The Happiness Warrior

Survival Optimism

2024-12-13T12:00:00.004-05:00

Rachel lived a life of broken dreams. She was in love with Jacob, waiting seven long years for marriage, only to be betrayed by her father at the wedding. For years, God holds Rachel childless. In her distress, Rachel quarrels with her husband and sister. And in the end, Rachel dies in childbirth, a young woman. Her body is too bloody to be carried to the family burial plot; so she is buried hastily on the side of the road, alone.

In her final moments, Rachel fully expresses her anguish. She had so desperately wanted children that she once told Jacob, "Give me children; if not, I will die." Ironically, Rachel ends up dying in childbirth; and with her last breaths, she expresses a lifetime of frustration when she declares that her baby should be called Ben-Oni - “the son of my sorrow.” Rachel has known too much sorrow in her own life; and this baby is a living tribute to her broken life.

Rachel’s lament becomes part of her legacy. Jeremiah, (a Kohen who lived among the tribe of Benjamin,) writes that when the Jews went into exile, one could hear the voice of “Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted for her children, for they are gone.” Rachel, the woman who sacrificed her life so Benjamin could have his, cannot bear to see the exile of her descendants.

Her cry is a bitter call of protest. In kabbalistic practice, special prayers known as Tikkun Chatzotare recited at midnight. One section is known as Tikkun Rachel, which bewails the destruction of Temple. In the Jewish imagination, Rachel refuses to accept the broken reality of this world.

Rachel knows the bitterness of a life interrupted, pulled apart by multiple moments of alienation from one's dreams; and she will forever be our mother Rachel, who cries with us, and for us, when we stand at a painful distance from our own destiny.

Not so Jacob. He doesn’t accept the name Ben-Oni, and instead, offers a new name for the child: Ben-Yamin, or Benjamin.

Rashi explains that Yamin is the Hebrew word for right side; and if one faces east, the right side corresponds to the South. (The Arabic word for Yemen may have the same derivation.) Israel, Rashi explains, is to the South when one comes from Aram (where Jacob had just lived for 20 years). Jacob is declaring that Benjamin is his only child who was born in the South, i.e., Israel. Instead of focusing on sorrow, Jacob’s choice of name tells a story of redemption, of a family that finally has come home.

The Ramban offers a different interpretation. Yamin, the right side, is the side of strength. Benjamin is the “son of strength,” a child meant for greatness.

The Ramban adds another thought-provoking point. He explains that the Hebrew word Oni actually has two possible meanings: sorrow and strength. Even though Jacob modified Rachel’s name for her son, Jacob didn’t want to uproot it entirely. Instead, he reread Oni as meaning strength instead of sorrow. This allows the name Benjamin to remain the equivalent of Ben-Oni, and for Jacob to continue to respect the name Rachel chose.

I always thought the Ramban’s explanation was disingenuous, some clever linguistic sophistry. But actually, it reflects a profound truth, that the ability to carry on despite sorrow is a source of enormous strength. Ezekiel says “that in your blood you shall live.” The name Benjamin expresses the very same idea: sorrow and strength are often close companions.

According to both Rashi and the Ramban, the name Benjamin reframes the story; instead of focusing on the tragedy of Rachel’s death, it focuses on a better future. Even after burying his beloved, Jacob turns to optimism. But how does he do that?

This question is not just about Jacob; it is about Jewish history. While we might make jokes about Jewish pessimism, Jews have always been optimists, even in the worst of times. We never lost hope, and never stopped believing in redemption.

Many see Jewish optimism as connected to the belief in the Messiah; if you dream of a better world, you have to be an optimist. And this Biblical dream has spread throughout the world; for centuries philosophers and social scientists have preached about the possibility of unending progress, perhaps even an “end to history.” Those dreams are messianic dreams, and simply a commentary to Isaiah’s prophecies.

But that isn’t the source of Jacob’s optimism.

Jacob is holding an orphan in his hands. He must make a decision; will he wallow in grief, or will he raise this child properly? You cannot raise a child by telling them they are a cause for sorrow. Like every child, Benjamin has a gift to bring to this world; it must not be eclipsed by sadness.

This is survival optimism.

During my career, I have seen awful tragedies; and none are worse than a parent who loses a child. Yet those same parents, bereft and broken, change their tone and demeanor when they are with their other children. There is an intuitive understanding that they must live, if not for their own sake, for the sake of their remaining children. They know they must learn how to savor life, and once again embrace hope, because the survival of their family demands it. They have no choice.

This is survival optimism. It is primal, a call from inside that declares, “I shall not die but live.” (Psalms 118:17) And in order to live, you must embrace a bit of optimism to nourish the spirit.

In the last year, several stories have appeared in Israeli media about widows of soldiers who have given birth. These women are the mirror image of Rachel, giving birth to children who will never know their father. The stories are touching; hospital staff, friends, and even complete strangers assist them in every conceivable way. The mothers speak about the void they feel, but also, how they feel this child brings them even closer to their late husbands. And they vow to bring the child up to be proud, to be strong, and to be happy.

They have optimism because they know that is what life demands of them.

And there is nothing more sacred than survival optimism.

Simchat Torah, One Year Later

2024-10-23T12:24:00.005-04:00

Mount Nevo

The Torah ends with sadness. Moses, the Torah’s author, dies, and its final sentences are written with tears.

Moses liberated the Jewish people from slavery and led them to the edge of the promised land. But after 40 years of difficulties, Moses is left behind; not even his body gets buried in the holy land. This is a bitter irony. Moses, who personally carried Joseph's bones from Egypt for burial in Israel, is himself interred in a forgotten unmarked grave on the other side of the Jordan River. The life of the greatest man in Jewish history comes to an abrupt, unpleasant end.

Lurking under the surface is a universal tragedy: death. Kohelet reminds us that both the fool and the wise man meet the same end. Spiritual excellence is irrelevant to the Angel of Death. And that intensifies the Torah’s tragic ending; a book that in Genesis began with the promise of eternal life for all ends with the death of the greatest man to ever live, Moses. The conclusion of the Torah makes it clearer than ever how far we are from the Garden of Eden.

This tragedy is the focus of Gerald Blidstein’s book Etzev Nevo, a study of the Midrashim written about Moses’ death. Most of the Midrashim grapple with this riddle; why did this person, who was more angel than man, die? The question is so large, that one text denies his death entirely; instead, it insists, Moses continues to perform his holy tasks in heaven. Other Midrashim depict Moses outsmarting the Angel of Death, who eventually needs to ask God to take Moses’ soul Himself. In another, the angels ask God “Why did Adam die?” God responds that Adam had sinned. Then the angels ask “Why did Moses die?” God responds: “It is a decree of mine, which must equally apply to every human being.” Moses isn't worthy of death, but he dies because all humans must die.

This is the supreme tragedy of life; no one can escape death, no matter how good or worthy they are. And the Torah ends on this note to teach its most important lesson: how to find personal fulfillment in a tragic world.

Whether we like it or not, death is our constant companion. Ernst Becker argues that Freud failed to recognize that the fear of death is the primary psychological drive. The question asked of us is whether we will look away, or face death directly. Will we choose to “tranquilize ourselves with the trivial” and amuse ourselves with pleasure, or will we find a sense of purpose? To live without a higher purpose is simply marking time until the inevitable end.

Becker explains that only through meaning can the tragedy of life become worthwhile. When we live lives of true purpose, we can transcend the ordinary. And there are so many ways to grasp eternity; through spirituality, family, community, charity, and more.

This is the lesson of the final passage of the Torah: how to face death. And that is what the Midrashim focus on. The Torah writes that Moses blessed the community “before his death.” This unusual phrase is seen by the Midrash as indicative of a struggle between Moses and the Angel of Death; in his last gasp, Moses must use every last ounce of strength to offer this moving blessing “before his death.” No matter what, he will leave one last gift for his people.

The Midrash also explains Moses' strange burial. It writes that Moses chose to be buried anonymously in the desert. The generation he had redeemed from Egypt had all died there, buried in unmarked graves. God told Moses “If you are buried here with them, by your merit, they will come with you.” In other words, once the ultimate redemption comes, Moses will finally lead those unfortunate freed slaves into the promised land. Caring for the freed slaves has always been his mission; and even in death, he is Moses, their leader, waiting for his chance to bring them home.

Even when looking the Angel of Death in the eye, Moses never stops thinking about the future.

The importance of meaning is not just a spiritual teaching; it is a psychological insight as well. The worst pain is bearable when one has a purpose. Victor Frankl recounts how this gave a great deal of relief to one of his patients. He writes:

Once, an elderly general practitioner consulted me because of his severe depression. He could not overcome the loss of his wife who had died two years before and whom he had loved above all else. Now, how could I help him? What should I tell him? Well, I refrained from telling him anything but instead confronted him with the question, “What would have happened, Doctor, if you had died first, and your wife would have had to survive you?” “Oh,” he said, “for her this would have been terrible; how she would have suffered!” Whereupon I replied, “You see, Doctor, such a suffering has been spared her, and it was you who have spared her this suffering—to be sure, at the price that now you have to survive and mourn her.” He said no word but shook my hand and calmly left my office.

In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.

When you love another, even the most difficult sacrifices are possible.

A year ago Simchat Torah became a day of mourning. This year, everyone is struggling with how to rationalize celebrating a holiday on the yahrzeit for nearly 1,200 members of our extended family. We know we must celebrate; we just don’t know why.

The answer lies in our mission. Like Moses, we now confront the Angel of Death face to face; and like Moses, we must never lose sight of our goals. It would be more comfortable for us not to celebrate this year. Celebrations are particularly painful for the brokenhearted; it's much easier to stay home. But we can’t take the easy path. Jews celebrated Simchat Torah in the ghettos, and they celebrated just days after the Yom Kippur War. They did so in defiance, people with broken hearts letting the world know that they were not broken in spirit.

We must be defiant as well. We can’t allow Hamas to destroy Simchat Torah.

Instead, we will carry those who have fallen with us, even as we dance. Hundreds of synagogues have joined the Simchat Torah Project; it has provided the synagogues with a new Torah cover dedicated to the memory of one of those who have died in the past year. As we dance with the Torah, we will be thinking of them.

There are times when we best honor the dead by celebrating; and this year, that is our responsibility. We must make it clear that there is, and always will be, a bright Jewish future. We must make it clear that those who died have not died in vain, and that we will never forget the sacrifice they made for a Jewish future.

We must make it clear, to the living and the dead, that Am Yisrael Chai.

And that’s why we will celebrate.

Who is a Hero? Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur 2024

2024-10-16T11:00:00.000-04:00

Rami Davidian, An Extraordinary Hero

In December 2018, I broke my femur on the subway.

After writhing in agony on the train floor for nearly an hour, an ambulance eventually arrived. I was overwhelmed with pain; and during our traffic-delayed trip to the hospital, George, the paramedic, kept the chatter going to distract me. When I told him I was a rabbi, he decided to share a story he thought would resonate with me.

A few weeks earlier, George had been called to aid a 96-year-old man in great pain.

George said to the elderly man: “This is probably the worst day of your life, right?” The man looked at George and said: “No. The worst day of my life was when I was in Birkenau.” The elderly man went on to describe memories of a particularly horrific day there.

I was taken aback; it felt like the heavens had opened. My late mother was a survivor of Birkenau, and to me, this story was personal.

Immediately my perspective changed; I realized that whatever pain I was experiencing, it did not compare in any way to what my mother had endured. And that gave me hope. If my mother got through it, so could I.

When your challenges are overwhelming, you need a hero; and at that difficult moment in the ambulance, I was lucky to have one.

Since last October 7th, we have been enveloped by a gloomy darkness, pulled down by extraordinary sorrow. But what has made it bearable were the heroes, the tiny points of light that remind us that there is hope and that we must hope.

But who is a hero?

Mythology depicts heroes as supernatural. Hercules, Achilles, Gilgamesh, and Thor, among others, are all descendants of the gods.

This definition of heroism remains extremely influential. Yes, movie superheroes have superpowers, for sure. But in our day-to-day lives, our perspective about who is and isn’t important is shaped by a cult of celebrity. The financial elite are called “corporate titans” and “masters of the universe”; and these terms are more than mere metaphor. Athletes and movie stars, larger-than-life characters who appear on the big screen are revered, and their moral failings are overlooked. Our contemporary heroes are very different from you and me.

Sadly, firefighters, teachers, and police officers don’t count. They are not wealthy, not famous, and not glamorous, and therefore unworthy of inclusion in the pantheon of heroes. Their exceptional service is taken for granted, while the crowd chases celebrities.

In his 1978 essay Catharsis, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik focuses on the contrast between what he calls the “classical” (Greek) and “biblical” perspectives on heroism. The classical vision of heroism, which is deeply rooted in mythology, is theatrical, outward feats of strength that elicit the cheers of the crowd. (Think Olympics.). Raw power and public adulation combine to create the classical hero.

Judaism offers a very different view of heroism. It distinguishes between raw power, koach, and gevurah, inner strength. Heroism is best described by the Mishnah in Pirkei Avot:

Who is a hero? One who can control his own heart.

Gevurah, true heroism, comes from inside; it is about the person’s self-control, even self-negation, in the service of a higher cause. It is a function of one’s spiritual nature and a reflection of their higher calling.

This Biblical definition of heroism offers three critical lessons.

The first is that the hero is a mensch.

The Mishnah connects heroism to virtue; and true heroes are motivated by love, not hate.

On October 7th, we saw so many who were true heroes. One of the mantras I heard from Israelis in the last year was a quote, (originally from C. K. Chesterton,) that a “true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” There are a multitude of stories from Israel that reflect this idea; I will mention one, far too briefly.

At Zikim Base near the border of Gaza, the army was in the middle of training 90 new soldiers who had just been drafted two months earlier.

The base was attacked by 50 Hamas terrorists. The commanders of the base, fourteen in total, sent the trainees into a shelter.

Then they took on the battle themselves. And they saved the 90 trainees.

Tragically, seven of those who went into battle died:

Maj. Adir Meir Abudi, 23

Capt. Or Moses, 22 (She insisted on being in a combat unit, despite getting into an elite intelligence unit.)

Lt. Adar Ben Simon, 20

2nd Lt. Yannai Kaminka, 20: (US-Israeli soldier)

Staff Sgt. Eden Alon Levy, 19

Lt. Yoav Malayev, 19

Cpl. Neria Aharon Nagari, 18

These young men and women courageously sacrificed their lives to save others.

Yes, they were excellent soldiers; they had to be, to be able to fight off such a large group of terrorists. But what made them heroes was their willingness to be there for others, to stand up for others.

The second lesson is that heroes stand ready to leap into the absurd.

Rabbi Soloveitchik offers the biblical story of Jacob’s wrestling match with the angel as an example of a heroic struggle. He explains Jacob was extremely impractical in taking on the battle:

Was Jacob's victory something to be expected; could it have been predicted logically? Was he certain of victory? Of course not. He was alone, weak and unarmed, a novice in the art of warfare. His antagonist was a powerful professional warrior.

So why didn’t Jacob surrender to the foe who attacked him in the dark?

The answer Rabbi Soloveitchik offers is that a Jewish hero has to be willing to leap into the absurd. (He borrows this phrase from Kierkegaard.) There are times when you must fight for a better future, even if you have to face impossible odds.

Jacob leaps into the absurd. He takes on an angel because his destiny demands it. And then the improbable happens: Jacob wins.

One leaps into the absurd when the dreams of the future are more important than the practicalities of the present. And that is the story of the Jewish people. As Rabbi Soloveitchik puts it:

Is this merely the story of one individual's experience? Is it not in fact the story of Knesset Israel, an entity which is engaged in an "absurd" struggle for survival for thousands of years?

We are called Israel, the name awarded to Jacob that fateful night he wrestled with the angel, because we wouldn’t be here if generations of Jews before us hadn’t wrestled through the darkest of nights, again and again. We wouldn’t be here today if they hadn’t believed the absurd to be possible.

In short, Jewish heroes are willing to take long shots because they are part of a people who are the longest of long shots.

One of those long shots was the Entebbe raid on July 4, 1976. Terrorists had hijacked a plane and taken it to Uganda. They held over 100 Israeli and Jewish passengers hostage. In what remains to this day the most daring rescue in military history, the Israeli army flew 2,500 miles to save them and take them home.

This long-shot rescue continues to inspire. When Natan Sharansky was imprisoned by the Soviet Union in 1978, it was the heroes of Entebbe that gave him courage, even when he was being threatened with the death penalty. Sharansky would explain:

"Each time when I heard the engine of an airplane in Siberia, I thought about Israeli airplanes. And I remembered Entebbe. I knew that a day would come when an Israeli airplane would come to take me out of prison. And that day came.”

Jewish heroes are willing to leap into the absurd. Just a few months ago, on June 8th, we had another long-shot rescue when Israeli troops brought the hostages Noa Argamani, Almog Meir Jan, Andrey Kozlov, and Shlomi Ziv back home.

It was an exceedingly difficult operation. Ben, who has spoken at KJ, is in a unit that took part in the rescue. He told us they had trained for over two months non-stop to bring these four hostages home.

And they did.

You have to watch the videos of the rescues. In one, the soldiers burst into the room where they are held. Initially, the hostages think these are Hamas terrorists, coming to murder them - and then, in a moment - after the soldiers say “don’t worry, we are taking you home” - their faces change from sorrow to relief.

When Noa Argamani says to the soldiers that she’s scared, they tell her not to worry, they will protect her. And when the soldiers are leaving, they call their commanders and say: “The diamonds are in our hands.”

So my question is: What other country besides Israel does this? What other country thinks this way? Wasn’t this hostage rescue absurd?

Yes it was.

But Israel, a country named after an underdog who wrestled an angel, is willing to leap into the absurd. Because that’s what true heroes do.

The third, and most important lesson of Biblical heroism is: Everybody can be a hero.

The way the Tanakh depicts heroes offers two important insights. First, great heroes like David and Solomon are human beings, with flaws and failures.

Second, that ordinary, humble people, like Ruth and Esther, can overnight become great heroes. Heroism is a gift of the soul, and every one of us can step up and be a hero too.

And that is what Rami Davidian did.

On October 7th, many Israelis rushed to the Gaza border to help. One of the most extraordinary stories is about Rami Davidian, 59, a soft-spoken father of four and a fuel distributor from Moshav Patish near Gaza.

To make a long story short, he got a call from a friend to save the friend’s son from the nearby Nova site. He took his truck to the boy’s location. And there he saw hundreds of young people running in every direction.

So Rami began to rescue them. He called his son and others to help. After 18 hours of non-stop rescue work, ducking bullets and facing down terrorists, Rami saved 700 people.

700 people!!

When Rami Davidian got out of bed on October 7th, he was an ordinary person. When he finally went to sleep, he was an extraordinary hero.

Now, there is one final point.

We are all obligated to be heroes.

Maimonides writes that the shofar is meant to rouse us from our spiritual sleep and recognize our responsibilities.

But this lesson goes far beyond Rosh Hashanah. In the next paragraph, he explains that we need to stay spiritually awake for the entire year, and take our responsibilities seriously instead of daydreaming.

This is what he writes:

Therefore, every person should see themselves throughout the entire year as half righteous and half guilty. And so too, that the entire world is half righteous and half guilty. If one sins a single sin, they have tilted themselves and the entire world to the side of guilt and brought about destruction. If one performs a single commandment, they have tilted themselves and the entire world to the side of merit and brought salvation for themselves and for others.

In other words, the fate of the world depends on you. What you do next can change everything; it is up to you to be a hero.

I know this congregation.

You have done so much. You have volunteered, donated, advocated, and marched for Israel.

But in the coming year, we will need you to do more; because the fate of the world is still in your hands.

And I know you will step up, because you are the children of Jacob who wrestled into the night, you are the children of generations of Jews who never lost hope.

You are the children of Israel, the first unlikely Jewish hero.

And undoubtedly you will be heroes too.

Shanah Tovah!!

Radical Commitment

2024-05-24T10:22:00.000-04:00

Rabbi David Hartman coined the term “covenantal anthropology” to indicate that the metaphors Jews use to describe their relationship with God will define their understanding of the covenant’s obligations. In the Tanakh and Talmud, varying terms are used. God is our father, and we are His children; God is our king, and we are His subjects; God is our husband, and we are His wife; God is our teacher, and we are His students; and God is our master, and we are His slaves. And each one of these relationships is very different than the other.

Some of these relationships require what Hartman calls submission, to accept the authority of God uncritically. Others expect humanity to be assertive and become God's partner in a shared covenantal mission.

In addition, different texts offer dramatically different perspectives on the question of submission versus assertion. The Akeidah, when Abraham accepts God's command to sacrifice his son Isaac, is a moment of absolute submission; Abraham does not hesitate and does not ask any questions. God is Abraham’s king and master.

A very different perspective is found in the Talmud in “The Oven of Akhnai” story. During a debate between Rabbi Eliezer and his colleagues, God's voice calls out to declare that Rabbi Eliezer is correct. Instead of listening to God, Rabbi Joshua responds by rejecting God’s opinion and saying: “It is not in heaven.” Once the Torah is given, interpretation is left in the hands of mankind.

After Rabbi Joshua's response, God smiled and said: “My children have triumphed over me, my children have triumphed over me.” This text sees human creativity as critical; God wants us to implement his mission on earth in the manner we consider best.

How does one reconcile these very different visions? Hartman writes that Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik hoped to create a dialectical synthesis; that is to say, one must integrate both assertion and submission into one’s religious life. However, he writes that Soloveitchik held that submission must remain the supreme value.

Hartman offers a different interpretation. The relationship between God and man is constantly evolving; like a child who continues to mature as they get older, after thousands of years in God’s covenant, the Jewish people need to take on greater spiritual initiative. The submission of earlier stages of Jewish history now needs to give way to assertion.

Leaving this debate aside, it is critical to recognize that submission and assertion are not always opposites. On two occasions in Parshat Behar, God declares about the Jews: “they are my slaves.” One might think these verses are intended as a demand for submission; but they are not. Instead, “they are my slaves” is the explanation given for why a Jewish slave must be sent free on the Jubilee year, and must be redeemed if bought by a foreign owner. If all Jews are already God's slaves, they can no longer be sold into slavery. As Rashi puts it, “God's contract comes first,” and any other contract to buy a slave violates God’s ownership rights. To be God's slave is to belong to no man.

Seforno takes this idea a step further. He writes that the verse teaches us that even if someone wants to be a slave, they are not permitted to be one. Slavery’s mindless lack of responsibility may be attractive to some. Individuals and communities often look to escape from freedom and its endless choices and responsibilities. If freedom is just about living unimpeded by others, then it would be reasonable to let people sell themselves into slavery, if they so choose. But a Jewish view of true liberty is to enable a person to become the best possible version of themselves. Paradoxically, being God’s slaves actually demands absolute human freedom.

But why use the metaphor of slavery at all? Because even the free must at times emulate slaves, and undertake radical commitments. Acts of total devotion, such as the Akeidah, are not merely the submission of the meek; it can be a way of finding one's true self. The Mishnah uses the metaphor of a “servant who served his master with no interest in receiving a reward” to describe serving God with love. This is puzzling: wouldn’t the parent-child relationship be a better example of a loving relationship?

The explanation for this lies in the idea of radical commitment. Every servant acts without hesitations or questions. But unlike a child, if the servant loves their master, it is not out of gratitude; it is because they have an absolute commitment to the master’s mission. And those who love as a servant who loves their master take on their mission immediately; Abraham runs to saddle his own donkey early on the morning of the Akeidah without any equivocation.

At times, one must learn devotion from a servant and a slave.

Without radical commitment there would be no Jewish people today. Had Jews wanted their children to simply be happy, they long ago could have converted and had a comfortable life. But they chose to stay Jews, no matter how difficult it was.

They didn’t see their love for Judaism as an act of submission; on the contrary, it was their way of asserting who they are in a world that despised them. They declared they will never give up on the mission Abraham had taken on. Jewish pride is for the strong.

After October 7th we saw inspiring stories of radical commitment. Young Israelis found their way back to Israel to serve again in the IDF. They flew in from all parts of the world, often with help from others; an anonymous man stood in JFK Airport that day and bought, out of his own pocket, 250 tickets for soldiers returning to Israel. That week El Al flew on Shabbat for the first time in 41 years. On one flight from Bangkok an El Al stewardess brought 25 soldiers onto an overbooked plane and seated them everywhere, including the cockpit and bathrooms.

Here in New York City, Shai Bernstein rushed back to his unit in Israel, leaving behind his wife Naama and three young children. The children couldn’t understand what was happening and they asked Naama: “Why does Abba have to go?” Naama responded directly: “when Israel needs us, we come.”

That is radical commitment. In one sentence, Naama taught her children what has stood at the center of Jewish identity from the very beginning.

It's Not A Fairy Tale

2024-05-17T13:02:00.001-04:00

Barley swaying in the wind (Israel)

Israelis agonized over the appropriate way to mark this year’s Yom Ha’atzmaut (Independence Day). Thousands of people have lost their loved ones; 132 hostages remain in captivity. Every day is filled with anxiety about the safety of the soldiers and the future of the country. The thought of holding celebrations seems absurd.

But at issue is not just the propriety and etiquette of rejoicing during times of grief. The more significant question is: After October 7th, can we still see Israel as the harbinger of redemption?

Redemption is often seen as a fix-all, the remedy for every problem. But that was never God’s plan. Redemption was meant to be combined with reality.

We often forget what the conclusion of the Pesach is meant to be. Pesach is often depicted as an account of liberation from slavery, of the Jews achieving freedom from Pharaoh’s oppression. But that is not where the story ends.

Pesach is also the start of Jewish sovereignty. When God declares to Moses (Exodus 6:6-8) that he will redeem the Jews, it ends with the words “I will bring you into the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will give it to you for a possession.” Similarly, the declaration of the bikkurim, (Deuteronomy 26:5-10) made at the farmer’s annual offering of first fruits, tells of the slavery in Egypt and then concludes by saying, “He (God) brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.” Pharaoh being vanquished is only the beginning; the Exodus concludes with the Jews being a free people in their own homeland, the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

In Parshat Emor (Leviticus 23:5-15), Pesach has two distinct roles. The first day is a celebration of the Exodus, with the rituals of Pesach sacrifice, Matzah, and the bitter herbs. Then the Bible introduces a ritual for the second day of Pesach: the Omer offering, a simple offering of barley. (This begins a 50-day period of counting days called Sefirat Ha’Omer, and on the 50th day is another holiday, Shavuot, on which two loaves of wheat bread are offered.)

With the Omer offering, Pesach shifts its focus to agriculture. Much like Sukkot, Pesach marks both a historical event and an agricultural season. For that reason Pesach is always celebrated during the spring, when the first shoots of barley appear; and the Omer offering is brought in prayer for the crops in the fields.

But why isn’t the Omer offering brought on the first day of Pesach? Why is it brought one day after the Pesach Seder?

Another biblical text sheds light on this question. In the Book of Joshua, we are told about the Jews' entrance into the land of Israel, just four days before Pesach. Then the text says:

On the day after Pesach, on that very day, they ate of the produce of the land, unleavened bread and parched grain. On that same day, when they ate of the produce of the land, the manna ceased. The Israelites got no more manna; that year they ate of the yield of the land of Canaan. (5:11-12)

There is a debate on how to interpret this text. But many, like the Rambam, read this as saying that in the days of Joshua, the second day of Pesach is when the Jews first ate from the produce of the land. At that point, they no longer depended on the daily miracle of Manna; they could now take their destiny into their own hands.

Itamar Kislev explains that this is why the Omer is brought specifically on the second day of Pesach. The Omer is both an agricultural and historical ritual; it also was initially intended to commemorate the first Pesach in Israel, when the Jews first ate the produce of the land of Israel. This was the goal of redemption, and only then was the Exodus complete.

In short, the first day of Pesach commemorates the freedom from slavery, and the second day commemorates the beginnings of sovereignty. The two are inextricably intertwined. Freedom was meant to lead to independence, with the former slaves taking control of their own destiny in their own homeland.

However, sovereignty is not at all simple. Manna, miracle bread from heaven, is effort-free; farming is difficult and uncertain.

This may be why the days of the Omer are seen as tragic. The mourning rituals we practice during the Omer mark the deaths of Rabbi Akiva’s students during the Bar Kochva revolt. However, the Kabbalistic view is that the days of the Omer are inherently melancholy, with each day filled with anxiety.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik elaborates on this Kabbalistic sense of dread in his essay Pesach and the Omer. He points out that Pesach “represents the transcendental order in Jewish history, or, shall I say, the order of Revelation.”

But transcendental experiences must eventually end. As he puts it, “Life is full of absurdities and contradictions. There is no longer any revelation… any direct contact with God.” In a new land, surrounded by enemies, Israel will have to confront multiple challenges. Nature is not always cooperative, and every harvest is fraught with uncertainty.

The contrast between the miraculous Exodus and the humble barley offering could not be greater. After celebrating a transcendent divine redemption at the Seder, who has any appetite for a grueling, messy, state?

But that is precisely the point. Life is not a fairy tale. Mistakes happen, accidents happen, and eventually, death happens. We don’t see God’s outstretched arm every day.

The same is true of a country. There will be enemies and wars. Nothing will ever be perfect, and at times, everything will seem to go wrong.

So it is understandable if some wonder whether it is possible to still say Hallel for a flawed country where the worst massacre of Jews since the Holocaust occurred. Bitterness and cynicism certainly make sense right now.

This is why the second day of Pesach, the day of the Omer, is so significant. The dramatic redemption of the Exodus sets an unattainable standard, one that makes ordinary life seem absurd. But that is the wrong way to look at redemption. Instead, one needs to find transcendence in the humble barley offering.

Farmers labor each year by the sweat of their brow to produce a crop. Some years are successful, and some years are failures. It may seem absurd to continue. Yet the farmer perseveres; that is heroic. Each year, the first shoots of barley brought in the Omer tells the story of those farmers.

Yom Ha’atzmaut this year resembles the Omer offering; humble, unassuming, and seemingly unworthy of center stage. But like the bowl of barley, what needs to be celebrated right now is not the beauty of what we hold in our hands, but the enormous effort it represents.

Since October 7th we have seen so many do so much to keep Israel together. Young and not-so-young soldiers picked up at a moment's notice and ran to the battlefield to fight for their country. Everyone else in Israel took care of everything else, from cooking meals, taking in evacuees, and packing gear for soldiers. And Jews from around the world stepped up with advocacy, philanthropy, and volunteering.

This is Israel’s Omer offering, humble yet remarkable at the same time.

And that is worth celebrating.

Proud Jews, Despite Everything

2024-05-17T13:01:00.003-04:00

A sign displayed at the reinstated Gaza Solidarity Encampment at Columbia University.

Last Shabbat, several synagogues in New York received fake bomb threats by email. These phony messages are called “swatting,” and are intended to both provoke a police response and disrupt the synagogues; the emails’ IP was located in Finland.

At a meeting with the Governor about the incident, one of the rabbis shared with us that her non-Jewish staff members have requested to work remotely; they no longer feel safe coming into the synagogue.

I remarked to the Rabbi afterward: “You don't have to be Jewish to be paranoid about antisemitism.”

And there is a lot to be paranoid about. On Monday night, a mass of pro-Palestinian protesters marched up Madison Avenue right outside our building. A group of people from our building came out with Israeli flags in response; immediately, one of the women had the flag pulled out of her hands and was punched in the side of her head, bruising her eyeball and face.

My neighbor was assaulted because she is a Jew; this is just one anecdote that reflects the dramatic rise in antisemitism since October 7th. It is not a paranoid anxiety to worry about the safety of American Jews. As Golda Meir famously quipped, “Even paranoids have enemies.”

History reminds us that we ignore antisemitism at our own risk. Before the Holocaust, too many European Jews missed the warning signs. In 1936, Mordechai Gebirtig wrote a Yiddish poem Es Brent (It's Burning) in response to the Przytyk pogrom in 1936, where a mob attacked Jewish homes and killed two Jews.

The words of the first stanza admonish a lackadaisical Jewish community for ignoring the threats they were facing:

It burns! Brothers, it burns!

Our poor shtetl pitifully burns!

Angry wind with rage and curses

Tears, shatters and disperses.

Wild flames leap. they twist and turn,

Everything now burns!

And you stand there looking on

Hands folded, palms upturned,

And you stand there looking on

Our shtetl burns!

By 1939 this poem was seen as prophetic, foreseeing a catastrophe that was about to arrive; Elie Wiesel would later refer to Es Brent “as sounding the death knell of the shtetl and a thousand years of Jewish history in Poland.”

Some wonder whether America has reached the point of Es Brent. While we worry about Israel, visiting Israelis always ask me about antisemitism, uncertain how I can feel safe with all of the mayhem that is occurring here.

Although I understand this fear, I do not subscribe to it. The United States of 2024 is nothing like Poland of 1936. America has a long-standing pluralistic, democratic culture, and American Jews are far from powerless. Most importantly, the vast majority of Americans support us. This is not the time to take flight.

But we can’t take it easy either; we must never lose our will to fight. In The Interpretation of Dreams, Sigmund Freud recounts a conversation he had with his father Jakob, when he was 10 or 12 years old. Jakob said: "While I was a young man, I was walking one Saturday on a street in the village where you were born; I was handsomely dressed and wore a new fur cap. Along comes a Christian, who knocks my cap into the mud with one blow and shouts: "Jew, get off the sidewalk." "And what did you do?" "I went into the street and picked up the cap." Freud was embarrassed that his father did so little to stand up to an antisemite.

Perhaps Freud’s judgment of his father was too harsh; Jakob Freud might not have had much choice in his response that day. But Freud’s sentiment is absolutely correct. To hide in the shadows as a meek and weak Jew may be an understandable adaptation to a difficult situation; but left on its own, cowardice will warp the very foundations of Jewish identity. As a perpetual minority, Jews have always been vulnerable to feelings of inferiority that can slowly eat away at the Jewish soul. One must be a proud Jew if one is to be a Jew at all.

Rabbi Zadok of Lublin writes that the essence of Judaism is to declare oneself a Jew; everything else is secondary. He brings as proofs two texts. One is in the Talmud, which implies that one can convert to Judaism without knowing anything about Judaism. The second is a ruling in the Shulchan Aruch that says even in times of persecution, it is forbidden for a Jew to claim that they are a non-Jew.

Judaism then is quite simple; to be a Jew means embracing being a Jew, even without fully understanding what that means. And this further implies that all the good deeds and Torah scholarship in the world are not as important as being a proud Jew. (This passage was so controversial, it was censored out of the initial publication of Rabbi Zadok’s writings.)

An earlier precedent goes back to the Tanakh. When Jonah declares “I am a Jew,” he is stating all of Judaism on one foot. All the rest is commentary.

Sadly, it's not so easy to be a proud Jew nowadays. The noisy intimidation of poster defacers and encampment makers has driven Jews underground. On the street, Kippahs come off and Chai necklaces are covered up. No one wants to be like my neighbor, the victim of an antisemitic assault.

More insidious is the social ostracization, which is far more influential. Students on campus have been frozen out by their friends for refusing to join in protests. Online, Jews on dating apps are peppered with questions about Israel. Appointments are canceled and letters of recommendation denied for having the wrong point of view. Young Jews are now offered the choice to condemn Israel or be considered an enemy of the people; there's no room for conversation.

It is challenging to be a Jew on campuses filled with pro-Hamas professors, activists, and propaganda.

One would have expected students to take the easy route; keep their heads down, go with the flow, and hide their identities. Instead, the opposite has occurred. Remarkably, Jewish students have defiantly declared that they are proud Jews.

In an exceptional letter circulated at Columbia this week, 540 Jewish students (at last count) wrote about their love for Israel. Entitled In Our Name: A Message from Jewish Students at Columbia University, they explained that:

Over the past six months, many have spoken in our name…some are our Jewish peers who tokenize themselves by claiming to represent “real Jewish values,” and attempt to delegitimize our lived experiences of antisemitism. We are here, writing to you as Jewish students at Columbia University, who are connected to our community and deeply engaged with our culture and history. We would like to speak in our name.

We proudly believe in the Jewish People’s right to self-determination in our historic homeland as a fundamental tenet of our Jewish identity. Contrary to what many have tried to sell you – no, Judaism cannot be separated from Israel. Zionism is, simply put, the manifestation of that belief…..

We are proud of Israel. The only democracy in the Middle East, Israel is home to millions of Mizrachi Jews (Jews of Middle Eastern descent), Ashkenazi Jews (Jews of Central and Eastern European descent), and Ethiopian Jews, as well as millions of Arab Israelis, over one million Muslims, and hundreds of thousands of Christians and Druze. Israel is nothing short of a miracle for the Jewish People and for the Middle East more broadly…

Yet despite the fact that we have been calling out the antisemitism we’ve been experiencing for months, our concerns have been brushed off and invalidated. So here we are to remind you:

We sounded the alarm on October 12 when many protested against Israel while our friends’ and families’ dead bodies were still warm.

We recoiled when people screamed “resist by any means necessary,” telling us we are “all inbred” and that we “have no culture.”

….We felt helpless when we watched students and faculty physically block Jewish students from entering parts of the campus we share, or even when they turned their faces away in silence. This silence is familiar. We will never forget.

One thing is for sure. We will not stop standing up for ourselves. We are proud to be Jews, and we are proud to be Zionists.

This letter is an exceptional statement of Jewish identity, and I urge you to read it in its entirety. Written during a crisis, on a campus filled with contempt for them, they refuse to surrender to ideological bullies who want them to relent and convert to their cause.

These students aren’t going to hide who they are. They will not stop standing up for themselves. And they have it exactly right.

They are proud Jews, despite everything. And the rest of our community should follow their example.

Frankfurt memorbuch 1,400 Yizkors

2024-05-03T14:58:00.001-04:00

The Frankfurt Memorbuch was inaugurated in 1711 after the previous one was burned in a fire. Currently housed at the National Library of Israel, it is an enormous book that weighs nearly 30 pounds, with 5,726 entries plus multiple prayers written on 1,073 pages of parchment.

Memorbuchs like the one from Frankfurt were once a fixture in many Askenazic synagogues; the earliest extant copy of one, the Nuremberg Memorbuch, was composed in the late 1200’s. They listed people who had donated specifically to have prayers recited for their souls after their death. (Sometimes the families of the deceased would offer a posthumous donation to have their relatives listed.) New names would be added on an ongoing basis; and on specific Shabbats and Holidays, the book would be read from during the service and prayers recited for those inscribed.

Yet the Memorbuch is no historical relic. Yehuda Galinsky has shown that the current Ashkenazic Yizkor service is simply a variation on the Memorbuch prayers; this change, which took place in the 1400s, shifted Yizkor from the prayer leader to the individual congregant, allowing them to pray for whomever they chose to.

Unfortunately, the shift to a personal Yizkor left significant prayers behind. The Memorbuch also contained regular prayers for historical figures. This included rabbis such as Rabbeinu Gershom and Rashi, as well as an exhaustive registry of martyrs who had died “al Kiddush Hashem,” murdered because they were Jewish.

The Nuremberg Memorbuch, (as well as all subsequent Memorbuchs,) contains a lengthy town-by-town list of martyrs from the First Crusade in 1096, the Rintfleisch massacres in the summer of 1298, and the Black Death massacres of 1349. The list includes obscure villages that otherwise have been forgotten to history; but Jews once lived in these places, only to be murdered by their neighbors. In Eggolsheim, five families were killed in 1298; in Niesten and Stubenberg, the Jews of the community were burned to death. The Nuremberg Memorbuch is the only remaining memorial to their lives.

The Memorbuch transformed the consciousness of Ashkenazic Jewry. Debra Kaplan explains that it created a common heritage for diverse communities, and linked generations together in a shared history. German communities in the early 1900’s were still reading the names of those who were martyred in Worms and Mainz 800 years earlier; for them, the names of the past were not part of the past at all.

Collective memory is central to Judaism; the root for memory, zachor, appears over 200 times in the Tanakh. It offers a way of bridging the past and present, for every generation to envision themselves standing alongside their ancestors, reliving their history. But the names and mini-biographies of the Memorbuch take this a step further; written in tears, they speak of these massacres with a combination of defiance and love.

Even in the short, terse inscriptions about the early martyrs, one can see the rage bubbling underneath. One such line about the city of Worms tells of “Master Shemaryah who was buried alive, and whose wife, sons, and daughters were slaughtered.”

These words cry out for justice. Medieval Jews may have been relatively powerless, but they remained steadfastly proud. The authors of the Memorbuch refused to make peace with the injustice of antisemitism.

And later generations promised that they would remember. The names of the martyrs were repeated in synagogues far and wide, even centuries later. Memory became the vehicle for a communal embrace, an act of tenderness that declared “love is as strong as death.”

After the Holocaust, the Memorbuch returned. Small groups of survivors worked tirelessly to create Yizkorbuchs dedicated to telling the story of the communities destroyed by the Nazis. They felt an intense sense of urgency; they were the only ones who could still tell the story. Collections of these books are found in multiple libraries, calling to the reader to remember the Jews of long-lost communities.

October 7th and its aftermath has brought 1,400 heartbreaking Yizkors to the world. The victims of this massacre and war are disproportionately young, revelers at a music festival, soldiers on the front lines, and Kibbutz families. Over 100 children have been orphaned. In Nir Oz, Tamar and Yonatan Kedem-Siman Tov and their three young children, 6-year-old twin girls Shahar and Arbel, and 4-year-old son Omer, were burned alive in their home, along with Yonatan’s mother, Carol Siman Tov. For 1,400 tragedies like this, an ordinary Yizkor no longer suffices.

This Pesach, Rabbi Shlomo Brody published a list naming each person who has fallen since October 7th, along with a new prayer in their memory. This was, as he called it, a time for a “communal memorial prayer.” Our congregation found this to be profoundly meaningful. Hopefully, one day someone will be inspired to compose a new Yizkorbuch, one dedicated to the memory of those who have fallen in this depraved pogrom.

But even that is not enough.

On the surface, Yizkor is a prayer that makes little sense. Yet its very oddness is the source of its spiritual brilliance, and it is a prayer that makes unique demands of us.

How does one imagine that their acts of charity and prayer here on earth can accrue to the souls of the dead? Some critics dismissed this practice as improper. Abraham Bar Hiyya, a Jewish Philosopher in early 12th-century Spain criticized the idea as follows:

The decrees of the world to come are not conditional and therefore there can be no repentance after death….the dead know nothing and have no choice between right and wrong. This is why the actions of one's descendants after death can make no difference to the dead man….

Rabbi Reuven Margolies quotes a similar complaint from an anonymous medieval responsa: “There is no question that good deed performed for the dead neither helps nor saves them, for each person is judged according to who they were at death, according to the level of their soul as it leaves their body…”

However, a defense of Yizkor is offered by the Sefer Chasidim. It explains that the past continues to influence the present. If a person educates their children to do good deeds, then even years later those deeds can be attributed to the parent as well. An act of charity years after someone passes on can still be considered their doing.

This answer still leaves me uneasy. But despite that, it contains a powerful spiritual insight: we must serve as the legacy of those who are gone. Our actions can fulfill their lost dreams. Abraham Lincoln in the Gettysburg Address, (which is perhaps the best Yizkor homily ever written,) offers precisely this thought:

It is for us the living, … to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is … for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.

When saying 1,400 Yizkors, we must resolve to do the same. They have left behind much unfinished work in a terribly imperfect world. And we must vow to carry on their unfinished legacy: to care for their families, rebuild their communities, and ensure that the future of Israel and the Jewish people is brighter than ever before.

In their memory, we must declare: Am Yisrael Chai. That is the legacy of 1,400 Yizkors.

Politics Without Problems

2024-03-25T11:39:00.000-04:00

The Golden Calf, Old Testament series, gouache on board,, circa 1896–1902 by James Jacques Joseph Tissot (French 1836-1902)

Interpretations of the golden calf have always been fraught with controversy. Christian polemics, beginning in the 2nd century Epistle of Barnabas, argued that the Jews annulled their covenant with God when they created the Golden Calf; worshiping an idol right at the foot of Mount Sinai was an irreversible declaration of disloyalty. Jewish commentaries struggled to fend off this attack, but at the same time, struggled with the narrative itself. How was it possible that the Jews turned their backs on God so quickly?

As a result of these questions, two interpretive strategies arise. One point of view says yes, the Golden Calf was an idol; and even if betraying God under the Midrash’s metaphorical “marriage canopy” seems surprising, well, surprises happen. People can be very fickle in their commitments. Others mitigate the issue of betrayal by casting the “mixed multitude,” who accompanied the Jews from Egypt, as the villains of the story. They argue it was these outsiders who made the Golden Calf, not the former Jewish slaves. The mixed multitude were simply reverting to their previous idolatrous ways.

Another school of interpretation argues that the Golden Calf wasn't an idol at all. Yehuda Halevi says the Golden Calf was just a physical representation of the one, invisible God, a tangible object to help bring a greater sense of connection to the divine. Or, perhaps the Jews were simply looking for a new leader; as the Ramban puts it, They wanted another Moses.” The Golden Calf would be an oracle to guide them, and it would step into the newly opened leadership position.

The textual evidence on this is ambiguous. On the one hand, the Jews asked for the Golden Calf in order to replace Moses. Later, after creating the Golden Calf, they call to have a holiday for God, which seems to indicate that they remained loyal to God. But there is compelling evidence for the other view; the Jews refer to the Golden Calf as “your gods, that brought you up out of Egypt.” And they stood at the ready to worship it.

It seems like the Golden Calf was supposed to be both a god and a leader.

But perhaps that's precisely it; the Golden Calf is a hybrid. If we take a step back and reconsider the purpose of the Golden Calf, we can reach an unusual conclusion. The Golden Calf wasn't meant to replace Moses; they could have picked another person for that. And it wasn’t meant as a replacement for God; they didn’t have to wait for a forty-day delay in Moses’ return to switch to idol worship. Instead, the Golden Calf was meant to be a Jewish Pharaoh. The Pharaohs were demigods, political leaders who at the same time were divine figures, monarchs who were at the same time the close family of the gods.

Having a demigod as your leader changes the political order. As Joshua Berman explains in his book Created Equal, in the pagan culture of the ancient world, the common man was ignored by God; he was created to serve the gods, nothing more. A demigod as king meant that the entire population was subservient, and there at the beck and call of the king. Once we recognize this, it becomes clear that slavery was not just a feature of ancient Egypt, it was its organizing principle. Everyone could potentially be a slave.

The covenantal order in Judaism is dramatically different. God raises man up to be His partner, accepting human beings as worthy associates who are created in the image of God. This view offers human beings greater dignity, but at the same, is far more demanding.

One must recognize the transaction between the Pharaoh and his constituents is not one-sided. Some people prefer autocracy. Yes, in Pharaoh’s Egypt, being a mere human meant you must endure a lack of rights; but at the same time, one has far fewer worries. After all, you have a god in charge, what could go wrong? A demigod is by definition a perfect leader.

And that is what the Jews are choosing with the Golden Calf.

One of the fascinating details in the text is that the Jews rejected Moses because he was late. It should be mentioned that Ibn Ezra takes a more plausible approach to this lateness; he writes that the Jews had no idea when Moses was supposed to return, and on day forty, finally lost their patience. Rashi, however, takes an approach based on the Talmud, and says that Moses was just an hour late when the Jews decided to turn to the Golden Calf.

This behavior seems strange: Had the Jews never seen anyone be late before? More importantly, why didn't the Jews send out a search party to look for Moses?

Clearly, the Jews weren’t just rejecting Moses, they were rejecting human leadership. Human beings are flawed, fragile, and eventually die. Demigods are flawless; and the Pharaohs conveyed the image of being invulnerable. (This had to have been a lot of work. The Midrash mockingly says that Pharaoh would go for a regular swim, and only then would he take care of his bodily needs, hidden away from the prying eyes of others. Such is the task of a fake demigod.) For a people used to the image of an invulnerable demigod, a leader who shows up even a few minutes late is frightening. Moses simply is all too human, all too vulnerable. And all too disposable.

A Pharaoh offers the allure of a political order without problems. A demigod runs everything, and no one else must worry, content that they are in good hands. All they need to do is live a servile life.

The covenantal order is quite different. Humans are full partners with God, and bring to the relationship all the messiness of being a human. Tablets can be broken. Leaders might be late, or even disappear. Problems are everywhere, and you always have to worry about them.

But the power of a covenantal order is that with patience all can be restored. It is about a great partnership, one that goes from person to person and generation to generation. Occasionally partners will fall short of their obligations; but every covenant carries with it the possibility of forgiveness and the optimism of renewal.

This is why the worthless broken tablets will eventually have more power than a grandiose Pharaoh. Covenants can always be reborn and rebuilt.

Israel is at a moment when covenantal patience is needed more than ever. Some commentators have even asked whether this war proves that the Zionist dream is futile; wasn't the entire point of the State of Israel the ensure a safe haven for the Jews? They argue if Israel is no longer safe, it no longer has a purpose.

This a significant challenge, and needs to be taken seriously. After October 7th, everyone is unsure about what will happen to the Israeli dream; and we recognize that this horrible conflict may last a long time. A heartbroken nation is searching again for a missing Moses.

The unwillingness to accept problems patiently is no different today than in the times of the Golden Calf. Some still hope for quick and easy solutions. We think if we get a few experts to write position papers, all problems will be solved; this is what one former Israeli chief of staff called “solutionism.” This attitude makes sense to us, because we live at a time of powerful demigods as well; most of our problems are solved with technology and wealth. But not all of them. And we are confounded when some problems don’t seem to go away.

It takes courage to hold on to the covenant when you have to wait, uncertain of what will follow. That is why we should be particularly proud of those who move forward despite this uncertainty.

In the past few weeks, Israeli media has reported on communities that are slowly returning to the Gaza envelope; one such report was headlined “between joy and fear.” These returning residents are coming back to an uncertain reality, with the sounds of a war that is still going on in the not-too-distant background. They explained to reporters that yes, the nightmares of October 7th play over and over again in their heads. They can point to neighboring houses, and say who is returning, and who is not. They completely understand why some of their friends will never come back. But they are choosing to come home anyway.

They know there are no easy solutions; but they are not going to give up. They are patient with the present, and have hope for a better future.

It is about them that Yehuda Halevi wrote in his Kinnah, Tzion Haloh Tishali. He describes those Jews who were steadfast in their love for Zion and declares:

Blessed is he who waits, and arrives to see the rising sun of your dawn, and is there for daybreak…and rejoices in happiness of your return to the days of your youth.

May God bless these returning residents, and protect them. May they, too, see their communities return to the days of their youth, and the glory of their past.

Too Soon for Humor?

2024-03-25T11:38:00.001-04:00

Purim parade ("Adloyada") in Tel Aviv

in the 50's.

Since October 7th, the Jewish community has been in mourning. Grief is a narrow-minded emotion, with little room for much else; and certainly no room for humor. And yet, even in the worst of times, people have to laugh; it's more or less instinctive.

Daniel Gordis wrote about a conversation he had:

We were coming out of Minchah yesterday afternoon, and the sky had darkened considerably in the very short time we’d been inside... I said to a friend who was standing next to me, "What’s with the clouds? Is it going to rain? I thought it was supposed to be clear this week.”

“No,” he said, “Cloudy with a chance of war.”

I burst out laughing, as did he. It was hilarious. But also not.

This sort of laughter feels transgressive. We are torn, wondering if it is insensitive to make jokes, both in general, and about this horrible war. In November, an article in Yediot Achronot asked: Are we allowed to laugh yet?

A quick glance at Jewish sources yields an unequivocal no. Halakhah employs a rigid etiquette that separates joy and grief. It is unseemly if mourners are jovial during shiva; the Talmud writes: Rav Pappa said…A mourner should not place a young child in their lap because the child will bring them to laughter, and they will be disgraced in the eyes of other people, because they laughed while in mourning. (Moed Katan 26a) In another passage, the Talmud goes further, requiring everyone to practice self-denial to connect to the communal pain, and says: Reish Lakish said: It is prohibited for a person to have conjugal relations in years of famine (Taanit 11a)

Yet these proscriptions don’t always fit ordinary life. (For this reason, later halakhic commentaries often treat these passages as general guidance rather than an absolute religious obligation.) Laughter is found in the darkest moments, and tears at the peak of joy; most people can’t separate their emotions into neat little compartments, to be pulled out at will when needed. As Gordis realized that afternoon, laughter can arrive without an invitation.

"Hogan's Heroes” was a popular television show when I was young. It was a sitcom about the escapades of captured Allied soldiers in a Nazi P.O.W. camp, where the prisoners constantly fooled the hapless Germans. Even as a child, I was bewildered by the show; in reality the Nazis were brutal and efficient, nothing like the characters on Hogan's Heroes. Later I learned that four of the characters on the show, including those of the three senior Nazis, were played by Jewish refugees from Europe; the parents of Leon Askin, who played the German General Albert Hans Burkhalter on the show, were murdered in Treblinka. This was even more confounding; how could Jewish refugees play Nazis on TV, just 20 years after the war?

While the line between bad taste and good comedy is elusive, Hogan's Heroes may have landed on the wrong side of what is appropriate. But perhaps a partial defense of this bizarre show can be offered by Robert Clary, who played Corporal LeBeau, a French P.O.W. Clary was a survivor of Buchenwald, who lost his parents and 10 of his siblings during the Holocaust. When he reflected on his experiences later in life, he said his ability to sing, to laugh, and to entertain enabled him to survive. Yes, a good joke can sometimes be the difference between life and death; and during the Holocaust, many used jokes as a tool of survival.

Several books and articles have been written about Holocaust humor, and a number of the jokes have been preserved. (One example: “Every day in the ghetto is like a holiday. We sleep in a Sukkah, dress up like it’s Purim, and eat like it’s Yom Kippur.”) The most thorough academic study of this phenomenon is Itamar Levin’s Hebrew work “Through the Tears.” In his introduction, Levin writes about the different purposes of humor. Sometimes it is the “weapon of the weak,” who get a measure of retribution by mocking their Nazi tormentors. But the larger purpose was to preserve people’s sanity when insanity was the natural reaction, and to give people hope when everything looked hopeless.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once offered a comment critical of Roberto Benigni’s “Life is Beautiful,” a film about how a father saved his son’s life during the Holocaust by making jokes. Rabbi Sacks wrote that he disagreed with the film's thesis that humor can keep you alive. After a speech, a Holocaust survivor approached Sacks to correct him on this point. Rabbi Sacks writes:

“You are wrong,” …(he) said to me, and then, he told me his story. He and another prisoner in Auschwitz had become friends. They reached the conclusion that unless they were able to laugh, they would eventually lose the will to live. So they made an agreement. Each of them would look out, every day, for something about which they could laugh. Each night they would share their findings and laugh together. “A sense of humor,” said the survivor, looking me in the eyes, “kept me alive.”

Sacks then realized that these Holocaust jokes could be heroic and life-sustaining. Reflecting on this later, he wrote: “I cannot say I understand such courage, but I found it awe-inspiring.”

The Halakhic proscriptions against joy in times of grief are quite meaningful; they emphasize the moral obligation to mourn the death of a beloved relative. These rules are necessary because sometimes a Shiva house can feel like a party, with copious food and chatter about golf games and vacations.

However, even at the worst of times, joy must never disappear; Hasidic thinkers have stressed how central joy is to one’s religious identity. This emphasis is not just because of joy’s spiritual importance; recognizing the enormous pain Jews carried from years of exile, the Hasidic masters saw happiness and laughter as the way to heal long-standing psychic wounds.

Even Tisha B’Av, the most tragic day on the Jewish calendar, is recast as a time of joy. First, there is the extraordinary explanation of the Chozeh (Seer) of Lublin to the Talmudic phrase “when the month of Av enters, one reduces joy.” This is ordinarily understood as meaning that one must already diminish joy nine days before Tisha B’av. The Chozeh had a dramatic rereading of this text; he read it as meaning that when the dark month of Av arrives, one diminishes the pain of the month by adding joy! This idea was reflected in practice as well. Some Chasidic Jews had the custom to play pranks on each other on Tisha B'Av; oftentimes it was the children throwing berelach, little brambles during Kinot to lighten up the mood. Chasidic leaders felt that the Jews in Eastern Europe had lived with too much distress, and that a painful Tisha B'Av would do more harm than good.

A similar insight is offered regarding the corresponding phrase “when the month of Adar arrives, we increase joy.” The Sefat Emet notes that Adar is the month that is repeated in a leap year (such as this year), when there is a doubling of the month of joy. This, he explains, underlines the centrality of joy; and Jews need as much joy as they get.

Purim this year will be different. A tragic war is still ongoing; much like Av, it will be difficult to laugh. Yet at the same time we need to find a way to lift our spirits, to find that double portion of joy that two Adars bring.

I am a big fan of the Israel sketch comedy show “Eretz Nehederet.” One of the recurring sketches is of Asher Ben Chorin (Yuval Semo), who is a parody of the average Israeli taxi driver who says outlandish things to his passengers. (The passengers are all in on the joke before they enter the car.) One of the segments in November was exceptional. Semo was driving evacuees from the communities near Gaza in his taxi. He started with his ordinary jokes, talking about how being an evacuee is now a “status,” and remarking to one couple, who were being housed in the Royal Beach Hotel, “that when I was on my honeymoon I didn’t go to such a good hotel.” To Tomer and Guy, two young men from Kfar Aza, he says, “You should consider moving to somewhere calmer - maybe Dagestan” before declaring that what was really needed “is to rebrand Kfar Aza, and give it a different name - like Neveh Steinman.”

But then the conversations changed in tone. He takes Noa, a young mother of three from Sufa, who explains that her husband went out that morning to defend their Kibbutz and never returned. Yes, there are jokes in their conversation; when he asks Noa how her kids are, she says “annoying - as always.” She explains that her will return to Sufa because it was her husband’s birthplace and home, and that is where they belong. The conversation ends in tears and a hug.

In his conversation with Tomer and Guy, Tomer tells Semo that both his parents, Ram and Lily, were murdered. Semo says that for the first time in 30 years, he is at a loss for words. Tomer continues, and says that his sister said it is almost a month since their parents’ deaths, and Tomer needed to smile; that is why he signed up to be on the show. And then he adds that it had been his father’s dream to be in Semo’s taxi sketch. The conversation continues on about Tomer’s parents, before ending with Semo wisecracking “Don’t think I’m not going to charge you for this ride.”

From beyond the tears, these gentle jokes honor Ram and Lily; and Tomer’s and Guy’s smiles carry their legacy. Sometimes, laughter is the right way to grieve; and their tears and smiles combine to leave them stronger.

This Purim we too will laugh and cry; and both the smiles and the tears will honor the legacy of the fallen. Laughter has helped the Jewish people survive. Joy sits at the center of the Jewish soul.

And that is why it is never too soon for Purim, never too soon for a joke.

The Day After

2024-03-25T11:37:00.003-04:00

Every ending is a new beginning.

When we conclude each of the five books of the Torah (as we will this week,) the reader leads the congregation in the refrain “chazak chazak v’nitchazek,” “be strong, be strong, and be strengthened.”

This custom began in the 1100s, and is one of a group of customs related to finishing a Torah reading. Sephardic custom after one receives an Aliyah is that other people greet them with chazak u’baruch,“may you be strong and blessed”; Ashkenazic Jews say instead yiyasher kochacha, “may your strength be renewed.” After finishing an entire book of the Talmud, we read the siyum declaration which begins with the words Hadran Alach, “I will return to you,” expressing a commitment to review what was just studied. These customs declare that one can never retire from responsibility, even after extraordinary success. Endings are never the end.

For the same reason, on Simchat Torah, when we read the final Torah reading of the year, we go a step further and start reading the Torah again from the beginning. We want to make it clear we are not going to abandon the Torah, once completed. (Rabbi Joseph Ber Soloveitchik suggests that this may be why we say Adon Olam at the end of the Musaf prayer on Shabbat morning; even after lengthy service, we go right back to the very first prayer, indicating we are ready to start all over again!)

Every victory brings with it the possibility of a letdown. Overconfidence can turn strong armies into weak ones. It is precisely after achieving success, after concluding the task, that we have to remember to “be strong, be strong, and be strengthened.”

One of the major British victories in World War II was the second Battle of El-Alamein, which ended on November 11, 1942. That day, Winston Churchill spoke to the Parliament to report on the victory. Then he added the following:

We are entitled to rejoice only upon the condition that we do not relax. I always liked those lines by the American poet, Walt Whitman. I have several times repeated them. They apply to-day most aptly. He said: “…Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.” The problems of victory are more agreeable than those of defeat, but they are no less difficult. …We shall need to use the stimulus of victory to increase our exertions, to perfect our systems, and to refine our processes.

This is an eloquent restatement of chazak chazak v’nitchazek. Unlike the tagline of the beer ads, after a task is complete, it is not “Miller Time.” Victory brings with it a multitude of problems; and the greatest of them all is being spoiled by success.

Every new chapter requires an even greater struggle.

The catastrophe of October 7th occurred due to the sins of overconfidence. Multiple warnings were ignored, while the political and military leadership clung to the assumption that enemy simply would not attack despite clear evidence otherwise. No one remembered the lesson of chazak chazak v’nitchazek.

In retrospect, this war will probably be seen as a defeat and victory mashed up together, much like the Yom Kippur War 50 years ago. What happens the “day after” has been discussed, almost from the very beginning. Pundits, politicians, and polemicists all offer their visions. They are planning for a very different political and social landscape.

While a new blueprint is probably necessary, even more important than that is a new mindset.

History is considered by Judaism as a form of revelation. In a recent seminar, I made mention of Emil Fackenheim’s “614th commandment.” Fackenheim was a prolific writer on the theology of the Holocaust, and believed that history is a form of revelation. The Holocaust, he argued, despite its horrors, carries the commanding voice of history. To Fackenheim, this voice declared: "Thou shalt not hand Hitler posthumous victories.” That is a new commandment, the 614th commandment. One of his students paraphrased Fackenhiem’s four-fold view of this commandment as meaning: “Jews must remain Jews, they must remember the Shoah victims, they must not despair of man, and they must not despair of God.”

History as revelation is the very lesson of Purim. Megilat Esther meticulously excludes mentioning God’s name. Instead, it urges us to hear God through the commanding voice of history. Much like Fackenheim’s understanding, the practical commandments in Megilat Esther offer a series of lessons as well, which I would summarize this way:

Evil exists. Celebrate salvation, and celebrate with friends. Care for the vulnerable. Connect to your community. Read aloud these lessons every year so you don’t forget them.

Actually, the lessons of history cannot offer a simple blueprint for the future; circumstances change all the time. Instead, they are meant to transform our perspective.

After October 7th, a commanding voice calls out to us again, asking us to see the world differently. Bret Stephens, in a brilliant column, wrote:

There used to be a sign somewhere in the C.I.A.’s headquarters that read, “Every day is Sept. 12.” It was placed there to remind the agency’s staffers that what they felt right after the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001 — the sense of outrage and purpose, of favoring initiative over caution, of taking nothing for granted — had to be the mind-set with which they arrived to work every day.

There ought to be a similar sign in every Jewish organization, synagogue and day school, and on the desks of anyone — Jewish or not — for whom the security and well-being of the Jews is a sacred calling: “Every day is Oct. 8.”

This is a powerful point. Jews must nevermore be naive. Our destiny can no longer depend on here today, gone tomorrow “allies,” and our security must depend on something more than a high-tech fence.

But the voice of history has much more to say about October 7th. One day a megillah of October 7th will be composed, with all the stories of unity, heroism, and optimism inside. And through these stories, we will hear God’s commanding voice, and learn lessons about the mindset we need in order to move forward into the future.

Allow me to share one such story. This past week I met a young woman from Kfar Aza, Or Tzuk, who spoke at an AIPAC conference.

On October 7th, Hamas terrorists murdered her parents. Her 25-year-old brother was able to survive by hiding under a bed; he stayed there for seven hours just inches from his own mother's body, soaked in her blood. (As luck would have it, Or and her husband had been on vacation that fateful day.)

Or recounted how she promised her brother that whatever happens in the future, she will always care for him; he can come any day and move right into her house. And she told everyone that she is three months pregnant, and had thrown up just before she got on stage.

When I spoke to her afterward, I asked Or why she decided to get pregnant just two months after her parents were brutally murdered. Her response was simple; Jews know they must choose life. Jews must always be optimistic, even in the worst of times.

Or said she drew inspiration from the Jewish holidays. Unlike many other cultures and religions, Jewish holidays are not unvarnished stories of joy; rather, they tell stories about how resilient heroes like Esther, Moses, and the Maccabees overcame extreme challenges.

When speaking to Or, I realized that I was talking to a modern-day Esther. She has heard a voice calling out, telling her to choose life, to choose family, to choose community.

And that voice speaks to us too. This is the only way forward for the day after.

Ordinary Superheroes

2024-03-25T11:35:00.002-04:00

Purim, Woodcut from Sefer Minhagim (Book of Customs) Venice, Italy 1741

Wearing masks and costumes is a Purim tradition that seemingly arrived from nowhere. First mentioned in the early 1300s in Southern France, the custom quickly became well accepted; so much so, that several halakhic rulings allow costumes that violate halakhic prohibitions to be worn on Purim. This custom is now universally accepted, and the yearly pre-Purim question is: What are you dressing up as?

One contemporary Sephardic rabbi, Rabbi Meir Mazuz, wrote that wearing costumes on Purim is a purely Ashkenazic custom, which European Jews adopted from their Christian neighbors; he advised Sephardic Jews not to dress up for Purim. Yet even Rabbi Mazuz had to reverse course. When a young father who had read his book decided to forbid his children from wearing costumes, the mother sent an anguished note to Rabbi Mazuz about her children being the oddballs of their class. In response, Rabbi Mazuz wrote back that “there is no prohibition to dress up, especially after it has now become the general custom of all Jews.”

There are many theories about the reason for wearing costumes on Purim. The Eliyahu Rabbah relates this custom to the turning point of the Book of Esther, when Mordechai puts on the king’s clothing. Another explanation is that the masks in particular reflect the theme of hiding: both Esther hiding her nationality, and God hiding his face from the Jewish people.

Others see this custom as an expression of the general ambiance of Purim. Jeffrey Rubenstein, based on Victor Turner’s analysis of medieval carnivals, sees Purim as a holiday in which social status and structure are reversed. He notes multiple customs that reinforce this idea. Communities had fake Purim rabbis who parodied the rabbi, and held Purim shpiels in which the leadership of the community was lampooned.

The wearing of costumes by children is very much a part of this. As Rubenstein notes, children are relatively powerless every other day; but on Purim, they wear costumes that exude power and authority. They have changed their social position by putting on a new set of clothes.

Rubenstein’s description of Purim is correct, but how did it arise? According to Yonatan Grossman, the rowdy atmosphere of Purim is an outgrowth of the Book of Esther itself. He references Mikhail Bakhtin’s studies of literary “carnivals”, books in which hierarchy, status, and refinement are wordlessly tossed aside, much like a carnival. Esther is very much a book of carnivalesque reversals, in which the lowly become great, the hidden is revealed, and the weak become strong. In addition, eating, drinking, and lovemaking are on center stage in the Book of Esther, much like a carnival, where the sensual gets top billing. Our exuberant Purim celebrations are rooted in the text of the Book of Esther.

With this being the case, I would add that there is one further reversal in the Book of Esther that must be mentioned: previously marginal Jews take on leading roles. Both Esther and Mordechai don’t seem to be profoundly attached to the Jewish community at the beginning of the book. Mordechai (or his family) left Israel during the exile of Yehoyachin, an early Babylonian exile of the elite. The Babylonians brought these Jewish leaders back with them, with the intent of assimilating them into local culture and religious practice (as the Book of Daniel makes clear). Mordechai’s name is a foreign one, named after Marduk, the local Babylonian God. (The Tanakh mentions a Babylonian King with a similar name, Evil-Merodach, which means “the servant of Marduk.”) Esther also has both a Jewish name and a Persian one; her Persian name comes from the Goddess of love and war, Ishtar.

Mordechai and Esther seem to be content to assimilate ever so gently into Persian society. What is particularly telling about their attitude is their joint decision that Esther should hide her Jewish identity in Ahasuerus’ palace. Why did they do that? Perhaps the best theory is offered by the 12th-century commentaries of Rashbam and Rabbi Yoseph Kara, who say that Esther hid her Jewish identity so it wouldn’t undermine her chances to become queen. Rabbi Yoseph Kara writes that Mordechai told Esther the following:

But you, even if you succeed in the eyes of the king, and are considered to be deserving, (your appointment will be opposed because being Jewish) will be considered dishonorable in the eyes of the ministers, because Jews are despised in the eyes of all the peoples and hated in the eyes of the nations. Therefore, if the king asks you what nation you are from, do not say what is your nation and your homeland. And then, perhaps you will find favor in the King’s eyes, and he will choose you to rule in the place of Vashti.

Esther hides her Jewish identity in order to be chosen as the Persian queen.

Once Esther is chosen, she seems to have no concern about what she eats. This stands in stark contrast with Daniel, who after moving into the royal palace refuses to eat the meals, and eventually is given a vegetarian diet (Daniel 1:8ff). In the Talmud, the sage Samuel concludes that Esther ate pork, that most un-Jewish of foods, in the King’s palace.

Esther and Mordechai are not stereotypical Jewish leaders; no one would have expected them to risk their lives to save the Jewish people.

But they did.

Purim is a story of marginal Jews who take center stage, of an awakening of Jewish pride in the face of an implacable foe; much like Jews today.

I go to a lot of Jewish community events; and in attendance are the usual suspects, the dedicated stalwarts of the community. But not this year. There are new faces everywhere, at every event; there are people who didn’t go to synagogue who are coming now, and there are people who never went to Israel who are making their first trips after October 7th. It is remarkable to see the overwhelming outpouring of support for Israel in the Jewish community, oftentimes from Jews who had not engaged before. Once again, an army of Mordechais and Esthers have come to save the day. No one expects a Purim hero to be a hero; not then, and not now.

It is here where we need to reflect again on costumes. As Rubenstein noted, from an anthropological perspective costumes tell us about breaking social barriers. But costumes also tell us a story about ourselves; children very often play dress-up with their parents’ clothes and mimic their actions. From a psychological perspective, costumes are about potential, possibility, and imagination.

Children love to dress up as superheroes. Every Purim, a parade of Marvel and DC comics’ best and biggest show up in the synagogue, ready to sound their graggers. The costumes may seem cute to us, kids offering an homage to their favorite TV characters. But actually, by wearing costumes, they are preparing themselves for a true Jewish future; one day, they too might have to step up and be superheroes. And that is exactly what Purim is about.

Those children who once dressed up as Batman and Superman are now superheroes, just without the cape.

Endless stories tell of the heroism of everyday people. Two brothers, Noam and Yishai Slotki of Beersheva, both young fathers, rushed to Kibbutz Alumim on the morning of October 7th to fight Hamas; both ended up falling in battle. Rami Davidian, an oil and gas salesman, saved hundreds of people from the Nova festival; at one point, he impersonated being a member of Hamas and got a group of terrorists to turn over to him a young woman they had captured. After an army unit finally arrived at her home in Kfar Aza, Gali Ayalon, a 15-year-old, became a virtual scout for them, guiding them by text message to the homes where people were hiding.

The exceptional bravery of the ordinary Israeli inspired the group Hatikvah 6 to compose the song “Superheroes,” which was just released a few weeks ago. The lyrics are about how ordinary people, teachers, lawyers, electricians, and bus drivers, are taking on remarkable tasks in this war against Hamas.

The song goes on to explain:

It’s true that everyone here looks normal,

But we are a nation of superheroes

There is always a soldier hidden within

Ready to save the world…

And it doesn’t matter if in the middle of life,

or in the middle of a soccer game

Everyone will drop everything in a second if our country calls them

This is not a parallel universe or a Marvel comics reality

This is our story - the people of Israel

Yes, they are ordinary superheroes. And they’ve been training for that role every Purim since the days of Esther and Mordechai.

An Ever-Present Void

2024-02-23T13:00:00.004-05:00

Graves at Har Herzl. Israel’s military cemetary.

Moses is not mentioned in Parshat Tetzaveh, the only such instance in the last four books of the Torah. This point, first mentioned by the Baal HaTurim, is a favorite of elementary school teachers looking for fun facts, and pulpit rabbis looking for sermon topics.

On its own, this observation is purely an exercise in poetry; in reality, multiple factors determined the division of Torah readings, and the fact that one short Parsha ended up without Moses’ name is not all that strange.

What does matter is not whether Moses is “missing” from the Parsha, but our perception of it. The fact that this question is constantly repeated says a great deal about the reader; Moses is not mentioned, and it’s noticed.

Even when Moses is gone, he leaves behind an ever-present void.

Many of those who comment on Moses' absence relate it to his date of death, which according to the Talmud (Kiddushin 38a,) was on the seventh of Adar; and most years, Tetzaveh and the seventh of Adar are on the same week. (This year they are a week apart.)

The seventh of Adar is included on a list of fast days compiled by the Baal Halakhot Gedolot, an 8th-century work. While these fasts have long fallen out of practice (Rabbi Yoseph Karo writes they had already been discontinued by the 15th century), the fast of the seventh of Adar continued to be practiced by burial societies (Chevrei Kadisha). They would assemble together for morning services, and recite special selichot prayers about the tasks of a Chevra Kadisha. At night, they would join together for a special meal in honor of their service to the community.

The connection between Chevrei Kadisha and Moses is twofold. First, Moses was buried in an unmarked grave by God Himself. In each burial, the Chevra Kadisha follows in God’s footsteps, and does a true act of kindness. (Because Moses' grave is unknown, the Israeli rabbinate designated the seventh of Adar as the memorial day for soldiers whose burial places are unknown.)

The second reason is that Moses is a role model for Chevrei Kadisha. As the Jews left Egypt, Moses made certain to take with him Joseph's bones for burial in Israel. Even 400 years later, Joseph's bones were not seen as a funerary relic of the distant past; he was seen as family. And this is the very mission that every Chevra Kadisha is tasked with: to ensure that those who are gone are never forgotten, and receive a proper burial.

It is a profoundly holy task. On our missions to Israel, we visited the Shurah Army Base, where the bodies of the 1200 people murdered on October 7th were processed for burial. The scenes that played out there in the first few days of the war were gut-wrenching. Rabbi Benzi Mann, who has been serving at Shurah since October 7th, spoke about how every refrigerated truck in the country, including dairy transports covered with advertisements for chocolate milk and yogurt, were conscripted to transport bodies; to this day he feels uneasy seeing dairy trucks on the highway. When Benzi would open the trucks’ doors, there were so many bodies piled up that blood would come pouring out.

But despite the traumatic circumstances, these incredible reservists worked day and night to ensure the dead got a proper burial, and that their families had a chance to wish their loved ones farewell. The dedicated Chevra Kadisha at Shurah did everything possible to treat the dead, and their families, with love.

Rabbi Mann related a conversation between Rabbi Ephraim Mirvis, the Chief Rabbi of England, and President Isaac Herzog of Israel. Rabbi Mirvis told President Herzog he had visited Shurah. President Herzog replied that it was an awful place, “the gates of hell”; the very imprint of Hamas’ depraved crimes was on the body of every person murdered.

Rabbi Mirvis responded that on the contrary, Shurah was the “gates of heaven,” and a place of awe; it was a place where holy volunteers had heroically restored dignity to the deceased and their families.

The task of the Chevra Kadisha is to ensure the body is treated with respect. In preparation for burial, they do what is called a taharah where they do what they can to clean the body and purify it, and recite prayers for the soul of the deceased. (In the case of those murdered on October 7th, many of the usual procedures were suspended; murder victims are meant to be buried in their clothes. However, the prayers and the arrangement of the bodies in the coffin remain the same.) Other societies may cremate remains, or toss them away; Tibetans practice a “sky-burial,” in which bodies are placed on the mountaintop to be eaten by vultures. Judaism’s perspective is different and views treating the body with respect as the highest priority.

The Chatam Sofer explains (Teshuvot 2:328) that the taharah procedures are in place to show respect for man, who is created in the “image of God.” Even the dead body continues to carry a reflection of the divine image. The Chatam Sofer reminds us that by offering proper respect for the dead body, one offers respect for the living.

Jewish funerary and mourning rituals are not about closure and putting the death behind us. On the contrary, they are about preserving our connection to those who have passed away. We want to build a bridge from this world to the next, and to continue to keep our loved ones in our hearts.

This is what Avishai Margalit has called “the ethics of memory.” While the philosophical basis of this idea is complex, it is very much a part of the Jewish tradition. The ritual of Shiva and the prayers of Yizkor and Kaddish all articulate the same idea: we must continue to remember those whom we love. We remember because to love someone is to love someone forever; we remember because we could never forgive ourselves for forgetting.

On the last day of our most recent mission, we visited Har Herzl, Israel's military cemetery. Two sections have been designated for this war’s fallen soldiers. We went on a rainy day and it seemed like the stones were crying. All around us were the graves of people in their twenties and thirties, who once had a bright future ahead of them. A young widow, married for just two months, was sitting next to her husband’s grave; he was 23 years old. Our guide Michal spoke about the soldiers she knew in the section, who were friends from her neighborhood and school. Michal is far too young to know such tragedy; but now she does. Like every Israeli, she has gone to shiva after shiva, comforting and bereaved all at once.

On Har Herzl this overwhelming sense of loss, this endless void, is most profound. There is no grief like the grief of losing a young child at the height of their potential.

But at the same time, there is a recognition that within this absence those who have died will be ever-present. Virtually every grave was decorated by the families in tribute to their loved ones. Bottles of scotch, Israeli flags, soccer flags, photographs, letters, and miniature Torah scrolls all embrace the memory of those who are still loved. They are declarations that the fallen will never be forgotten. At every simcha, every Seder, every family get-together, they will be remembered. There may be a gaping void in the mourners’ hearts, but within that void, the memories of their loved ones are ever-present.

The Bible says, “Put me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm. For love is as strong as death.” (Song of Songs 8:6) These bereaved families have declared that their love is forever, tied to the heart with an eternal bond. Nothing, not even death, can take their love away.

They will always remember their loved ones. And so will we.

May their memory be for a blessing.

KINDNESS, FREEDOM AND VICTORY

2024-02-20T10:59:00.005-05:00

Our group, in front of the Asma’s Restaurant.

(Credit: Gil Golan)

(Sermon given at The Great Synagogue of Jerusalem, Parshat Terumah, February 17, 2024)

There is a Hasidic tradition that every Torah reading contains hints regarding the events and news of that week. The Lubavitcher Rebbe referred to this idea frequently, and it can be found in Rabbinic writings as early as the 1600’s.

This morning we read Parshat Terumah, and I would like to share my personal connection to this week’s Torah reading.

I am in Israel as part of a mission of nearly 50 people from Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York. After spending a week here, it was obvious that this verse at the beginning of the Torah reading reflected our experience:

Speak to the children of Israel, that they bring Me an offering. From everyone who gives it willingly from their heart, you shall take My offering.

Now is a time of great distress and difficulty; the agony of the October 7th massacre is compounded by the continuing tragedy of a painful, grinding war.

Yet against this bleak, dark background, there are a myriad of points of light, beautiful acts of courage and kindness. So many have stepped forward and are giving from the heart.

There is a balagan of courage and kindness. We met a soldier in his 30’s who was living with his family in India, and operated several businesses there. He flew back immediately to join the battle against Hamas and was seriously injured in battle. Yet he was proud of having fought for his country, and spoke passionately about a communal project in Israel he was planning.

In the Galilee we met Asma, a Druze woman whose late husband was an IDF soldier who fell in battle. After the war started, she turned her restaurant Kosher so she could supply Jewish soldiers with meals. She often gives soldiers meals for free, paying for the costs out of her own pocket.

These acts of kindness are bringing very different people closer together. At Hatzalah, we heard about Yossi, a Chassidic volunteer who, along with two friends, rushed out of synagogue on October 7th and drove an ambulance down to the Nova Festival. After completing several hospital transfers, they were transporting a young woman, who complained that she was very cold in the ambulance. Yossi and his team had already used up all the ambulance’s blankets, so Yossi reached into the front seat, took his Tallit and covered the young woman with it. The Nova Festival is worlds apart from Yossi’s Hasidic shteibel; but on that day they were united as one.

Never before has a Tallit accomplished such a holy task.

Despite all the distress and difficulty around us, we were buoyed by the remarkable kindness we saw; and as I reread Parshat Terumah last week, I understood it differently.

What stood out to me this year was the chronology of the donations mentioned at the beginning of the Parsha; the newly freed slaves offered these gifts just a short time after the Exodus. Moses didn’t need to call for voluntary donations in order to gather the requisite resources for building the sanctuary; the far simpler method of making an assessment, in which each person is taxed, could have accomplished the same thing. (This method would eventually be used with the half-shekel levy in the following Parsha.)

I would argue that the voluntary donations served a larger purpose. Giving is a critical step on the road to freedom, and these donations were instituted to retrain the former slaves.

Several Rabbis have made a similar observation about the Passover Haggadah. The Haggadah begins with ha lachma anya, a section that symbolically invites in guests. Why is this the starting point of the Haggadah? Both Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik and Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explain that slaves don’t invite guests. Rabbi Soloveitchik simply notes that slaves can’t give to others because they have no property of their own; whatever they have belongs to their master. Rabbi Sacks explains that slaves are self absorbed, overwhelmed by their day-to-day needs. “Sharing food is the first act through which slaves become free human beings. Someone who fears tomorrow does not offer their bread to others.” Giving is a milestone of freedom, a clear sign that one is no longer an anxious slave.

I would take this connection in a different direction, and say that generosity is not just an outcome of freedom; it actually creates the mindset of freedom. A slave is a slave so long that they think like a victim; and a victim cannot figure out how to help themselves, let alone help others. Altruism changes one’s self-image; to help others is heroic behavior. Generosity, no matter what the circumstances, allows one to grab hold of their own destiny.

On our mission, one of the most powerful meetings we had was with Lahav, a special forces veteran who was at the Nova festival with his younger brother. During that day, Lahav nearly lost his life multiple times; his brother was injured. Finally, they managed to escape and get home. The next day, while still in shock, Lahav received a message that he was being called up.

Lahav certainly didn’t have to report for duty; but he did anyway. Lahav told us that he realized he needed to flip the narrative; instead of being the victim, he was going to grab hold of his destiny and serve his country.

The next day Lahav was in Kfar Aza, fighting Hamas.

Flipping the narrative is precisely why charity is a critical step on the road to freedom; one becomes a giver, and no longer sees themselves as helpless and needy. That is why this act of communal generosity in Parshat Terumah was so critical for the former slaves.

And today, the charity we saw in Israel speaks of a Jewish spirit that refuses to play the victim.

But this verse also hints at a second insight: charity can teach us a great deal about authentic strength and power.

The Torah portion speaks of the nediv lev, one who is giving of their heart; they have a heart that is virtually dripping with goodness. This stands in contrast with Pharaoh’s heart, one which is kaved, hard, and chazak, strong.

Which heart should triumph? One might think the heartless, like Pharaoh, hold the advantage. Actually, the opposite is true. Strength without solidarity fails in the long term.

One of the most difficult visits our group made was to the Shurah army base, which had the grim task, of preparing for burial, the bodies of the 1,200 people murdered on October 7th. Here, dedicated volunteers from the Chevra Kaddisha have restored dignity to the dead and offered comfort to their families. Their actions have sanctified this base, which is truly the gates of heaven.

Noa, the head of the women’s Chevra Kaddisha explained that “I am also fighting Hamas. When we do good we fight Hamas.”

In this short phrase, Noa offered a powerful insight into this parsha: a giving heart is stronger than a heavy, hardened heart. Hardened hatreds can cause a great deal of destruction in explosive bursts of violence; but long-lasting communities require trust, solidarity, and compassion. The nediv lev will always outlast the hard-hearted.

This will be true of this war as well. Yahya Sinwar hides, (or hid,) in tunnels, safe from the very war he set in motion; he uses his people as human shields, and cares very little for them. What we saw in Israel was the opposite. People putting others first. People giving from the heart. People standing up for each other.

In Israel we saw that there is nothing as strong as a people united for each other.

And that is the power of the nediv lev.

THE GROUND STILL TREMBLES

2024-02-02T08:15:00.005-05:00

An illustration from a published 1723 in Amsterdam, Jan and Kaspar Luiken

No moment in the Bible is more magnificent, no event more central. At the revelation on Mount Sinai, the veil between the mundane and the divine was torn away, and all assembled could see God directly.

The encounter at Mount Sinai carries great theological significance. Nachmanides says there is a daily commandment to never forget the encounter at Mount Sinai; Yehuda Halevi explains that this nationwide revelation is the foundation of the Torah. All of Judaism is a footnote to that day, an ongoing exploration of this intense spiritual singularity.

Words fail to describe that day. The Torah, in Parshat Yitro, describes something akin to a simultaneous hurricane and volcanic eruption, in which “...there were thunderings and lightning, and a thick cloud on the mountain; and the sound of the Shofar was very loud, so that all the people who were in the camp trembled … Mount Sinai was completely covered in smoke ... Its smoke ascended like the smoke of a furnace, and the whole mountain quaked greatly.” (Exodus 19:16-18.)

Midrashim further dramatize this depiction. Rabbi Akiva says that the Jews saw the voice that spoke on Mount Sinai, something that is otherwise physically impossible. Other Midrashim say that all those who were blind and deaf were healed that day, and able to take part in the revelation. Another Midrash says that the call of Sinai was heard throughout the world, and all of humanity, in a sense, stood at the foot of Mount Sinai.

Taken together, these texts emphasize that the encounter at Mount Sinai was unparalleled and transcendent, an event that will never be repeated or equaled.

So where does that leave those of us who were born too late to stand at Mount Sinai? This question is particularly difficult for those with deeply religious souls. They search for God and long to hear His voice. They wait patiently for a divine calling. But sadly, there are no new Mount Sinais available, no casual daily revelations.

Most people of faith find ways to accommodate this gaping lack of inspiration. Sometimes, even an occasional glimpse of transcendence can satisfy years of spiritual cravings. But at times, we need to turn in a different direction to discover the divine.

Rav Simcha Bunim of Przysucha can help direct us. Rav Simcha Bunim was the “Un-Rebbe,” a radical Hassidic leader who diminished the importance of his own position, and urged his followers to find their own path. He would illustrate his view of the Rebbe’s role with the following parable:

Isaac from Krakow was a poor tailor, who was plagued by a recurring dream. In the dream, he had a vision of a large bounty of gold which was hidden under a bridge outside the imperial palace in Prague. Night after night, this dream would repeat itself, until finally, Isaac decided he had to make the ten-day journey to Prague to find this treasure. He explained to his wife why he had to go, and started his journey.

In Prague, Isaac arrived and found the bridge just as it appeared in his dream. But he couldn’t dig for the treasure, because it was always under heavy guard; the bridge was right outside the palace, after all. For three nights, Isaac studied the guards’ rotations, hoping to find a pause long enough to allow him to start his search. On the third night, one of the guards grabbed him and arrested him. The guard shouted at Isaac, “You spy, I recognize you! You’ve been here three nights in a row, plotting against the king.” Isaac, in shock, began to sputter how he was an innocent man who was there because he had had a dream about some gold hidden under the bridge. Recognizing the simple sincerity of Isaac’s words, the guard released Isaac, and with a laugh, said: “You fool, you stood there for three nights straight just because of a dream! Last night I had a dream that there’s a treasure buried in the backyard of Isaac, the tailor in Krakow. Do you think I’m going to travel all the way to Krakow just because of a silly dream?”

Isaac immediately returned home. When he entered his house, his wife asked him: “Where’s the treasure?”

Isaac responded: “Give me a shovel and I’ll show you.”

Isaac went outside and dug up the gold. The Prague treasure had been hidden right in his backyard all along.

Rav Simcha Bunim used this tale as a parable about spirituality and wisdom. People chase spiritual gurus and great rabbis in the hope of achieving spiritual heights. But in the end, what we are looking for is hiding in our own backyard, buried under a lot of nonsense.

For those in search of great revelations, Rav Simcha Bunim’s parable reminds us that before looking elsewhere, we need to turn inward and find the treasures buried in our own hearts.

This is true of the encounter at Sinai as well. The Talmud (Niddah 30b) relates that every child is instructed the entire Torah in their mother’s womb, only to have an angel force the child to forget what they learned at birth. This text is a bit of a riddle; why teach the fetus Torah, if it is meant to ultimately forget it a few weeks later?

Rav Simcha Bunim’s parable explains this text well. The Torah once studied may be forgotten, but its imprint remains. What makes revelation compelling is that our hearts are already attuned to what is being said. There are debates among philosophers as to whether all of the commandments can be understood intellectually; but they are certainly understood by the soul, which immediately attaches itself to the divine. And that a priori appreciation of revelation, that knowledge before knowledge, is a treasure we carry in our own hearts. Even when we stand far away from Sinai, there is another source of inspiration, right at our side.

Since October 7th, I have heard story after story of ordinary people who have done extraordinary things. When they tell others about what happened, they share one refrain: “I never imagined that I could have done this.” Yet in a time of crisis, these heroes found remarkable inner strength. Ordinary Israelis took on the battle from day one, rushing to the front lines before being called up. A soldier sacrificed his own life by falling on a grenade to save his comrades’ lives. Rescuers entered the Nova Festival under heavy fire and saved the lives of hundreds of participants. Dedicated parents, brothers, sisters, and children, have traveled everywhere demanding that the world bring the relatives home from captivity. A young mom built a large distribution center for evacuees in just a few days. Academicians have become ad hoc military suppliers, providing much-needed protective gear to soldiers. Bereaved parents have spoken to group after group, offering strength and comfort to others even while their own hearts are broken. Amidst all the darkness and destruction, these accidental heroes heard a small, still voice of inspiration, and answered the call.

For years, I wondered if I could ever experience something like the encounter at Sinai; when would I feel the ground tremble with divine inspiration?

Now I have an answer. We stand at Sinai once again when we meet one of these heroes. They are spiritual treasures, right here in our own backyard. Listen to them, listen to their stories. What they have done is amazing.

And the world trembles before their greatness.

THE PEOPLE'S FLAG

2024-01-26T09:34:00.003-05:00

Herzl's sketch of his proposal for the flag of the Zionist movement.

A country must have a flag. In 1896, Theodore Herzl wrote, “We have no flag, and we need one.” Herzl offered a somewhat pedestrian suggestion of “a white flag, with seven golden stars. The white field symbolizes our pure new life; the stars are the seven golden hours of our working day.” (However, Herzl carefully arranged the stars so that together, the seventh star is a Magen David.)

Flags have always played a role in statecraft. In the book of Numbers, flags organize the Jews as they travel through the desert; in later Jewish history, impromptu flags, often used on Simchat Torah, were symbols of Jewish solidarity. In the ancient world, flags, ensigns, and banners played a critical role in warfare, where they took on extraordinary importance; capturing the enemy’s flag was an act of heroic valor, and a humiliation for the opponent. The Romans treated their ensigns as an object of worship; Josephus writes that the Romans considered it “a terrible thing… and a great shame, if they were stolen away.” In modern times, flags are primarily a national symbol.

To Herzl, having a national flag was critical. He wrote, “If we desire to lead many men, we must raise a symbol above their heads.” To him, the flag was another way of transforming the humble Jewish masses into a nation. He would later write in his diary (June 1, 1901) that he hoped to be remembered by history as “an impecunious Jewish journalist, (who) amid the deepest degradation of the Jewish people and at a time of the most disgusting anti-Semitism, made a flag out of a rag and a people out of a decadent rabble, and was able to rally this people around such a flag.” The leader, and their flag, are what makes the people a people.

Herzl, along with his flag, lead the huddled masses to their promised land. However, what would ultimately become the flag of Israel represents a very different vision.

Four biblical commentators from medieval France mention flags in their commentaries on Parshat Beshalach, during a battle scene towards the end of the Parsha. The newly freed slaves are ruthlessly attacked in the desert by Amalek, who “surprised (the Jews) on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear.” (Deuteronomy 25:18.) The Jews have to fight back.

What ensues during this is quite unusual. Joshua is sent to lead the Jews in battle; at the same time, the Torah tells us:

And Moses said to Joshua…Tomorrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in my hand.… Moses, Aaron, and Hur went to the top of the hill. As long as Moses held up his hands, the Israelites were winning, but whenever he lowered his hands, the Amalekites were winning. When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset. (Exodus 17:9-12)

With Moses’ hands held high, Joshua wins the war.

Every commentary grapples with the same question: What is Moses doing with his hands? The most obvious answer, offered by Rabbi Abraham Ben HaRambam and Shadal, is that Moses raises his hands in prayer and miraculously protects the Jewish soldiers.

Others find this explanation unsatisfying; if this was meant to be a time of miracles, why did Moses send the soldiers to begin with?

Four commentaries from Northern France, Bechor Shor, Rashbam, Hizzkuni, and Joseph Kara, offer a very different interpretation. Moses held his staff high (in his hands,) which functioned as a military flag. (It is fascinating that the commentaries offer three different vernacular words for flags: banniere, confanon, and pendon.) Holding the flag high strengthens the morale of the troops; Moses’ staff and his hands function like a flag.

These two explanations are polar opposites. One sees Moses’ hand-raising as the prerequisite for a miraculous intervention; the other sees Moses’ staff as playing a mundane role, a rudimentary flag that rallies the troops on the ground.

The Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 3:8) offers a middle ground; the hands of Moses functioned as a spiritual flag. It says that when Moses held his hands aloft, “the Jewish people turned their eyes upward and subjected their hearts to their Father in Heaven; then they prevailed. But if not, they fell in battle.”

For the Mishnah, the result of the war is miraculous, but the miracle doesn’t belong to Moses; it belongs to the people. Moses' hands held aloft, metaphorically the first flag of the Jewish people, is not about the leader; it is about the people. It reminds the soldiers to focus on their divine connection and reflect on their mission.

The Mishnah offers a very different vision of what a flag is: it represents the shared values of the community. Its worth comes from what people project onto it and how people connect to it. Unlike Herzl, the Mishnah sees the value of the flag as depending on what people invest in it.

Herzl’s vision for a flag was rejected. Instead, a proposal by David Wolffsohn, a close associate of Herzl and his successor as President of the Zionist Organization, is accepted. Wolffsohn writes that at the first Zionist conference, the following inspiration came to him:

At the behest of our leader Herzl, I came to Basel to make preparations for the Zionist Congress. Among many other problems that occupied me then was one which contained something of the essence of the Jewish problem. What flag would we hang in the Congress Hall? Then an idea struck me. We have a flag — and it is blue and white. The talith (prayer shawl) with which we wrap ourselves when we pray: that is our symbol. Let us take this Talith from its bag and unroll it before the eyes of Israel and the eyes of all nations. So I ordered a blue and white flag with the Shield of David painted upon it. That is how the national flag, that flew over Congress Hall, came into being.

Wolffsohn creates a flag that reflects every man; and it also reflects the everyman, the Tallit worn on the backs of tailors and wagon drivers, the ordinary folk who understood Zionism well before the rest of the world did. It is not a top-down flag, one brought by the leader to transform a hopeless rabble; instead, it is a people’s flag, one that draws its meaning from the hopes and dreams of its followers.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik argues that the people’s attachment to the Israeli flag transforms it into a sacred object. In a Yiddish lecture given at a Mizrachi convention in the 1960s, Rabbi Soloveitchik remarked that he generally doesn’t understand the magical attraction of flags or other objects like it. However, the Israeli flag is different. The Shulchan Aruch says that a Jew who is murdered must be buried in the clothes he was wearing when he was killed. Soloveitchik says this law teaches us that clothing “acquires a certain sanctity when spattered with the blood of a martyr. How much more is this so of the blue and white flag, which has been immersed in the blood of thousands of young Jews who fell in battle defending the country and its population. The Israeli flag has a spark of sanctity that flows from devotion and self-sacrifice.”

The people’s flag carries more than the hearts and souls of a nation; it represents the sacrifices that so many young people have made to build the State of Israel.

Today, our young men and women have to go into battle; far too many will not come home again. It is grueling to continue to fight against a fanatical, bloodthirsty foe. The ongoing losses are too large to bear. As the war continues, we too, like Moses, find that our hands grow weary.

What continues to hold the flag high are the people, who are filled with dedication. In the end, Moses can no longer hold up the flag; his hands need to be held aloft by Aaron and Hur. This moment offers a critical lesson: flags don’t belong to leaders, not even Moses. They belong to the entire people.

Today in Israel, it is the ordinary Israeli, and only the ordinary Israeli, who has held the country together. Previously unknown heroes have rushed to the front lines, organized volunteers, and taken care of a country in crisis. These ordinary people have consecrated the flag with the sacrifices they have made, sacrifices too great to count.

Israel’s flag is their flag. And they are holding it up high, despite everything.

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU BITTER HERBS

2024-01-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

Passover, Arthur Szyk, 1948

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU BITTER HERBS

By Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz

Bitter herbs are a culinary misfit. One can fulfill the obligation to eat the bitter herbs (maror) at the Seder with many different sour and spicy vegetables, including horseradish, romaine lettuce, and chicory. But what is very strange about maror is that we eat these vegetables on their own at the Seder; as the Mah Nishtanah exclaims, on any other night, no one would eat a bitter spoonful of horseradish straight up.

Maror was misunderstood from the very beginning. There is no clear indication in the Biblical text as to why it is included in the Seder. The Torah in Parashat Bo says the Passover sacrifice should be eaten “roasted in fire, with unleavened bread, and with bitter herbs….” While the Passover sacrifice has a direct connection to the night of the Exodus, and Matzah is connected to the haste in which the Jews left Egypt, the reader is left to imagine what purpose maror might have.

Several commentaries see maror as a way to enhance the meat of the Passover sacrifice. The Ohr HaChaim says that “it is the way of those who eat roasted meat to do so with something sharp, for this makes it tastier, and entices people to eat more.” Ibn Ezra and Ibn Kaspi offer similar interpretations. This perspective is found in the Talmud (Chullin 132b), as well. It asserts that certain offerings of meat must be eaten in “the manner of royalty”; and it explains that the manner of royalty is to eat meat “roasted and served with mustard.”

This interpretation is closest to the simple reading of the text. The Torah wants the Passover sacrifice to represent the joy of freedom, and be eaten in a royal fashion; to do so requires that it be served with an appropriate condiment.

But the Mishnah and Passover Haggadah offer a very different perspective on maror; Rabban Gamliel says: “The reason for bitter herbs is because the Egyptians embittered our forefathers’ lives in Egypt…” Maror is interpreted as a symbol of slavery, not royalty.

David Henshke argues that Rabban Gamliel’s explanation reflects a shift that took place after the destruction of the Temple. There was no longer a Passover sacrifice; one needed a new rationale to include the bitter herbs at the Seder. Rabban Gamliel found a different symbolism in the maror, one that related to the actual suffering during slavery.

But this new understanding of maror seems strange. An evening of redemption should be filled with joy and sweetness. The point of Passover is to escape the horrors of slavery; to place bitterness at the center of the Seder plate seems to undermine Passover’s message.

Most often, answers given to this question embrace the positive side of bitterness; or to put it a bit more cynically, that “suffering is good for us.” Maror is a reminder that slavery has shaped the Jewish soul just as much as freedom.

Undoubtedly, suffering can improve us as people. Professors Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun coined the term “post-traumatic growth” after observing that many of their trauma patients had reinvented themselves in the aftermath of a major tragedy. They had grown in terms of their strength of character, relationships with others, perspective on life, appreciation for life, and spirituality. Their suffering had changed them for the better.

Even before post-traumatic growth was discovered by psychologists, it was evident to philosophers and theologians. Nietzsche wrote that “to those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities…,” because Nietzsche recognized that character is forged in the crucible of adversity. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that the Hebrew word for a “test of suffering,” nisayon, is the same as the Hebrew word for “raising up,” nissa, because a test raises one up; the bitterness of suffering is itself the silver lining that carries other blessings.

The Sefat Emet makes a direct connection between this idea and maror. He says that “the bitterness of slavery was a preparation for redemption, and this (bitterness) remains with us during the times of redemption.” Maror reminds us that bitterness begets character, and is itself a gateway to redemption.

As I get older, I get more uncomfortable with these types of explanations. I don’t contest their truth. Yes, suffering can spur spiritual growth. And one who suffers will find the pursuit of meaning to be the best way to live with suffering; as Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik wrote, “Judaism teaches us that the sufferer commits a grave sin if he allows his troubles to go to waste and remain without meaning or purpose.” Spiritual quests are how the soul copes with tragedy.

But what I find deeply disturbing are articles and sermons that use this difficult truth to romanticize suffering. They depict the personal growth achieved in the face of suffering as some sort of Hollywood ending that makes it all worthwhile. But it doesn’t.

The Talmud discusses an idea called “afflictions of love,” which claims that the righteous suffer unnecessarily in order to receive a greater reward in the future. After a discussion of the great reward involved, it tells real-life stories about suffering. In one, Rabbi Yochanan suffers from an illness. His colleague Rabbi Chanina visits, and asks: “Is your suffering dear to you?”; perhaps Rabbi Yochanan appreciated the spiritual glory of suffering, and wanted to continue with his afflictions. Rabbi Yochanan offered a terse response: “Neither the sufferings nor their reward.”

After a lengthy discussion of theory, the Talmud shares the real-life verdict on suffering: all the growth in the world is not worth the suffering. Marror is always bitter, and may it stay far, far away from us, always.

So how else can one see Maror? The past few months have given me a new reflection on the passage of Rabban Gamliel. I now believe that maror reminds us that even when we can proudly sing “this year in Jerusalem,” there will still be maror on the Seder plate. Despite returning to our homeland and building a remarkable state, we cannot banish the bitter herbs. Life will always have a side portion of maror.

But the maror at the Seder is not there to sober us up and offer us cynical realism. Instead, it reminds us that maror is never the final chapter. Bitter herbs may be ever-present, but so is redemption. We simply have to get through this portion of maror and start over again. We have overcome, we can overcome, and we will overcome.

In the worst of times, Jews never gave up on redemption; and now that we have experienced a taste of redemption, we certainly cannot give up on redemption, no matter how bitter things are.

This message was powerfully articulated in a heroic eulogy that a bereaved mother, Sarit Zussman, gave for her son, Ben, a fallen soldier. After speaking about her remarkable son and the profound love he shared with his family, she ended by speaking to the people of Israel:

"And now to you, to all of you, to all of us, to the Jewish people in the Land of Israel. As a storyteller, I tell you: that our story has a happy ending. We are going to win. We have no other choice. We are a people who want to live, unlike our enemies, lowly and miserable, cowards, Nazis and their accomplices, who sanctify death. We will live, and thrive, and build...Do you hear, people of Israel? World, do you hear? Do you hear, lowly enemies who desire death and evil? Am Yisrael Chai – the Jewish people live, forever and ever and for all eternity, standing tall and with our heads held high…”

These moving words remind us that the true lesson of maror is that we must hold on to hope, even when it seems impossible. The Seder ends with joy, despite the maror. No matter how difficult it gets, we must hold our heads high and proudly declare: Am Yisrael Chai!

We Must Never Forget Them

2024-01-12T11:42:00.001-05:00

The Israelites' Cruel Bondage in Egypt, Illustration from the 1728 Figures de la Bible; illustrated by Gerard Hoet (1648–1733) and others, and published by P. de Hondt in The Hague; image courtesy Bizzell Bible Collection

One could call this the Gettysburg Address of the Exodus. At the beginning of Parshat Vaera, God speaks to Moses and assures him that slavery is about to come to an end:

Therefore say to the children of Israel: ‘I am the Lord; I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, I will rescue you from their bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments. I will take you as My people, and I will be your God. Then you shall know that I am the Lord your God who brings you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians. And I will bring you into the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; and I will give it to you as a heritage... (Exodus 6:6-8.)

In just a few sentences, the Torah gives us an overview of the full process of redemption; not just an escape from slavery, but the creation of a new nation with a homeland of their own. The Talmud refers to the first four verbs in this section (bring out, rescue, redeem, and take) as the “four languages of redemption”; And to this day, the four cups of wine at Passover Seder are in celebration of these words.

The parsha begins with this speech, most probably in order to begin on a high point. But it also begins mid-conversation, which strips it of context. God’s words are actually a response to an angry challenge by Moses; after his initial petition to Pharaoh backfires, and causes even greater pain to the slaves, Moses turns to God and says: “Lord, why have you done such evil to this nation? Why is it that You have sent me?”

Moses’ words border on the sacrilegious. Indeed, several commentaries criticize Moses for this. Rashi says that God, in his response, subtly rebukes Moses for his complaint; one Midrash says Moses was later punished for challenging God, and not allowed to enter Israel.

Yet the simple reading of God’s response is that He takes Moses' challenge seriously; that is why God offers such a thorough and detailed reply. Moses is speaking on behalf of those who are oppressed and downtrodden, and even if he speaks with chutzpah, he does so out of love for his Jewish brothers and sisters.

Another Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 5:22) amplifies Moses' complaint. Moses knows the Jews will eventually be rescued, but he cannot tolerate the delay. A future redemption, Moses says, will not “help the Jews who are now being thrown under the building.” This curious phrase refers to a shocking image found in rabbinic literature (Midrash Zuta Kohelet 7:7, Rashi Sanhedrin 111a) that in the Egyptian construction projects of Pithom and Raamses, Jews were used as bricks, and squeezed into the gaps of walls. A similar Midrash (2:24) asserts Pharaoh sought to heal himself of leprosy by bathing in the blood of 150 murdered Jewish children each morning and evening.

These midrashic images amplify the biblical text, which talks at length about Pharaoh's attempts to kill Jewish children. But they are not here just to vilify Pharaoh; they come to expose the inner workings of his regime.

Some acts of hatred are utilitarian; one feels threatened, and therefore needs to fight an enemy. But other times, hatred stands at the very foundation of a society. The historian Saul Friedlander coined the term “redemptive antisemitism,” to describe the Nazi hatred of Jews. The Nazis saw Jews as a virus that weakens and undermines humanity; the destruction of the Jews would bring goodness to the rest of the world.

These midrashim are articulating something similar. In one, the murder of Jewish children is seen as therapeutic, a way for Pharaoh to recover his health. In the other, dead Jews are the foundation of Egyptian development. For Pharaoh, killing is no longer the means of maintaining power, but the very purpose of power itself. Violence against Jews is the scaffolding that holds his regime together.

Unfortunately, these Midrashim are prescient, offering a clear description of Hamas. There are no limits to Hamas’ “100-year war.” It engaged in a premeditated mass murder in the most horrible, depraved fashion, all proudly recorded by terrorists on their body cameras. Even more shocking is Hamas’ overt contempt for the very people they claim to represent. Palestinians were Hamas’ first victims, as this autocratic regime has regularly murdered its opponents. Today, Palestinians are enduring great suffering because Hamas cynically uses civilians as human shields, and calculates the strategic value of their deaths. Hamas will have the Palestinians fight to the death in Gaza while many of its leaders sit comfortably in Doha.

Supporters of Israel are sometimes reluctant to speak about the tragedy of Palestinian civilians because it has been weaponized by Hamas and its enablers; as I write these words, the International Court of Justice is presiding over a South African claim that Israel has engaged in “genocide.” But even so, we must mourn for the deaths of those caught in the crossfire. Every human being is created in the image of God.

Hamas has built its regime with the blood of both Palestinians and Israelis. Its great construction project, the Gaza tunnels, is built for death, and by death. Hamas’ wanton violence may shock us; but the Midrash predicted this type of hatred hundreds of years ago.

Like Moses, we are anguished over the innocent babies who were massacred, and mourn for those who were brutally murdered. Israel has had to send its best and brightest out to take up the fight; and too many of them have fallen in battle. For all of these tragedies, we cry.

Every death is a profound loss; but the death of a young person is all the more painful because it is so unexpected. In the ordinary way of the world, children bury their parents, not the other way around. My father died in a car accident, predeceasing my grandfather by nearly 40 years. My grandfather was a jovial man, who always had a smile on his face; that is, except when he spoke about my father. Then the smile left his face; even decades later, the grief would quickly return. No suffering is greater than that of losing a child.

A Hebrew expression, which is first found in Isaiah (38:10), best describes a young death: nektaph b’mei chayav, “cut off in the middle of their days.” It emphasizes that a young death is actually a double tragedy; one loses not just the person, but also what the person could have been.

Each of these deaths are painful for our entire community. News reports out of Israel recount the entire biography of those who have died; the entire Jewish world repeats their names and their stories. And inevitably, we find that we are one or two degrees of separation from these tragedies.

Hamas sees our response as a weakness. Yahya Sinwar sees the Israeli concern for each hostage and each soldier to be a weakness; he considers his ability to write off the lives of thousands of Palestinians to be a strength. He ridicules Israel’s willingness to call a ceasefire in order to release a handful of hostages. Like Pharaoh, Sinwar is ready to build pyramids with the bodies of babies.

Sinwar is correct that brutality holds strategic value; ignoring the suffering of one’s own people means that one can fight on without any limitations. But it is morally untenable. Moses cried for the babies Pharaoh was murdering, and we must follow his example. Even if it seems foolish, we must advocate for each hostage, and cry for every soldier.

We must never forget them. And we must challenge God to remember them, and put an end to the suffering now.

The Optimism of Seven Lean Years

2023-12-15T13:19:00.003-05:00

Pharaoh's Dreams, c. 1896-1902, by James Jacques Joseph Tissot (French, 1836-1902),

gouache on board, Diameter: 5 1/8 in. (13 cm) each, at the Jewish Museum, New York

Optimism is profoundly human. The neuroscientist Tali Sharot, in her book The Optimism Bias, shows that optimism is pervasive, cutting across all cultures. She draws the conclusion that humans are hotwired to imagine an unrealistic picture of the future. It is instinctive to dream of “happily ever after,” even if that often is not the case.

The belief in progress is equally instinctive, because it is nurtured by optimism; and it is just as irrational. In 1992, Francis Fukuyama, a political scientist, wrote The End of History. He saw the fall of the Soviet Union as representing the ultimate triumph of the western democratic order, and the culmination of all history. There would be no further conflicts, now that the world had seen the light.

Unfortunately, that was not true. New dictators arose, and arguably, democracy has been on the decline since he wrote the book.

But the failures of optimism doesn't mean it should be completely rejected. Redemption is one of the foundational beliefs of Judaism. Jeremiah held out hope that a newly exiled nation would return home; Isaiah imagined a world filled with peace and harmony. Jews are called by Zechariah “prisoners of hope”; our soul’s first language is optimism.

But since October 7th, Jews have felt betrayed by optimism. History has gone backwards. It feels like it's 1948 again, with Israel fighting for its very existence. Every dream seems counterfeit. Optimism feels like a cognitive trap, which gives one false hope when hope is pointless.

It is here where optimism needs an unlikely ally to succeed: pessimism. That is a central lesson of Joseph's dreams.

Joseph's life story revolves around three sets of dreams. The first two he has as a child, when he is the spoiled younger half-brother who is deeply resented by his siblings. He dreams that they are in the field, and his bundle of grain rises up, and the bundles of his brothers are bowing to him. Then Joseph has another dream, where the sun and the moon and the stars are all bowing to him.

These dreams seemingly need no interpretation. Joseph is declaring himself the ruler of his brothers.

Immediately, the opposite happens. The dreams stir the brothers’ jealousy, and they sell him into slavery in Egypt.

The second set of dreams occur when Joseph is in an Egyptian prison, and two fellow prisoners, the butler and the baker, ask him to interpret their dreams; Joseph does so accurately, predicting that the butler will be freed and the baker will be executed. Two years later, the butler will recommend Joseph as a dream interpreter.

The third set are Pharaoh's dreams. He has two dreams. In one, seven fat cows are swallowed up by seven skinny cows; in the second, seven healthy stalks of grain are devoured by seven sickly stalks of grain.

Joseph is called from prison to interpret Pharaoh's dreams; he explains that there will be seven years of plenty, followed by seven years of famine. Luckily, Joseph explains, the dreams offer a timely warning, which will allow Egypt to get ready for the famine and overcome it. Joseph is so impressive, that he is immediately named the viceroy of Egypt.

What jumps out at the reader is how Pharaoh’s dreams stand in sharp contrast with Joseph's dreams.

Pharaoh's dreams project a tragic ending; but because Pharaoh shared them, they will have a positive ending. Joseph's dreams project a very happy ending for him; but because Joseph shared them, he ends up a slave.

Pharaoh's dreams are difficult to interpret; he turns to all of his priests for answers, but none have one. It is clear to everyone that God is communicating with Pharaoh. In contrast, Joseph's dreams are obvious, and need no interpretation. And his brothers assume that these dreams are just the product of Joseph's imagination and nothing more.

Finally the most fascinating contrast has to do with what occurs after a double dream. Pharaoh's double dream indicates that it will come true immediately; Joseph's double dream seems to wait for a long time to come true.

There are many lessons that these contrasts teach. First of all, it reminds us to beware of happy endings. Joseph's dreams feed his own vanity and make him oblivious to his own brother's hatred; in fact, his dreams make their hatred worse. This is a good dream that causes damage, where a sunny picture of the future is actually a liability.

Second, one must recognize that pessimism often allows optimism to succeed. Pharaoh’s nightmares allow for proper preparation, to be ready for the upcoming famine. The unhappy ending in the dream actually helps Pharaoh achieve a happy ending in real life. This is a bad dream that does a great deal of good, preparing Egypt for the future.

Third, good dreams often have a very long runway. Joseph explains to Pharaoh that the double dream means “that the matter has been determined by God, and that God will soon carry it out.” This is a strange assertion, considering that Joseph's own double dream had seemingly not come true.

However, I would argue that that isn't the case; Joseph's dreams actually came true immediately. What his brothers thought to be a mere figment of Joseph's ambition was actually a divine prophecy. However, both the brothers and Joseph misunderstood this dream; they assumed it meant that Joseph would be the recipient of great privilege, an entitled ruler who receives unearned gifts. But actually, the purpose of the dream was to call Joseph to be a true leader, to be a servant of both his family and all of Egypt.

In order to do that, Joseph would have to learn humility. In order to become an authentic leader, Joseph would need to be a slave first. And so he becomes a slave immediately, which prepares for the fulfillment of his dream.

Joseph could only achieve this dream through great difficulty. But the pain and suffering he endured as a slave got him ready for his ultimate role. And in the happiest of endings for the entire family, Joseph was in the exact right place to save them from the famine.

Right now it is difficult to dream, and optimism is scarce. But the lessons of our Torah reading is that there are no grand dreams of the future without difficulty and sacrifice. But if we learn to prepare for the famine, we will be able to endure.

And we have known this all along. In 1956, Moshe Dayan gave a eulogy for Roi Rotberg, a 21 year old soldier who was ambushed in the fields of Nahal Oz, near Gaza. This eulogy is prescient; it speaks directly to us today in the aftermath of October 7th. Dayan explained that Israel must never be lulled into complacency, imagining that everything will be okay. A country like Israel will have enemies, and she must be ready.

He said:

That is our generation's fate and our life's choice -- to be willing and armed, strong and unyielding, lest the sword be knocked from our fist and our lives cut down.

It was difficult to contemplate this reality in 1956, when burying Roi Rotberg, a young soldier who was brutally killed on a Kibbutz. Is even more difficult to contemplate this reality in 2023, after so many were brutally murdered on Kibbutzim, and much like Roi, young soldiers are giving their lives on a daily basis for Israel. Dayan’s eulogy is painfully pessimistic.

But like Pharaoh's nightmarish dream, this bitter pessimism is the only way forward to a better future. Ordinary optimism might cause us to overestimate what can be, and imagine that we simply can be carefree. But optimism is not a blank check.

Mature optimism is something different; it walks hand in hand with pessimism, to enable one to be ready for each day's crisis. Tomorrow will be another day, another opportunity for hope. But not today. We must not lose sight of reality.

What gives me optimism now is how Israelis are heroically carrying the burden of an awful time; they stand ready to meet the challenges of the seven lean years. Shai Bernstein (whose father, Dr. David Bernstein, taught at Ramaz for many years,) wrote a powerful note about his service in Gaza:

I’ve seen with my own eyes.

I’ve seen injured friends in the hospital who, despite the pain and long recovery process that await them, seem way stronger than me.

I’ve seen Colonel Asaf Chamami’s mom at his Shiva; I almost fell apart right in front of her eyes. She was the strong one, not me.

I’ve seen teachers, doctors, factory workers, and people working in tech, leaving their jobs and families, leaving everything they have and fighting like lions.

I’ve seen Matan (voted for Meretz), Jonathan (Lapid), Guy (Bibi), and Itamar (Gantz) having a fierce political argument.

It looked like a competition of who loved the State of Israel more.

I’ve seen the same four chevra leap with all of their gear into the breach, together as one.

I’ve seen them run to aid the injured after the missile hit us, even though the bullets were still flying over their heads. Each one carrying the stretcher, lending a shoulder, together.

I’ve seen communities across the US buckling down, raising money and working hard to send supplies, to support to the soldiers and citizens of Israel. (Some of the letters we got from kids were so simple, yet special and moving - you could cry).

I’ve seen a polarized and divided nation that became united in an instant.

We realize that we’re fighting not only for our lives, but for our very right to exist.

This letter chronicles the pain of young men and women leaving their families, of injured soldiers in the hospital, of parents burying their children. And yet the letter is not at all pessimistic. It is inspiring that so many people like Shai are willing to carry the burden of the seven lean years, and ensure a better future.

And even during a nightmare, that is worthy of optimism.

Wrestling Lessons: A Sermon About the KJ Mission to Israel

2023-12-06T13:18:00.004-05:00

KJ/Ramaz Israel Thanksgiving Mission - Produced by Elyssa Brezel from Esther Feierman on Vimeo.

When will the war be over? Last week in Israel, this question came up multiple times in conversation. Our group had the privilege of eating lunch last Shabbat with Benny Gantz, and we asked him the same question. At the time, there was a ceasefire; some soldiers were coming home for the weekend, and everyone seemed to catch their breath once again. But this was only a temporary lull; Hamas is still in power, and hostages are still in captivity. Unfortunately, as Gantz and many others explained, there is no quick solution; the war may take several more months to achieve its objectives.

This was a difficult answer for us to hear. Everyone wants things to go back to normal as soon as possible.

We want our hostages home, we want our soldiers home, we want the evacuees back in their homes.

But sometimes there aren't any quick answers. Sometimes you must wrestle instead.

Our Torah reading includes the passage about Jacob's wrestling match with the angel. They wrestle for hours until morning; it only ends then because the angel begs Jacob to let him leave.

The Hebrew word for wrestling, vayeavek, emphasizes how tedious and uncomfortable wrestling is. The Ramban offers two theories regarding the origin of the word. One is that it’s related to the Hebrew word for hugging, chibuk; wrestlers hold each other close as they grapple in excruciating intimacy with their enemy. The other is that vayeavek is related to the Hebrew word for dust, avak. Wrestling is a very slow form of combat; the feet of wrestlers are constantly shifting, in search of a more advantageous position. When wrestlers wrestle, they kick up a lot of dust.

In short, wrestling is both painful and painfully slow. But Israel is born in a wrestling match. At daybreak, the angel changes Jacob's name to Israel, in recognition of Jacob's courage; the angel declares to Jacob, “You have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome,” and these words in Hebrew contain the root of the word “Israel.”

Here we need to pause for a moment. Names are powerful reflections of plans and perspectives. Is the Torah suggesting that the people of Israel are fated to wrestle?

And the answer is: absolutely yes.

Wrestling is part of every life; there are no easy solutions for the endless challenges of life. This is all the more so true of a people who have held tight to their destiny for 3,300 years; to survive, an aptitude for wrestling must be part of Jewish DNA.

We are once again facing a time of wrestling for Jews; and the lessons of Jacob’s wrestling match are now more important than ever. I’d like to share three insights from this section of the Torah today.

The first is: you know it won't be easy.

Side by side with this horrific massacre in Israel is a dramatic uptick in antisemitism around the world. Many Jews have been stunned by this. In truth, I am among them. Had you asked me a few years ago, I would have told you that antisemitism was disappearing.

But now antisemitism is back with enormous intensity. This is profoundly disconcerting for us. But it's disconcerting only because we had the wrong expectations. We had forgotten that being a Jew won't always be easy, that wrestling is a part of Jewish destiny.

At the same time, this attack by Hamas shocked Israel, which was completely unprepared. As Ronen Bergman reported yesterday in the New York Times, although Israeli intelligence had reliable reports of a planned Hamas attack, it was dismissed it as being improbable.

This type of mistake is sadly a common one. People evaluate the future based on what they see in the present; and they have a predisposition to optimism and tend to accept the most positive view of their own situation. The desire “to dwell in tranquility” caused Israel to forget the most important rule: it won't come easy. And frankly, you can't expect a high-tech fence to fight a war. Just ask the French; it didn’t work in World War II either.

The first, and most difficult, wrestling lesson is that it doesn't come easy. Not life, not being a Jew. But this name change reminds us that we can handle it. We are Israel, we are wrestlers.

And we are fortunate to have so many heroes ready to wrestle. Dan Polisar of Shalem College spoke to our group about his son, who is a commander currently on duty in Gaza. A piece of rubble had fallen on his helmet, and he was taken to the hospital to be checked out. Thankfully everything was good, but the doctor wanted him to stay home for a few days of monitoring. But that outcome was not acceptable; the commander knew his troops needed him. So, Dan and his son argued with the doctor; she still refused to let him go. They insisted she speak to her supervisor. That didn’t work, so they insisted that she speak to the head of the hospital; finally, the medical staff reluctantly allowed the commander to return.

But Dan related one other point, which was the most powerful part of this story. During the back and forth with the doctor, Dan and his son were discussing their problem in the waiting room. There, a soldier, who Dan described as having “a bruise the size of Texas on his arm,” sees them talking and asks them what had happened. When the soldier hears their predicament, he laughs and says: “Who cares if the doctor doesn’t give you permission? Just grab a transport and go back to Gaza!”

Jacob gets injured during his wrestling match, but he forges ahead; so do these heroes, bruises and all. Yes, wrestling isn’t easy. Israel’s soldiers know that, but they are ready to take on the challenge anyway.

The second lesson is you don't let anyone wrestle alone.

At the end of the wrestling match, the angel injures Jacob on his thigh. Because of that, the Torah tells us that Jews are forbidden from eating the sciatic nerve.

But the reason is somewhat unclear. Why would we commemorate this injury, and why with a prohibition?

The 13th-century French rabbi Hizkunni offers a fascinating explanation. He says that the prohibition against eating the sciatic nerve is a penalty; Jacob's family is being punished because Jacob was left alone and vulnerable. Jacob's sons should not have neglected their father and left him unaccompanied. And so, for generations, Jews have accepted this penalty and not eaten the sciatic nerve.

The lesson is you don't allow someone to wrestle alone.

We can be proud of how united the Jewish people are. In Israel, everybody is getting involved, whether it be soldiers in the reserves or volunteers in the streets.

We met an injured soldier who was fighting alongside Yossi Hershkovitz, the principal of the Pelech High School for Boys in Jerusalem; prior to that, he had taught at SAR. Hershkovitz died when a booby-trapped tunnel claimed his life.

The injured soldier told us that all of the younger members of the unit asked Hershkovitz why he reported. Hershkovitz was 44, had five children, and was exempt from service. Hershkovitz told them that he was there because the younger soldiers needed his experience and his help. He wasn't going to let them remain alone.

This is the story of Israel today; remarkable sacrifices, all in the cause of helping each other.

The Jews of America are doing their part as well. A few weeks ago, there was an unprecedented rally, where 290,000 people stood in solidarity with Israel. To my mind, the most powerful speech came from Natan Sharansky, who explained to the crowd why unity matters. He spoke about how he and his friends resisted against the former Soviet Union, and said:

Many people thought that our cause was hopeless. How could a few men and women beat an empire all on their own?

But we knew very well that we weren’t truly alone. Israel and the Jewish People stood with us. From the small demonstration that four students organized at Columbia University in 1964, to the massive rally when 250,000 Jews gathered right here in this very place in 1987, three generations of World Jewry dedicated themselves to our struggle. Many of your grandparents fought for us. Many of your parents fought for us. Many of you fought for us. And this fact, this togetherness, gave me strength in my years in the Soviet Gulag.

My jailors tried to tell me that I am alone, that I am doomed, that our struggle will fail. But all I had to do was to remember the many Jewish visitors who came to see us in Moscow over the years to know that they were lying. I knew you. I knew how devoted and loving you were. I knew that we were one fighting family. And so I knew that there was only one possible outcome for our joint struggle….victory.

Coming together matters. That’s why our mission went to Israel. And at every stop we were thanked for coming, by cab drivers, soldiers, and even by Benny Gantz.

And that is why I tell everyone I see they must go visit Israel now. We cannot allow Jacob to wrestle alone.

The third lesson is we are wrestling for something bigger.

The night after the conclusion of the mission I went to the wedding of our friends' son Yoni Troy, to Tali Miller. It was a beautiful wedding, the children of two families that had made Aliyah, building their own home together in Israel.

Underneath the Chuppah, there were several prayers recited. An uncle of the bride recited the prayer for the Israeli soldiers. Cousins of the groom, whose homes are on the Gaza border, recited a prayer for those who have been evacuated. And Naor, Yoni’s commanding officer, who rushed in from his base and was still in uniform, recited a prayer for the hostages. Naor is from Sderot, and ten people he knew, including family members, were killed, and five others were taken hostage. There was not a dry eye when Naor recited the prayer.

Afterwards, something troubled me. Here we were, at the picture-perfect Jewish wedding of two wonderful people from two wonderful families in Israel. For centuries, Jews have prayed under the Chuppah “od yishamah b’arei yehuda,” that soon we would return to Israel, and the rejoicing of brides and grooms would once again be heard in the cities of Judea. And now we were at a wedding in the hills of Judea, where everything we prayed for has come true; and even so, we have to offer these heartbreaking prayers.

The question is: What point was there in praying for weddings in Israel for all these centuries, when now, weddings in Israel need new prayers?

But the answer is simple: the centuries of wrestling were for something bigger than comfort or happiness.

Yes, Israel comes with crises, challenges, and hardships.

But at least we're back in our homeland.

Herman Wouk, the playwright and novelist visited Israel in 1955. He was invited by David Ben-Gurion, who was out of politics at the time, to visit him in Sde Boker in the Negev. At that point, terrorists were regularly coming across the border from Gaza, and they needed to provide Wouk with an army escort, and Wouk had to return to Tel Aviv before sunset.

At the end of the visit, Ben-Gurion turned to Wouk and said, “When are you moving to Israel? You know that this is the only place for Jews like you. You know only here you will be free.”

Wouk responded with a bit of shock. He said: “Free? Free? The enemy has armies surrounding you, their leaders publicly threatening to wipe out the Zionist entity, your roads are impassable after sundown, and you say that you're free?

Ben-Gurion responded, “I did not say safe. I said free.”

And that was the ultimate lesson of our trip. We've seen Israel at a difficult time; but this is also Israel's finest hour. We are wrestling once again, and that’s never easy; but we are wrestling for something bigger. And thank God we have our own sovereignty, our own state, our own army.

Thank God we're free.

And that's worth wrestling for.

A Letter From Israel: It's Time to Start Dreaming

2023-11-29T14:53:00.002-05:00

A Scene from Kfar Aza

It was a landscape of horror. Kfar Aza, one of the Kibbutzim ravaged during the Hamas massacre, is filled with rubble and burned-out buildings. (The terrorists came ready with gasoline and tires to burn down the homes of those who wouldn't leave their safe rooms.) While all of the bodies had already been taken for burial, there still were the outlines on the grass where they had sat, unmoved, for over a week. We heard first-hand reports of the brutal murders and the extreme sadism of the terrorists. Shock, heartbreak, and anger competed for control of my heart.

I was visiting Israel as part of a group from Kehilath Jeshurun and Ramaz. But this was no ordinary trip; our group made multiple difficult visits, where we could see the hurt and suffering of Israel up close.

One stop was at Shurah, the army base tasked with processing the 1200 people murdered during this massacre. Rabbi Bentzi Mann, who was first called to serve at this base on October 8th, spoke about the overwhelming task of identifying and securing a dignified burial for the dead. He told us that during the first days of the war, refrigerator trucks that ordinarily transport chocolate milk and yogurt were filled with bodies instead. When they would open the doors to remove the bodies, blood would come pouring out. Now, every time he sees a yogurt truck, Bentzi is reminded of death.

These difficult stories were everywhere we went. We heard from people who had witnessed the murders of their loved ones. We spoke to the families of hostages, and visited the wounded in hospitals. We saw firsthand the pain and horror Israelis are experiencing.

At the same time, this heartbreak was mixed with inspiration. We met heroes who on October 7th, rushed down to the south on their own accord to take on the attackers; we met medics who risked their lives to pull the wounded out of the battle zone.

At one point, we stopped at a gas station. Coincidentally, it turned out that Masad at the cash register, from Israel's Bedouin community, was a hero who had saved the lives of 14 people on October 7th. We visited grassroots organizations that are helping evacuees from the north and the south; we met with doctors who have been working 16 hours a day, and volunteers who have given up their jobs to help those in need full-time. This sense of unity is what is holding Israel together right now.

Most inspiring is that Israelis still have dreams. On Shabbat in Jerusalem, we read Parashat Vayetzei, which begins with Jacob's dream. Dreams have long been a metaphor for hope, with Aristotle calling hope “a waking dream.”

Jacob's dream is the ultimate vision of hope. It is of a ladder on which angels are going up and down, symbolizing that God is sending His emissaries to watch over Jacob.

This vision comes to Jacob at the lowest moment in his life, when he's being chased away from home, and his brother Esau wants to murder him.

And now Jacob has his dream, from which we learn that it is at the worst moments in time, one needs to dream the most. As Langston Hughes put it:

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Jacob holds fast to his dream; and that changes his perspective. Rashi explains that after he wakes up, Jacob's “heart lifted his feet up,” because he was now filled with hope.

Jews have always understood that you are what you dream. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev points out in his commentary that the Hebrew word for dreaming, “chalom,” is similar to the word for healing, “hachlamah.” And that is because dreams of hope can give a tattered soul the strength to continue forward.

Right now in Israel, there are still dreams amidst all of the nightmares. On Shabbat morning I joined the aufruf of Yoni, the son of dear friends. At the Kiddush, Yoni, a soldier so devoted he had to be pushed to go home for Shabbat by his commanding officer, gave a D'var Torah. In Jacob's dream, there is a ladder whose feet are on Earth, and whose head extends into heaven. Yoni explained that this is symbolic of the times we are in. Even if the ladder is stuck in our muddy and ugly reality, our heads must always be in the skies, filled with vision and values.

This vision is one and the same with Isaiah's, who tells us that one day swords will be beaten into plowshares. And, as Yoni reminded us, we must not forget this, even now. Yes, it is a horrible time; unquestionably there are many Palestinian civilians who are suffering profoundly in this war. Of course, it must be pointed out where the blame lies. They are largely in harm's way because Hamas has turned all of Gaza into human shields; Hamas relishes civilian casualties, because they are of strategic value to this terror group. Supporters of Israel are sometimes reluctant to speak about the tragedy of Palestinian civilian casualties because it has been weaponized by Hamas and its enablers.

But that is no reason for us to forget Isaiah's dream; and there are so many who have not lost sight of this vision. Eli Beer, the CEO of United Hatzalah, has a son who is a medic and serves in an elite combat unit. The soldiers don't have their cell phones while on duty, and often can only speak to their families sporadically for a very short time. When Eli spoke to his son, he asked him to share the highlight of the previous week; and his son told Eli that he had found a 12-year-old Palestinian girl who was injured, and he had treated her and sent her in an ambulance to Soroka Hospital in Beersheba. Isaiah's dream is still alive even during this bitter War.

There are many other inspiring dreams everywhere. I met Shelli Shemtov, whose son Omer is one of the hostages. She told me that she's keeping his room exactly as Omer left it, cluttered and messy. She said that when he gets home, (and I emphasize, she said “when,”) she will hug him, then kick him in the behind and tell him to go back to his room and clean it up.

What an inspiring mother, what a powerful dream.

Racheli Fraenkel, who spent Shabbat with our group, spoke to me about the Day of Unity which she and her husband established after the kidnapping and murder of her son Naftali in 2014. She mentioned to me that this year, and in the years to come, this day will be even more important. Israel was on the brink of a civil war just days before this war; unity was a distant possibility. Now, after this catastrophe, we must dream once again of unity.

In Kfar Aza we were taken around by Doron Libstein, whose late brother Ofir had been the head of the regional council. Ofir was among the first people murdered. Doron took us to the spot Ofir was killed, and asked us to sing Hatikvah, Israel's anthem of hope.

And Doron has hope. He wants to help Kfar Aza rebuild, and become bigger and better. He wants to bring more people to this beautiful corner of the Negev, and fill it with life and vibrancy once again.

That is Doron’s dream. And we all must dream with him because it is dreams that have kept the Jewish people alive.

We know that at the worst of times, we need dreams more than ever. And now is one of those times.

Now is a time to dream.

The Magic of The Twice Dug Well

2023-11-17T11:36:00.005-05:00

Excavations. Tell Jemmeh, (Gerar). Solomonic level. Excavated section of the mound

Where was Gerar located? Determining the location of biblical cities requires careful evaluation of archeological, historical, and literary evidence. It is both an art and a science, and because of that, opens the door for multiple opinions.

Several archaeological sites, or “tels,” have been identified as Gerar. Eliezer Oren of Ben Gurion University has argued that Tel Haror, located between Ofakim and Netivot, is Gerar. It is a large city, and the location also seems to correspond to an ambiguous description given by the Church Father Eusebius in the 4th century.

Many other archeologists and Bible scholars take a different view. In the 1920s W. J. Phythian-Adams and Flinders Petrie identified the excavations at Tel Jemmeh with Gerar. They did so because a Byzantine village, Umm Gerar, (essentially the same name,) was nearby.

Yehuda and Yoel Elitzur, (father and son Bible scholars,) note that the biblical record corresponds with this identification. Gerar is described in the Tanakh as being close to Gaza, which is true of Tel Jemmeh but not of Tel Haror. Tel Jemmeh also is a place of abundant well water, which is characteristic of cities closer to the coast. A place like this is somewhere that one would naturally go to during a famine. Tel Jemmeh best fits the biblical description of Gerar.

Gerar’s location was just a matter of academic interest until a month and a half ago; but it is now part of the geography of tragedy. The area of Tel Jemmeh is about a mile from Re’im, where the Nova Festival took place and over 350 were murdered. It is also very close to many of the Kibbutzim that were destroyed during the horrific, depraved Hamas massacre. Gerar is near to all of these sites of tragedy; and after October 7th, this text speaks to us with a different voice.

Genesis 26 begins with Rebecca and Isaac leaving home in a famine in search of food. They arrive in Gerar, on their way down to Egypt; but God tells them to stay there and not leave the Land of Israel.

In Gerar, they become extremely successful, to the point that the local people are jealous. The Philistines stop up all of the wells in Gerar that Abraham had dug; Abimelech the local king tells Isaac: “Go away from us, for you have become far too big for us.”

And so Isaac moves into the Valley of Gerar, and there “Isaac dug again the wells of water which they had dug in the days of Abraham his father, (for the Philistines had stopped them up after the death of Abraham.) He called them by the names which his father had called them.” Isaac digs two more wells, but the Philistines claim them as well; finally, after digging a third well, the Philistines leave him alone. Isaac continues on to Beersheba; finally, after all this, Abimelech comes to offer Isaac a treaty.

Every commentary approaches this text with one question in mind: What relevance do these wells have? The purpose of the biblical record is to inspire and enlighten future generations. Who once owned which well under which name thousands of years ago seems to be an unimportant detail, a narrative without any abiding purpose.

Because of this question, the Ramban offers a mystical interpretation that sees this text as a prophecy for the future. A similar allegorical approach is taken up by many later commentators, who offer interpretations that see the wells as symbolizing the search for spirituality and inner faith.

Other commentaries see this narrative as a reflection of contemporary struggles. Saadia Gaon, who was a fierce opponent of the Karaites who had rejected the rabbinic tradition, saw in Isaac's decision to give the wells the same names as his father a comment on the importance of preserving the traditions and customs of previous generations.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, who lived at a time when Jews were fighting for acceptance and equal rights, saw in the Philistines' jealousy of Isaac's success a reflection of his own time; that just like Isaac, even after reentering society, Jews would remain the subject of harassment and envy. He explains that even after receiving equal rights, the struggle was not complete. Jews would need to aspire to an honored place in society, and work to become a true light unto the nations, cherished for their teachings and values.

At its core, this narrative is about Isaac’s response to discrimination; however, the meaning of the text is unclear. Don Isaac Abrabanel and the Ramban have contrary views regarding what Isaac actually did. The Ramban says that Isaac left Gerar and traveled far away, where he was no longer subject to Abimelech and the people of Gerar. The wells Isaac restores are not the ones in Gerar; rather they are a second set of wells, found elsewhere, and not a matter of dispute. This reading has Isaac acting submissively, avoiding conflict with the people of Gerar. (Abrabanel notes that this is why the Ramban sees no real purpose to this text. By the Ramban’s reading, Isaac does nothing.) But the Ramban’s reading is a forced, contorted explanation, because it assumes that the text is talking about two different sets of wells that were closed up by the Philistines; and that is divorced from the simple reading of the text.

Don Isaac Abrabanel, as mentioned, offers a very different perspective. While Isaac does move from Gerar, he does so for a logistical reason; the land cannot accommodate his livestock and the livestock of others. But Isaac remained very close by, despite the Philistines’ demands that he leave. Abrabanel then explains that “Isaac lived there against their desires, and not only that, he dug again the wells that they had closed. And to further assert his rights, he gave the wells the exact same names his father had.”

Abrabanel reads this text as a story of defiance. This is even more remarkable because until this point, Isaac's life had been guided by others: he was nearly sacrificed by his father, had his wife chosen by his father's servant, and he settled in Gerar because God told him to. But when the chips are down, Isaac rises to the occasion and defies Abimelech. Even Isaac will stand up for his father's legacy.

Abrabanel’s explanation of the wells is exactly what we need to read right now. Defiance isn’t only found in confrontation; it is found in resilience too. Yes, many times during Jewish history we have had to retreat; many times Jews looked like the Ramban’s description of Isaac, a man who avoids conflict with a more powerful adversary. But the overarching theme of Jewish history is that Jews will find a way to make a comeback, even after failures, retreats, and catastrophes. No matter how disappointing a defeat may be, the Jews will not give up, and will return to dig the wells again and again.

A people that knows how to rebuild what is destroyed is here to stay. And that is the magic of the twice-dug well.

This magic can be found all over Israel. Sivan Rahav Meir shared a fascinating WhatsApp message written by Nogah Ashkenazi, a German convert to Judaism. Nogah wrote that when the war started, she planned on immediately returning to her family in Germany; they were urging her to come back as well. But then Nogah changed her mind. She was part of a local WhatsApp group; and there she read her neighbors’ messages to each other. And that changed her mind.

She wrote a message to her WhatsApp group to explain:

...My first thought was to leave everything and fly to Germany to my parents with the children. My family was already preparing for our arrival.

But when I opened this group on Monday and saw all the messages here, and saw all the strong women, and how you put all your efforts to help on all fronts with whatever is needed, I was so impressed. I was amazed to see the strength of our nation. And it just kept getting even more and more impressive. This is what changed my mind.

I am not going to run away, not going to leave, because I too am very much a part of all of this. I am Jewish, and this is what I chose; and this is the vow I made in front of the rabbis during conversion, and more importantly, the vow I made in front of God. Germany is no longer my home; I am not German, I am Jewish, and this is my place.

And I'm not leaving. On the contrary, I have become even more Jewish in my identity.

So I want to thank each of you for supporting me. My family in Germany doesn't understand my choice, and I can't blame them. You don't know what it is to be part of the Jewish people if you haven't lived it with every cell in your body….

This is a powerful message, a declaration of the Jewish spirit. Even though Nogah is new to the Jewish people, she speaks with Isaac’s voice. It is a voice of defiance, which refuses to accept destruction and persecution.

Today, as we fight another conflict near Gerar, Isaac’s example will guide us. We will find strength in each other, comfort in our dreams, and hope in our history.

And no matter what, we will restore, we will rebuild, we will return.

Our Family Has Arrived

2023-10-31T10:54:00.003-04:00

A local Eilat brewery changed it's label with the new slogan of Israel: "Together we will win."

"Abram ha’Ivri" is a curious term, most often associated with Egypt, and first used in our Torah reading. The meaning of the word Ivri is unclear. But one interpretation in the Midrash is influential in its own right. Rabbi Judah interprets Ivri as meaning "the entire world is on one side and Abraham is on the other (m'ever) side." Rabbi Judah sees in this phrase a critical aspect of Abraham's mission: to stand apart from the rest of the world. Jews are meant to remain eternal iconoclasts, beginning with the rejection of idolatry.

To live apart need not mean living alone. Abraham himself had close allies; Mamre, Eshkol and Aner are mentioned in the very same verse as having formed a covenant with Abraham. There were people, then as now, who appreciated the Jews for their differences, not despite them.

These allies are exceptionally important now. As I traveled through Israel this week, Israelis of every political persuasion told me how grateful they were for stalwart support, both military and diplomatic, that the United States and President Biden have offered to Israel during this war. And it is not just the United States; England, France and Germany among others have come forward in support. Israel is not alone. Abraham would have found it difficult to fight the war against the four kings without the the support of his allies; the same is true of Israel today.

Even so, living apart has had a profound impact on our history. The stubborn Jewish insistence on being a nation that dwells alone drew derision from the Greeks and fury from the Romans. Jewish rejection of Christianity and Islam provoked further hatred; the insistence on dwelling apart stoked theological animosity.

Through the centuries these negative attitudes morphed into antisemitism, an amalgam of attitudes that made the Jew the protagonist of all the world's ills.

Culturally, antisemitism has shaped how Jews see themselves. Because of it, Jews were constantly under the spotlight, with the behavior of a single Jew becoming the standard by which every Jew is judged.

The legacy of this spotlight endures. Even after being granted political rights, many Jews made sure to carefully modify their behavior to become more acceptable to non-Jews. At times, they would cut off their Jewish legs to fit the shortened bed of "tolerance" the hostile world offered them, and imitate the very people who ridiculed them.

Among non-Jews, the constant and careful examination of Jews to see if they are actually worthy of being treated as equals became a stealth form of antisemitism, an expression of disgust hidden under the mask of "honest criticism." Under this protocol, every Jewish criminal is highlighted, and every Jewish misdeed exaggerated.

Both of these responses are on full display during this conflict. Jewish students who desperately want acceptance avoid expressing public support for Israel; a small group of them have become her fiercist critics. It is a Jewish Stockholm Syndrome, an unhealthy need to identify with those who detest you, the product of centuries of exclusion.

At the same time, Jewish students are watching their friends rush to go out and protest on behalf of Hamas, even before Israel responded. These students feel profoundly betrayed by classmates and teachers who celebrate those who murdered their fellow Jews.

This one-sided perspective of "honest criticism" of Jews leads to this. A monstrous massacre of burning, beheading, raping and kidnapping is quickly ignored and put on the back burner. At the same time, any misstep by Israel is immediately seized upon. If Israel is thought to have bombed a hospital, the world is up in arms. When it turns out that Islamic Jihad actually bombed the hospital, the very same Palestinian deaths are no longer worth discussing.

Although I could certainly go on, I want to turn to another aspect of Jewish identity found in this week's parsha: a deep loyalty to family.

The Torah speaks at length about Abraham's war. Four kings come from the East to Canaan, to reassert their control over five local kings. Abraham rushes to defend the local kings.

One might wonder why this is relevant to Abraham's biography and included in the Torah's account. Is it to show that Abraham is a capable general? Is it because he felt deeply connected to the local nations?

The answer is offered by the way the Torah phrases how Abraham heard the news. It says "and Abram heard that his brother was taken captive..." Lot, Abraham's nephew, was taken captive during the war; and Abraham rushes to set him free. The Torah actually calls Lot a brother even though he's a nephew, to let us know that for Abraham, Lot is a brother. And this perspective that Jews are a family, rather than an ordinary nation, stands at the center of Jewish identity.

Abraham's war to free Lot is the first example in Jewish literature of what the rabbinic tradition calls pidyon shevuyim, the ransoming of captives. Charity must be raised to ransom any Jew, even a compete stranger; and pidyon shevuyim is considered by the Talmud to be the highest form of charity. No Jew can be left behind.

The Jewish passion for ransoming captives became so large, that the Talmud had to insist that no ransom exceed the normal price one would pay for a slave; they didn't want kidnappers to target Jews. What is fascinating is that Jews continued to pay large ransoms, and developed halakhic rationales to allow it. The long history of ransoming captives is best explained by this: The Jewish people consider themselves to be one large family.

I was in Israel this past week with Rabbi Josh Lookstein on a mission on behalf of our community. Everywhere we went, we repeatedly spoke about this bond of family. Israelis I met were moved to hear about all our community has been doing on behalf of Israel at this time. The metaphor of family came up often; and the remarkable organizations that have sprouted up everywhere to help the soldiers and the displaced are a reflection of this idea. I will have more to say about this on Shabbat, when I deliver the Leah Modlin Annual Lecture on Caring and Community Service. There are so many exceptional stories.

But one last story for this article. In Ichilov Hospital, I met a young man, Omer, who was saved because someone in his group messaged a friend, who then drove down to save them. I was told that this was not unique; multiple people, after getting a text jumped into their cars to help family and friends.

One such story, which has been reported widely, is about the Tibon family. Amir and Miri Tibon and their two little daughters live in Nachal Oz. They entered their safe room after hearing the sirens; a little while later they heard gunshots, and Amir immediately understood there were terrorists in the Kibbutz. He immediately texted his father, Noam, a retired general, saying Nachal Oz had been invaded. His father wrote back: "I'm coming."

Noam drove south. Much happened to Noam along the way, including a firefight with Hamas terrorists and transporting wounded soldiers. It took a lot of time. Noam finally met up with another retired general, and together they drove to Nachal Oz. There, they joined forces with a small group of soldiers that were getting ready to liberate the Kibbutz.

Meanwhile, inside the safe room, the two young girls were barely able to remain disciplined. But Amir told them not to worry, their grandfather, Saba, is coming. They just had to stay quiet a little longer.

Finally Noam made his way to the house, knocked on the window of the safe room and said, "I'm here." The two little girls jumped up and shouted: "Saba Higiyah," "grandfather has arrived."

I have thought about this story throughout the last two weeks. Family shows up when their relatives are in need. What I can tell you is that Israel's needs are enormous, economically, militarily and emotionally. This the greatest crisis since the Yom Kippur War, and may even be larger than that as well. Before I went to Israel, I had monitored the news constantly. I imagined then I understood what was happening; but now I realize things are even more desperate than I previously thought.

I know our community has done so much already. But this is going to be a long journey, and we must not quit. We will need to give more, lobby more, demonstrate more, and just do more of everything. Because when family needs you, no distance is too long.

Just ask Noam.

We Will Rebuild, Even After This

2023-10-20T09:44:00.002-04:00

Love at the Western Wall, Jerusalem.

Jewish history seems to be impossible. How can a tiny nation persevere despite centuries of persecution? This question has been posed many times by many observers. Mark Twain wrote the following in an essay for Harper's Magazine in 1898:

All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains. What is the secret of his immortality?

Many countries mastered Empire-building. Twain lists the empires that once dominated the world but have since shriveled away: the Egyptians, the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. They had dominating militaries and well-developed economies. But once these empires fell apart, they couldn't rebuild.

On the other hand, Jews have always known how to overcome adversity. The Yiddish phrase mir zaynen du, “we are here,” is both a description of Jewish history as well as the vow of Jewish determination.

After the barbaric Simchat Torah Massacre, we have once again seen Jewish determination in action. Israelis have come together to fight for their country, and the Jewish world has stood in solidarity with their brothers and sisters in Israel. Rabbi Joe Wolfson in Tel Aviv described it this way: “I have lived 100 years in 5 days. If there is one thing I know it's this: If we are like this we are truly undefeatable.”

This courageous response is far from instinctive. Grief is an all-encompassing emotion. The darkness felt after experiencing trauma seems to lead in only one direction: resignation.

Comfort seems unattainable at such times. And this is what happens to Noah. After the flood, after the entire world is wiped out before his eyes, Noah immediately plants a vineyard and drinks its wine. George Bernard Shaw once remarked, “Alcohol is the anesthetic which enables the bereft man to endure the painful operation of living.” Noah is simply searching for a way to numb the pain.

Another Biblical character, Lot, does much the same. After witnessing the destruction of Sodom, including the loss of several family members, he too turns to the bottle and gets drunk.

At first glance, their response is reasonable. The Talmud (Sanhedrin 70a) remarks that “wine was only created in order to comfort mourners.” Noah and Lot are mourners searching for a way to cope with the pain.

Yet the verdict on their drinking is negative. Noah falls into a stupor and lies naked in clear sight of his children; he is later humiliated by his son and grandson. Lot, when he gets drunk, is seduced by his daughters. The outcome of these Biblical episodes is meant as an editorial comment; Noah and Lot’s drinking is implicitly condemned. But the question remains: What did they do wrong? Didn’t the Talmud say that is what wine is for?

The answer can be found in a Midrash (Genesis Rabbah 36:3). It quotes the verse (Genesis 9:20) that says, “Noah, a man of the soil, began to plant a vineyard,” and comments:

Noah, a man of the soil, began [vayaḥel] – he lost his holiness and became ordinary [ḥulin].

Using a play on the Hebrew word vayahel, the Midrash deems Noah’s behavior as merely ordinary, rather than holy. This itself is a bit puzzling; what status of holiness did Noah have? Generally, it is the Kohanim (priests) and sacred items that are considered to be uniquely holy because they are involved in the Temple service.

But that is exactly the point. Kohanim are prohibited from drinking when they are on call to serve in the Temple; they must be fully focused on their divine service. Like the Kohanim, this Midrash argues that Noah also had a divine mission.

Noah’s failure is that he didn’t realize this. Another Midrash criticizes Noah for not wanting to leave the ark. Perhaps for an ordinary person, that would be completely understandable; who would want to go out and witness the destruction the flood left behind?

But more is demanded of Noah. If God selected him to be the only survivor of the flood, that means that Noah is being designated for the mission of rebuilding the world. He must not hide in the ark; and like a Kohen, he must remain focused on his mission and not get drunk and distracted. Noah must go out and rebuild the world.

The Midrash concludes by saying:

And he planted a vineyard.” Should Noah not have planted something else that was constructive, perhaps a fig tree branch or an olive tree branch? Instead, “he planted a vineyard.”

Noah missed his calling.

Jews see rebuilding as sacred. In the previous generation, many of the Holocaust survivors, broken in both body and soul, saw their mission as rebuilding what was destroyed. They fought to create the State of Israel, established Jewish communities, schools, and synagogues, and built beautiful Jewish families.

Here, one can find the elusive secret of Jewish survival: the determination to rebuild.

This belief in rebuilding is part of Israel’s DNA. Even during the worst days of the intifada, Israel moved forward. Greg Myre and Jennifer Griffin, two journalists who lived in Israel between 2000-2007 wrote that:

We were consistently amazed at how quickly Israelis returned to places that had been bombed. The police, the rescue teams, and the cleanup crews restored a bomb site to an outward semblance of normality within hours of an attack. Debris was swept out. Hoses washed away blood from the sidewalk. Shattered windows were replaced. The yellow police tape came down.…. For Israelis, combating terror is not just a security question. It's a social, cultural, and psychological issue and the whole country is required to play its role. It's often measured in small deeds, like going back to a favorite cafe after an attack.

One must never allow destruction to be the final chapter.

Israel today is filled with grief, anxiety, and heartbreak. A cartoon now circulating shows a caricature of the map of Israel lying on the couch, while Sigmund Freud listens. The caption reads: “How does one find a psychologist for 9.3 million people?” So many families have experienced horrific loss; the families of hostages sit helplessly as their loved ones are held by a group of depraved murderers. Every Israeli, and every Jew, is heartbroken.

Even so, Israel is rebuilding. In Kibbutz Be’eri, where Hamas destroyed dozens of homes and murdered over 100 people, the famous printing house, which is the largest business in the area, has reopened. The surviving children, who are now housed in a hotel in the center of Israel, once again have a kindergarten in their hotel. Photos of it were posted online. They look pretty ordinary: toys, books, cheery signs, and sippy cups with each child’s name. Yet that kindergarten is quite extraordinary.

The weddings are also extraordinary. The Talmud says that every rejoicing bride and groom is the equivalent of rebuilding one of the destroyed buildings of Jerusalem; and today in Israel, young couples are coming forward to take part in the heroic act of Jewish rebuilding.

Tamar and Adir had not yet made plans to get married. But once the war broke out, they decided it was time; the future could no longer wait. They had a joyous wedding near the front, and walked down the aisle in their military uniforms. The video of them dancing with their parents into the Chuppah has gone viral in Israel. There are so many weddings of this kind, that one newspaper wrote an article about all of the “Weddings Under Fire.”

Total strangers have come forward to help with these celebrations. Aviva and Yisrael, one of the engaged couples that moved up their wedding date, had decided to have a simple affair; their family, who lived in the South, couldn’t leave their homes to attend. They asked a local rabbi to help with a minyan for the wedding. The Rabbi shared the request on social media.

Aviva explains what happened next:

Two amazing guys from Ramot, Naveh and Ori, stepped in and helped organize everything. A hall, food, a photographer, musicians, and a DJ all materialized seemingly from thin air—the goodwill of Jewish people wishing to celebrate with a brother and sister they’d never met.

Every wedding is another step towards a better future. The Jewish tradition encourages the brokenhearted to find the inner strength to marry, have babies, and build communities, even after they have experienced death and destruction. The Jewish way forward is the way of rebuilding. And that has been the secret of Jewish survival.

We are all uncertain what will happen in the next few months. But one thing is certain: Israel will rebuild. Jews have always been ready to write the next chapter of Jewish History.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Despite the Tears, A Shehecheyanu

2023-10-13T10:15:00.001-04:00

Defense Minister Yoav Gallant meets troops on the Gaza border, October 10, 2023

There are times when the grief-stricken must recite a Shehecheyanu.

This blessing is meant for joyous occasions and thanks God for having "kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this moment.”

When one is grieving, this blessing seems out of place. But Jewish law expects mourners to recite this blessing when they are the beneficiaries of a gift. We don’t ignore the good, even in the worst circumstances.

This past week, I was thinking about a Shehecheyanu that was recited 80 years ago.

In Hassidic Tales of the Holocaust, Yaffa Eliach recounts when the Bluzhever Rebbe, Rabbi Israel Spira, recited this blessing on a Chanukah evening in the Bergen Belsen Concentration Camp:

….a wooden clog, the shoe of one of the inmates, became a hanukkiah; strings pulled from a concentration camp uniform, a wick; and the black camp shoe polish, oil.

Not far from the heaps of the bodies, the living skeletons assembled to participate in the kindling of Hanukkah lights.

The Rabbi of Bluzhov lit the first light and chanted the first two blessings…When he was about to recite the third blessing, he stopped, turned his head, and looked around as if he were searching for something.

Immediately, he turned his face back to the quivering small lights and in a strong, reassuring, comforting voice, chanted the third, Shehecheyanu blessing: "Blessed art Thou, 0 Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this moment."

Among the people present at the kindling of the lights was Mr. Zamietchkowski, one of the leaders of the Warsaw Bund….Afterward, he turned to the rabbi and said, "I can understand your need to light Hanukkah candles in these wretched times. I can even understand the historical note of the second blessing, 'Who brought miracles for our fathers in days of old, at this season.' But the fact that you recited the third blessing is beyond me. How could you thank God and say 'Blessed art Thou, 0 Lord our God, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this moment'? How could you say it when hundreds of dead Jewish bodies are literally lying within the shadows of the Hanukkah lights …and millions more are being massacred? For this you are thankful to God? For this you praise the Lord? This you call 'keeping us alive'?"

"Zamietchkowski, you are a hundred percent right," answered the rabbi. "When I reached the third blessing, I also hesitated and asked myself, what should I do with this blessing? … But as I turned my head, I noticed that behind me a throng was standing, a large crowd of living Jews, their faces expressing faith and devotion... I said to myself, if God, blessed be He, has such a nation that at times like these ... stand and … listen to the Hanukkah blessing, … if, indeed, I was blessed to see such a people with so much faith and fervor, then I am under a special obligation to recite the third blessing.”

What the Bluzhever said is particularly relevant now, as we search for hope while engulfed by tragedy.

Yes, our grief is overwhelming. A friend of mine in Israel told me that his children who serve in the IDF have lost more friends in the past few days than he did in his lifetime. Entire families have been wiped out. The loss is so severe, that Israeli cemeteries are calling for volunteers to dig graves. The Jewish people are in mourning, just two degrees of separation from someone who was murdered or kidnapped.

Analogies fail when it comes to this attack. To call it a pogrom is a dramatic understatement. Even 9/11, which remains a deep American trauma 22 years later, pales in comparison to this attack; the Simchat Torah massacre is the equivalent of thirteen 9/11s. The only proper analogy for the two days of horror is the Holocaust.

The barbarism of Hamas is incomprehensible. They murdered individuals by shooting them at point-blank range with rocket-propelled grenades. They slit throats. They massacred 40 babies. They took such pride in their depravity that they videotaped what they did.

Actually, incomprehensible is the wrong word to describe Hamas’ crimes. Good people simply have a failure of imagination, and they often refuse to understand the mindset of those who are evil. And that is a flaw. It hobbles democracies when they have to take on dictatorships; they imagine they can negotiate with those who are ruthless, and “bring out the best” in them. One who desires love finds it difficult to imagine that there are people who have a passion for cruelty.

Our Torah reading introduces us to Lemech, the first person who takes joy in violence. He boastfully recites the following poem to his wives:

For I have killed a man as soon as I wounded him,

Even a young man as soon as I hurt him.

If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold,

Then Lamech seventy-sevenfold.

This passage is enigmatic and difficult to interpret, and commentators offer multiple approaches. But the above translation is based on the commentary of Umberto Cassuto, who follows the approach of Rabbeinu Bachya. Lemech is the one who popularizes violence; his son is the inventor of the sword. Lemech sings about how strong he is, how easily he killed a young boy who displeased him; as Cassuto puts it, Lemech “boasts with great bravado of this cruel murder.”

There are always people who love violence. Lemech, and his son Tubal-Cain, refine the brutality of their ancestor Cain. While most people compose songs of love and inspiration, Lemech sings a song of death. And the Torah wants to show us, up close, that there are evil human beings like Lemech in this world.

It is fascinating that Lemech refers to God’s protection of Cain. This reminds us that forgiveness is not endless. Perhaps Cain deserved God’s mercy; he had committed a then-unfamiliar crime and did so in extreme jealousy. But Lemech mocks God’s kindness towards Cain by expecting the same for himself. This violent murderer has the brazen chutzpah to demand forgiveness afterward.

What Hamas and its helpers in the international community do is pretty much the same. They expect all of their brutal crimes to be completely forgiven and any mistake by Israel to be severely punished. Our dear member Gilad Erdan has to combat the endless lies disseminated in the United Nations; dictatorships that murder their own people come forward to criticize Israel, and everyone sits and listens seriously to their prattling propaganda. But Hamas’ constant lying shouldn’t surprise us; if you're willing to murder babies, how difficult is it to lie?

For the tragedies of this past week we all weep, and our eyes flow with tears. Yet even so, we must make a Shehecheyanu, just like the Bluzhever Rebbe.

We must make a Shehecheyanu on exceptional kindness. A friend described what is happening in Israel as a “balagan of chesed,” or a chaotic whirlwind of kindness. Everywhere people are running and doing what they can for those in need. One Chabad in Jerusalem packed 25,000 sandwiches for the soldiers. There are hours-long waits at hospitals to donate blood, because so many people have come forward. Hundreds of volunteers have come to Soroka Hospital to help the wounded and their families with laundry, prescriptions, and rides. And here in New York, a lone man stood inside Kennedy Airport, buying plane tickets for soldiers returning home.

We have to make a Shehecheyanu on the beautiful unity. This was not the case at all a few weeks ago; but now, in a crisis, Israel has once again pulled together. (But why does it have to wait for a crisis?) Yotam and Assaf Doctor, who own the aptly named “Brothers Restaurant” in Tel Aviv, started delivering thousands of meals to the front lines. But many soldiers wouldn’t eat them, because the restaurant wasn’t kosher. What did the Doctor brothers do? They called in the Rabbinate, and for the first time, became a kosher restaurant. The Jewish people are brothers and sisters; and family must stick together, in good times and in bad.

We have to make a Shehecheyanu because of extraordinary courage. Perhaps, as the Haggadah says, in every generation someone comes to destroy the Jewish people. But more important to remember is that in every generation we have found the courage to overcome those enemies. They have been tossed into the ash-heap of history, and we are still here.

This brings me to another Shehecheyanu story, from just a few days ago. Israeli media shared a video of David, a soldier in camouflage netting, holding his smartphone. David was participating in his son’s bris, and saying his blessings while in the field of battle. Following the Sephardic tradition, David recited the Shehecheyanu blessing.

A pessimist might object to his Shehecheyanu, and see this as a moment of extreme disappointment. A young father should be with his family, not on the front lines endangering his life. A young mother should have her husband at her side, rather than worrying about if he will ever get to hold his baby boy.

Even so, David’s Shehecheyanu is a meaningful blessing, and expresses the destiny of the Jewish people. For much of Jewish history, we were defenseless. That ended with the establishment of the State of Israel. That’s why, despite the circumstances, David can say Shehecheyanu.

At the end of the bris, David and his fellow soldiers recited the words from Ezekiel (16:6), “And I said to you in your blood you shall live, and I said to you in your blood you shall live." Some of the soldiers began to cry. It is a time of bloodshed; these soldiers have witnessed the aftermath of Hamas’ atrocities. But the message of Ezekiel is that even in the worst times, Jews know that there will be better days ahead. Even amidst the blood, there shall be new life.

And for that, we can all make a Shehecheyanu.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Rabbis Roundtable: The Meaning of the High Holy Days

2023-09-08T11:41:00.002-04:00

I joined Rabbi Angela Buchdahl of Central Synagogue and Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove of Park Avenue Synagogue in a wide-ranging discussion about what the holidays mean, the challenges of preparing sermons, the moments that are most meaningful, and more. Below is the link to the entire broadcast.

The Happiness Warrior

Survival Optimism

Simchat Torah, One Year Later

Who is a Hero? Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur 2024

Radical Commitment

It's Not A Fairy Tale

Proud Jews, Despite Everything

Frankfurt memorbuch 1,400 Yizkors

Politics Without Problems

Too Soon for Humor?

The Day After

Ordinary Superheroes

An Ever-Present Void

KINDNESS, FREEDOM AND VICTORY

THE GROUND ﻿STILL TREMBLES

THE PEOPLE'S FLAG

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU BITTER HERBS

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU BITTER HERBS

We Must Never Forget Them

The Optimism of Seven Lean Years

Wrestling Lessons: A Sermon About the KJ Mission to Israel

A Letter From Israel: It's Time to Start Dreaming

The Magic of The Twice Dug Well

Our Family Has Arrived

We Will Rebuild, Even After This

Despite the Tears, A Shehecheyanu

Defense Minister Yoav Gallant meets troops on the Gaza border, October 10, 2023

Rabbis Roundtable: The Meaning of the High Holy Days

THE GROUND STILL TREMBLES