The Sound of the shofar

Recently, I came across a teaching by the Sefat Emet, explaining what the shofar means, and why we sound it on Rosh Hashana. I've been using this teaching a lot this year, and wanted to share it here. Here's a quick version I used when I was asked to give an opening d'var torah on a Rabbinic conference call last week:

We are here to learn about data from recent studies on the American Jewish community, and what those data can teach us. But, as we listen to the breakdown and analysis of numbers, I think it's important that we also remember the larger gestalt. The numbers are important—terribly important, because they tell us a lot about our community. But, we have to remember that they aren't our community.

The Sefat Emet, like so many of our sages, teaches that, in our world, God is differentiated. God exists, from our point of view, in discrete, knowable ways. What we see, what we encounter, isn't God, in God's true form, but rather a mediated, attenuated version of God. But, not on Rosh Hashanah. What's so special about Rosh Hashanah is that, on Rosh Hashanah, God begins to enter our world anew. And, when that happens, it's pure. For a moment, we have the chance to encounter God on God's own terms.

That's why, he teaches, we sound the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. The shofar is undifferentiated sound. And so, it's a kind of a pure, perfect prayer. Speech, our usual method of prayer, is sound, and thought, broken up and put into useful, but limited, boxes. It expresses an inner truth, but never perfectly. The shofar is a prayer, before were able to put it into words. And so, when we hear it, we're hopefully drawn towards God, not just our own limited conception of God.

So, again, there's nothing wrong with our discrete analysis. It's the only way we can work in this world—none of us can exist on that high, theoretical plane, all of the time. But, we have to remember that as we work with our details, we are always aiming at something higher, and something holier.

Shana Tova.

What was Hannah really praying for?

As you may know, we have a weekly Talmud class at our synagogue (9:30 AM every Thursday! Join us!). It's a lot of fun—often confusing, usually challenging, informative and, sometimes, inspiring. Today, we came across a passage which really caught me—it's a great example of how the Talmud can subtly tell a story that makes it hit home that much harder.

Were studying Berachot, page 31b, and it’s expanding on the story of Hannah. If you don’t know the story (from the first chapter of 1 Samuel), Hannah was unable to conceive a child, and so she begged God to give her a son. But, she uses some strange phrases (or, at least, some noteworthy ones) including “zera anashim – seed/offspring of men.” It probably just meant, “male child,” but it's an unusual form. And so, the rabbis wonder what that phrase means, exactly. Several sages offer their interpretations:

Rav said: a man among men.

And Samuel said: an offspring who anoints two men as kings. And who are they? Saul and David.

And Rabbi Yochanan said: An offspring who is the equal of two men. And who are they? Moses and Aaron…

And the Rabbis say: “male offspring” means: offspring which is “absorbed,” among people.

[This next section seems to be a commentary on that last opinion]

When Rav Dimi came from Israel he explains that means: Neither tall nor short; neither thin nor stocky; neither pallid nor ruddy, neither brilliant nor foolish.

It seems like a rather random collection of interpretations, without much meaning to it. Until we realized that it was building. What did Hannah want? The first guess was that she wanted “a man among men.” A real man. The best of the best.

No, that won't be enough. She wants a man who is great enough to anoint not one, but two kings!

No, even that isn't good enough. She wants someone who is better than Moses and Aaron, put together!

And then, the pinnacle: she doesn't want any of that. She wants someone who can't even be distinguished from his peers. She wants a generic boy. Really, that's because she doesn't care about his qualities, about how he is. She just wants him.

She just wants a son.

I know some people who have struggled with infertility. The rest of us, those of us who are luckier, might dream about what our children will be like. About what great qualities they might have, and what great things they might accomplish. But, to those for whom children don't come so easily, they realize that they only want one thing: their child. What they're like, what they'll do, isn't important.

And, when the rest of us hear their prayer, we realize that they're right. Even if we didn't realize it, that's all we wanted, to.

The Temple Mount

When Israel lost Jerusalem in '48, we lost access to our holiest sites. From then until '67, we weren't allowed to go to the Western Wall, we weren't allowed onto the Temple Mount. Jews were banned from our most ancient, holiest site.

When Israel recaptured the Old City in '67, it guaranteed access to religious sites for all. It left the Temple Mount under the administrative control of the Arab Community--a shockingly bold, fair concession, especially considering the complete ban on Jews which had just ended. When tensions rose, along with sporadic violence in (I think) the 90's, Israel banned Jews from ascending the Temple Mount, so that the Muslim community could continue to use the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque in peace. It sent police and army troops to protect those Muslims who were going up to the mount, and even built a covered walkway for their protection.

Remember that history. Because, last week, The Times of Israel reported:

Jerusalem is a Muslim and Christian city, and there will be neither peace nor security until the Israeli occupation, settlements, and settlers leave the city, Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas said on Tuesday.

He also claimed that:

“[Israel's] ultimate goal is to rob Muslims and Christians of their holy shrines, destroy the Al Aqsa mosque and build the alleged Jewish temple.”

"Alleged Jewish Temple."It seems to me that only one side is trying to rob the other of their religious sites.

Please remember that Abbas is generally considered, and is nearly always referred to in the US Press as "a moderate." This is what passes for moderation.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.

Choirs

I'm listening to our choir rehearse for the High Holy Days, and I've been struck by something. Choral music is not a style with which I resonate easily. I don't really have a reason for this--it's impressive, for sure. Quite beautiful. And, our choir, which is all volunteer and of mixed training, is really pretty darn good. But, ultimately, taste is what it is - and this type of music just isn't one which speaks too strongly to me.

But, theologically, it does.

So much of my theology is based around the Oneness of it all: the parts (us) coming together to form a transcendent One (God). And, it seems to me, that no form of music captures that better than choral music (I'd give it a tie with Classical/Symphonic). People subsume their own voices, and their egos, in the name of a sound greater than any one voice. Their goal (outside of the occasional solo) is to not stand out, but to blend.

Strange that most post-modern, non-dualists like myself don't find greater spirituality in this kind of music. They're doing with their voices what I'm trying to do with my soul.

Maybe it's time to listen a little more closely.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Theology and Morality

A few months ago, I came across an article about a speech which Mitt Romney gave at Liberty University. Although it was about his campaign, in large part the article wasn't about politics. It was about the intersection of theology and morality. It makes some good points.

The author, Rabbi Meir Soloveichik argues that discussions of theology tend to divide us:

During the heady days of Vatican II, Jews of less traditional denominations were eager to engage in dialogue about theological doctrines with the church, optimistic that new religious commonalities could be discovered. Rabbi [Joseph] Soloveitchik, in contrast, discouraged such engagement. Matters of theology, he stressed, “are personal and bespeak an intimate relationship which must not be debated with others whose relationship with God has been molded by different historical events and in different terms.” Working to find substantive common ground on these theological matters, he argued, is ultimately unproductive because Jews and Christians “will employ different categories and move within incommensurate frames of reference and evaluation.”

I don't agree with the conclusion - that we should avoid talking theology with those from different theological traditions. But, the underlying point is a good one, and an important one. When we talk theology, we're often talking about very different things. Even when we think we're talking the same language, we aren't. For instance, as a Jewish non-dualist, I can tell you that the statement "I believe in God" means something radically different from when, say, an Evangelical would say it. I know that the words "believe" and "God" are used entirely, fundamentally differently. I'm pretty sure that, as a non-dualist, I don't even really mean the same thing by "I." Seriously.

I think that, if we're all aware of how differently we believe and, maybe more relevantly, how differently we talk about belief, then we can still talk. And, we can learn from each other. But, there will be limits to how well we can understand each other. No matter how many times I hear the phrase "my life in Christ" used and explained, I'm never going to understand it, because I don't believe it, and I don't experience it. Trying to explain it to me is like trying to explain to someone who is totally color-blind what color looks like. Our language is always just an echo of our experience; without that experience, the language is lacking.

But, Soloveichick argues (as does Soloveitchick), there is a way in which people can meaningfully engage, even if they have radically different theologies.:

Even as he discouraged public dialogue on doctrinal matters, Joseph Soloveitchik stressed that when Jews and Christians “move from the private world of faith to the public world of humanitarian and cultural endeavors, communication among the various faith communities is desirable and even essential.” ... He then added that in engaging these matters, people of different faiths can discover a profound commonality:

I once heard Dennis Prager say that Jewish and Christians have very different theology and philosophy, but very similar values. I think that's the same idea here. Our conception of God may be very different, but the basic moral impulse is the same.

It has to be said - there's an important, huge caveat to this. Of course there are differences in morality. How to treat LGBT people is an obvious division. How to apply these moral impulses in the political world is another. But, as important as those are, there are probably more areas in which we do agree than in which we don't. And, the underlying, fundamental impulse - to help those who are in need - is shared. And, even when we don't agree, we're still using mostly the same terms, and the categories. We're playing the same game, even if we're playing it a bit differently.

Just one additional thought from me on this. A lot of philosophers (Kant and the Rambam, just to name two) have taught that there is an overlap, maybe even 100% of one, between that which is universal and that which is true. In other words, that which is ultimately true must be true for everyone. I haven't studied or thought about that enough to say if I think that's true, but it's at least awfully close, I'd wager.

So, if theology is not universal, but morality is, then what does that say about their truth? I certainly believe my theology, and to be frank, I believe it more than yours. But, that's the point. If, as Larry Kushner taught us, there are always at least as many theologies in the room as there are people, then that should make us awfully cautious about believing that any of them, our own especially, are true.

But, helping those in need? That seems to be a truth greater than the rest. Sometimes it feels like the only truth about which we can really be sure. And, the only truth which we really need.

Ramah and Inclusion

An important postscript.

Recently, I Facebooked and blogged about an incident at Camp Ramah in Canada, which had gotten a lot of attention through Social Media. After a somewhat officious response (which I can't find), Rabbi Michael Cohen, the National Director of Ramah, has come out with a much fuller, more heartfelt response.

Although they are still unable to respond to the specifics of this case*, he offers a much fuller explanation of Ramah's commitment to inclusion. And, very importantly, he speaks about the need to avoid rushes to judgment, especially when they are based on 1-sided reports.

* the reality of all such institutions is that privacy laws, and Jewish law, prevent them from doing so. We usually can't talk other perspectives, nuances or valid defenses, because they're rely on those specifics. That often makes our instituions looks bad, like we're being purposefully obtuse, which is often unfair. Another important point to remember whenever we read about a grievance against an institution!

I tried, in my own responses, to be as balanced and non-histrionic as possible. But, I know that I wasn't perfect, and many others certainly rushed in to draw lines between the "good guys" and the "bad guys." We all should remember, as Rabbi Cohen reminds us, that we are commanded to judge others with the benefit of the doubt.

The reality is that, in most of our lives, there are few true villains. Thank God, most people are trying to do the right thing. If we'd remember that, I think that our discussions, to say nothing of our interactions, would be far, far better. And, dare I said, holier.

A Thought about Teshuvah

Yesterday, I shared on Facebook another Rabbi's blog post which had started to go somewhat viral. Basically, his son is a blind camper at Camp Ramah in Canada, and the family was told that the boy would not be allowed to stay for 2nd session - it was too hard for the camp to accomodate him.

Many people posted about it, clearly upset that Ramah would do such a thing. The injunction to "not put a stumbling block before the blind" is usually taken metaphorically - it means that we should't make it hard for people to do what they need to do, especially in pursuit of their Judaism. But, its applicability here was unavoidably, and painfully, ironic. In this case, the boy was truly blind, even if the stumbling block was still metaphorical.

Today, Rabbi Krishef followed up with a resolution of sorts. The director of the camp has (apparently with complete and deep sincerity) understood that he made a mistake, and has apologized, as well as tried to make things right. A sincere yasher koach (job well done) to him, and to the camp, especially all of those who rallied around this camper.

But, this whole episode got me thinking about a couple of things. First of all, the tricky nature of judgment. From the little bit I've read, it still seems like the camp made a terrible, hurtful decision. But, after I read the initial post, had my initial reaction, and then shared it on Facebook, something interesting happened - I was reminded that the new director, who was clearly "the villian" in all of this, was a friend of mine. I knew him when I was working at Holy Blossom in Toronto, and I considered him a friend. We were never that close, but I liked him very, very much. More to the point, I knew him to be a real mensch. He's kind, thoughtful, and committed to Jewish values. 

I'm not saying that what he did was right. I'm saying that, when you know the person involved in something like this, it adds nuance. It's harder to think of this as simply right and wrong, good and evil. Ron (the director) surely did the wrong thing. But, he's still a very, very good man. He must have believed that he was doing the right thing, and he was, and still is, trying to do what's best for everyone. The fact that he got it wrong doesn't change that. Again - not apologizing for him. Just trying to find some gray.

The other thought I've had is about the limits of teshuvah (repentance). Solomon, the camper in question, is still leaving camp, even though he's been invited and urged to stay. The entire episode has apparently been too much for him, and he's just not comfortable there. At least, not this summer.

There are some acts which simply can't be undone. At least, not completely. No matter how deeply we may regret what we've done, and how profoundly we may have changed our outlook, sometimes the genie just can't be put back in the bottle. The bell can't be unrung. Restitution can be made. Forgiveness can be granted. But, our actions leave a trace, and sometimes a scar. 

Good people do bad things, and we make mistakes. And, fair or not, we live with those mistakes, and those deeds, for our entire lives. It's an Awesome thought, in the true sense of that word.

I wish this family, whom I don't know, and this director, whom I do, nothing but peace and hapiness for the rest of the summer, and far beyond. May we be careful in everything that we do. And may our own mistakes be a spur to not only make us better, but also more forgiving of others who have missed the mark.

Shabbat Shalom.