sacrifices after being saved, the counting of forty days to destruction, and how gardening takes center stage at the end of the story. It is clear that the Book of Jonah is meant to be read with the story of Noah in mind.   What is the meaning of these literary connections? At first glance, Jonah is the anti-Noah. Noah is devout, while Jonah flees God’s calling; Jonah is even willing to sacrifice his life to defy God. Noah saves a remnant of a world from destruction; and although Jonah does save Nineveh in the end, he makes it clear that he would prefer Nineveh to be destroyed. Noah saves a menagerie of living beings by bringing them on his ark, while Jonah endangers an entire boat full of sailors with his presence; the boat is only safe after Jonah is cast into the sea.   Jonah could be dismissed as a rogue prophet who has turned his back on God and man; and the Book of Jonah is merely a repetition of the story of Noah, a reminder that the way of destruction is not the way of God.   This interpretation misunderstands Jonah’s motives. Jonah is actually a prophet of justice who finds inspiration in the story of the flood, when a world of wickedness was washed away. Jonah is principled in his desire to punish the evil-doers and to segregate the righteous from the unworthy. The flood, he believes, is the best blueprint for a human future.   But Jonah is not a reactionary who conveniently forgets the end of the flood story; he knows that after the flood God promises that “never again will all life be destroyed by the waters of a flood,” and designates the rainbow as the symbol that “never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.” However, Jonah understands this divine promise as a concession to reality, a pragmatic necessity, to prevent the world from being destroyed on a regular basis. As Don Isaac Abravanel puts it, without God’s forbearance, “it would be necessary to have a flood every year, even perhaps every month,” due to humanity’s sins. God’s covenant of the rainbow does not undermine the importance of justice.   Jonah offers a clear answer to one of the most difficult questions in the Noah narrative: What was the purpose of the flood? God sent the flood because “The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time.” (Genesis 6:5) Yet, after the flood, the Torah explains that the reason why there will never be another flood is because “every inclination of the human heart is evil” (Genesis 8:24). The identical rationale is given for why God brought the flood, and why He promises never to repeat the flood! If humanity is equally evil both before and after the flood, what exactly did the flood accomplish?   Jonah would answer that the flood is a constant reminder to humanity that we are fundamentally unworthy. Even if God can’t destroy the world again, we need to recognize that this is merely a loophole, letting humanity off the hook from a punishment they actually deserve.   Similarly, the rainbow can be seen as a reminder of man’s utter inadequacy. The Talmud (Ketubot 77b) explains that there were no rainbows during the lifetimes of exceptionally righteous rabbis. Rainbows are evidence of humanity’s abiding guilt; they would disappear when the merit of a great rabbi tipped the scales in favor of humanity. In other words, we are all just a rainbow away from oblivion.   This is why Jonah finds God’s command to save Nineveh both unbelievable and unpalatable. Why save the wicked from destruction? If it weren’t for technical problems, destruction would and should be the norm. It is worth noting that Nineveh is built by Nimrod, the grandson of Ham, who is cursed and rejected by Noah; Jonah may be following in Noah’s footsteps by rejecting the wicked descendants of Ham, while at the same time, fleeing to Tarshish, the city built by the descendant of Noah’s blessed son Jephet. Jonah can very well claim that he is carrying on Noah’s legacy, cursing the wicked while blessing the good.   Despites Jonah’s own views on the subject, it is love that stands at the center of the eponymous Book of Jonah. It explains that God cares about every living being, and doesn’t want another flood. When Jonah continues to protest God’s mercy even after the people of Nineveh repent, God responds by saying: “Should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people…and also many animals?” (Jonah 4:11). It is with these words that the book ends.   Two perspectives arise regarding the flood. One is that the destruction of the world is a reminder that man is always skating on thin ice, one rainbow away from catastrophe; the flood is a symbol of human failure. The second is that the flood is a cataclysm that leaves God crying out “never again,” pained at the destruction of His beloved creatures; the aftermath of the flood is a testament to God’s love for all living beings. The Book of Jonah gives voice to both alternatives, because both have a place in the Jewish tradition. And echoes of this theological tug of war are ever present in Jewish texts, but this debate became far more significant a generation ago.   After the Holocaust, the Jewish world grappled with how to make theological sense of an overwhelming catastrophe. The Holocaust raises painful questions: How can we reconcile our belief in God with the brutal murder of even one innocent child, let alone a million and a half? How do we remain loyal to our covenant with God after such a horrible destruction? And above all, where was God?   There is much to write about this, but allow me to focus just a bit on the final question. Some see the Holocaust as very much a part of divine Providence, a catastrophe intended as a divine admonition to change course; in other words, the Holocaust was part of God's plan. Others make the argument that God was in hiding, to allow history to proceed, perhaps to allow for absolute free will. But the answer that interests me most is this: God was there with the Jews, crying alongside them.   Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczner Rebbe, lived his final years in the Warsaw Ghetto. He left behind a series of sermons that were hidden in milk bottles right before he was deported, and found in the ruins of the Ghetto after the war; they were later published under the title Aish Kodesh. In 1942, as the persecutions were becoming even more horrible, he offered several sermons on the same theme: God is crying alongside us. In February, he said this in a sermon: "Now the Jew, who is tormented by his afflictions, thinks that he alone suffers, as if all his personal afflictions and those of all Israel do not affect God above…scripture states however, that ‘in all their troubles He was troubled’ (Isaiah 63:9) … Our sacred literature tells us that when a Jew is afflicted, God, blessed be He, suffers, so to speak, much more than the person does." In another sermon from July, the Rebbe said: "How can we lift ourselves up at least a little bit in the face of the terrifying reports, both old and new, which tear us to bits and crush our hearts? With the knowledge that we are not alone in our sufferings, but that He, blessed be He, endures it with us, as the Book of Psalms states, 'I am with him in his trouble.’" The Piaseczner Rebbe looks for God in the Warsaw Ghetto, and finds Him crying with His beloved children.   This view raises more theological questions than it may answer. Does God have emotions? Is God powerless in the face of evil? Yet despite these obvious issues, the Piaseczner Rebbe’s interpretation retains an intense attractiveness, the distinctiveness of words that carry a profound truth. He is reminding us about God's call at the end of the Book of Jonah, and that out of catastrophe, there is a thin, small voice calling out, telling us that we should be looking for love, and only love.   Even before the war, this idea was a foundation of the Piaseczner Rebbe’s teachings. One of the best known stories about the Piaseczner Rebbe was told by Shlomo Carlebach. He had met a streetcleaner in Tel Aviv, who as a child, had been a student in the Rebbe’s cheder in Piaseczno. The man had lost all of his family in the Holocaust, and was a hunchback due to the beatings he had received in Aushwitz. Carlebach asked him what he remembered about the Piaseczner Rebbe. The man, after some prodding, related that the Rebbe would eat the Shabbat meals with the children, and at each meal would repeat: “Children, precious children, just remember the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor.” The man related that so many times he had given up on life, and then he would hear his teacher’s voice call out, “Remember, the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor.” And so in Auschwitz, he would do favors; in Tel Aviv, he would do favors. This teaching kept him alive.   And this is the ultimate lesson of the Book of Jonah and the story of Noah: Remember, the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor. It is this love that keeps the world going.

The Creation of Failure

 

How do we tell the story of failure? In 1923, Franz Kafka and his companion, Dora Diamant, went for a walk in Berlin. While out, they met a little girl in a park who was crying because she had lost her doll. Kafka told the girl not to worry, because the doll had actually gone away on a trip; in fact, the doll had written her a letter. When the girl asked for the letter, Kafka explained that he didn't have it with him, but that if she would return the next day, he would bring it to her. And so it began. For three weeks, Kafka would compose letters from the doll to the girl, to keep her informed about the doll’s “travels.” Dora Diamant explained that Kafka gave these letters the same attention he gave to his other literary works. But then came the question: How would Kafka end this story, and bring the letter writing to a close? Dora told the French essayist Marthe Robert that Kafka “married off” the doll: He (Kafka) searched about for a long time and finally decided to have the doll marry. He first described the young man, the engagement. . . , the preparations for the wedding, then in great detail, the newlyweds' house. Having moved away with her husband, the doll could no longer write or visit the little girl. And finally, after the letters concluded, Kafka made sure that the little girl received a present of a new doll. This fascinating story contrasts sharply with the bleak, pessimistic character of much of Kafka’s writing. But it offers a powerful example of the mindset needed to find a way forward when everything seems to have come to an end. And at some point in life, all of us are searching for our missing doll.   Mindsets stand at the center of a critical debate regarding this week’s Torah reading. The Tanakh begins with a debacle. Adam and Eve, in their first hours, violate the one and only commandment they are given, not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Bad. Because of this transgression, they are expelled from the Garden of Eden and condemned to lives filled with death, disease, and difficulty. This story of sin and expulsion appears to be an absolute tragedy. Humanity is cast out of a utopia into an unmapped reality, left only with dreams of a paradise lost. Some took up the quest to return to paradise. Brendan of Clonfert, a 6th century Irish monk, gathered 16 fellow monks on a boating expedition to search for the Garden of Eden. (They may have discovered Newfoundland instead.) Who wouldn’t want to escape this vale of tears? Others took an exceptionally pessimistic reading of this text. The Christian theologian Augustine of Hippo sees this “original sin” as something that taints all of humanity. The sin of Adam and Eve is hereditary, and every person is cursed from birth. Augustine asserts that “no one is free from sin in (God’s) sight, not even an infant whose span of earthly life is but a single day.” Since Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, human nature is so badly corrupted that every baby is a born sinner.   It is important to emphasize that Augustine sees free will itself as suspicious, something that can lead to disobedience. He writes that even before the sin, man should not have exercised his free will. Obedience to God, not autonomy, could have been Adam's true glory: "...since man has been naturally so created that it is advantageous for him to be submissive, but disastrous for him to follow his own will...” Augustine lobbied hard for his view to be adopted by the church; there is a rich history of the political intrigues he undertook to promote his view of original sin. Pelagius, a contemporary of Augustine’s who championed free will, was condemned and banished by the church; and to this day, Augustine’s view has remained dominant within most Christian denominations, and has had a profound influence on Western thought. In Jewish theology, free will is a foundation of faith; the 613 commandments are meaningless unless a person can choose whether or not to do them. And because of this, many Jewish thinkers take great exception to the idea of “original sin.” In his commentary to the Torah, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that “The dogma of original sin is a most regrettable error of an alien faith…to say that because of “original sin” sinfulness is innate in man, that man has lost the ability to be good and is now compelled to sin – these are notions against which Judaism raises its most vigorous protest.…To this day, every newborn infant emerges from God’s hand in purity, as did Adam in his time; every child comes into the world as pure as an angel, to live and become a man. This is one of the cardinal points in the Torah of Israel and in Jewish life….Man as an individual and mankind as a whole can, at any time, return to God and to Paradise on earth.” The sin and expulsion from the Garden of Eden are tragic failures, but they don’t define humanity. All of the above describes a fairly straightforward debate: Can humanity overcome this initial sin? One side maintains that the sin of eating from the Tree of Knowledge fatally corrupted humanity forever; the other says that each human being is born innocent, and has complete free will. Failure can always be overcome. But what if failure is part of the plan? There is a fascinating third view, that says the sin of the Tree of Knowledge was actually what God wanted to happen.  The Midrash Tanchuma (Vayeshev 4) says so explicitly, and reports that Adam complained to God that sin was merely a ruse to throw him out of the Garden of Eden. Eden was always a way-station, and Adam and Eve were never meant to live there. Bezalel Safran has argued persuasively that the Ramban saw the sin and expulsion from the Garden of Eden as preordained, and notes that the Ramban makes several baffling comments about this passage that can only be understood in this manner. The Ramban says Adam and Eve were created to be perfect, and had no free will; they would have done what was good automatically. This explanation is baffling for two reasons; one, it denies free will, which as already mentioned, is a fundamental belief of Judaism. Second, if Adam and Eve had no free will and could only do what was good, how did they sin by eating from the Tree of Knowledge? The only possible answer is that God programmed the initial sin of Adam and Eve, so they could acquire free will by eating from the Tree of Knowledge. The Ramban drops several other hints to this effect. One significant hint has to do with the aftermath of the sin. It says that “Adam and Eve heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden.” The Ramban quotes the Midrash, which explains that the divine presence was leaving, in response to the sin. Remarkably, the Ramban offers the opposite explanation; God was arriving to speak to Adam and Eve because of the sin! But why would two sinners be deserving of experiencing a special revelation? These unusual comments, when pieced together, offer a very different interpretation of this passage. Adam and Eve were created perfect, and could have remained so. But only imperfect people can transform and grow; only with failure could Adam and Eve actually experience life. And that is why God had to create failure. In order to enter the drama of history, with all of its imperfections, Adam and Eve would have to leave paradise. The Ramban’s view is the polar opposite of Augustine’s theory of “original sin.” Augustine sees the fall of man as final and fatal, a curse from which humanity can never recover. The Ramban says that, on the contrary, it was God who forced humanity to fail, to leave behind perfection; it was God who engineered this sin, and opened the door for free will and personal growth. Our exit from paradise, as painful as it may be, was part of God’s plan, and allows us to live an authentic life.  What I find most compelling about this debate is that it represents two fundamentally different ways of seeing the world. The mindset of Augustine’s view, which sees humanity as fundamentally broken, is so different from the Ramban, who sees this sin as the foundation of spiritual growth. Mindsets determine how we react when we are broken and imagine ourselves to be beyond repair, when paradise has suddenly disappeared. To see the world as fundamentally corrupt leads to a pessimistic mindset and a passive acceptance that little can be done. But the Ramban offers us a different mindset. Failure is woven into the very fabric of our reality; but that is very much a part of the plan. It is left to us to find a way to overcome failure. Even after the doll is gone, we must find a way to write a new story, and search for new beginnings.

Redemption In Slow Motion

 

Anatoly and Avital Scharansky, Prisoner of Zion, phoning from Air Terminal, Ben Gurion, To President Ronald Regan to express gratitude for his part in Anatoly’s release.

On July 4th, 1974, Anatoly Sharansky and Natalia Stieglitz got married in a friend’s apartment in Moscow. Both planned to move to Israel; but Stieglitz had to to leave immediately because she had an exit visa that would expire the next day. Sharansky hoped to receive a visa soon thereafter. And so Anatoly went with Natalia to the airport, where they pledged to each other: “Next year in Jerusalem."   After that, life changed dramatically for both of them. Anatoly, who was soon known by his Hebrew name Natan, was refused an exit visa and eventually arrested, spending 9 years in prison. Natalia, or Avital, led a worldwide campaign for Natan’s release. After 12 years apart, the United States secured Natan’s release in a spy exchange; and on February 11th, 1986, Natan was finally reunited with Avital. When he first saw her, Natan made reference to that promise they had made 12 years before, and said to Avital: Silchi li she'icharti k'zat, "Sorry I’m a little late." Redemption isn’t always on time. Jews prayed for “next year in Jerusalem” for 1,900 years of exile; but even when we knew it would take quite a bit longer, we sang the song anyway. Big dreams are often a little late.   At first glance, Sukkot commemorates a non-event: after the Exodus from Egypt, the Jews spent 40 years in the desert, dwelling in huts. Why is this celebrated with a holiday?   Perhaps the best way to understand Sukkot is to compare it to Pesach. The Talmud (Sukkah 27a) notices, and derives halakhic practice, from the unusual symmetry between the two holidays; both are a week long, and both begin on the 15th of the month exactly six months apart.   Thematically, there is much in common between the two holidays. On Pesach, the central ritual is the Korban Pesach, the Passover sacrifice, which symbolizes the protection God gave the Jewish homes on the night of the Exodus; the Sukkah commemorates the protection God gave the Jews while camped in tents during the years of the desert.   In both holidays, the theme of protection is combined with a memory of the difficulty and adversity. On Pesach, it is remembered through the bitter herbs, which are eaten together with the Korban Pesach; even on the very night of redemption, the years of slavery are not forgotten. On Sukkot, the tent, which symbolizes protection, is specifically built as a diraat aray, a flimsy, temporary structure; God may have protected the Jews in the desert, but they were at the same time homeless and vulnerable. Both Pesach and Sukkot connect us to the ups and downs of redemption, to moments of distress and deliverance at one time.   But the analogy between Pesach and Sukkot ends with Matzah. This quickly baked bread is all about “chipazon”, hurry, a redemption so rapid that one leaves the house in surprise, grabbing some unbaked dough on the way out the door.   Matzah offers a vision of instant redemption; doors fling open, seas split, former slaves march forward to freedom. Everything moves at lightning speed. By contrast, Sukkot is about a point in history when things more or less stood still. For forty years, day in and day out, the Jews lived in the same tents, with the same food, and the same complaints. Only at the very end, after barely crawling through the desert, do they finally arrive at the doorstep of the promised land. Sukkot commemorates a redemption that moves at a snail’s pace.   Pesach is a story made for the silver screen, with high drama and a conclusion that is miraculous. Sukkot, on the other hand, seems to be a celebration of tedium, of forty years when not much happened. And the question remains: What exactly are we celebrating on Sukkot?   Redemption is a topic fraught with preconceptions. Our default is to expect the most of redemption; it should be immediate, transformative and astonishing, a moment of clear divine intervention. If the Messiah doesn’t ride in on a white donkey, it’s not a true redemption.   When the Zionist movement arose, some Orthodox Jews adopted an anti-Zionist stance. One of the arguments they used against Zionism is that it runs counter to a passage in the Talmud (Ketubot 111a) that (according to a manuscript cited in Rashi) says that the Jews should not “push forward the redemption.” This is seen as a prohibition against the Jewish people taking redemption into their own hands, as they are obligated to wait for the Messiah.   From this perspective, any attempt to create a Jewish State before the arrival of the Messiah is a fraud and a heresy. Every redemption should be absolute. When the Messiah comes it will feel like Pesach, with a new Moshe and many miracles.   But other Rabbis had a very different perspective on Zionism. Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Kalischer, who was an early 19th century proponent of the return to Zion, pointed out that the Talmud Yerushalmi (Berakhot 1:1) states that “such is the redemption of Israel, at first it is bit by bit, and as it proceeds, it gets larger and larger.” These religious Zionists saw the hand of God in every step forward. Because of this, they could appreciate the contribution of unusual heroes; Rav Kook famously said that when the young secular Zionist pioneers played sports to strengthen their bodies, their exercise was as holy as reciting Psalms. Their newfound strength would build a new country. A slow motion redemption doesn’t follow the ordinary script, with ordinary heroes.   And this is exactly what we are celebrating on Sukkot. What the early Zionist rabbis are describing in their writings is precisely what Sukkot commemorates: a redemption that comes bit by bit, one which is halting, imperfect and and at times confusing. On Sukkot, the distance between one step and the next on the road to redemption is measured in years, not feet.   As we approach the 75-year-anniversary of the State of Israel, we can say that what we have seen is a Sukkot-type redemption. On a daily basis, Israel is imperfect and tests our patience; but when we see it in the context of the last 2,000 years of Jewish history, we recognize that it is miraculous.   Sometimes redemption arrives a bit late. Sukkot reminds us that we need to cherish every step on the road to redemption.

More Than Just a Sweet New Year

 

The Torah reading of Ki Tavo includes a lengthy passage filled with curses, the misfortunes that will visit the Jews if they abandon the covenant. This is the second time in the Torah that there is a set of curses; but this section of curses is much longer, and far gloomier, than the previous one in Parashat Bechukotai.   But the Talmud manages to strike a positive note about the curses. It tells us that Ezra, at the very beginning of the Second Temple, established that this Parsha be read before Rosh Hashanah, "that the year should end, and with it, its curses". Placing this Torah reading just prior to Rosh Hashanah expresses the hope that the difficulties of the past year be left behind as we enter a new year.   There is a Sephardic liturgical poem, achot ketanah, that is read on Rosh Hashanah; its refrain repeats the words "May the year end, and with it, its curses". In the final stanza it adds the phrase "may the new year begin and with it, its blessings". (In Hebrew, the words for “end” and “begin” are homonyms, similar sounding words that are spelled differently.) And this is now a popular phrase in Hebrew: Tichleh Shana v’Kililoteha. Tachel Shana u’Virchoteha;  "May the year end, and its curses, and the new year begin with is blessings".   The appeal of this phrase is obvious; who wouldn’t want an end to curses, and a beginning of blessings? For this reason we dip an apple in honey on Rosh Hashanah, and add a prayer for "a good and sweet year." And it is not just apples; many have the custom to dip the Shabbat challah in honey from Rosh Hashanah until Simchat Torah.   From a religious perspective, sweetness is not an obvious aspiration. Some religious traditions require unending discipline and seriousness. H.L. Mencken quipped that Puritanism is “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” To stand in awe of God is seen as a continuous experience of fear and trembling.   In the Jewish tradition, we intertwine many significant religious experiences with sweetness. There was a medieval custom, cited in the 14th century Sefer Kolbo, that when a young child is first brought to study Torah, they are offered cakes and sweets. Then the child is shown the letters of the Hebrew alphabet on a board, and taught them; afterwards, honey is placed on each letter, and the child gets to lick the honey. This ritual, which is still practiced today, is meant to convey a message to the child that the Torah is very sweet.   The Torah must be a joy. Many Jewish philosophers see creation as an act of love, a gift of joy to mankind; and that should be reflected in our religious lives. But it is unfortunate that some parents and educators instruct children with a puritanical type of Judaism, one that drains the joy out of the religious experience. All too often, children raised in that environment rebel, not wanting to take any part in a Judaism of negativity and bitterness.   Sweetness has become a part of Jewish culture as well. In 2012, the Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index found that Jews have the highest well-being of any of the American faith groups. Being happy is as Jewish as chicken soup, and joy is an important mitzvah.   But realists understand that unending sweetness is impossible. In my early years in the rabbinate, I would announce before Parashat Ki Tavo that with the reading of the Torah, we are now leaving the curses of the previous year behind. But after a few years, I realized that announcing it on a yearly basis sounded absurd; every year new curses popped up that now had to be left behind. The yearly announcement ended up emphasizing that curses are perennial, with new ones occurring every year. Sweetness doesn’t last forever.   The Midrash Tanchuma offers a very different perspective on the curses in Ki Tavo. It connects the curses with the first words of the next Parsha, “you are standing here today”. The Midrash says that the point of this juxtaposition is to express that “even after all the suffering (of the curses) occurs, you can still remain standing.” Instead of looking for hope, this Midrash focuses on the importance of resilience.   It might be sweet to get past curses; but it is more important to know how to get through curses, to remain standing when everything goes wrong. A well lived life requires courage and determination along with sweetness and satisfaction.   Sweetness is not our final goal; happiness and meaning are not one and the same. In a 2013 study, a group led by Professor Roy F. Baumeister studied both the interconnection, as well as the differences, between happy lives and meaningful lives. Often, meaningful lives were fairly happy as well, but not always. The researchers found that “happiness without meaning characterizes a relatively shallow, self-absorbed or even selfish life," while “the unhappy but meaningful life..(is)...seriously involved in difficult undertakings." Those who pursued meaningful lives, even if it limited their happiness, were true givers, people who made substantial differences in society.   At times, we are forced to choose between meaning and happiness. And in those moments, sweetness is no longer a priority. John Stuart Mill put it best when he wrote “It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied.” This echoes the Talmud, which says one should serve God without interest in a reward and do what is right simply because it is right, even if it is painful to do so. In the choice between happiness and meaning, meaning comes first; Judaism believes that it is better to be a good person than a happy person.   Nowadays, the pursuit of sweetness comes first. The American Council on Education has been surveying incoming college freshmen since 1966. In 1967, 82.9% of freshmen felt that “developing a meaningful philosophy of life” was essential; in 2015, only 46.5% felt that was an important objective. (In contrast, in 1967, 43.5% of freshmen considered it essential to be “well off financially." By 2015, that number had gone up to 81.9%).   But If only happiness is the goal, then life is diminished. As the character Estragon says in Waiting for Godot: “What do we do now, now that we are happy?”.   Jews cherish happiness; but we know that there is still more to life. In centuries of challenges and persecutions, a quick conversion could have immediately improved the quality of life for any Jew. Some did take that route; but we are here today because so many remained loyal to their roots, no matter how difficult it was. Had our ancestors decided that happiness was the ultimate goal, there would not be any Jews left today.   Professor Marc Michael Epstein tells a powerful story from his days working in the rare book department at Sotheby’s. Inevitably, elderly people would show up with older books of little value, assuming they were important antiques. One day, one such elderly man arrived, with a book of Psalms printed in 1920; it was worth pennies, if that much. Not knowing how to break the news, Epstein asked the man: “What did you pay for this?”, hoping to let him down slowly in conversation. In response to the question, the man became far more serious; Epstein describes how “the old man drew himself up to his full 5 feet, 2 inches. ‘For this, I paid seven days’ Auschwitz bread,’ he replied... It seems that the Nazis had caught him with the little Psalm book, and, as a penalty for possessing it, imprisoned him without food—only water to drink—for an entire week." Epstein was overwhelmed by the response, and turned to the elderly man: “This,” I stammered, “is too valuable for us to sell.” Some things are more valuable than money; and there is more to life than just sweetness.   As we start the new year, we come to leave the past behind, ready to celebrate a sweet future. But even at times like this we must never forget that some things are more important than happiness, and some goals are more noble than joy.

The God of the Powerless

 

Ruth swearing her allegiance to Naomi, Jan Victors, 1653, Oil on Canvas

“Loser” is a nasty epithet in a culture that honors winners. And America loves winners. General George Patton once said in a rousing speech to the troops, “Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser.” The legendary football coach Vince Lombardi epitomized this attitude when he said, “Winning is not just everything, it's the only thing.” This focus on winning is certainly an excellent motivator. As Patton put it, “Americans play to win all the time. That's why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war.” The mindset of winning is transformative. But there is a dark side to a culture that focuses on winners; it changes the way we see the losers of life, the weak and the powerless. At best, they receive pity; at worst, they are treated as unwanted, uncomfortable reminders of the possibility of failure and defeat. The Torah has a very different perspective regarding those who live on the margins of society. It commands us as follows: “You shall not pervert justice due the stranger or the orphan, nor take a widow’s garment as a pledge. But you shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt, and the Lord your God redeemed you from there; therefore, I command you to do this thing.” (Deuteronomy 24:17-18). On the surface, this is a commandment for judges, who must be sure not to mistreat the widow, stranger and orphan who appear before them. One is obligated to treat the powerless and vulnerable with equal rights. Several commentaries wonder why there is a unique commandment against perverting justice for the stranger and orphan. Isn’t any perversion of justice considered to be wrong? The commentary of Rav Yoseph Bechor Shor explains that “It was necessary to command specifically about them, because the wicked will often pervert the judgment (of the orphan and stranger).” It is easy for the unscrupulous to exploit the powerless; that is why there needs to be a specific law protecting the stranger and orphan from miscarriages of justice. But others take this prohibition a step further. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch argues that this verse goes beyond the administration of justice in courts and speaks about the judgments of the human heart. The attitude we take toward the unfortunate is a judgment as well; and it is a perversion of justice to treat them with condescension and prejudice. This command insists that we uproot the subtle discrimination the vulnerable face. Don’t subvert the social standing of the stranger, widow and orphan; welcome with open arms those who have faced failure and defeat, and integrate them into your community. What is also unclear is how the reason “you shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt” connects to treating the widow and orphan properly. Ibn Ezra, among others, says this explanation only refers to the stranger; the Egyptians exploited the Jews, who were strangers, and enslaved them. Chizkuni says that the connection relates to vulnerability. The slave, along with the stranger, orphan, and widow, are all subservient to others; and former slaves should feel a particular sense of connection to the widow and orphan as well. Both of these explanations focus on empathy; a Jew should feel a sense of compassion for the vulnerable, because we were once slaves in Egypt. But another group of commentaries, including the Ramban, Seforno, and Rav Yoseph Bechor Shor, offer a very different interpretation. They explain that the reference to slavery reminds us that God cares about slaves, and all who are weak and downtrodden. God heard the calls of the slaves in Egypt and redeemed them, because God cares for the vulnerable. It is instinctive to associate the might of God with the mighty; and that is precisely what happens in the pagan imagination. But Judaism takes the opposite route. God is not the God of the powerful; He is the God of the powerless. The Talmud (Megillah 31a) explains: “Wherever you find a reference in the Bible to the powerful might of the Holy One, Blessed be He, you also find a reference to His humility.” What is meant by ‘God’s humility’? The Talmud explains that it refers to how God cares for the orphan, the widow, and the brokenhearted. God stands in service of those who have been humbled, and cares for those who need His help the most. For this reason, the Jewish retelling of history is unique. Rabbi Jose Faur has argued that “Western historiography expresses the perspective of the persecutor…. From its early period and throughout the ages, Judaism expressed the perspective of the persecuted.…. Indeed, the history of the people of Israel begins when they were slaves under Pharoah. It continues as the history of a nation ravaged by aggressors…As it is recited in the Haggadah on the Passover night, ‘In every generation and generation they stand up against us to exterminate us, and the Almighty Lord saves us from their hands.’" Faur offers multiple citations from rabbinic literature in support of this thesis. He cites the Midrash, which explains why certain animals are Kosher, and brought as sacrifices: “The Holy One, blessed be He, said: ‘The ox is pursued by the lion, the goat is pursued by the leopard, the lamb by the wolf; do not offer unto Me from those that pursue but from those that are pursued.’” (Vayikra Rabbah 27: 6). The only animals fit for the Temple are the weak and the meek.  Similarly, Maimonides, when discussing the proper attributes of Torah scholar (Deot 5:13) says, “The rule is that he should be among the pursued and not the pursuers, among those who accept humiliation but not among those who humiliate [others].” Faur argues that these texts represent a uniquely Jewish perspective, which becomes the foundation of how Jews see history. Underlying this idea is the belief that God listens to the call of slaves, widows, and orphans, and that He is the God of the powerless. This recognition sustained the Jews in exile. Once defeated, the Jews should have assimilated, and taken on the gods of the victors. Ezekiel mentions that some Jews did advocate assimilation during the times of the Babylonian exile. And this was the logical path; like the old proverb states, “If you can’t beat them, join them.” What held the Jews back was an abiding belief that God was with them in exile. They heard God’s voice call, “I will be with him in his distress” (Psalms 91:15). A God of the powerless would stay with the Jews while they were being persecuted; and He would one day redeem them and bring them home.  The idea that God listens attentively to the widow, orphan, and stranger changes one’s perspective on history, exile, and theology. And it teaches us a lesson about prayer as well. The Talmud in Taanit (24a) tells a story of rabbinic failure. There was a drought, and in response, the great Babylonian Rabbi, Rav, decreed a fast; but rain did not come. Then, in the synagogue, “a prayer leader descended to lead the service and recited: ‘He Who makes the wind blow’, and the wind blew. He continued and said: ‘And Who makes the rain fall’, and the rain came. Rav said to the prayer leader: What are your good deeds? He said to him: I am a teacher of children, and I teach the children of the poor as to the children of the rich, and if there is anyone who cannot pay, I do not take anything from him. And I have a fishpond, and any child who neglects his studies, I bribe him with the fish and calm him, and soothe him until he is able to read.” The schoolteacher quietly cared for the humble and needy; and in doing so, he was truly doing God’s work. This merit raised his prayers on high, far above those of the great rabbi. Rav prays but fails; but then a simple schoolteacher brings about a miracle. How is that possible? Because God is the God of the powerless. And God listens to those who speak his language.

Survivor Guilt & the Atonement of the Innocent

 

My friend Johnny was lucky. He lived in a Belarussian village near the Lithuanian border, and in 1941, the day before the German invasion of the Soviet Union, Johnny was conscripted into the Red Army. Because of this, Johnny was taken east just ahead of the SS killing machine. He survived the Holocaust, but his father and siblings did not. Until the end of his life, Johnny would wake up in middle of the night, tormented by the question of why he survived to an old age, and his brothers and sister were murdered in their teens.   Survivors’ guilt is so powerful that it doesn’t weaken with the passage of time. Johnny was still grappling with the murder of his family during the Holocaust as a 95-year-old great-grandfather.   Many survivors were burdened by similar feelings. Primo Levi described survivors' guilt this way: “Are you ashamed because you are alive in place of another? And in particular, of a man more generous, more sensitive, more useful, wiser, worthier of living than you?”   Survivors’ guilt has been the subject of multiple studies. And these types of guilt feelings are not unique to Holocaust survivors; others who experience the deaths of colleagues, such as soldiers or survivors of accidents, experience similar feelings of guilt. Bereaved parents are often afflicted by guilt, wondering why they couldn’t do more for their children. Sometimes it is the innocent who call out for atonement.   Our Torah reading includes an unusual atonement ritual, the eglah arufah, which offers insights into the meaning of psychological guilt. A dead body is found, and the murder remains unsolved. The elders of the nearest city then perform a multifaceted ritual in response. First, a calf is decapitated; afterwards, the elders wash their hands and declare, “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done.” Then the Kohanim call out "Absolve, O Lord, Your people Israel whom You redeemed, and do not let guilt for the blood of the innocent remain among Your people Israel.”   This ritual of eglah arufah is extremely puzzling. Why does an unsolved murder require atonement? And why do the elders have to declare their innocence?   Some commentaries see this ritual as a publicity stunt which shapes the communal mood. The Rambam offers the fascinating view that the purpose of the eglah arufah "is evident…. As a rule, the investigation, the procession of the elders, the measuring, and the taking of the heifer, make people talk about it; and by making the event public, the murderer may be found out, and he who knows of him, or has heard of him, or has discovered him by any due, will now name the person that is the murderer." This explanation doesn’t see the eglah arufah ritual as purposeful in itself; instead, its goal is to draw attention to the unsolved murder and get people to report any leads they may have to the leaders of the community.   But other commentaries take a very different view. They see the eglah arufah as directly related to questions of innocence and responsibility; and they comment on two aspects. First, they analyze what the elders' statement “Our hands did not shed this blood” might be referring to; as Rashi puts it, “Would it enter anyone’s mind that the elders of the court are suspected of bloodshed?”   The Talmud Yerushalmi offers two opinions as to what this declaration means. One opinion is the elders are declaring that they did not let the murderer go free and fail to bring him to justice. This declaration is an acknowledgment of one type of social responsibility for the murder; the elders must promote law and order and be vigilant in locating and prosecuting criminals.   The other opinion in the Yerushalmi is that the elder’s declaration is about the victim. They are declaring that they did not overlook the victim and did not fail to offer him appropriate food and protection to embark safely on his journey. It is a communal responsibility to take care of visitors, one that can be a matter of life and death.   A fascinating view is offered by the Malbim and Rashi's commentary to the Talmud. Both see the declaration of communal responsibility as being about charity; if a community fails to feed the poor, the indigent will be driven by hunger into a life of crime. In order to obtain food, these indigent criminals will be willing to kill or be killed. The dead body is either that of the victim of a crime, or a criminal killed in self-defense; but either way, if the community had provided for the hungry to begin with, this death would never have occurred.   These are three ways that the community could possibly bear responsibility for the victim’s death. But now a far more important question needs to be asked: Is this eglah arufah meant as an indictment of the community, or its exoneration? The very ritual of the eglah arufah is self-contradictory; the elders wash their hands and proclaim innocence, while the Kohanim pray for atonement, which implies guilt.   Ibn Ezra views the eglah arufah as an indictment of the community, for two reasons. First, he says that the community “erred and did not guard the dangerous roads.” And then he adds that the shocking death indicates that God is highlighting a moral failure in the city, “because if the city had not committed a similar deed, then the murder of a person near their city would not have occurred; God’s thoughts are deep and infinitely beyond our comprehension.”   This understanding sees the eglah arufah as a response to moral failure. The community might not have committed the murder, but they are still responsible for it; they should have instituted policies that could have prevented this crime.   Others take a very different view. The medieval commentary of the Minchat Yehuda says the eglah arufah ritual expresses the community's innocence, and they are in effect declaring that “just as the calf is flawless and the ground is flawless, so too we are without flaw and innocent of this sin.” Only the murderer is guilty of this crime.   But this view is puzzling. Ultimately, the eglah arufah appears to be a sacrifice, and the Kohanim are asked to offer the community atonement. But if the community is completely innocent, why should they be required to perform a ritual of atonement?   The answer to this question brings us back to survivors' guilt. Even without guilt, one can have guilt feelings. And for this reason, there is obligation to bring an eglah arufah, because even the innocent need atonement.   The purpose of the eglah arufah is to bring meaning to those guilt feelings. By killing the calf, the community reenacts the cold-blooded murder; and the initial feelings of failure, shame and guilt are immediately reawakened. The ritual continues with the oscillating inner dialogue of guilt; even though one is innocent, and can wash their hands of this crime, they still choose to pray for atonement, to justify themselves as worthy. The eglah arufah is a reenactment of survivor guilt; and by dedicating a sacrifice to it, the eglah arufah turns these guilt feelings into something sacred and meaningful.   Eglah arufah is an atonement for the innocent, a way of recognizing that guilt feelings have profound meaning as well.   This is a very different way of seeing guilt. In general, guilt feelings have a bad name; psychologists from Freud onward have seen guilt as an unwanted neurosis to be treated and healed. A Holocaust survivor’s fixation on the fate of lost family members could easily be dismissed as unhealthy guilt feelings, the undesirable residue of years of trauma.   But this analysis overlooks spiritual insights into guilt. Martin Buber wrote an essay entitled Guilt and Guilt Feeling to respond to Freud's views on guilt. He argued that there is a second type of guilt, existential guilt, which is taking responsibility for an “injury” to the world order; in a broken world, ethical people will feel the need to justify their existence. This is exactly what the eglah arufah is all about; and this ritual is a way of incorporating “existential guilt” into our lives, making the trauma of an unexpected death into a holy sacrifice, and a way to raise our moral consciousness.   Buber's insights offer a different perspective on survivors' guilt as well. After witnessing the death of their friends and family, these survivors felt challenged to prove themselves worthy of being the lucky ones. This existential guilt led many survivors on a quest to rebuild a world that was lost. They would speak to school students about their experiences and charge them with fighting hatred and antisemitism. They sacrificed in order to rebuild the Jewish homeland in Israel; as one observer noted, survivors “bought a $500 Israel Bond every year even if they didn’t have a dime.” Or they did simple acts of kindness; Eddie, the “candy man” in my previous synagogue, decided to respond to the bitterness he had experienced by making life sweeter for the next generation.   These survivors were grappling with guilt feelings. They were seeking atonement, even though they were innocent. And their quest continues to impact our community until today.