The Miracle of Hope

[This is a version of the sermon I gave on Friday night]

Last week, Rabbi Richard Birnholz had a column in the Jewish Press. In it, he juxtaposed and compared two ancient, Jewish stories: the Chanukah story and Masada. I had never seen these two stories linked before, but doing so was interesting, and revealing. First, a quick review of the stories. We’ll start with Hanukkah, since it came first.

The full story is actually quite complicated and interesting, but here’s an incredibly simplified version that will suffice for now: our people were being oppressed by the Syrian-Greek empire. Led by King Antiochus, they were imposing a foreign form of religion on our people (which is something that we’ve never appreciated, to say the least). A rebellion started, led by Judah the Maccabee (“the Hammer”). It was, to say the least, a ridiculously audacious act. There was almost no chance of success — what hope was there for a small band of under-armed, untrained Jews against the mighty Imperial Army? But, of course, they were successful — they drove the Greeks out, reclaimed and rededicated the Temple, and established Jewish sovereignty in the land. It was, quite literally in their eyes, a miraculous victory.

Masada is a very different story. This time, it was the Roman empire which was oppressing us. Towards the end of their brutal suppression of our rebellion, a group of fanatics took over the fortress at Masada. It was a impregnable palace built years before by King Herod. Up there, well supplied, they were able to survive three years of siege by the Roman legions. But, it eventually became clear that there was no hope — they were going to fall to the Romans, soon. Death would be the best that they could hope for, probably. More likely, torture, slavery and God knows what else were in store for them. So, they made a desperate decision, and committed mass suicide, rather than be taken by the Romans.

Rabbi Birnholz compared these two stories as a way to talk about how difficult it is to know when to fight, and when not to fight. How, looking in our past, we find examples of both. It’s impossible to say that “Jews always fight back” or “Jews never fight back.” It’s more nuanced, and more complicated, than that. He was talking about it particularly vis-à-vis Israel and its current dilemmas, but it applies more widely, of course.

But, the juxtaposition got me thinking about another valuable insight from this comparison: one is a story about hope, while the other is a story about giving up hope.

Masada is, at the simplest level, the story of a people who had no more hope. I want to make it clear — I’m not judging them for this. I’m not going to stand here, 2000 years later, in the comfort of my own synagogue, and say that they didn’t the wrong thing, or the right thing. That’s a discussion for another time. What I’m saying is that, clearly, this was the act of the people who felt that there was no possibility of any kind of victory, save for this one — the victory of denying the Romans the victory that they wanted.

For many years, Masada was an important symbol in Israel — members of the Army were sworn in there, and declared “Masada shall never fall again.” That sentiment is still alive in Israel, but they’ve become more reluctant to use Masada as a symbol. Again, without judging the actions of those people, there’s been a growing discomfort with using this terrible, desperate situation as a symbol. Is this what we want to evoke and remember at some of our most powerful, sacred moments?

Compare that to the story of Chanukah. This is a story of a people who had every reason not to hope. But, in spite of that, they never lost faith, and they never stopped hoping. The war itself was an act of audacious hope. There really was no way anyone could have expected them to win. By all rights, it should have been a minor rebellion, completely unnoticed by the larger empire, and lost to history. But, it wasn’t. It was one of the most improbable victories you’ll ever read about.

Chanukah is about a lot of things — the balance between religious fundamentalism and acculturation, for example. But, at its core, Chanukah is about hope in the face of hopelessness. That might be one of the great lessons in all Judaism: the fundamental, absolute necessity for hope, no matter what. The constant, ever-present possibility of miracles, so long as we believe that they might still happen.

We’ll never know what would have happened to those poor souls on top of Masada if they had decided to surrender, or fight back. We do, however, have a pretty good idea of what would have happened if the Hasmoneans hadn’t fought back. There would have been no victory, no Temple restored. It could have been the end of the Jewish people, and even if we had survived, we certainly would not have our annual celebration of their great victory and so, tragically, there would be no excuse to eat fried latkes and doughnuts all week! The Maccabean victory relied on quite a few factors, but it began with hope. Without hope, nothing is possible.

I may have finally come to realize the true meaning of a famous rabbinic aphorism. Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlov once said, “All the world is a very narrow bridge. The main thing is not to be afraid.” There are always good and valid reasons to be afraid. To lose hope. We live in a world which, sometimes seemingly constantly, gives us ample reason to fear and doubt. We can pick up the papers and read about war, famine, looming financial crises, potential environmental catastrophes, superbugs and drug-resistant diseases, and more. We can look around our own lives and see people who have lost loved ones, lost their livelihoods, lost everything. We can look anywhere we want to and, without a bit of melodrama or paranoia, find lots of reasons to be afraid, to be absolutely, unequivocally sure, that there is no hope.

But, there’s one thing I can tell you for sure. If you let that fear overtake you, then there is no hope. You’ve already lost. The only way to live is to acknowledge the chasm — acknowledge the very real pitfalls and the dangers — and then take a step forward, anyway. We don’t pretend that the dangers aren’t there; we just choose to move ahead, in spite of them. Miraculously, we rarely fall.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the godfather of what we now call Modern Orthodox Judaism, noticed that the first born Jew, Yitzhak, was named after laughter. His parents, Abraham and Sarah, had grown so old that when God tells Sarah she’s going to have a baby, she laughs. It’s an utterly ridiculous idea, at her age (and, frankly, she’s more concerned with Abraham’s age than hers!). So, when she eventually has a baby, she names him after that laughter. That’s because, Hirsch teaches, from our first moments, our people’s history has been so ridiculous as to be laughable. Our patriarch and matriarch didn’t have a child until they had reached a ridiculous high age. The idea that we could survive 400 years of slavery and 40 years of wandering the desert, conquer a hostile land, establish a kingdom — it’s laughable. Survive 2000 years of exile and dispersion — and not just survive, but thrive? Laughable. Revive a dead language? Drain the swamps, make the desert bloom and create a modern state out of almost nothing? Survive the death camps and outlive Hitler? Become one of the great military powers of the world at the same time that those who remain outside of Israel become a thriving, vibrant people? Ridiculous, and utterly hopeless.

That’s who we are — we are the people who regularly do that which is so impossible as to be laughable. We are the people who never lose hope, no matter what.

The Maharal of Prague has a beautiful teaching about Chanukah. Why, he asks, do we talk about an eight day miracle? When the Hasmoneans entered the temple, they found enough oil for one day, but it lasted eight. We all know the story. But, that’s only a seven-day miracle — that first day wasn’t a miracle, at all. It was just lighting a light. That’s true, the Maharal says. But, before we could get to that seven-day miracle, we needed another miracle, first. You see, there was no reason to think that lighting the light was a good idea. They knew there was only enough oil for one day. Lighting the menorah and letting it go out, would have been a major religious violation. Logic would have dictated that they simply wait another week, until there was sufficient oil.

But, they were unwilling to wait. They were unwilling to delay rekindling the menorah, and their sense of holiness, for one more moment. And, despite having no reason to think that it would work out well, they trusted that it would. They acted on hope, even when the world gave them little reason for it. On days two through seven of Chanukah, we celebrate the miracle of the burning. But, on the first day, we celebrate the miracle of the lighting.

On the first day, we celebrate the miracle of hope.

Simple truths

Recently, I was forwarded an article about Dr. Martin Luther King, hatred, gun control, kindness, and so on. It was a heartfelt piece which said a lot of what I've tried to say several times recently: that hatred is a destructive force in our world. That, whatever you think about any given issue, it's rarely, if ever, helpful to talk about it with vitriol and nastiness:

"Joy comes in the morning," lets certainly hope so. We need hope right now, and not a hope which is falsely propped up by platitudes and declarations, but a hope that is anchored in the knowledge that we can't continue to operate with business as usual, we can't continue to speak hatred without impunity; can't continue to think violence will go away without us doing something about it; can't continue to wish things were different but not be willing to make the necessary changes, accept the necessary sacrifices and be willing to admit that certain things just can't be tolerated any longer. "Joy comes in the morning," but not without a night of hard work, a night of serious soul-searching, a night of tears and anguish that leads us to the realization that the joy we seek, the solace we need, the hope we crave will not be handed to us by God on a silver platter. It is up to us, with the support and love of our Creator, to help bring that joy. That is the work of being human, that is destiny of our existence, that is the challenge we all face. And now, more than ever, face it we must.

As I said in a recent post, even if you believe that there is absolutely no connection between the heated rhetoric of our society and the terrible violence in Tucson the other week, I still maintain that that rhetoric is awful for our society. Even if the killer was not the least bit influenced by what he heard in the media, do we benefit, in any way, from vilifying our opponents and, whether meant literally or not, calling for violence against them?

But, this recent article made me think about another issue which has been on my mind quite a bit. As I tried to think about what I might write in response to this article, in this blog, I was having trouble thinking of anything, mainly because it feels like I've said it all before, and it's all kind of trite anyway. I mean, how may times can one person say, “please be nice to each other”? How many different ways can I say, “violence is bad,” before I start to sound like vapid fool? But, even if it's redundant, even if it's trite, even if it's nothing more than an overused cliché, does that make it any less true?

I've recently been reading, “Everything is God” by Jay Michaelson. It's an exploration of “non-dual Judaism,” something which I expect to be writing and thinking about quite a bit in the near future. I can't exactly recommend the book, because despite some brilliant insights in it, it's written pretty obtusely, and I don't think that anyone who doesn't already know something about non-dual Judaism could get much out of it. But, there are some brilliant insights. One, which struck a chord with me, was his admission that it can be unsettling to find that the greatest truths in your life can be reduced to a bumper sticker.

Who wants to study, think, explore, question, and learn for years and years, only to find that the greatest spiritual truths are often the ones that kindergarten kids can tell us? Or that we can find inside of a fortune cookie? It's a bit embarrassing, to say the least.

But, it may be true. There are some great, important truths that you have to be intellectually sophisticated to understand. But, there are at least as many great, important truths that everyone knows. Even if we forget them, we know them. But, for whatever reason, we do forget them, and that's why it's important to talk about them.

One of my favorite teachings from Jewish tradition comes from the introduction to a book called, “Messillat Yesharim.” It is, in essence, a guidebook to moral, spiritual living. In it, the author states that everything in this book is already known to you. There are no new truths, no new revelations to be found within. Simply reminders of things that we all know, but constantly forget. And that, the author says, is quite enough. Because, that's the trick to spiritual living - remembering what we all know to be true.

Hatred is bad. Violence is bad. Trite as hell. Truer than that.

The Hope

I posted this on Facebook, but I wanted to take a moment and expand on what I was thinking.

A few days ago, 106 retired generals, Mossad directors and national police commissioners signed a letter to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, urging him to engage in a diplomatic process with the Palestinians. They say that it's realistic to pursue what everyone that I know called, until recently, the obvious and almost inevitable framework for peace: a return to a modified version of the '67 borders with negotiated land-swaps, a reasonable resolution to the Palestinian refugee problem and so on. Not only is it realistic, they say, but it can be pursued without putting Israel's security at risk.

It's important to note what they're saying, because many who are against negotiating with the Palestinians will make an argument that is a bit of a red herring here. Many will say that there is no realistic chance for peace because the Palestinian leadership doesn't really want peace. That they engage in a peace process only as a tactical way to engage in the larger battle against Israel. Therefore, we shouldn't negotiate at all.

And, you know what? They might be right. It's a very reasonable reading of recent history to suggest that the Palestinian leaders have no real desire for peace. What they want is nothing less than the total annihilation of Israel. I actually tend to think this way — it seems pretty clear to me that the Palestinian leadership has been an impenetrable barrier to peace for long as I can remember. It doesn't matter what Israel offers or says, because there isn't an honest partner who is listening. As much as I am disgusted with Netanyahu's approach to settlements and such, I don't think he's actually made peace less likely in the near future, because there was no chance of it to begin with. To use an inappropriately lighthearted metaphor, how ardently I pursue Heidi Klum has nothing to do with whether I will ever go on a date with her, because she just isn't interested in me. I can be the sweetest suitor in history, or I can be an obnoxious jerk; either way, we're not having dinner.

But, what if I'm wrong*?  What if there is a chance for peace? What if there's a silently growing groundswell of peace-lovers among Palestinians, which only needs an opportunity to actually show itself? What if, given the right conditions, more moderate leadership might actually find a foothold?

* About the Palestinians. I'm pretty sure I'm right about Heidi Klum.

What if, even if there isn't a chance now, even if there isn't a chance in the near or mid-term future, there's a chance for peace somewhere down the line? What if Israel's actions now will have no bearing on the possibility of peace in my lifetime, but will have a very large impact on whether we can achieve peace in the next generation?

And, this is where I get back to that letter, what if we have nothing to lose by trying? I mean it when I say that I firmly believe that nothing that the Israeli government can offer will bring peace in our day. But, am I sure? Of course not. How could I possibly know that? Even if I had inside information, which no one reading this does, I couldn't be 100% sure. And, if it's true that we can pursue that faint possibility of peace without harming Israel's ability to defend itself, then why, in God's name, wouldn't we do that? What can be lost by seeking peace, even when it's exceedingly unlikely?

And, that brings me to the other point which I vaguely referenced in my FB post--the surety with which most of us talk about this issue. As anyone who knows me knows, I resist any attempt to be sure when uncertainty is called for. To making our world seem simple and understandable when it's actually complicated and inscrutable.

If you say to me that there is no chance for peace, if you say to me that Israel can't even explore peace without putting itself in grievous danger, then I'll just point you to this letter. Because 106 men and women who dedicated and risked their lives in defense of Israel disagree with you. 106 people who, I can only assume, care more deeply for Israel than I can possibly imagine, think that it's possible and advisable. I'm not saying that, based on this one letter, Israel should drop all concerns and enter into negotiations today, without any planning or care. These generals aren't guaranteed to be right, any more than the naysayers are. But, it seems pretty clear to me that anyone who claims that there is no chance for peace and absolutely no way to explore it safely is speaking based on their biases and presumptions, not on an analysis of the facts. Because 106 experts would like to disagree with you.

That feeling, when I read that letter? That's hope. And, to quote a favorite movie, hope is a good thing. Maybe the best thing. At least for today, when I think about Israel, I feel a sense of hope, for the first time in a long time. HaTikvah--the Hope.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.

Words of Power. Words of Peace.

Words.

I've been thinking quite a bit about words, lately. Last week, I was on a four day silent retreat. It wasn't total silence – there were periods when we were allowed or encouraged to talk, but for large sections of the day we remained in silence. This practice stems from the belief that too many words — whether spoken or listened to — can get in the way of paying attention to what's going on inside of us. Of listening to the internal conversation which happens without words. Even when we spoke, we were encouraged to let our words come out of a place of silence. To listen to that internal conversation, think seriously about what, if anything, we had to say, and also to think about the impact of our words — on others, and on ourselves — before we said them.

You can imagine how hard it was to transition back into the "real world." Going from retreat to the airport can be a bit jarring, to say the least. But, the biggest shock for me came from Facebook. Not the general chatter so much as the seemingly endless stream of posts and articles about the conflict (war, really) in Israel and Gaza. So many people were posting so much, and all of it, it seemed, was so angry. Vicious, even. That's not surprising — what's going on is pretty awful, to say the least. And polarizing.

Also not surprising was that reading those pieces made me angry, as well. Those who spoke out against Israel obviously made me angry. But, the pieces which supported Israel — which pointed out the terrible situation which Hamas has placed them in, which pointed out all the horrific things Hamas continues to do to them — made me angry in a different way. Again, not so surprising.

But, I began to notice that anger wasn't the only, and maybe not the dominant, emotion. There was a terrible sense of sadness, as well. I'm not talking about sadness regarding the situation itself. Let me be clear — there was that sadness, too, and what's going on in Israel is obviously and literally a matter of life and death, and so it's much more important than this other sadness I'm talking about. But, the additional sadness I was feeling came from the realization of how much we all seem to be using our words to hurt, to inflame, to accuse, to anger. And, it came from thinking about the larger effects of those words, about which I don't believe we think enough.

Words always have effects. And words have side effects and unintended consequences. Because, words are powerful. Terribly so.

It's long been one of my favorite insights and lessons from Judaism — the power of words. It's captured perfectly in the Hebrew — Devarim, the name of this week’s Torah portion, means both "words" and "things." We tend to think of words as the least "thingy" of things. They’re ephemeral, less substantial than mist. They’re "just words." Judaism understands that, actually, words are incredibly substantial. Words are things. Despite what we tell our children to say, we have probably all been hurt more by words than by sticks and stones in our lives. That is precisely why we give them that mantra — we know how dangerous words really are. Words are the most powerful devices that most of us will ever wield. 

And, words are one of the most human things about us. One of the terms which medieval Jewish philosophers used for human beings was medabrim—speakers. Makers of words. Words are, to a large extent, who we are. They're certainly how we are seen by others. And, words are how we create ourselves. They are who we will become.

We like to think that words are just there to express what is already inside of us. But, that's not the whole story. Words change us. It's obvious that words which we hear, if taken seriously, can change us. But, words that we speak can change us, as well.

Words spoken in anger don't release that anger, and they don't dispel that anger. They increase it. They rile us up. Words of hate don't just express hate. They reinforce it, and they nurture it. Words express who we are, but they also define who we are going to become. Don't believe me? Try this — go up to someone you love. Tell them what you're about to do and why, so that it's totally safe. Playacting. Then, look at them in the eye and, with all the passion you can muster say to them, "I hate you." Say it like you mean it. Or, at the very least, imagine doing so. How does that feel? Don't tell me that that moment won't affect you. That it won't, at all, damage that other person, and you, and your relationship. That those words can ever be "just words."

Words really are powerful. Words are never just words. They're things.

That's why, since I left the silence of retreat, I been unwilling to post or share almost anything about Israel. Because I just can't stop thinking about the reverberations of those words. I keep asking myself not only do I believe what these words say, not only do I agree with them, but do I want those to be the words coming out of my mouth, even if it's only a virtual mouth? Do I want these words to be the words which define me?

I want to be careful here, because I'm not trying to suggest that we should only ever say nice things. The world is not always a nice place, and there are times for speaking truthfully about that. If our words have power, then we have to be willing to use those words, and that power, sometimes. Our words of support for Israel, and our words of condemnation for Hamas, are part of a larger conversation, and they can have an effect on the world. As someone who believes passionately about the power of Social Justice, about speaking truth to power, and naming evil when we see it, I'm not about to become, and I'm not hoping that you will become, some kind of Pollyanna who refuses to acknowledge, or fight against, the worst of the world. God forbid.

But, sometimes – sometimes — something being true isn't enough of a reason to say it. Let me give one example, to try to make clear what I'm trying to say. Imagine that a leader of Hamas calls for the death of all Jews. I could respond by saying that I hope that he dies, instead. This isn't really a hypothetical example; it's just a simplified version of any number of conversations and articles and posts I've read this past week. And, it's not morally wrong, or dishonest. If I am being totally honest, I do hope he dies, certainly before he can help kill any Jews.

But, what happens when I say that, out loud? When I post it on Facebook? "I hope he dies. I hope he rots in hell." Does my saying that make anyone in Israel safer? Does it make it any less likely that he'll be able to help kill anyone? Maybe, I guess. Maybe a tiny bit. But, what happens to me, when I say it? What happens to the person to whom I say it? We feed our anger and our hate. We become a tiny bit coarser. We become a tiny bit less noble. Maybe we become a little bit less like our ideal selves.

What would happen if I were to say to you, "I hope that man finds peace. I hope that man wakes up, and no longer wants anyone to die." Will it have any effect on him? No, of course not. It won't make him want to kill me any less. It won't make him any more able to kill me. But, again, what will those words, those things, do to me? What would it do to me if I try my best to practice what Rabbi Jill Jacobs, in a blog widely distributed on Facebook this week, calls "Radical Empathy?" What if I try, in every possible situation, to use words of caring? Words of love? Words of peace? What would that do to me? 

Rabbi Israel Salanter once said:

When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world. I found it was difficult to change the world, so I tried to change my nation.  

When I found I couldn't change the nation, I began to focus on my town. 

I couldn't change the town and as an older man, I tried to change my family. 

Now, as an old man, I realize the only thing I can change is myself, and suddenly I realize that if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an impact on my family. My family and I could have made an impact on our town. 

Their impact could have changed the nation and I could indeed have changed the world.

Yehiyu l’ratzon imrei fi, v’hegyon libi lefanecha, Adonai tzuri v’goali

May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart, be acceptable to You, Adonai, my Rock and my Redeemer.

This is a version of the sermon given Friday night, Aug 1, 2014

Is there a peace partner for Israel?

Rabbi Dow Marmur was the senior rabbi of Holy Blossom Temple in Toronto until about 10 years ago. Since his retirement, he splits his time between Toronto and Jerusalem, and while he's in Jerusalem, he regularly offers short opinion pieces about the situation there. His most recent is one of several regarding the ongoing “bloodless revolution” in Egypt. Because it's not available online, I've asked his permission to present it here, in its entirety:

When Al-Jazeera published the so-called Palestine Papers, reporting on the negotiations between Israel and the Palestinian Authority, it looked for a moment that the standard mantra of the right-wing in Israel that there’s no partner to negotiate with would be exploded. However, with the resignation of Saeb Erekat, the chief Palestinian negotiator, regrettably the old doctrine may have been re-affirmed.

By his own account, because the Al-Jazeera documents were taken from his office, Erekat’s life was now in danger, presumably because it showed how he had become friendly with the Israelis and seemed prepared to make serious concessions for the sake of peace. The reaction to the Al-Jazeera revelations made it obvious that even if the negotiators could come to an agreement, the so-called Arab street wouldn’t buy it.

So far, it seems, most Palestinians, supported by Arabs elsewhere, still hope for getting “everything,” which for the “moderates” may mean a return to the 1967 borders and for others the dismantling of the State of Israel. For example, the Libyan dictator has already urged Palestinians to follow the example of the Egyptians and rise against the Israelis and, we infer, their own “soft” leaders.

It may be the fear of more of the same that has prompted the Palestinian Authority to announce new elections later this year and, in the meantime, reshape its present government. While its prime minister continues to create the foundation of a viable Palestinian state, which of course would only come about after substantial concessions – for Israel isn’t about to disappear or even agree to return to the 1967 borders – the political mood may drive him in the opposite direction.

All this is bad news for the Israeli left and music in the ears of their opponents. The latter have based their approach to the Palestinians on the belief that there is no partner and therefore Israel should create as many “facts on the ground” as possible to secure the status quo. Expansion of settlements and Jewish inroads into Arab East Jerusalem are part of the process.

The government of Israel will continue to express its commitment to a negotiated two-state solution, perhaps confident that it won’t come about in the foreseeable future because of the intransigence of the Palestinians. It seems that even the American administration has reconciled itself to this fact, because despite the loss than cordial relations between Obama and Netanyahu, there isn’t much sign of pressure from Uncle Sam but much praise from his generals who seem to work very well with their Israeli counterparts.

Those of us who bewail the demise of the Israeli left must remind ourselves periodically that it’s not only the ineptitude of the once Socialist and Liberal politicians that is the cause, but also the sad fact that the right-wing mantra about there being no partner may be true and, therefore, the charges that the policies of the current government of Israel are bad has become hollow and futile.  Ehud Barak may have been less of a gentleman in bolting the Labor Party but he’s probably more of a realist than most.

All there’s left for us, therefore, is to hope for better times not only by a regime change in Israel but also by a change of heart in the Arab world in general and among the Palestinians in particular. Such hope isn’t utopian but neither is it in easy sight.

Rabbi Marmur sums up, precisely, how I feel about the prospects for peace with the Palestinians. I am, in my heart, still a liberal on this issue*. Were I in charge of the world, there would be two states living in peace—Israel and Palestine. I have no desire for a “greater Israel,” or for the ongoing oppression of the Palestinian people. But, I find myself agreeing, less and less, with the left and with the “peace camp” not because I think they're wrong in theory, or in principle, but because I believe that they are wrong in practice. Whether or not we want peace is only part of the question. If there isn't an honest partner with which to negotiate, then what chance is there of peace? If there is an honest partner, but he/she doesn't have the support of the people, then they aren't really a meaningful partner, are they?

*actually, I'm liberal on almost every issue. But, on this issue, and seemingly on this issue alone, my views line up with what most people consider to be right of center.

Like I said, this is the one issue in the world for which my views don't seem to line up, more or less, with the standard liberal point of view. And so, it's probably not a coincidence that this is the one issue on which I sincerely hope I am proven wrong in my views.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.

Trite

It's hard for me not to notice how little I've been blogging for a while now. Part of the reason probably has to do with busyness and priorities. But, like everyone else, I've always been busy, and I used to find more time for blogging, so that can't be all of it. I think the biggest reason that I've had trouble motivating myself to blog more is a change in where my interests and focus lie these days. As I've gotten more involved and engaged in the world of spirituality and spiritual practice, it's been harder to talk about these things in the context of a blog post.

Truth is, it's hard to talk about spiritual matters in any context, and it's harder to write about them. But, the short form is, for me anyway, especially frustrating. Because, when talking about spiritual stuff in a few hundred words it's awfully easy to come across as either completely vapid or kind of crazy and extreme. Either stupid or fanatical (or, if I'm really lucky, both). Without the nuance of voice and interaction, or at least of pages and pages to explain myself, it often feels like everything comes across except for what I'm actually trying to say. And so, rather than put something out there which seems kind of empty and trite, I put it back on the "to do when I have more time" list and move on.

This morning, I came across a post by a blogger by the name of Charlotte Kitely (thanks, SEC, for the FB link).  It's just a beautiful piece. I can't encourage you enough to take a quiet moment and ready it. Kitely knew she was dying, imminently, and so she wrote this piece to be published just after she died, which she did on Tuesday. It's heartbreaking in its honesty and sweetness.

As you read this, I will no longer be here. Rich will be trying to put one foot in front of the other, to get by, a day at a time, knowing I will no longer awake next to him. He will see me in the luxury of a dream, but in the harsh morning sun, the bed will be empty. He will get two cups from the cupboard, but realise there is only one coffee to make. Lucy will need someone to reach for her hairband box, but there won't be anyone to plait her hair. Danny will have lost one of his Lego policeman, but no one will know exactly which one it is or where to look. You will look for the latest update on the blog. There won't be one, this is the final chapter.

But, she isn't writing from a place of self-pity or depression. She's quite clear and honest about what saddens and angers her, mind you, but her real point is the lesson she's leaving behind. And, it's an unbelievably trite, common message: savor your life. Every moment of it.

But, they are not to be denied of you. So, in my absence, please, please, enjoy life. Take it by both hands, grab it, shake it and believe in every second of it. Adore your children. You have literally no idea how blessed you are to shout at them in the morning to hurry up and clean their teeth.

I can't imagine how many posts there must be on Huff Post alone with the same theme. I can't begin to conceive how many similar posts there are on the entire Internet, to say nothing of magazine articles, books, poems, tattoos and movie scenes. It is probably one of the most common themes and lessons in the entire world. I'm pretty sure that, quite literally, every single person reading this, and every single person who might read this, already knows, believes in, and tries to appreciate this message. We hear it so often that we barely pay attention when it crosses our path. It is, in a word, trite.

But, it's no less true for being so.

Most clichés have more than a grain of truth in them — that's how they became clichés in the first place. Most truisms are, not to put too fine a point on it, true. Most things which are trite are, if we stop and pay attention to them, quite profound.

We're coming up on the High Holy Days. And this message of embracing life is one of the core messages of this time. Yom Kippur especially is a reminder of our inevitably onrushing deaths, and the imperative that they bring with them to take our lives seriously, and to start doing so immediately. You may not have tomorrow to repent, and you may not have next year to live your life as you truly want, and as you are truly meant to, so you had better start right now, rather than later.

We know this. We all know this. And yet, we forget it, over and over again. One of my absolute favorite moments in rabbinic writing comes from Moshe Chaim Luzzatto in his Messilat Yesharim. It's one of the classics of Mussar, which is a Jewish program of self evaluation and personal/spiritual improvement. And, at the very beginning, he says that every single thing within this book is already known to everyone reading it. There is absolutely nothing new inside. Instead, the book contains truths which we all know, constantly forget, and therefore are in constant need of reminders of them.

The reality is, that might just be true of all of the great truths in life.

Speaking as someone who has always enjoyed complicated ideas, it's becoming more apparent that the really important ideas are pretty damn simple. Trite, even. Appreciate every thing and every moment you're given. Be as kind as possible. Breathe.

We can talk about these things in complicated ways, either to understand them better, or to make ourselves feel better about our own intellectual depth. We can talk about them in order to remind ourselves of their often forgotten but eternal truth. But, the deeper truth is obvious, and known.

5774 was a wonderful year for me, personally. But it was a difficult year for so many whom I know. And for a couple, it was devastatingly tragic. I hope and pray with every fiber of my being that 5775 brings all of them (but, obviously and especially for Phyllis and Mike, and Sabrina and John, and their families) at least a portion of the peace and happiness they so richly deserve.

And, I hope that the rest of us remember to truly and fully appreciate the lives that we have. I hope that we remember to embrace those around us, and tell them that we love them. I hope that all of us learn to remember what we already know. Our deepest truths are found there.

The People Who Hope

As some of you know, I was in a TV news clip yesterday, talking about the horrific terrorist attack in Jerusalem. A few people commented that they appreciated my hopeful message, so I wanted to take a moment and expand on it, because I do believe it's a key, beautiful Jewish teaching.

History is long. Very long. And, if looking at that history, particularly Jewish history, teaches us anything, it's that anything is possible. Not every thing is possible right now, in this moment. But this moment won't last forever, and neither will the circumstances which surround us. Our people's history is a testament to the possibility of achieving what is currently impossible, and my favorite formulation of this idea comes from Samson Raphael Hirsch, which I talked about a couple of years ago in this blog:

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the godfather of what we now call Modern Orthodox Judaism, noticed that the first born Jew, Yitzhak, was named after laughter. His parents, Abraham and Sarah, had grown so old that when God tells Sarah she’s going to have a baby, she laughs. It’s an utterly ridiculous idea, at her age (and, frankly, she’s more concerned with Abraham’s age than hers!). So, when she eventually has a baby, she names him after that laughter. That’s because, Hirsch teaches, from our first moments, our people’s history has been so ridiculous as to be laughable. Our patriarch and matriarch didn’t have a child until they had reached a ridiculous high age. The idea that we could survive 400 years of slavery and 40 years of wandering the desert, conquer a hostile land, establish a kingdom — it’s laughable. Survive 2000 years of exile and dispersion — and not just survive, but thrive? Laughable. Revive a dead language? Drain the swamps, make the desert bloom and create a modern state out of almost nothing? Survive the death camps and outlive Hitler? Become one of the great military powers of the world at the same time that those who remain outside of Israel become a thriving, vibrant people? Ridiculous, and utterly hopeless.

That’s who we are — we are the people who regularly do that which is so impossible as to be laughable. We are the people who never lose hope, no matter what.

You certainly don't need to turn to Judaism to see this lesson; it's all around us. Imagine telling someone, 200 years ago, that the US and England would be closest allies. Imagine telling someone 75 years ago that France, Germany and Italy, to name just a few countries, would be joined under a single currency, and would also be allies.  I'm not saying that we're only 75 years away from making peace with the Palestinians — I have no idea how long it might take. Truth be told, I seriously doubt it will happen in my lifetime. But, I don't know that for sure. And, even if I am right, my lifetime is really just a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things. To think that that which is impossible now is therefore impossible forever is a pretty egotistical way to look at the world.

That which is impossible now is regularly accomplished in the future. And, after that, it starts to seem as if it was inevitable, all along.

None of this takes away from the pain of the moment. None of this makes an intolerable situation any more tolerable. But, it does give us hope. If our people can move from slavery to freedom, if Israel can move from a dream to reality in a single lifetime, then nothing is impossible.

Not even peace with the Palestinians.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. 

Free speech, even for those with whom we disagree

So, here's the small chain of events:

1. Peter Beinart has a long history of speaking out against certain policies of Israel, and of those who support those policies. He recently published a book, The Crisis of Zionism, summarazing and expanding on those views.
2. As a result of that book (and of his other writings), Beinart is often called anti-Zionist, an Israel hater, and more. Those who support him are treated similarly.
3. Paul Krugman, an economist and writer for the New York Times recently mentioned in his blog that he doesn't want to talk about Israel right now, because his comments against the current government and its policies are sure to evoke a vitriolic overreaction. I can't find the original article to link to it, but it's referenced in...
4. An open-letter by Jeremy Ben-Ami to Krugman, in which he begs Krugman to not stay silent:

 

Mr. Krugman, I understand this sentiment. As the President of J Street, the pro-Israel, pro-peace lobby, I am followed closely by my own personal buzzsaw. I know that the cost of speaking up about Israel can be so dear that many hundreds of thousands of Jews choose instead to stay silent or disengage from Israel entirely.

But as you rightly point out, Israel’s present path affects not only Israel, but all Americans and Jews everywhere.

Which is why I would like to invite you to reconsider your decision. I invite you to not let a vocal minority silence your voice. You are a Nobel prize-winning economist and leading American thinker whose contribution to the marketplace of ideas on so many issues is such an asset to this country’s democracy. I invite you not to let their smears cause you to sit this one out.

...

Because only when everyone – especially those who already have a megaphone – stands up, will the smears and attacks lose their power. Only then will brave men like Peter Beinart receive the fair treatment you so clearly think they deserve.

I've been critical of Beinart, J-Street and that entire school of thought (which, I believe, unfairly and destructively places too much blame on Israel in a misguided attempt to find balance in blame). But, let me say, just for the record, that on this issue I agree, 100%, with Ben-Ami. I agree that Beinart is brave, in that he is willing to say things which he believes to be true, and for which he knows he'll be excoriated. I don't agree with much of what he says, but he believes it, so he says it, and he faces the consequences.

I also hope that others, like Krugman, will speak. I hope he'll try to convince those of us who disagree with him, but are reasonable, and open to thoughtfulness about it. And, I hope that no one who claims to love Israel will think that the best way to show it is to drown out others who love it, too.

An Exorcism

The latest issue of Reform Judaism magazine contains an article about a Reform Rabbi who, at the request of one of his congregants, performed an exorcism on their house. It seems, from the article, that the Rabbi in question did not believe in the literal need for the exorcism. He didn’t think that there were malevolent spirits which lived in the house, which could be banished through the proper recitation of a ritual. Instead, he believed that the ritual was going to fill a need for these congregants, one which they were going to get filled somehow, so it might as well be through him, in a way which was as honest as he could manage.

Those who know me will, no doubt, be very unsurprised by the following two opinions: I think it’s a bad idea to do something like this. And, I see a lot of merit in the other side of the argument.

First, the bad. Spirits aren’t real. Ghosts aren’t real. Religion is a great way to be superstitious, but that is, in my not-as-humble-as-it-probably-should-be opinion, not a good thing about religion. As religious leaders, or as generally intelligent, thinking, religious people, I think part of our job is to get people away from the superstitious aspects of religion.

Ultra-Orthodoxy (the extreme, reactionary, fundamentalist, literalist version of Judaism) is infamous for telling its people that all sorts of horrors will befall them if they make ritual mistakes. Someone in your house sick? You must not have a kosher mezuzah on your door. Got into a car crash? You must have driven that car on Shabbat. And so on. It’s a patently ridiculous theology. It is demonstrably untrue, and it’s not even something we should want to be true. As I’ve said before (more or less), if God really does give people cancer because the parchment inside their mezuzah is defective (an actual claim I’ve heard), then I don’t want to work for that God anymore!

As a Rabbi, I’m often called on to do something which skirts the line of this kind of superstition. The best example is the Mi Sheberach, the prayer that we often say for healing (technically, that’s just one form of that prayer, but don’t worry about that for now). I know that the intent of that prayer, when we say it, is to give people strength and hope. To make people feel supported, and thought of. But, I also know that many people think of it as a kind of totem – if the Rabbi says my name before Mi Sheberach, then I have a better chance of being healed. In these cases, I do my best to teach, clearly and repeatedly, what is, and what isn’t, really going on (that is, I say often that this isn’t a magical healing prayer). And, I acknowledge that some will see it has magic, anyway. I don’t like that, but I can’t control how people interpret their religion.

But, at some point, a prayer, or a ritual, becomes too “magic-ish” to explain away. I don’t know what the line is, or if there is even a exact line at all, but somehow doing an exorcism, for a family which has explicitly told you that they believe that there are spirits infecting their house*, and using elements of a ritual which was clearly, by our definition, superstitious – well, again, everyone has their own line, I suppose, but this is just over it for me. I am a teacher, not a miracle worker. As my Rabbi, Rabbi Jerome Malino (z”l) used to say, “Sorry – I’m in sales, not management.”

* as I think about it, this may be the dividing line in this case. I can pretend and/or hope that people reciting Mi Sheberach won’t see it as magic. This family, based on their own statements, clearly will. Thus, were I to conduct the ritual, I’d be doing it fraudulently.

But, that brings me to the good. The Rabbi in question does a decent job laying out the arguments – to him, it’s not that different from things like Mi Sheberach:

Most Reform Jews don’t believe in intercessory prayer, the idea that God will necessarily give us what we ask for. When most of us ask God to heal those who are ill, we do not expect the Eternal to automatically grant cures; we are really asking God to give them and their healers strength, courage, and hope. This house blessing would then be a personalized misheberach. I would simply be asking God to bring health to a family in need of healing, and try to bring some light into the darkness that surrounds them.

I also heard from another Rabbi, by the name of Geoffrey Dennis (feel free to check out his blog at http://ejmmm2007.blogspot.com/) who defended this practice, and in a fairly convincing way. In the end, I still don’t think that I would do this ritual (I’m not giving an absolute “no,” because these things are always more complicated when you’ve got an actual person making an actual request). But, (with his permission) let me let Rabbi Dennis make his argument:

I love the Enlightenment and endorse the insights of the rationalist tradition, but we are not creatures of pure reason. We are creatures of paradox, like the world itself. Rationalism does not address every need in the human experience. Rituals and their efficacy can be explained rationally if one likes - see Catherine Bell's extensive works, for example, or read some of the work published in the Anthropology of Consciousness journal. To quote Erika Summer Efller,

"Rituals generate group emotions that are linked to symbols, forming the basis for beliefs, thinking, morality, and culture. People use the capacity for thought, beliefs, and strategy to create emotion-generating interactions in the future. This cycle, interaction → emotions → symbols → interaction, forms patterns of interaction over time. These patterns are the most basic structural force that organizes society"

In my (limited) experience, these purgative rituals, judiciously used in conjunction with the more modernist rituals of clinical psychology, help displace negative "emotion-generating interactions" with feelings of confidence, security, and solidarity with the tradition that affirms the values expressed in such rituals.

Human beings are ritual creatures – we’ve always structured our world, in large part, through the creation and performance of rituals. And, those rituals can have a powerful, meaningful, positive effect in so many ways. But, at the same time, rationality can’t be thrown out the window. We can’t claim to believe that which we know to be false, and we shouldn’t be affirming that which we don’t believe.

You know what? It’s hard being an ardent rationalist who believes in the power of ritual. It really is.

But, I guess that’s exactly what I am. So, I’ll have to keep trying to figure out what exactly that means.

Shabbat Shalom!

Abraham, Journeys and Conversion

A couple of weeks ago, one of our members, Jerry Nepon-Sixt, went to the mikvah to complete his conversion to Judaism. As I do with all new converts, I encouraged him to come to services soon to receive a Mi Sheberach—a prayer which asks for God's blessing on this happy occasion, and which also serves as a way for us to “announce” his conversion to the community. Jerry, being Jerry, said that he be happy to, but only if he could give the d'var torah that evening, too.

Well, that all happened this past Shabbat, and I thought that his d'var torah was absolutely wonderful. And so, with his permission, here it is, for your enjoyment:

Sometimes it feels like my life is a series of disconnected stories. The stories are pretty good - funny, dangerous, engaging and with enough resolution that they give a gift to the listener. The stories have been honed by years of telling into finely crafted works, every word carefully selected, the dramatic pauses timed perfectly, and the twists revealed in a way that draw a gasp or a laugh from the listener. I've probably told each of you a few of those stories, and I apologize if I’ve told you the same stories over and over again. The person in the stories is often a distant me, rougher, younger, more adventurous, and a lot more stupid. People have a hard time reconciling my current image with the somewhat crazy man described by the tales I tell.

I travel a lot on business. If you travel at all you know that most of your time is actually spent in line. I spend a couple hours in line in some way every trip. Sometimes my time in line exceeds the flight time. And standing in line is a great place to talk with strangers. With all my travel I am equipped with a geographic reference for any occasion. If you’re from New Jersey I can tell about living on Gropp’s lake outside Trenton when I was a boy, and how my mom learned how to make pasta fazul from Claire Quatromanni. If you're from the San Francisco bay area I can tell about sailing on the bay with the police chief of Berkeley, who grew opium poppies and smoked dope outside what he termed territorial waters – which he defined as having left the dock! If you're from Louisiana I can tell you that my mother once owned Tippitina's, that historic New Orleans nightclub where the Neville Brothers got their start. If you're from Natchez I can ask you about Pilgrimage and the concurrent Indian Pow-Wow at the fairgrounds south of town. If you’re from Boston…You get the picture. I've done or seen something in every state but Alaska.

I hope these stories are interesting to people. I find it interesting when people learn I'm from Florida and they tell me about a fishing trip or a wild weekend on Key West. If they tell me how miserable their July trip to Disney was I give them low marks - Disney in the summer is miserable. Any children under 5 make it doubly so. It's pretty unoriginal to complain about the heat and humidity and sweaty, cranky kids at the Magic Kingdom. I’m sure some of my stories are like that.

But it's also true that some people seem never to have done a whole lot in their lives. I find it so amazing when people tell me they've never left their own state, much less their county or even town. They've stayed in one place, married, raised children, worked, and will probably die in the same place, often within a few miles of their entire sedentary families. In our mobile society it's very easy to forget that this was the norm not so long ago. Yet, even those people have some great stories.

But to me, the best stories are about traveling...not just traveling, but journeying. There is a difference. This week I flew to Nashville and Columbus, OH. That was traveling. In two days I'll ride my bicycle from Tampa to Orlando for a conference...I hope that's a journey. What's the difference? Traveling is a temporary condition. One travels as a means to an end - get home for the holidays, meet with clients, even take a short vacation. In the end, you return home. It is often the case with me that I really have to try to remember where I was and what I did, even a week later.

A journey implies a transformative experience. It is a process. You are left profoundly changed at the end of a journey, even if in the end you return physically to where you began. Sometimes you begin a journey with the promise, the intent, or at least the hope that the experiences along the way will be meaningful. And sometimes a mere trip unexpectedly becomes the journey of a lifetime.

Think about all the classic adventure stories that had journeys at their core - "The Odyssey," "The Call of the Wild," "Huck Finn," "Moby Dick," "The Hobbit," "On the Road,"... "Thelma and Louise." Through the experience of different lands, or just the experiences of meeting new people and living through the adventures of the journey, the characters and the readers are changed forever. What is required is to remove oneself from one's normal existence and to be open to the experiences and the changes that a journey can deliver.

Somewhere around 2300 BCE a man from Ur of the Chaldeans began a journey that would take him thousands of miles, and transform not only him, but the world. God called to him with the words that give the Parsha for this week its name. "Lech L'cha." "Go forth from your native land and from your father's house to the land that I will show you."

This is the start of every great adventure story - a quest. In Abram 's case it was not a magic ring or a great whale, it was the promise God made to "make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing." And his name was great - Abram became Abraham of course. And we're his spiritual descendents - a great nation.

But why Abraham? There is no mention in Torah to this point of any particular qualities that Abraham possessed that would cause God to single him out as the founder of a people. At the end of Noach we read a lot of "begots" of the lineages of Noah’s sons - finally ending with Terah begetting Abram, Nahor, and Haran. And at the beginning of Lech L'cha the last of this lineage is repeated. In a single verse Abraham's journey with his family from Ur to Haran is recounted. Then suddenly, "The Lord said to Abram..."

What did we miss? I had to go back and read this a few times myself since I was sure I'd missed the something. Abraham has to be described as a righteous man, as having a special relationship to God already...but no. Of Noah it is said “Noah was a righteous man, he was perfect in his generations.” Of Abraham, "The days of Terah came to 205 years, and Terah died in Haran." Then, "The Lord said to Abram."

You may have heard some of the midrash that describe Abraham at this time. Abraham was hidden in a cave for three years to protect him from Nimrod the king. Abraham defied Nimrod and was thrown into a furnace from which he was released unharmed. There is the story of the young Abraham smashing the idols in his father’s idol shop and catching his father in a logical conundrum. There is the story of Abraham challenging an elderly buyer of idols on his beliefs. It is claimed in some commentaries that Abraham invented or received astronomy and other great advances. He was given access to secret books that contained God’s wisdom, and taught Hebrew so he could read them. Even Mohammed contributed to the explanations of this moment in Abraham's life in his writings. But the text of the Torah is silent at this critical moment on this critical question. Out of all the people, why Abraham? Why then? Why, "The Lord said to Abram…?"

One of the difficulties with Torah is that the motivations and qualities of the characters are often obscure. This is to be expected in a book that takes its influences from the oral traditions of many people in the region of the nascent Iron Age Hebrews. There is a lot in that tradition that was likely understood in the context of the times and the culture, and seemed unnecessary to include in the text. Torah is telegraphic in its style at the very times you wish it would tell you just a little bit more. Imagine the picture people would have of you knowing only a dozen or so stories from throughout your life.

And the ambiguity of the Hebrew itself can lead us down confusing paths in our understanding. Even the title of the Parsha this week, Lech L'cha, can have several readings. Two words, but the meaning of God's commandment to Abraham can change based on our interpretations of those words.

Commentators have looked at these words in different ways. Some have interpreted them as "Go by yourself." Abraham, Sarah, Lot and their households had to go on this mission alone, because only then could they start fresh. As in the adventure stories I mentioned earlier, the heroes were required to venture alone in new lands to affect great change in their lives.

Some have read Lech l'cha as “Go for yourself.” “Go for yourself" implies that God is going to improve Abraham 's lot through his obedience. Dude, I'm gonna give you a whole land, make you rich, and give you lots of children..." God lays out a fantastic career move for Abraham at the very least.

But it can also be interpreted as "Go TO yourself." "Go to YOURSELF." God is not just calling on Abraham to pick up and go. God is giving Abraham a clue as to the nature of the journey ahead. It will be personally transformative for Abraham himself, and Abraham better understand that his role in the enterprise would require self-understanding and inner strength. Abraham would have to know himself in order to fulfill the mission that God was giving him, and face the challenges ahead.

Now, we don't know if Abraham was that introspective. He doesn't argue with God about this or the other trials in his life. Instead he seemingly says, "OK, let's go!" Later in the Parsha God commands Abraham to circumcise himself and all the male members (no pun intended) of his household. We learn earlier in the Parsha [in the story of the War of the Four Kings against the Five Kings] that Abraham was able to muster 318 men to help him free Lot, so that must of been a particularly, er, vivid scene! But Abraham just does it.. No questions. Later when God commands him to sacrifice his son Isaac, Abraham again just picks up and takes Isaac to the place of sacrifice.

Maybe the quality most required at that moment was someone who would simply do what he was told? It would be odd, given the number of times that leading characters in the Torah argue with, cajole, and bargain with God, but perhaps that was what was needed at that time.
The text is so sparse that we can't make a judgment about what Abraham felt at those moments when God presented him with his trials. But, "Lech L'cha..." whether it's go by yourself, go for yourself or go TO yourself, or just go!...at that moment Abraham could have no illusions that a great responsibility was falling to him if he was to follow this command. And he must have known there was a great adventure ahead.

About 30 years ago I began a journey in my life when Janice and I formed our family. It started suddenly at midnight on a New Year's eve and has taken me through many adventures that I've shared with my family, and some I've had to face alone. One of the most remarkable things about that journey is that it's led me to stand before the congregation today for the first time as a Jew. To a lot of people my motivations to convert now, after so many years, must be as opaque as those of Abraham are to us. That’s natural – we can only really understand each other so well. I can try to explain, but really, it's only telling more stories and stories, while powerful, can only explain so much. Besides, Abraham was 75, so I’m 21 years early!

You should know that I am taking this step on my journey in all the ways that lech L'cha can be interpreted. Lech L'cha - I am going by myself, of my own will and desire. Lech L'cha - I am going for myself. The pleasures and rewards have already been great. Lech L'cha - I am going to myself, with introspection, study, self-awareness and the knowledge that it is the right thing for me. I am fully cognizant of the responsibilities - and the privileges - of the choice I have made.

It doesn't stop here...it didn't for Abraham. But today I really do feel that I am joined to his great nation, that I am truly Yirmiyahu.