Rabbi Tow's Window: January 2016

Thursday, January 14, 2016

"Static" Judaism - January, 2016

“Static Judaism”

He [Yehudah ben Teima] used to say: Five years [is the age] for [the study of] the written Torah, Ten [is the age] for [the study of] Mishnah, Thirteen [is the age] for [observing] commandments, Fifteen [is the age] for [the study of] Talmud, Eighteen [is the age] for the [wedding] canopy, Twenty [is the age] for pursuing [a livelihood], Thirty [is the age] for [full] strength, Forty [is the age] for understanding, Fifty [is the age] for [giving] counsel… (Mishnah Avot 5:21)

Our ancestors teach us here that Jewish learning and living exist on a spectrum from learning to read and study the Torah, the “basics”, all the way through age fifty when we have, in theory, achieved a high enough level of understanding and wisdom such that we are fully able to share our wisdom with others.

Yehudah ben Teima knows, just as we do, when we study the simple things like addition in elementary school we continue to use them even when we’re studying calculus. When we learn the alphabet and begin to spell in kindergarten we lay the foundation to enable us to read A Tale of Two Cities later.

We grow physically, emotionally, and intellectually and we also grow spiritually, and the version of our Jewish stories, our traditions, and perspectives we accept as religious school students in second grade can only carry us so far. If all these remain “static”, then the same dynamic development that Yehuda ben Teima teaches, in which we transform from a student into a teacher, will tragically not happen. Each of us has the potential to be a teacher as we read in the Shma/Ve’ahavta, “Veshinantam levanecha…”, “Teach your children (also your students, fellow community members…)…” God asks us to teach what we’ve studied and to share our wisdom that evolves over time.

This chain of transmission functions best when we challenge ourselves to see our Judaism in light of the depth of knowledge and experience we have from our personal and professional. For example, as children, we study how God rewards those who do good and punishes those who do evil. Tragically, the attacks on innocent civilians in Israel, Paris, San Bernadino and elsewhere remind us of how precarious reward and punishment thinking is. If reward and punishment does not explain our relationship to God or the relationship amongst people then what does? Do we accept the humanist philosophy of Mordecai Kaplan or of Lawrence Kushner in his book “When bad things happen to good people” – that God essentially is not responsible for everything that happens (or does not happen)?

Basic reward and punishment thinking is helpful and provides order for us at one time in our lives, but then with that, as with all other Jewish ideas, we need an ‘upgrade’ so that we can seek wisdom and inspiration when these things present questions that are more difficult, complicated, and elusive for us.

To this end, I will soon be starting a new adult education series here at WJC titled, “Jewish Prayer for those who do not do yoga, meditation, kirtan chant, liturgical dance, medicinal drumming, play shruti boxes; people who may (or may not be) agnostic, not ‘spiritual’, people who may (or may not) read Hebrew; people who identify Jewishly as Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Chasidic, Reconstructionist, Humanist, and Reconservaformadox…” (You get the idea…) The Siddur, the prayer book, is the book we tend to use most often and, like the Torah, its language, structure, and meaning are all ripe for our study, dialogue, debate and further exploration. As students we learned the “Baruch Atah Ado—nai…” formula and now we will, for example, revisit this most basic blessing formula to find out what it means in context and what its meaning implies for how we pray and how we envision our relationship to God.

It is up to us to make sure our Judaism does not become static. A great way to begin is to ask ourselves, and discuss with others, questions that do not have clear answers, questions that beg further questions. Try formulating one such question right now. Here are some examples: If in prayer we speak to God, how does God speak to us? Can we really have Shabbat ‘rest’ in a world that operates 24/7? Is there such a thing as the ‘Jewish vote’ anymore?...When we ask these questions we strive to weigh in with answers to the best of our ability, to engage with each other in compelling dialogue, and we also take the opportunity to express our humility by saying what the great Rashi wrote about inexplicable passages in the Torah, “Lo yadati perusho”, “I don’t know what it means.” There are moments when we need to sharpen and focus on the questions since answers are either unclear or offer us several options. Unlike our earlier selves that required concrete answers, we seek to grow so that our Jewish learning and growth are projects that last beyond our lifetimes as we hand down the inspiration to explore to the next generation.

Vayigash 2015/5776: What do you do?

As I learned several years ago, the story of Superman is really a Jewish story, not to mention the fact that Superman’s name Kallel, is a type of Hebrew/Aramaic sounding word.

With Krypton about to be destroyed, Kallel’s parents save him by placing him in a vehicle, sending him away to a planet where kind people will have compassion and love for him, raise him. He will see injustice in the world and will build confidence toward helping people.

Superman is Moses, Moses doesn’t exactly fly, but he is the model for the superhero, a character created by two Jewish artists.

A significant moment in the story for Superman, as the same moment is for Moses, is the time Superman goes to his fortress of solitude and asks the image of his father, “Who am I?”

Superman must take time to learn from his father’s collected knowledge. Moses must take time to grow into his new role.

The question of who am I? The question of, “What do you do?” is one that we take for granted and tend to answer with as simple an answer as possible.

For Joseph, when his brothers come down to Egypt, Joseph knows Pharaoh will want to know more about them, what do they do, and he instructs his brothers to emphasize they are anshey mikneh, breeders of livestock. Joseph is concerned since Egyptians hold shepherds in low esteem, and the brothers are in fact shepherds.

When the brothers present themselves to Pharaoh, what do they say? “We are shepherds!” And in that moment, they choose to define themselves as they see fit, and the answer from Pharaoh is a positive one, in fact, Pharaoh appoints them sarei mikneh, chief of his livestock herds in Goshen. As our commentary explains, these positions are direct servants of Pharaoh, and so carry significant legal protection that outsiders would normally not receive.

Why does Joseph tell his brothers to emphasize they are something that does not correspond completely to who they really are?

How do the brothers decide to follow their own will and introduce themselves in a way that disregards Joseph’s educated warning?

Isaac Arama (15^th cent. Spain) teaches Joseph’s advice is practical – Nechama Leibowitz, a great modern teacher of Torah, explains Arama, a refugee from the Spanish Expulsion, knew well the intrigues and tensions of court life and its corruptions. As a result, Arama explains in his own commentary Joseph warned the brothers, the whole family, to be in Goshen, to be away from the court. Joseph could have set them up in court positions, but then they would be in danger of becoming like the Egyptians, potentially losing their identity.

We might say, that’s no worry, after all, Joseph maintains his identity despite literally marrying into the Egyptian aristocracy, and Moses grows up in the Egyptian court and remembers who he is, even defies Pharaoh and the Egyptian leadership by killing the taskmaster who is torturing one of his own.

But there is something more happening here, as Nechama Leibowitz points out in the commentary of the Netziv, R. Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin (19^th century Poland), “Everything was worth sacrificing in order to ensure the preservation of Israel’s sanctity.”

The brothers represent the future tribes of Israel, the people of Israel, and they will establish settlements, grow their families, and seek to keep the fire of God’s promise to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob burning.

And why do the brothers themselves choose to defy Joseph’s advice? What experience do they have in the Egyptian court? On what basis do they make this decision?

They choose to speak up to describe themselves in their own words, not in their brother’s words – They do not appear to harbor Joseph’s fear of assimilation or loss of identity. They are confident in who they are. When Pharaoh asks them what do you do, ma ma’a’seychem, they say ‘we are shepherds as were also our fathers.’

Interesting that Pharaoh is only curious about their occupations, not about their faith or their personal lives. Pharaoh is concerned about a specific agenda, can these people fit into our society in a useful way? That is the question behind the question – appropriately, a question that is under discussion both abroad and at home, with respect to welcoming in refugees from Syria and elsewhere where there is oppression.

Joseph’s suggested answer, the question itself, and the brother’s response all point to the complexities of explaining who we are. I’ve struggled for most of my 37 years to figure out what it means to be a Conservative Jews. What it means to be a Rabbi is equally difficult to define. We don’t often enough scratch below the surface to really get to know someone past our own assumptions of who they are and what they do, to find out what motivates us to do the work we do, what are some of the challenges we face, how did we get to the work we do, and by the way, who we are and what we do are not equivalent to what job we do or may have done in the past. Joseph’s suggestion is to define ourselves by how we measure up to the expectations of others. The brothers answer suggests we tell the story of our family history, at least in part, the part that’s significant and meaningful for the moment.

The story of Joseph and his brothers here compels us to rethink the way we define ourselves. What are our priorities? What’s most important to us? Shouldn’t these things also be part of our self-definition if not how we describe ourselves to others. And our strivings are important as well, what is it that we aspire to do, hope to accomplish, wish to achieve? If we don’t know each other’s dreams, how can we help each other to reach them?

Kol yisra’el arevin ze bazeh, the great Rabbis teach us everyone in the people of Israel is responsible for the other.

We don’t have to be Superman to figure out who we are, or to establish a thoughtful relationship with others such that we recognize, celebrate and support others in becoming who they hope they can be.

We do need to remember Joseph and his brothers, who even after 22 years of separation enter into a challenging, but meaningful, dialogue about who they are, who they want to be, and how they will share the identity and aspirations with the world.

Vayeshev 2015/5776: Remembering the victims of the San Bernadino shooting

*I am catching up on posting - now going back a few weeks - Shabbat Shalom!*

Robert Adams

Isaac Amanios

Bennetta Betbadal

Harry Bowman

Sierra Clayborn

Juan Espinoza

Aurora Godoy

Shannon Johnson

Larry Daniel Kaufman

Damian Meins

Tin Nguyen

Nicholas Thalasinos

Yvette Velasco

Michael Raymond Wetzel

We remember them, the 14 individuals murdered at a holiday party in San Bernadino California this past week.

In the Kabbalstic tradition, the number 14 stands for what is infinite, so vast that we cannot measure it, a lesson reinforced by our Rabbis Whoever destroys a life, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world. — Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:9; Yerushalmi Talmud, Tractate Sanhedrin 37a.

A whole world exists within each of us. On Wednesday, 14 infinite worlds, were brutally ripped from the world.

There have been emotional and heartfelt calls for prayer – the moving scene of people holding hands in a circle outside the building where the attacks happened.

We must not forget these individuals, their significant others, children, and larger families and their friends. Lately I find that in thinking of the victims of Paris, of the planned parenthood center, of students on a California college campus…that as soon as the next tragedy happens, I struggle to remember when and where the last scene occurred and who the victims were.

Being forgotten is a painful prospect for any of us, even when we, God willing, have the chance to live out the length of our lives however many years we may live.

Our ancestor Joseph, Yosef, the seemingly favored child of Jacob, is someone we cannot forget. Wearing his multi-colored coat, victim of his brother’s plot, the dreamer, sold into slavery in Egypt, who eventually saves his family from a famine – how could we forget him?

But when he is imprisoned along with the baker and the cup-bearer, and Joseph predicts the cup-bearer will go free and return to his position, this same person does not remember Joseph and does not mention him at all.

“Velo zachar sar hamashkim et Yosef va’yish’ka’che’hu”

The chief cup-bearer did not think of Joseph; he forgot him.

This is not the typical forgetting, not the daily question of where did I leave my keys? Not the intentional overlooking of past wrongs to mend a broken relationship.

No, according to Ibn Ezra the cup-bearer wipes the memory of Joseph intentionally from his heart. In an eerie way, this moment of forgetting foreshadows the moment when a new Pharaoh will sit on the throne and willfully forgets Joseph and all the help he gave to Egypt during the famine.

The difference is we do not willfully, we do not intentionally forget the tragedies of the past. We are programmed to get back to life as usual as soon as possible. We return to work and life after shivah. After a simcha we come down from the emotional high and settle back into life. Though in both cases the experience of the loss, or the simcha, changes us.

Ba’al Ha’Turim reads the situation differently, and teaches us the cup-bearer forgets Joseph not willfully but due to the overwhelming happiness he felt at his release. The goodness of the moment blinds him.

As with the Holocaust and other tragedies of the Jewish past, we do our best to keep the memories and names of victims alive. And we keep alive the memories of the miracles too, the miracle of the way Judah and his family organized, fought back, and rebuilt a Jewish nation – the last sovereign Jewish nation prior to 1948.

And we pray that these attacks, these senseless and brutal attacks on people in parties, at restaurants, driving in cars in Israel, walking on streets in Israel, and elsewhere, that they will not blind us to what is most important, as the Ba’al Ha’Turim explained that happiness blinds the cup-bearer. Instead we pray they will change us, drive us to demand sensible reforms in the sale of weapons, preventing guns from being sold on the secondary market to unknown buyers, making sure that weapons are safely kept in homes, and taking the fight to where our enemies operate and making sure we shut down their networks here and abroad.

And most of all, we cannot despair, cannot give up the spark of life that animates us, that animated the 14 individuals who attended a party in celebration of being co-workers, of creating community.

When I started studying Talmud, the first sugya we studied the first teaching dealt with lost objects. And a question came forward about whether the one who lost the object had experienced ye’ush, had despaired of ever retrieving the object, and given up on it such that he or she would never come to look for it, such that possession of the object would pass into the hands of the person who found it.

Let us not forget these 14 names and the names of other victims of recent months – and we cannot despair otherwise our enemies have won by destroying the soul that animates us, the living embodiment of God inside us that pushes us to live, to give, to breathe, to pray, to question, to grow and with God’s help to reach our potential that we might have the chance to in turn give back to others and to this world.

How can we help fulfill their dreams? The shattered dreams that their friends and families now are picking up their pieces and wondering what the future will be like without them.

Each of us will make a choice about what is right and appropriate to do. First though learn about them, find out who they are, feel emboldened by the sense of connection with them to live each day of life with one more layer of kedushah of holiness and hoda’ah, thankfulness that this perplexing, this often violent and gory, often surprising and happily overwhelming world exists at all.