Parshat Veyetzei
December 5, 2008/ 8 Kislev 5769
"Indeed, God is in this Place, and I didn't know it!" (Genesis 28:16)
The Baal Shem Tov (1700-1760), the founder of Hasidism, once told this parable:
"If one was to walk in the woods and a spring appeared just when he became thirsty, he would call it a miracle. And if on a second walk, if he became thirsty at just that point again, and again the spring appeared, he would remark on the coincidence. But if that spring were there always, he would take it for granted and cease to notice it. Yet is that not more miraculous still?"
In Parshat Veyetzei, Jacob is on the run. He is fleeing his aggrieved brother, his broken home, and his old life. He stops in a barren, unnamed place somewhere between Beersheva and Haran. He is utterly alone—with neither friends nor family—without a home to which he can return. Worn out from all his running, he falls asleep with only a stone for a pillow.
That night he has an amazing dream. He sees a ladder with its base planted in the earth and its top reaching toward the heavens, and holy beings are ascending and descending upon it. He has a vision of God who promises to be with him in his wanderings. He wakes up and exclaims: "Indeed, God is in this Place, and I didn't know it!"
Sometimes it feels like we spend most our time running. There is so much to do and time is always short. We have dozens of interactions each day, some of them meaningful, most of them not. We rush to work or school, grab a bite to eat, rush back home, zoom through errands and tasks, and tend to collapse into our beds at the end of the day.
One of the functions of religion is to mandate that we take short breaks in our hectic lives, in order to notice things that we might otherwise have missed. Judaism asks us to pause for a moment before we eat something in order to acknowledge the gift of sustenance. It invites us to carve out two short periods in our day to say the Sh'ma, the declaration that there is Unity underlying all the chaos. It gives us Shabbat, a day of quiet, to help us reconnect with ourselves, our loved ones, and God.
Jacob wakes up from his dream and realizes that God has been with him all along; he had just been running too fast to notice. The Baal Shem Tov wakes us up the fact that we are daily surrounded by myriad gifts, springs of living water, which we don't notice because we have grown so accustomed to their always being there. This Shabbat, let's enjoy the chance to pause, to notice, to live life awake.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Parshat Toldot
Parshat Toldot
Thanksgiving 2008/ Erev Rosh Chodesh Kislev 5769
"And Isaac loved Esau... and Rebekah loved Jacob" (Gen 25:28)
Parshat Toldot is a story of unwise parental love and the tragedy it engenders. At the beginning of the story, Isaac and Rebekah spend many lonely years praying for a child, and their prayers are finally answered with twins-- Esau and Jacob.
Rebekah and Isaac's long childlessness ought to make them particularly grateful for both of their boys. Yet, this isn't the case. From the outset, the parents divide their loyalties and their love. Isaac favors Esau, his rough-and-tumble son, the skillful hunter and family provider. Rebekah prefers her mild-mannered Jacob, who the text tells us liked to stay in the camp, presumably in her company.
The rest of the parshah is one long tale of the deceit, trickery, and misery that follows from Isaac and Rebekah's unequal application of love. By the end of the story, the family is irrevocably broken-- with Jacob on the run and Esau vowing revenge. What began with so much promise ends with alienation.
The Book of Genesis is the story of the disastrous consequences of treating love like a zero-sum game, a limited commodity which must be rationed out and fought over. Again and again we read about characters who struggle for limited love-- Cain and Abel, Sarah and Hagar, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Rachel and Leah, Joseph and his brothers. In every case the result is violence, loss, and grief.
Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes in his classic Honey from the Rock that learning that love is not a limited commodity is the great challenge of growing up. He writes:
Rabbi Kushner challenges us to put aside out childish assumption that love is a zero-sum game and instead invites us to imagine ourselves as part of a web of interconnection, in which all the love that we give out inevitably comes back to us. If our ancestors had only realized this basic human truth, the Book of Genesis would read very, very differently.
On this Thanksgiving, may we fully open ourselves to the blessings of family, friendship, and love.
Thanksgiving 2008/ Erev Rosh Chodesh Kislev 5769
"And Isaac loved Esau... and Rebekah loved Jacob" (Gen 25:28)
Parshat Toldot is a story of unwise parental love and the tragedy it engenders. At the beginning of the story, Isaac and Rebekah spend many lonely years praying for a child, and their prayers are finally answered with twins-- Esau and Jacob.
Rebekah and Isaac's long childlessness ought to make them particularly grateful for both of their boys. Yet, this isn't the case. From the outset, the parents divide their loyalties and their love. Isaac favors Esau, his rough-and-tumble son, the skillful hunter and family provider. Rebekah prefers her mild-mannered Jacob, who the text tells us liked to stay in the camp, presumably in her company.
The rest of the parshah is one long tale of the deceit, trickery, and misery that follows from Isaac and Rebekah's unequal application of love. By the end of the story, the family is irrevocably broken-- with Jacob on the run and Esau vowing revenge. What began with so much promise ends with alienation.
The Book of Genesis is the story of the disastrous consequences of treating love like a zero-sum game, a limited commodity which must be rationed out and fought over. Again and again we read about characters who struggle for limited love-- Cain and Abel, Sarah and Hagar, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Rachel and Leah, Joseph and his brothers. In every case the result is violence, loss, and grief.
Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes in his classic Honey from the Rock that learning that love is not a limited commodity is the great challenge of growing up. He writes:
"Is this not the great childhood problem-- and therefore the great human problem: To learn that it is good for you when other people love other people besides you? That I have a stake in their love. That I get more when others give to others."
Rabbi Kushner challenges us to put aside out childish assumption that love is a zero-sum game and instead invites us to imagine ourselves as part of a web of interconnection, in which all the love that we give out inevitably comes back to us. If our ancestors had only realized this basic human truth, the Book of Genesis would read very, very differently.
On this Thanksgiving, may we fully open ourselves to the blessings of family, friendship, and love.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Parshat Vayera
Parshat Vayera
November 14, 2008/ 16 Cheshvan 5769
In Parshat Vayera we read the story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Bible does not give a clear reason why the cities are destroyed, only that God hears of their sinfulness and decides to act.
Before destroying Sodom and Gomorrah, God tells His plans to Abraham. Perhaps surprisingly for God, Abraham does not respond by meekly accept the decree. Quite the opposite, he initiates a lengthy debate on behalf of the doomed cities. Over and over he demands that God be absolutely sure that he is not wiping out the innocent together with the guilty. In one of the most eloquent protests in history, Abraham cries out: “Will not the Judge of all the Earth act with Justice?!” (Gen. 18:25)
Abraham’s challenge eventually fails, and the cities are indeed destroyed. However, the Jewish tradition is unstinting in its praise of his “holy chutzpah.” The Sages see Abraham’s willingness to protest against the Master of the Universe as a sign of the depth of his moral character and one of the reasons that he is fit to be the Father of our people.
In college, I learned a beautiful story, whose source I have been searching for ever since, which suggests that Abraham was not the first person to protest outside of Sodom:
The same year that learned this story, I also had my first experiences with political protest. During the many months leading up to the Iraq War, I joined with millions of people around the world in protests and vigils that asked President Bush to halt the relentless march toward war. I don’t think that anyone really believed that those protests would change his eventual decision, but we went nonetheless. Silence would have been assent.
Our world faces so many seemingly insurmountable challenges. And truthfully, each lone individual can only do so much to overcome them. However, there is not excuse not to try. The Jewish tradition demands that we exercise some holy chutzpah-- that we be willing to stand up and demand justice, even from the Master of the World. We may not always achieve the outcome we desire, but at the very least, we can remain the kind of people who get back up and try again.
November 14, 2008/ 16 Cheshvan 5769
In Parshat Vayera we read the story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Bible does not give a clear reason why the cities are destroyed, only that God hears of their sinfulness and decides to act.
Before destroying Sodom and Gomorrah, God tells His plans to Abraham. Perhaps surprisingly for God, Abraham does not respond by meekly accept the decree. Quite the opposite, he initiates a lengthy debate on behalf of the doomed cities. Over and over he demands that God be absolutely sure that he is not wiping out the innocent together with the guilty. In one of the most eloquent protests in history, Abraham cries out: “Will not the Judge of all the Earth act with Justice?!” (Gen. 18:25)
Abraham’s challenge eventually fails, and the cities are indeed destroyed. However, the Jewish tradition is unstinting in its praise of his “holy chutzpah.” The Sages see Abraham’s willingness to protest against the Master of the Universe as a sign of the depth of his moral character and one of the reasons that he is fit to be the Father of our people.
In college, I learned a beautiful story, whose source I have been searching for ever since, which suggests that Abraham was not the first person to protest outside of Sodom:
“Long before Abraham came along, there was a certain man, who used to stand outside the gates of Sodom and cry out against it. Day after day, year after year, the man would stand there, all by himself, pleading and demanding that the people change their ways. Once, after many years, a group of people came to the man and demanded to know what he was still doing there-- hadn’t he realized that his protests wouldn’t change anything? The man replied: “I came to Sodom to try to change them-- and I have long since realized that that won’t happen. However, I must keep trying, because if I leave, they will have changed me.”
The same year that learned this story, I also had my first experiences with political protest. During the many months leading up to the Iraq War, I joined with millions of people around the world in protests and vigils that asked President Bush to halt the relentless march toward war. I don’t think that anyone really believed that those protests would change his eventual decision, but we went nonetheless. Silence would have been assent.
Our world faces so many seemingly insurmountable challenges. And truthfully, each lone individual can only do so much to overcome them. However, there is not excuse not to try. The Jewish tradition demands that we exercise some holy chutzpah-- that we be willing to stand up and demand justice, even from the Master of the World. We may not always achieve the outcome we desire, but at the very least, we can remain the kind of people who get back up and try again.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Parshat Lech Lecha
Parshat Lech Lecha
November 6, 2008/ 9 Cheshvan 5769
Parshat Lech Lecha introduces us to Abraham, the man who is often called the "Father of Monotheism." Jews, Christians, and Muslims all look to him as the first person in history to recognize the One God.
The Bible, however, is silent about how Abraham came to that faith. In this puzzling silence, many rabbinic legends (midrashim) have emerged. One of the most popular of these traditional stories says that even as a child Abraham rejected his father's idolatry.
In Beresheet Rabbah, the rabbis imagine that Terach, Abraham's father, was a seller of idols. One day, he put his young son in charge of the store. As soon as Abraham's father left, the boy took a hammer and smashed all of the statues, except for the largest one among them, and then he placed the hammer into that one's hands. When Terach returned to the store he was horrified and demanded to know what his son had done. Abraham replied: "I didn't do anything! That big one over there got mad at the others and smashed them all with that hammer." His father yelled back: "That's impossible. Idols can't feel or move!" To that, Terach's witty (and fearless) son retorted: "Do you hear what you're saying?! How can you possibly believe in them?"
This midrash is funny and sweet, but it doesn't really answer our questions about the origins of Abraham's faith. This week, Rabbi Ed Romm of the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem, introduced me to a beautiful, modern midrash that suggests that if we want to understand the Father of Monotheism, the story we should try to recover is not the story of his childhood relationship with his father, but rather his relationship with his mother. Yakov Azriel, a modern poet, invites us to imagine a woman who is completely absent from the text, but whose silent influence just might continue to shape all of our lives:
Abraham's Mother
by Yakov Azriel, "Threads From A Coat of Many Colors: Poems on Genesis"
Abraham's mother (let's call her Binah "Understanding") --
Was it she who taught Abraham
To ask why and why not?
In her lullabies,
Rocking him in a simple cradle,
Singing to him of little goats and raisins and almonds,
Did she also mock the idols,
Whisper questions with no answers?
Abraham's mother (let's call her Emunah "Faith) --
Was it she who first perceived
Beyond the facade of wind and storm
A greater power blows?
Was it her insight that showed a little boy
Not to bow to stars
But let his own soul
Shine?
Abraham's mother (let's call her Tikvah "Hope")--
Did she smile behind her veil
When the youth smashed his father's icons?
Was it she who supplied the hammer and the ax?
Abraham's mother (let's call her Ima "Mother") --
Did she feel pride, or sadness, or triumph
When her son, hearing God's voice and choosing the route to Jerusalem,
Packed his belongings and left home?
Did she whisper, "God be with you?"
Was this her vindication?
Abraham's mother--
Is all we have
Hers?
November 6, 2008/ 9 Cheshvan 5769
Parshat Lech Lecha introduces us to Abraham, the man who is often called the "Father of Monotheism." Jews, Christians, and Muslims all look to him as the first person in history to recognize the One God.
The Bible, however, is silent about how Abraham came to that faith. In this puzzling silence, many rabbinic legends (midrashim) have emerged. One of the most popular of these traditional stories says that even as a child Abraham rejected his father's idolatry.
In Beresheet Rabbah, the rabbis imagine that Terach, Abraham's father, was a seller of idols. One day, he put his young son in charge of the store. As soon as Abraham's father left, the boy took a hammer and smashed all of the statues, except for the largest one among them, and then he placed the hammer into that one's hands. When Terach returned to the store he was horrified and demanded to know what his son had done. Abraham replied: "I didn't do anything! That big one over there got mad at the others and smashed them all with that hammer." His father yelled back: "That's impossible. Idols can't feel or move!" To that, Terach's witty (and fearless) son retorted: "Do you hear what you're saying?! How can you possibly believe in them?"
This midrash is funny and sweet, but it doesn't really answer our questions about the origins of Abraham's faith. This week, Rabbi Ed Romm of the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem, introduced me to a beautiful, modern midrash that suggests that if we want to understand the Father of Monotheism, the story we should try to recover is not the story of his childhood relationship with his father, but rather his relationship with his mother. Yakov Azriel, a modern poet, invites us to imagine a woman who is completely absent from the text, but whose silent influence just might continue to shape all of our lives:
Abraham's Mother
by Yakov Azriel, "Threads From A Coat of Many Colors: Poems on Genesis"
Abraham's mother (let's call her Binah "Understanding") --
Was it she who taught Abraham
To ask why and why not?
In her lullabies,
Rocking him in a simple cradle,
Singing to him of little goats and raisins and almonds,
Did she also mock the idols,
Whisper questions with no answers?
Abraham's mother (let's call her Emunah "Faith) --
Was it she who first perceived
Beyond the facade of wind and storm
A greater power blows?
Was it her insight that showed a little boy
Not to bow to stars
But let his own soul
Shine?
Abraham's mother (let's call her Tikvah "Hope")--
Did she smile behind her veil
When the youth smashed his father's icons?
Was it she who supplied the hammer and the ax?
Abraham's mother (let's call her Ima "Mother") --
Did she feel pride, or sadness, or triumph
When her son, hearing God's voice and choosing the route to Jerusalem,
Packed his belongings and left home?
Did she whisper, "God be with you?"
Was this her vindication?
Abraham's mother--
Is all we have
Hers?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Parshat Noah
Parshat Noah
October 30, 2008/Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan 5769
When Noah and his family emerged from the Ark—they must have come out as deeply traumatized people.
How could they not have been-- they were eyewitnesses to the destruction of the world. They must have heard cries. They must have seen bodies. It must have been more than any human being could emotionally bear.
God offers them, and through them us, a remarkably psychologically insightful comfort. God says:
None of us can truly imagine the depth or breadth of Noah's trauma. Yet, I imagine that most of us have, at some point in our lives, experienced the feeling of the world crashing down around us. We have been lonely, we have been hurt, and we have grieved.
When we are in pain, there is something comforting about things that are regular and familiar. Even though our personal world feels broken, we know that the sun will set and the sun will rise, the seasons will change, and nature will go on in its way. We may be spinning wildly, but the ground below our feet remains rooted. We can grasp onto that fact and we can draw strength from it.
Jewish mourning practices are predicated in this basic idea, that people in pain require regularity and normalcy to help them return to life. The first thing a mourner is required to do, upon returning home from the cemetery, is to eat a meal. In that simple act, they are participating the basic human cycle of huger and eating, just as they have every day of their lives. Similarly, at the end of the seven days of shiva, the mourner must go out and take a walk. They have to see the sky and the sun and other people and growing things. They have to be reminded that world is continuing in its way, and so eventually will they. In its great wisdom, our tradition insists that ordinary things can help to facilitate healing.
I try to imagine the emotions that Noah and his family felt when they looked ahead at the momentous task of rebuilding their lives. They must have felt overwhelmed, terrified, confused. I hope that God's promise brought them some measure of peace.
When we are in pain, when we feel lost or overwhelmed, may we be blessed to be able to grasp hold of something solid—the cycles of the day, of the year, of our lives—and may we find in it the strength to face the challenges that lie ahead of us.
October 30, 2008/Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan 5769
When Noah and his family emerged from the Ark—they must have come out as deeply traumatized people.
How could they not have been-- they were eyewitnesses to the destruction of the world. They must have heard cries. They must have seen bodies. It must have been more than any human being could emotionally bear.
God offers them, and through them us, a remarkably psychologically insightful comfort. God says:
"For all the days of the EarthOn a simple level, God is promising never again to destroy the world. But on a deeper level, God is telling the survivors that they can count on the regularity of nature as they heal and rebuild. God acknowledges that while the work ahead of the will be extremely hard, they can rely and hold onto the unchanging cycles of life.
Sowing and reaping,
Cool and warmth,
Summer and winter,
Day and night,
These things will never cease." (Gen 8:22)
None of us can truly imagine the depth or breadth of Noah's trauma. Yet, I imagine that most of us have, at some point in our lives, experienced the feeling of the world crashing down around us. We have been lonely, we have been hurt, and we have grieved.
When we are in pain, there is something comforting about things that are regular and familiar. Even though our personal world feels broken, we know that the sun will set and the sun will rise, the seasons will change, and nature will go on in its way. We may be spinning wildly, but the ground below our feet remains rooted. We can grasp onto that fact and we can draw strength from it.
Jewish mourning practices are predicated in this basic idea, that people in pain require regularity and normalcy to help them return to life. The first thing a mourner is required to do, upon returning home from the cemetery, is to eat a meal. In that simple act, they are participating the basic human cycle of huger and eating, just as they have every day of their lives. Similarly, at the end of the seven days of shiva, the mourner must go out and take a walk. They have to see the sky and the sun and other people and growing things. They have to be reminded that world is continuing in its way, and so eventually will they. In its great wisdom, our tradition insists that ordinary things can help to facilitate healing.
I try to imagine the emotions that Noah and his family felt when they looked ahead at the momentous task of rebuilding their lives. They must have felt overwhelmed, terrified, confused. I hope that God's promise brought them some measure of peace.
When we are in pain, when we feel lost or overwhelmed, may we be blessed to be able to grasp hold of something solid—the cycles of the day, of the year, of our lives—and may we find in it the strength to face the challenges that lie ahead of us.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Parshat Beresheet
Parshat Beresheet
October 24, 2008/24 Tishrei 5769
"Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" (Genesis 4:10)
A few days ago, we celebrated Simchat Torah, the festival of ending the annual reading of the Torah and the beginning of a new cycle. Consequently, this week we no longer find ourselves wandering in the Desert, but back once again at the Beginning of the World.
One of the most famous accounts from Parshat Beresheet is the story of Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel's offering over that of his brother Cain, the elder brother commits the first murder in human history. When God shows up and asks Cain about the location of Abel, Cain feigns ignorance saying: "I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?" God responds by calling his bluff: "What have you done? Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" Cain is cursed to wander forever as punishment for his crime.
There are voices in the Jewish tradition, which suggest that Cain did not get a fair deal. After all, Cain had no prior experience with death, therefore it seems unjust that God holds him responsible for a crime he didn't even know that he could commit.
One midrash (rabbinic legend) goes even further, it suggests that while Cain really isn't to blame, Someone else is:
What I love about this Midrash is that Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, one of the great sages and mystics of the Jewish tradition, sees no contradiction between his own deep religiosity and a his willingness to accuse God of being unfair. Many of us have internalized the message that being religious means meekly accepting tragedy as "God's will." The Midrash challenges that assumption and teaches us that piety does not mean being a doormat-- crying out at God is sometimes exactly what the religious conscience demands.
Our Tradition grants us permission to be angry at God, to question and to challenge. That is not an expression of lack of piety-- rather, it's the highest embodiment of what it means to be Am Yisrael, the People who Wrestle with God.
October 24, 2008/24 Tishrei 5769
"Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" (Genesis 4:10)
A few days ago, we celebrated Simchat Torah, the festival of ending the annual reading of the Torah and the beginning of a new cycle. Consequently, this week we no longer find ourselves wandering in the Desert, but back once again at the Beginning of the World.
One of the most famous accounts from Parshat Beresheet is the story of Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel's offering over that of his brother Cain, the elder brother commits the first murder in human history. When God shows up and asks Cain about the location of Abel, Cain feigns ignorance saying: "I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?" God responds by calling his bluff: "What have you done? Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" Cain is cursed to wander forever as punishment for his crime.
There are voices in the Jewish tradition, which suggest that Cain did not get a fair deal. After all, Cain had no prior experience with death, therefore it seems unjust that God holds him responsible for a crime he didn't even know that he could commit.
One midrash (rabbinic legend) goes even further, it suggests that while Cain really isn't to blame, Someone else is:
"Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai said: This is a difficult thing to say and it is impossible to say it clearly [so I will use a parable]: Once two athletes were wrestling in front of the king. If the king wanted, the two could be separated, but the king didn't want them separated, and one killed the other. The loser cried out as he died: 'Who will get justice for me from the king?' That is why it is written: 'Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground'" (Genesis Rabbah 12:9)This Midrash places the blame for Abel's death squarely with God. God is compared to an indifferent king, who might have separated the dueling brother's before the bloody end, but failed to do so. Abel's blood isn't crying out to God about Cain's guilt, it's crying out against God, accusing Him of negligence!
What I love about this Midrash is that Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, one of the great sages and mystics of the Jewish tradition, sees no contradiction between his own deep religiosity and a his willingness to accuse God of being unfair. Many of us have internalized the message that being religious means meekly accepting tragedy as "God's will." The Midrash challenges that assumption and teaches us that piety does not mean being a doormat-- crying out at God is sometimes exactly what the religious conscience demands.
Our Tradition grants us permission to be angry at God, to question and to challenge. That is not an expression of lack of piety-- rather, it's the highest embodiment of what it means to be Am Yisrael, the People who Wrestle with God.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Parshat Nitzavim
Parshat Nitzavim
Sept 26, 2008/26 Elul 5768
"I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse-- choose life!" (Deut 30:19)
It is already late on Friday afternoon here in Israel, the close of my second week of this year-long adventure. I have only a few minutes before I will go to celebrate Shabbat with my family in Haifa-- so no deep philosophy from me this week.
Instead, I'm passing on a poem. Rabbi Shawn Fields-Meyer hooked me on a poet named Mary Oliver last year. As I read and re-read her poetry, I find that her words are as profound as any prayer. This is a poem she wrote about the imperative to really choose life, even in the face of death. I think it is a beautiful meditation for heading into this holy, reflective week.
Shanah Tovah,
Adam
When Death Comes
by Mary Oliver
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Parshat Ki Tavo
Parshat Ki Tavo
September 19, 2008/ 19 Elul 5768
"Now if you will listen, truly listen, to the voice of God..." (Deut 28:1)
One of the stylistic features of Biblical Hebrew is that it often repeats key verbs twice in order to emphasize their importance. Traditional commentators, who operate from a paradigm in which not a single word in the Torah is without the possibility of meaning, find profound insights in many of these seemingly unnecessary repetitions.
In this week's portion, Ki Tavo, we are instructed that if we listen to God's commandments, then we will enjoy numerous blessings. This is a theme which is articulated again and again throughout the Book of Deuteronomy. However, in this instance the verb "sh'ma," "to listen," is repeated twice, making a proper translation something close to: "if you will listen, truly listen..."
The S'fat Emet, the Hasidic commentary of Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger, suggests that the dual use of the verb "to listen" teaches us that while the voice of God is inside us all the time, we are often unable or unwilling to hear it. He writes:
This parsha teaches us that many blessings are available to us as soon as we begin to listen to that which we are already hearing-- as soon as we open our minds to the wisdom that we already hold inside of us. This Shabbat, let's all make a point of trying to listen to what our hearts and guts are telling us-- it just might be the Voice of God.
September 19, 2008/ 19 Elul 5768
"Now if you will listen, truly listen, to the voice of God..." (Deut 28:1)
One of the stylistic features of Biblical Hebrew is that it often repeats key verbs twice in order to emphasize their importance. Traditional commentators, who operate from a paradigm in which not a single word in the Torah is without the possibility of meaning, find profound insights in many of these seemingly unnecessary repetitions.
In this week's portion, Ki Tavo, we are instructed that if we listen to God's commandments, then we will enjoy numerous blessings. This is a theme which is articulated again and again throughout the Book of Deuteronomy. However, in this instance the verb "sh'ma," "to listen," is repeated twice, making a proper translation something close to: "if you will listen, truly listen..."
The S'fat Emet, the Hasidic commentary of Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger, suggests that the dual use of the verb "to listen" teaches us that while the voice of God is inside us all the time, we are often unable or unwilling to hear it. He writes:
"The living soul constantly hears the voice of the Torah, but this too is hidden from us. This is why the verse says: 'listen, listen'-- listen to that which you already are hearing." (S'fat Emet, Ki Tavo #2, trans. Rabbi Art Green)In more down-to-earth language, I think that he means that our heart knows a lot more than our head is either willing or able to accept. Sometimes we all make choices which we know deep down are wrong, but in our head we find a way to justify them. We all have dreams that our reason ignores or tells us are impossible. We all know what it feels like to have a gut feeling about something or someone, but often we shut it down before we can truly listen to its message.
This parsha teaches us that many blessings are available to us as soon as we begin to listen to that which we are already hearing-- as soon as we open our minds to the wisdom that we already hold inside of us. This Shabbat, let's all make a point of trying to listen to what our hearts and guts are telling us-- it just might be the Voice of God.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Parshat Shoftim
Parshat Shoftim
September 5, 2008/ 5 Elul 5768
"When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them." (Deut. 20:19)
Parshat Shoftim is the source of a key principle in Jewish law-- bal tashchit -- one must not destroy. The rabbinic tradition understands this as a general prohibition against any wanton destruction or unnecessary wasting of resources. As the great Jewish legal philosopher Maimonides explains:
In modern times, many have understood this prohibition as the basis for a religious environmental ethic. They argue that our reckless attitude toward the Earth's precious and limited resources is not only a bad idea, it is a sin. One particularly fascinating element of this contemporary understanding of bal tashchit is that Jewish thinkers of all ideological backgrounds, from Reform to Orthodox, have come to similar conclusions about the religious necessity of environmental conservation.
This week, in place of a full d'var torah (I'm in the midst of packing for Israel), I want to share a text from Sampson Raphael Hirsch, the ideological founder of Modern Orthodox Judaism. His words speak with force and eloquence about the religious mandate to be stewards of our planet. We ignore them at our own peril.
Shabbat Shalom.
Sampson Raphael Hirsch
Horeb #56
"God's call proclaims to you, "Do not destroy anything! Be a mentsh [good person]! Only if you use the things around you for wise human purposes, sanctified by the word of My teaching, only then are you a mentsh and have the right over them which I have given you as a human. However, if you destroy, if you ruin, at that moment you are not a human but an animal and have no right to the things around you.
I lent them to you for wise use only; never forget that I lent them to you. As soon as you use them unwisely, be it the greatest or the smallest, you commit treachery against My world, you commit murder and robbery against My property, you sin against Me!" This is what God calls unto you, and with this call does God represent the greatest and the smallest against you and grants the smallest as also the greatest a right against your presumptuousness...
In truth, there is no one nearer to idolatry than one who can disregard the fact that things are the creatures and property of God, and who presumes also to have the right, having the might, to destroy them according to a presumptuous act of will."
September 5, 2008/ 5 Elul 5768
"When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them." (Deut. 20:19)
Parshat Shoftim is the source of a key principle in Jewish law-- bal tashchit -- one must not destroy. The rabbinic tradition understands this as a general prohibition against any wanton destruction or unnecessary wasting of resources. As the great Jewish legal philosopher Maimonides explains:
"Whoever breaks vessels, or tears garments, or destroys a building, or clogs a well, or does away with food in a destructive manner violates the negative commandment of bal tashchit." (Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings 6:10)
In modern times, many have understood this prohibition as the basis for a religious environmental ethic. They argue that our reckless attitude toward the Earth's precious and limited resources is not only a bad idea, it is a sin. One particularly fascinating element of this contemporary understanding of bal tashchit is that Jewish thinkers of all ideological backgrounds, from Reform to Orthodox, have come to similar conclusions about the religious necessity of environmental conservation.
This week, in place of a full d'var torah (I'm in the midst of packing for Israel), I want to share a text from Sampson Raphael Hirsch, the ideological founder of Modern Orthodox Judaism. His words speak with force and eloquence about the religious mandate to be stewards of our planet. We ignore them at our own peril.
Shabbat Shalom.
Sampson Raphael Hirsch
Horeb #56
"God's call proclaims to you, "Do not destroy anything! Be a mentsh [good person]! Only if you use the things around you for wise human purposes, sanctified by the word of My teaching, only then are you a mentsh and have the right over them which I have given you as a human. However, if you destroy, if you ruin, at that moment you are not a human but an animal and have no right to the things around you.
I lent them to you for wise use only; never forget that I lent them to you. As soon as you use them unwisely, be it the greatest or the smallest, you commit treachery against My world, you commit murder and robbery against My property, you sin against Me!" This is what God calls unto you, and with this call does God represent the greatest and the smallest against you and grants the smallest as also the greatest a right against your presumptuousness...
In truth, there is no one nearer to idolatry than one who can disregard the fact that things are the creatures and property of God, and who presumes also to have the right, having the might, to destroy them according to a presumptuous act of will."
Friday, August 29, 2008
Parshat Re'eh
Parshat Re’eh
August 29, 2008/ 28 Av 5768
“See, I place before you this day a blessing and a curse.” (Deut 11:26)
This Monday begins of the Hebrew month of Elul, the period of reflection and introspection that leads up to the High Holidays. The dominant theme of this time is teshuvah-- the process of closing the gap between our past actions and our visions of our best selves.
Parshat Re’eh begins with an admonition to choose blessing over curse by choosing to listen to God’s voice rather than ignore it. The S’fat Emet, a masterwork of Hassidic thought written by Rav Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger, focuses on this line and argues that it teaches us a fundamental lesson about teshuvah.
He teaches that when the Torah says: “I place before you this day,” it does not mean one specific day in the ancient past, but rather that every single day we have the choice between blessing and curse, between living up to our God-given potential for goodness and squandering that gift. It is a choice that we have to make again and again, every day of our lives.
Sometimes, inevitably, we will make the wrong choices. The gift of teshuvah is that yesterday’s bad choices do not need to define our tomorrows. We always have the power to make new choices, to set a new moral course for ourselves. In Judaism, we are influenced by our past, but we are not bound by it.
Over this next month of Elul, may we seize the opportunity to examine the path that we are on and know that we have the opportunity, this day and every day, for a new beginning. And that freedom is truly a blessing.
August 29, 2008/ 28 Av 5768
“See, I place before you this day a blessing and a curse.” (Deut 11:26)
This Monday begins of the Hebrew month of Elul, the period of reflection and introspection that leads up to the High Holidays. The dominant theme of this time is teshuvah-- the process of closing the gap between our past actions and our visions of our best selves.
Parshat Re’eh begins with an admonition to choose blessing over curse by choosing to listen to God’s voice rather than ignore it. The S’fat Emet, a masterwork of Hassidic thought written by Rav Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger, focuses on this line and argues that it teaches us a fundamental lesson about teshuvah.
He teaches that when the Torah says: “I place before you this day,” it does not mean one specific day in the ancient past, but rather that every single day we have the choice between blessing and curse, between living up to our God-given potential for goodness and squandering that gift. It is a choice that we have to make again and again, every day of our lives.
Sometimes, inevitably, we will make the wrong choices. The gift of teshuvah is that yesterday’s bad choices do not need to define our tomorrows. We always have the power to make new choices, to set a new moral course for ourselves. In Judaism, we are influenced by our past, but we are not bound by it.
Over this next month of Elul, may we seize the opportunity to examine the path that we are on and know that we have the opportunity, this day and every day, for a new beginning. And that freedom is truly a blessing.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Parshat Ekev
Parshat Ekev
August 22, 2008/ 21 Av 5768
Baruch t’hiyeh mi-kol ha-amim/ You will be blessed from all other peoples. (Deut 7:14)
This somewhat ambiguously worded verse from the beginning of Parshat Ekev suggests two possible relationships between Israel and the other nations of the world, and more broadly, two possible modes of human relations generally.
The first way to read this pasuk is as a promise that Israel will be blessed above the other nations of the world. That is to say, if the Jewish people is faithful to God’s commandments, then they will be the favored among God’s children and will receive the most bountiful rewards. In fact, this appears to be the contextual (p’shat) meaning of this text-- given that it is found amidst a collection of blessings which God pledges to bestow if they are obedient.
However, it is a matter of Jewish religious conviction that no verse in the Torah is relegated to only following its contextual meaning. Another possibility, and one favored by the Rabbis in Deuteronomy Rabbah, is to understand the verse this way: “You will be blessed by all of the other nations of the world.” In this understanding of the verse, the author of the blessing is not God, but rather other human beings. If Israel behaves in a holy manner, then the other nations of the world will experience their goodness and call them a blessing.
This verse provides two ways of relating to those around us. One way to approach others is as competitors for prosperity and blessing. In a world of scarce resources, only some of us can receive the full measure of good things, and so we are out to live in such a way as to gain the greatest advantage. Another way of approaching others is as potential allies. In this way of looking at things, the world is full of blessings if we will only share them. The goal is to live in such a way that we are blessings to one another-- that my presence in the world enhances your life and your presence in the world enhances mine.
As with any teaching from the Torah, no one interpretation is correct. There is a time for competition and a time for cooperation, a time to be the best and a time to seek to celebrate the best in others. This Shabbat, may we be greatly blessed and may we seek to be a blessing to those around us.
August 22, 2008/ 21 Av 5768
Baruch t’hiyeh mi-kol ha-amim/ You will be blessed from all other peoples. (Deut 7:14)
This somewhat ambiguously worded verse from the beginning of Parshat Ekev suggests two possible relationships between Israel and the other nations of the world, and more broadly, two possible modes of human relations generally.
The first way to read this pasuk is as a promise that Israel will be blessed above the other nations of the world. That is to say, if the Jewish people is faithful to God’s commandments, then they will be the favored among God’s children and will receive the most bountiful rewards. In fact, this appears to be the contextual (p’shat) meaning of this text-- given that it is found amidst a collection of blessings which God pledges to bestow if they are obedient.
However, it is a matter of Jewish religious conviction that no verse in the Torah is relegated to only following its contextual meaning. Another possibility, and one favored by the Rabbis in Deuteronomy Rabbah, is to understand the verse this way: “You will be blessed by all of the other nations of the world.” In this understanding of the verse, the author of the blessing is not God, but rather other human beings. If Israel behaves in a holy manner, then the other nations of the world will experience their goodness and call them a blessing.
This verse provides two ways of relating to those around us. One way to approach others is as competitors for prosperity and blessing. In a world of scarce resources, only some of us can receive the full measure of good things, and so we are out to live in such a way as to gain the greatest advantage. Another way of approaching others is as potential allies. In this way of looking at things, the world is full of blessings if we will only share them. The goal is to live in such a way that we are blessings to one another-- that my presence in the world enhances your life and your presence in the world enhances mine.
As with any teaching from the Torah, no one interpretation is correct. There is a time for competition and a time for cooperation, a time to be the best and a time to seek to celebrate the best in others. This Shabbat, may we be greatly blessed and may we seek to be a blessing to those around us.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Parshat Vaethannan
Parshat Vaethannan
August 15, 2008/15 Av 5768
"Hear O Israel, Adonai is Our God, Adonai is One" (Deut 6:4)
Parshat Vaethannan is the source for the Sh'ma— the most essential of Jewish prayers. Yet, as has often been noted, the Sh'ma is not a conventional prayer at all. Typically, a prayer consists of petitions directed at God, but the Sh'ma is directed at the People Israel. We are the ones who are asked to do something— we are asked to hear.
Most of us are not terribly good at serious listening. That's not to say that we don't communicate— we are constantly talking. If you are anything like me you chat on your cell phone while running errands, send and receive countless emails a day, and perhaps even text message, instant message, and facebook message on a regular basis. The trouble is, for all this talking, we only rarely take the time or opportunity to actually listen to others. And, truthfully, since others have the same problem—only rarely does anyone actually listen to us. We have forgotten the wisdom that all of our mother's once told us—"The Good Lord gave us two ears and only one mouth for a reason!"
I just got back from working and learning with two groups of Jewish teenagers on the Navajo Reservation. One of the highlights of that experience was a nightly ritual called "Circle." In Circle, everyone would gather under the brilliant night sky, and one by one each person would have the chance to speak, uninterrupted, while everyone else listened to them. The only instructions were that everyone should strive to speak from their heart when it was their turn and spend the rest of the time listening with their heart.
At first it was a little awkward—no one knew for sure how much they could risk opening themselves up to this group of strangers. But quickly, the participants seized the opportunity to have people really pay attention to them—and began to share stories of personal triumph and personal pain, experiences with their families and friends, their dreams and their fears. It was powerful to witness—when they knew that they are being sincerely listened to, even normally stoic teenagers suddenly have a lot to share.
Over the course of the program, nearly every one of them commented to me about how hard it is to find people in their lives who listen to them, and many of them recognized that they don't often give their friends or family their full ears either. Truthfully, the problem is not just one for teenagers. No matter our age or position in life, all of us struggle to find people who will not just hear our words, but really hear us. And we all have work to do in order to cultivate our own lev shome'ah, our "hearing heart."
Martin Buber wrote that we only spend a fraction of our lives engaged in what he famously termed: "I-Thou" relationships—the kind of encounters with other human beings in which we listen deeply to one another and are able to move beyond superficial exchange. Despite their rarity, the moments of I-Thou—when people in love talk softly to one another, when a parent relates to their child, when friends get lost in conversation, or teenagers share their stories under the stars—are the moments which lend quality and substance to our lives and invite the Holy One into the world.
The Sh'ma invites and challenges us to learn how to listen. It reminds us that listening is the beginning of meaningful relationships with one another. And coming together in relationships based on compassion and sincere communication, where all the barriers that separate us begin to fall down, is our best way to live out the deepest meaning of the phrase "Adonai Echad"—that the essence of God is Oneness.
August 15, 2008/15 Av 5768
"Hear O Israel, Adonai is Our God, Adonai is One" (Deut 6:4)
Parshat Vaethannan is the source for the Sh'ma— the most essential of Jewish prayers. Yet, as has often been noted, the Sh'ma is not a conventional prayer at all. Typically, a prayer consists of petitions directed at God, but the Sh'ma is directed at the People Israel. We are the ones who are asked to do something— we are asked to hear.
Most of us are not terribly good at serious listening. That's not to say that we don't communicate— we are constantly talking. If you are anything like me you chat on your cell phone while running errands, send and receive countless emails a day, and perhaps even text message, instant message, and facebook message on a regular basis. The trouble is, for all this talking, we only rarely take the time or opportunity to actually listen to others. And, truthfully, since others have the same problem—only rarely does anyone actually listen to us. We have forgotten the wisdom that all of our mother's once told us—"The Good Lord gave us two ears and only one mouth for a reason!"
I just got back from working and learning with two groups of Jewish teenagers on the Navajo Reservation. One of the highlights of that experience was a nightly ritual called "Circle." In Circle, everyone would gather under the brilliant night sky, and one by one each person would have the chance to speak, uninterrupted, while everyone else listened to them. The only instructions were that everyone should strive to speak from their heart when it was their turn and spend the rest of the time listening with their heart.
At first it was a little awkward—no one knew for sure how much they could risk opening themselves up to this group of strangers. But quickly, the participants seized the opportunity to have people really pay attention to them—and began to share stories of personal triumph and personal pain, experiences with their families and friends, their dreams and their fears. It was powerful to witness—when they knew that they are being sincerely listened to, even normally stoic teenagers suddenly have a lot to share.
Over the course of the program, nearly every one of them commented to me about how hard it is to find people in their lives who listen to them, and many of them recognized that they don't often give their friends or family their full ears either. Truthfully, the problem is not just one for teenagers. No matter our age or position in life, all of us struggle to find people who will not just hear our words, but really hear us. And we all have work to do in order to cultivate our own lev shome'ah, our "hearing heart."
Martin Buber wrote that we only spend a fraction of our lives engaged in what he famously termed: "I-Thou" relationships—the kind of encounters with other human beings in which we listen deeply to one another and are able to move beyond superficial exchange. Despite their rarity, the moments of I-Thou—when people in love talk softly to one another, when a parent relates to their child, when friends get lost in conversation, or teenagers share their stories under the stars—are the moments which lend quality and substance to our lives and invite the Holy One into the world.
The Sh'ma invites and challenges us to learn how to listen. It reminds us that listening is the beginning of meaningful relationships with one another. And coming together in relationships based on compassion and sincere communication, where all the barriers that separate us begin to fall down, is our best way to live out the deepest meaning of the phrase "Adonai Echad"—that the essence of God is Oneness.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Parshat Pinchas
Parshat Pinchas
July 18, 2008/ 15 Tammuz 5768
"And God said to Moses and to Eleazar son of Aaron the priest: 'Take a census of the whole Israelite community, from the ages of twenty years up, by their ancestral houses..." (Numbers 26:1-2)
Parshat Pinchas marks a significant turning point in the Torah. In Chapter 27, God instructs Moses to appoint a new leader for the Israelites—Joshua the son of Nun. Joshua, not Moses, will lead the People into the Promised Land and guide the next phase of their development as a free nation.
Rashi, the great medieval French commentator, sees this drama beginning a little earlier. In Chapter 26, Moses takes a census of the whole Israelite people, ostensibly to determine how many of them are fit for the forthcoming battle with Midian. Rashi, however, finds a hidden pathos underlying this simple action:
In Rashi's eyes, the census is a symbol for the end of Moses' leadership. Moses is effectively setting the nation's affairs in order, before he must relinquish control and turn them over to someone new.
In many ways, Moses is a tragic figure. He orchestrates the mass exodus of his entire people from Egyptian slavery, he watches over them through forty perilous years of wandering, he instructs them, bullies them, loves them, and guides them. And yet, at the end of the story, Moses is destined to die before seeing all his dreams for them fulfilled. Someone else will shepherd his flock into the Promised Land.
I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for Moses to step back from leadership. I imagine his silent raging at the unfairness of it all—his raging at God whom he knew face-to-face. I imagine his heartfelt pleading: "I am their leader, how dare You take them away from me?! How will they survive without me? What in the world am I going to do without them?"
And yet, in Moses' pain, I hear the simple human reality of any parent or teacher. A parent brings a child into the world and devotes herself wholeheartedly to nurturing and protecting that new life through a million decisions and hurdles. A teacher invests himself deeply in the lives of his students, coaxing and pushing them, delighting in their progress, worrying about their missteps. And then a child leaves for college, and then the final bell rings in June…And parents and teachers are left with the same questions as Moses: What will they do without me? What will I do without them?
Rabbi Milton Steinberg addresses this challenge in a wonderful essay entitled: "To Embrace With Open Arms." He teaches that one of the basic paradoxes of human life is the desire to hold onto those we care about and the recognition that the intersections of our lives are ultimately temporary. This tension can feel like a tragedy, but it need not be so. We know that holding on forever is untenable—it is simply not the way of the world. And yet, we can discover that this hard reality need not diminish the power of our embrace. We can truly learn to hold with open arms.
Moses was a guide, a teacher, a shepherd, and a parent to the People Israel for a long, long time. Ultimately, not even Moses could hold onto them forever. And so, beginning in Parshat Pinchas, he begins to take the steps to let them go-- to hand them back over to the One whose embrace goes on forever.
July 18, 2008/ 15 Tammuz 5768
"And God said to Moses and to Eleazar son of Aaron the priest: 'Take a census of the whole Israelite community, from the ages of twenty years up, by their ancestral houses..." (Numbers 26:1-2)
Parshat Pinchas marks a significant turning point in the Torah. In Chapter 27, God instructs Moses to appoint a new leader for the Israelites—Joshua the son of Nun. Joshua, not Moses, will lead the People into the Promised Land and guide the next phase of their development as a free nation.
Rashi, the great medieval French commentator, sees this drama beginning a little earlier. In Chapter 26, Moses takes a census of the whole Israelite people, ostensibly to determine how many of them are fit for the forthcoming battle with Midian. Rashi, however, finds a hidden pathos underlying this simple action:
"A parable: It is like a shepherd and his flock…when the People left Egypt they were entrusted to Moses' care by number. Now, with his death and the time for returning them drawing near, he hands them back by number."
In Rashi's eyes, the census is a symbol for the end of Moses' leadership. Moses is effectively setting the nation's affairs in order, before he must relinquish control and turn them over to someone new.
In many ways, Moses is a tragic figure. He orchestrates the mass exodus of his entire people from Egyptian slavery, he watches over them through forty perilous years of wandering, he instructs them, bullies them, loves them, and guides them. And yet, at the end of the story, Moses is destined to die before seeing all his dreams for them fulfilled. Someone else will shepherd his flock into the Promised Land.
I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for Moses to step back from leadership. I imagine his silent raging at the unfairness of it all—his raging at God whom he knew face-to-face. I imagine his heartfelt pleading: "I am their leader, how dare You take them away from me?! How will they survive without me? What in the world am I going to do without them?"
And yet, in Moses' pain, I hear the simple human reality of any parent or teacher. A parent brings a child into the world and devotes herself wholeheartedly to nurturing and protecting that new life through a million decisions and hurdles. A teacher invests himself deeply in the lives of his students, coaxing and pushing them, delighting in their progress, worrying about their missteps. And then a child leaves for college, and then the final bell rings in June…And parents and teachers are left with the same questions as Moses: What will they do without me? What will I do without them?
Rabbi Milton Steinberg addresses this challenge in a wonderful essay entitled: "To Embrace With Open Arms." He teaches that one of the basic paradoxes of human life is the desire to hold onto those we care about and the recognition that the intersections of our lives are ultimately temporary. This tension can feel like a tragedy, but it need not be so. We know that holding on forever is untenable—it is simply not the way of the world. And yet, we can discover that this hard reality need not diminish the power of our embrace. We can truly learn to hold with open arms.
Moses was a guide, a teacher, a shepherd, and a parent to the People Israel for a long, long time. Ultimately, not even Moses could hold onto them forever. And so, beginning in Parshat Pinchas, he begins to take the steps to let them go-- to hand them back over to the One whose embrace goes on forever.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Parshat Balak
Parshat Balak
July 11, 2008/ 8 Tammuz 5768
"Then Balaam said to Balak: 'Stay here beside your offerings while I am gone. Perhaps the Lord will grant me a manifestation, and whatever He reveals to me I will tell you.' And he went off alone." (Numbers 23:3)
Balaam, the Gentile prophet, was hired by King Balak of the Moabites to curse the Israelites. He agrees to the mission, but first he tells the King that he needs some time alone in order to receive a "manifestation" of God and to ascertain the exact content of his prophecy.
What happens next is stunning. In his solitude, Balaam finds a completely different message than the one he was seeking. He discovers that he cannot speak a curse, but rather can only offer blessing upon blessing to the Israelites.
I am both intrigued and challenged by the idea of self-isolation as a means of attaining this sort of insight.
Solitary pursuit of spiritual truth is well attested in Jewish tradition. Many of the great mystics— from the Talmudic Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai to the founder of Hasidism, the Baal Shem Tov, gained spiritual enlightenment during periods of solitary reflection. In the Hasidic literature this practice gained a name: hitbodedut.
Indeed, hitbodedut predates any of these figures. Many of our most prominent Biblical personalities are recorded to have had their most profound revelations of God in moments of solitude. Jacob dreamed of a ladder to heaven while sleeping in a field. Moses encountered a burning bush "beyond the wilderness" herding sheep in Midian. Elijah heard the Divine voice while hunkered down in a desert cave.
On the other hand, there is a strong prejudice in the Jewish tradition against isolating oneself from others. Prayer, an activity that might seem best suited for moments of rapturous solitude, can only be done as part of a minyan-- a gathering of ten adult Jews. Torah cannot be publicly read except in a community. Even study is not a solitary pursuit in traditional Jewish communities—rather, study almost always takes place in chevruta, a pair that seeks to unlock the essence of a text through vigorous debate and exchange. As it says in Pirke Avot (The Ethics of the Fathers): "One must not separate himself from the community!"
Balaam's isolation gave him the opportunity to perceive God and to transform his message of destruction into one of blessing. However, we learn from our Tradition that isolation from the community can deprive one of the spiritual opportunities presented by deep relationship with other human beings. We are left with a tension: Should one seek the kol demama dakka, the still, small voice of God, in the silence of the desert or the cacophony of the world?
It seems to me that as with most questions of spirituality, the answer to this question is probably yes and yes. Spirituality requires both stillness and relationship. Insight comes from both peaceful, solitary reflection and from boisterous, holy debate. The trick it seems is making space in our hectic, stress-filled lives for both.
July 11, 2008/ 8 Tammuz 5768
"Then Balaam said to Balak: 'Stay here beside your offerings while I am gone. Perhaps the Lord will grant me a manifestation, and whatever He reveals to me I will tell you.' And he went off alone." (Numbers 23:3)
Balaam, the Gentile prophet, was hired by King Balak of the Moabites to curse the Israelites. He agrees to the mission, but first he tells the King that he needs some time alone in order to receive a "manifestation" of God and to ascertain the exact content of his prophecy.
What happens next is stunning. In his solitude, Balaam finds a completely different message than the one he was seeking. He discovers that he cannot speak a curse, but rather can only offer blessing upon blessing to the Israelites.
I am both intrigued and challenged by the idea of self-isolation as a means of attaining this sort of insight.
Solitary pursuit of spiritual truth is well attested in Jewish tradition. Many of the great mystics— from the Talmudic Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai to the founder of Hasidism, the Baal Shem Tov, gained spiritual enlightenment during periods of solitary reflection. In the Hasidic literature this practice gained a name: hitbodedut.
Indeed, hitbodedut predates any of these figures. Many of our most prominent Biblical personalities are recorded to have had their most profound revelations of God in moments of solitude. Jacob dreamed of a ladder to heaven while sleeping in a field. Moses encountered a burning bush "beyond the wilderness" herding sheep in Midian. Elijah heard the Divine voice while hunkered down in a desert cave.
On the other hand, there is a strong prejudice in the Jewish tradition against isolating oneself from others. Prayer, an activity that might seem best suited for moments of rapturous solitude, can only be done as part of a minyan-- a gathering of ten adult Jews. Torah cannot be publicly read except in a community. Even study is not a solitary pursuit in traditional Jewish communities—rather, study almost always takes place in chevruta, a pair that seeks to unlock the essence of a text through vigorous debate and exchange. As it says in Pirke Avot (The Ethics of the Fathers): "One must not separate himself from the community!"
Balaam's isolation gave him the opportunity to perceive God and to transform his message of destruction into one of blessing. However, we learn from our Tradition that isolation from the community can deprive one of the spiritual opportunities presented by deep relationship with other human beings. We are left with a tension: Should one seek the kol demama dakka, the still, small voice of God, in the silence of the desert or the cacophony of the world?
It seems to me that as with most questions of spirituality, the answer to this question is probably yes and yes. Spirituality requires both stillness and relationship. Insight comes from both peaceful, solitary reflection and from boisterous, holy debate. The trick it seems is making space in our hectic, stress-filled lives for both.
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