What Does John Kerry Want From Us?

Last week, Secretary of State John Kerry stood before the American Jewish Committee’s Global Forum to deliver one of the more passionate speeches of his career. His address did not garner the media attention it deserved, but it was a speech directed at us, the American Jewish community, which has always stood in support of Israel.

Kerry spoke of his personal connections to Israel, his many visits there over the decades, some that left lasting impressions on him, and of his brother Cameron, now acting Secretary of Commerce, who is a convert to Judaism. Indeed, his shuttle diplomacy since President Obama’s trip in March signals just how important his peace initiative is to him.

Kerry’s message can be summarized in five points, the first three about the prognosis for Israel’s future absent an agreement: that without a two-state solution to the conflict, Israel’s future as a democratic Jewish homeland is endangered; that the status quo is unsustainable; that we now have a brief window of opportunity within which we can achieve an agreement, but failure to do so spells disaster.

In his final two points, Kerry spoke to us as American Jews: asking that we reject cynicism and seize the moment for peace, to look past the tempting arguments that the time is not right; and that we have a critical role to play in the success of his efforts.

It may seem strange for Kerry to speak of cynicism in the American Jewish community when better than 70% of American Jews support a two-state solution. But American Jewish life finds many who are invested in sowing the seeds of cynicism, leaving a silent majority who fear recriminations for raising their voices. An extreme example surfaced last week after the death of Senator Frank Lautenberg, a man whose pro-Israel bona fides should have never been called to question in the first place. Organizations who expressed condolences were reminded by at least one columnist that his support of Israel was weak because he signed a letter criticizing policies of Prime Minister Yitzchak Shamir in 1988, and because of his vote to approve Chuck Hagel as Secretary of Defense this year! 

There are plenty of valid factors for cynicism flowing both from Palestinian and Israeli actions. But let us admit that one source of the cynicism of American Jews is misinformation about the true state of affairs in Israel and the Palestinian territories, thanks to continuous obfuscation of facts and resorting to myths and fallacies. A confused community is less likely to argue against a well funded army of polished propagandists. We must recognize our community's responsibility for the morass in our corner of the middle east, and make a conscious effort to get ourselves out of it.

Engage in this conversation, and you are likely to hear at least some part of a litany of half truths that are taken as gospel. The false claim that the Palestinian Authority rejected Ehud Barak’s offer in 2000 because they had no interest in making peace; the likewise erroneous claim that the PA walked away from Olmert’s offer in 2008. In either case, the reality is far too nuanced, and truth conveniently ignored. (In 2000, Barak set the rules for the summit that left no room for Arafat to either negotiate or seek political cover with allies. In 2008, Olmert’s indictment brought an end to the negotiations when they were nearing completion.) One will hear about Gaza and Lebanon, that when Israel pulled out, they got rockets in return. What you won’t hear is that both withdrawals were done unilaterally, meaning in the absence of the kind of cooperation between Israeli and PA security forces that has in other instances been highly effective  in preventing terrorism and other violence. What you won’t hear is about the high level of cooperation between Israeli and PA security forces, efforts by the PA to maintain order, to prevent terrorism, to end corruption and promote economic growth through partnerships with Israelis. These inconvenient truths are hidden, often by those who don’t know better, but sometimes by those who have no interest in peace. 

None of this is to say that the Palestinian Authority is free of culpability in the failure to reaching a settlement until now. There is much that the PA can and should do to create a better environment for peaceful coexistence. But playing blame games is sure to lead nowhere except to maintain a status quo that is anything but static or benign.

What John Kerry asks of those of us who love Israel is to say what needs to be said, to our communal leaders who represent a can’t-do attitude, to our elected officials who are often cowed by those communal leaders who claim to speak for all Jews, and to Israelis, both elected officials and its citizens. We need all to know that while we have always rallied behind Israel in times of war, we must urge Israel to make an earnest bid for peace. We must not assume that this effort will fail, we cannot wait for a more convenient moment, we should not hide behind blame. For failure will further isolate Israel in the world. Failure will embolden extremists. Failure will lead to perpetual conflict.

Israel has a bright future ahead of it; but it needs us as partners in the real pursuit of peace.

An edited version of this article appears in the Jewish Journal (jewishjournal.org), 13 June 2013.

Tu b’Shevat

The origins of Tu b’Shevat, according to the sources, are prosaic. Reading the first mishna of Tractate Rosh Hashannah would make one think of a fiscal calendar; it is, in accordance with the ruling of Beit Hillel, the end of one tax year and the beginning of a new one for produce from trees for the purposes of tithes and other such taxes. Beit Shammai would have that in effect on the first day of Shevat. The 15th marks the point when the rainy season  is more than half way over in Eretz Yisra’el, when buds start to appear on the trees. 

Over the centuries, the observance of Tu b’Shevat has taken on greater meaning. It became customary to eat fruits that are grown on trees, more specifically, ones mentioned in the Torah: olives, dates, figs, grapes, and pomegranates; and to recite a shehechiyanu if one had not eaten that fruit during that season. During the Sixteenth Century the Kabbalists of Tzfat developed a ritual seder for the observance of the day. Over the past century, the day was infused with additional meaning with the growth of Zionism as Eretz Yisrael was resettled and Jewish agriculture revived.

In more recent years, some have looked to this day as a reminder of the importance of the environment and our role in it. And it is no wonder. On January 14th, the Doomsday Clock was moved to five minutes before midnight, due in large part to the destructive threat of global warming. But most will consider environmental issues to be in the realm of political, economic, or scientific concern. Why should we consider the environment a religious issue as well?

One does not have to look far beyond the first chapters of Genesis to discover the tension over the place of the human in the environment. Chapter 1 places man at the end of a long list of creations, perhaps as the ultimate creation, with the blessing to פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ וְכִבְשֻׁהָ, to “be fruitful, multiply, and to populate the earth and conquer it.” (v. 28) Man is passive in the process of creation but looks forward to an unrestrained role as an aggressive conqueror. Chapter 2 presents an opposite view: the earth seems incomplete without Adam - vegetation had not yet come forth כִּי לֹא הִמְטִיר ה’ אֱלֹקים עַל־הָאָרֶץ וְאָדָם אַיִן לַעֲבֹד אֶת־הָאֲדָמָה, “for God did not cause rain to fall on the earth and Adam was not [yet] to work the land.” (v.5) Adam does not appear as the ultimate creation. He has an active role to play, if not in creation itself, then in its completion, as an adjunct to the work of the Creator. Later, he is placed in the garden in Eden לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָהּ, “to work it and to protect it.” (v.15) His is not the unrestrained conqueror found in Chapter 1; he is placed here as a steward. He can do the work needed to make it function properly, but he must also protect it. 

Another verse often cited by the environmentally-minded is from Deuteronomy 20:19: when engaging in a siege, a Jewish army is not to cut down any fruit-bearing trees כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה לָבֹא מִפָּנֶיךָ בַּמָּצוֹר. The syntax of this verse makes it difficult to translate. Rashi, for instance, proposes reading this as a rhetorical question: “Is the tree of the field like a man who can seek refuge from you?” Abraham ibn Ezra, on the other hand, reads it as a declarative statement: “For the life of man is the tree of the field...” While Rashi’s reading seems to make most sense on the whole and has been adopted by most modern translations, either approach offers a meaningful reading. Indeed, humans need trees, even those that do not bear fruit, for survival as they provide not only food for nourishment but also a critical means of converting carbon dioxide into oxygen and diminishing the dangerous affects of CO₂ on the atmosphere. The tree is also a magnificent metaphor for the human: strong yet bending, steadfast, tall, arms reaching outward, deeply rooted and bearing new fruits in its season. Rashi’s reading, on the other hand, focuses on the limitations of the tree when compared to the human: defenseless, unable to take flight in the face of danger, subject to human whim. Why even ask the question? Isn’t it obvious?

Maybe it isn’t. As much as the Torah demythologizes nature, midrash often plays a reverse role. One midrash, on this week’s parasha, speaks of to the discontinuity that exists between Ex 14:16 and 21. In the former verse, God tells Moses to raise his staff and split the sea, but in the latter verse, Moses raises his staff, but it is God who splits the sea, not Moses. A midrash (Mekhilta dRY, Beshallah 4) tells how the sea refused to heed Moses’ command until God comes, at which the sea complies. The midrash cites the question of Ps 114:5, מַה־לְּךָ הַיָּם כִּי תָנוּס, “Why, sea, do you flee?” and the sea’s answer in v. 7, מִלִּפְנֵי אָדוֹן חוּלִי אָרֶץ מִלִּפְנֵי אֱלוֹהַּ יַעֲקֹב, “From before the Master, tremble the earth, from before the God of Jacob.” The darshan sees in this Psalm a dialogue between an unidentified interlocutor and the sea, a force of nature not known for its ability to speak. This dialogue refers to this moment at the sea, which is not out of the question as it opens בְּצֵאת יִשְׂרָאֵל מִמִּצְרָיִם, “When Israel left Egypt.”

The rabbinic mind does not reject the possibility that nature has a personality, an ability to communicate which, albeit hidden from the human ear, still can be heard on another level. We can see in another midrash a statement that speaks to the inaudible cries of a fruit-bearing tree that is cut down.  בשעה שכורתין את עץ האילן שהוא עושה פרי הקול יוצא מסוף העולם ועד סופו ואין הקול נשמע. “When a fruit-bearing tree is cut down, a cry goes out around the world, but the cry is not heard.” (Pirkei dRabbi Eliezer 34.) It brings to mind another cry unheard by human ears: after Cain kills Abel, God says to Cain, קוֹל דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ צֹעֲקִים אֵלַי מִן־הָאֲדָמָה, “the cries of your brother’s blood cries out to me from the earth.” (Gn 4:10) Blood, as we know it, is silent, just as the fruit bearing tree is silent; yet, both let out a silent scream unheard by human ears.

Perhaps it is a good thing that we cannot hear those cries of the inanimate, for if we could, all else might be inaudible over the din. Nature, as created by God, is a miracle which is renewed daily. We cannot hear the sounds of nature crying, but we can train ourselves to be cognizant of the miracles that abound and surround us daily. Big miracles have limited staying power; within three days the Israelites forgot the miracles that they had just experienced at the Red Sea. How easy is it to lose sight of the miracles of nature that seem part of a static fabric of existence?

Life on this planet is in peril, only because we, as custodians of God’s creation, have fallen down on the job. We have treated this earth as conquerors do in conquest, treating its resources as spoils of war. But once those spoils are spent, there is no where else to turn to satisfy our ever expanding appetite. We do have a religious responsibility, as stated about Adam in the garden in Eden לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָהּ, “to work it and to protect it.” Tu b’Shevat is but one reminder of nature’s frailty in the face of the destructive nature of our species, and that the responsibility is ours to repair and heal the only home that God made for us.

Sh’mot: On Knowing

וַיְהִי בַיָּמִים הָרַבִּים הָהֵם וַיָּמָת מֶלֶךְ מִצְרַיִם וַיֵּאָנְחוּ בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מִן־הָעֲבֹדָה וַיִּזְעָקוּ וַתַּעַל שַׁוְעָתָם אֶל־הָאֱלֹקים מִן־הָעֲבֹדָה:

וַיִּשְׁמַע אֱלֹקים אֶת־נַאֲקָתָם וַיִּזְכֹּר אֱלֹקים אֶת־בְּרִיתוֹ אֶת־אַבְרָהָם אֶת־יִצְחָק וְאֶת־יַעֲקֹב:

וַיַּרְא אֱלֹקים אֶת־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֵּדַע אֱלֹקים:

It was during those many days that the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned from their labor and they cried out, and their entreaties from their labor rose up to God.

God heard their moaning, and God recalled His covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob.

And God saw the Israelites, and God knew. (Ex 2: 23-25)

I can remember my first time studying Shemot, as a fourth grader at what was then the Yeshiva of Hudson County. The concluding verses of Exodus Ch. 2 left an indelible image in my mind, one of God anthropomorphized (I did not know that word back then) into a slave making cement and bricks along with the Hebrew slaves, feeling their pain in such a way that was possible only through presence and experience. 

I cannot explain what led me to intuit this; perhaps it was a prescient observation of a precocious 10 year old. But I think that I was on to something. 

We can find other similar images in the Tanakh. Psalm 91 concludes with the following verse, as spoken by God:

 יִקְרָאֵנִי | וְאֶעֱנֵהוּ עִמּוֹ אָנֹכִי בְצָרָה אֲחַלְּצֵהוּ וַאֲכַבְּדֵהוּ:

When he calls upon Me I will answer him; I am with him in distress, I will deliver him and bring him honor. (v. 15)

Note here that the verse does not speak of God being with the supplicant in his distress, but that God, too, is in distress.

A similar image is can be seen in a complex passage* in Isaiah 63:9 (which is also the concluding passage of Haftarat Vayelech, the last of the seven haftarot of consolation.) The verse reads:

בְּכָל־צָרָתָם | לֹא [לוֹ] צָר וּמַלְאַךְ פָּנָיו הוֹשִׁיעָם בְּאַהֲבָתוֹ וּבְחֶמְלָתוֹ הוּא גְאָלָם וַיְנַטְּלֵם וַיְנַשְּׂאֵם כָּל־יְמֵי עוֹלָם:

The text as we have it translates as follows:

In all their troubles He was troubled, and the angel of His presence delivered them. In His love and pity He Himself redeemed them, raised them and exalted them all the days of old.

There are examples of God’s empathy. But this passage is different; what does verse 25 teach us? Shouldn’t it be obvious? If we believe in an omniscient God, then why do we need this verse in the first place? We believe in the economy of language in the Torah, that no word or letter is employed unnecessarily. So, we are challenged to drill down a little deeper; superficial meanings will reveal nothing.

The verb ידע is usually translated “to know,” but it has much to tell us about the realm of knowledge. We are accustomed to thinking of knowledge of facts or subject matter, something intellectual. But here, like elsewhere in the Torah, we are introduced to a knowledge that goes beyond the brain, and perhaps against the grain.

To understand the difference, we need to look at another example of ידע that we find early in Parashat Bereshit. After the Adam and Hava are banished from the garden in Eden we read:

וְהָאָדָם יָדַע אֶת־חַוָּה אִשְׁתּוֹ...

Adam knew Hava his wife... (Gn 4: 1)

Obviously he knew her; they were together in the garden, they spoke, they disobeyed, they were exiled. However, the association with the next words, וַתַּהַר וַתֵּלֶד , “she conceived and bore” [a child,] leads to an assumption that they were intimate. But is this simply a matter of sexual intimacy, or is there something more?  We do find other words for sexual intercourse in the Bible, verbs that connote a physical action, for instanceלקח , שכב, or בא. Why ידע, a word so fraught with cerebration?

There is a debate among exegetes over whether the first sexual encounter took place in the garden or after the banishment from it. On the one hand, there is a principle that Torah does not keep to chronological order (אין מוקדם ומאוחר בתורה) so the fact that it appears where it does is meaningless. On the other hand, perhaps the position of this story is, in fact, intentional and chronological. If that is the case, we may draw an interesting lesson from the choice of ידע. 

Consider what transpired in the first three chapters of Genesis. Adam and Hava knew a life of limited responsibility, much freedom, and no shame. They then engaged in temptation, deception, humiliation, exile, and a new found fear of the unknown, including the knowledge that, at some point, their very existence would come to an end. And they experienced all this together. They learned that they are frail beings with finite capabilities forced to live within the web of human uncertainty. They came to know themselves, and they came to know each other, within this context, through this experience. And they came to look to each other as a source of refuge, comfort, and hope, not despite their limitations, but because of them. So “Adam came to know Hava his wife” (and one hopes that Hava, likewise, came to know Adam her husband as well,) in an intimate partnership that developed through time and experience, not through an instance of infatuation or “chemistry.”

The prophet Hosea speaks allegorically of a marital relationship between God and Israel. In verses that are recited when wrapping the strap of tefillin around the fingers, one says:

וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי לְעוֹלָם

וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי בְּצֶדֶק וּבְמִשְׁפָּט וּבְחֶסֶד וּבְרַחֲמִים:

וְאֵרַשְׂתִּיךְ לִי בֶּאֱמוּנָה 

וְיָדַעַתְּ אֶת־ה’:

And I will betroth you to me for eternity,

And I will betroth you to me with fairness and with rules, with kindness and with compassion.

And I will betroth you to me with faithfulness,

And you will know God. (Hos 2: 21-22)

These verses set out stages for the development of a relationship from which a knowing, intimate connection grows. It begins with a basic commitment of being together, one that surpasses time. For it to grow, it requires additional commitments that are active and emotional - צדק, a commitment to being just and playing fair; משפט, following rules that set up expectations and offer protections and boundaries; חסד, acting with kindness and consideration; רחמים, compassion, caring, listening, feeling. When these elements become the active components of a relationship, then אמונה, faithfulness, a sense of trust and confidence in the other, coming from experience, becomes manifest, and the possibilities for דעת, the opportunities for deep, intimate knowledge, grow from there.

Hosea’s model, which reflects the development of a meaningful relationship, whether between human lovers or between Israel as a people and God, begins to develop in these early chapters of Exodus and continues through the rest of the Torah. While the concept of an intimate, marital-type relationship between God and Israel is a recurrent motif in Jewish tradition, one must ask how well this analogy can work. It may be possible for God to have an intimate, knowing relationship with a whole people, but can Israel, as a whole, ever keep up its end of a mutual relationship? In looking at the Tanakh as a whole, one might be forced to answer in the negative. Beyond the moment at Sinai, when did K’lal Yisrael ever come together in a univocal response to an entreaty of God? It is questionable that there could ever be a sense of corporate intimacy. But that may not be the point.

What exactly God knew is mysteriously undefined in our verse. What God responds to, as derived from the verses that precedes our verse, is not the singular cry and entreaty of an entire people, but the many cries of individuals in their suffering. We can assume that what God knew was the suffering of each Israelite who cried out in his or her own way to God. The challenge of the verse is that we take what we know about knowing relationships, the type that we hope to know in our own lives, and put that to work in our own individual relationships with God.

Note:

*The sages who were responsible for the finalization of the Massorah (the text of the Tanakh as we know it, with verse breaks, vocalization, spelling and cantillation marks) had some difficulty with this verse, as indicated by the passeq (the vertical line) and the qere/qetiv (how it is read or recited/how it is written) variants of לא and לו. An alternative reading would place the end of the previous verse at the passeq and would thus read: לא צר ומלאך פניו הושיעם no messenger or angel; His countenance saved them.

Chanukah, and the battle of the holidays

I write this in the midst of the so-called holiday season, well into December, on the second night of Chanukah. Because I work in the retail sector, awareness of this season began a couple of days before Halloween, when Christmas decorations went up around the mall, soon followed by seasonal music. I might add that several friends of varied Christian denominations also made their dismay known, underscoring the commercialization of religious observances and the dilution of their meaning in our society.

It is Christmas season. I make no bones about that. I believe that the solemnity and importance of the day should be respected by all.

I observe Chanukah, a minor holiday on the Jewish calendar albeit one with its own important messages from which we should learn, and which should, likewise, be respected for what it is.

But it is the “Holiday Season,” and this is an America that largely believes in inclusivity and ecumenicism. These are nice values to hold, and I try to promote them in whatever ways I can. But at what point does this inclusivity become counterproductive?

Last week, a friend shared with me a story posted by a friend of hers on Facebook. It was of a group of Protestant seminarians with a brass quartet and carolers, while one dressed as Santa handed out Chanukah gelt. 

A few days before, another friend commented on the term “Holiday Trees.” The White House has many of these “Holiday Trees.” As far as my Catholic friend and I are concerned, there is only one holiday at this time of year that has trees associated with it, and it sure isn’t Chanukah!

And for years, we have been hearing about “Christmachanukwanzakah” on sitcoms. Our religious observances have all been tossed into a blender and turned into fodder for humor in an America that that seems uncomfortable with religious observance and is confused about religious dignity and diversity. 

Let’s take a moment to look at Chanukah and what it means. In the days following the division of the empire of Alexander the Great, Judaea fell under the rule of the Seleucid Dynasty. Alexander’s rule was known to have respected the different nations and their religions during his conquest. During the rule of the Seleucid emperor Antiochus IV Epiphanes, this policy changed, and it had a profoundly disturbing affect on many, though not all, Jews in Judaea. Jews who chose to remain faithful to their religion and would not yield to the incursions of the Hellenistic pagan cult often suffered martyrdom, while the Temple in Jerusalem was defiled. A small group rallied the faithful to fight against the forces of the emperor and succeeded in liberating the Temple from the pagan rulers and their Jewish supporters. Chanukah celebrates this moment, when Jews successfully fought for the right to maintain their rites and reclaimed the Temple. (On a side note, the war continued for another two and a half years, ending in victory, but leading to other problems.)

In other words, Chanukah celebrates a Jewish effort to maintain their uniqueness in the face of forces that sought to obliterate that uniqueness.

Inclusivity can be a good thing, but it also has its limits. When we turn seasonally coincidental holidays into a melange, we do more than a disservice to people of faith, we obfuscate the important messages and meanings behind those holidays. Rather, we need to learn how to respect both diversity and distinctiveness, first by developing a better understanding of our own faith traditions, and then by learning about those of others around us. But first, we must learn to treat our own traditions, and ourselves, with the dignity that they, and we, deserve.

Consolation, and Being Consoled

An extraordinary event happened to me this week. Out of the blue, I received an email with a scanned page from a newspaper published in Frankfurt, Germany, on August 7, 1936. The page contains paid announcements, some of weddings, and one, in particular, of a bar mitzvah - of my father. The sender of the email was looking for the announcement of his grandparents’ wedding, and seeing my dad’s name, decided, solely out of curiosity, to see if he could find anything about him in Google’s huge warehouse of data. He assumed that just about any name one would find on that page would lead to a dead end - death coming at the hands of the Nazis in the Holocaust that would begin just a few years later. To his surprise, he came across the article that I wrote about my dad in the weeks following his death in April, 2010.

There was something very meaningful about seeing this somewhat perfunctory advertisement, and so I thought I would share it, and its backstory on how it came to me, with friends on Facebook. I was quite amazed by the reaction it elicited. Over 40 people “liked” the clipping of the ad, including friends of friends, and 18 comments from friends.

For me, two years after my dad’s death, this response to the clipped ad about my father’s bar mitzvah on 15 August, 1936, brought me a sense of comfort, one that I had not known since the weeks following his passing. Perhaps this was all the more so because this coming Monday, 6 August, would have been his 89^th birthday.

As I was collecting my thoughts about this incident, I thought about how this relates to a larger context within the Jewish calendar. On Sunday we observed the fast of Tish’ah b’Av, the day on which we commemorate the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, the defeat of Bar Kokhba, and other calamities that befell the Jewish people throughout history. This Shabbat we begin reading the cycle of haftarot, prophetic portions that follow the reading of the Torah, known as the שבעה דנחמתא, the seven haftarot of consolation. All these readings are taken from the concluding section of Isaiah, beginning with Chapter 40. Some have characterized this section of Isaiah as distinct from the earlier 39 chapters; in academic circles it is often referred to as Deutero-Isaiah because it is believed to be the product of a different author in a later generation. Some have referred to these twenty-six chapters as among the most beautiful literature ever written; all I can say is that reading from these chapters often hits me deep in my heart.

The haftarah begins with the words:

נחמו נחמו עמי

יאמר אלהיכם

Console, console My people,

Says your God.

Unlike many prophecies that begin with some sort of introduction, this one begins abruptly, and yet, with soothing words. The passage continues:

דברו על-לב ירושלים

וקראו אליה

כי מלאה צבאה

כי נרצה עונה

כי לקחה מיד ה‘

כפליים בכל-חטאתיה

Speak to Jerusalem’s heart

And declare about her

That her sentence has been fulfilled

Her [expiation for] wrongdoing has been accepted.

For she has received from God’s hand

Double for all her sins.

The prophet wastes no time. His mission is put in simple terms: comfort the people, tenderly, and get them to move on. For if they wallow in their guilt or suffering, they will stagnate. They suffered more than enough, and, as the following verses show, they have work to do.

As I thought about this experience I had this week, I thought about the duplication of the word נחמו, console, in the first verse. Wouldn’t a singular expression of consolation be enough? 

Time has passed since I was a mourner. Life goes on. And still, I think about my dad every day. I see his pictures. I hear his voice. The initial sting of loss may have diminished; I can think of my dad and sometimes laugh, and sometimes think about the lessons that I learned from him. But I still feel the loss, and the residual pain comes to the surface.

This is what I glean from the seeming redundancy of the imperative נחמו, console. Consolation is not a one shot deal. Sometimes it must be revisited, because in those moments when we can get stuck in pain over the past, whether it is a deceased loved one, the break-up of a once meaningful relationship, or the memory of a past defeat, we can lose momentum, falling prey to depression or other demons that we need to recognize, but not allow to take over our lives. Time may heal all wounds, but the scars may last on and on.

In a larger context, the same is true for a group, a community, even a whole nation. We can be struck by calamity, but to get stuck in that tragedy doesn’t change anything about the initial wrong, it intensifies the wrong that we bring upon ourselves. In the wake of the destruction of the Second Temple, there were Jews who wanted to go into perpetual mourning. The rabbis discouraged that; it would only add to the destruction visited upon them by Rome. Likewise, in our generation, we can let the Holocaust shadow our Jewish lives into the future. But the pain over that past can get in the way of making our future; it certainly can cause us to move backwards.

That leads to one of the most important lessons that I learned from my dad. He never forgot his memories of Germany, neither the rise of the Nazis and Kristallnacht, nor the Germans who tried to help, and at times, protected his family. He didn’t harbor ill-will towards post-war Germany for the crimes of the Third Reich. And he didn’t live with the fear of those days and did not let them shadow his vision for the future. 

Mark Mulgay

15 Av 5771

Tish’ah b’Av - Déjà vu all over again?

A cartoon shows two men sitting in a plush library. The older of the two relates an ancient maxim, but with a twist: “Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. Yet those who do study history are doomed to stand by helplessly while everyone else repeats it.”

This saying resonates as we enter the annual period when we commemorate the destruction of both Jerusalem Temples and other historical calamities that are associated with Tish’ah b’Av, the Ninth day of Av, and as we think of events in Israel today.

Two events associated with Tish’ah b’Av stand out as historical models worth noting: the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 CE, and the tragedy of the Bar Kokhba revolt, which ended on Tish’ah b’Av with the fall of Betar some sixty-five years later, in 135.

Rabbinic sources, as well as Josephus, recall that during the Roman siege of Jerusalem there were those who wanted to negotiate with the Romans. We have the famous story of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, one of the leading rabbis, who, in order to pass the Jewish zealot cordon, had to be smuggled out of Jerusalem in a coffin to meet with Vespasian, then the general commanding the siege. The zealots opposed any negotiations; they were so bent on engaging in a fight that they burned the granaries that could have sustained the Jews of Jerusalem through a protracted siege. They would brook no dissent: assassins stabbed those who opposed them. In the end, the messianic thinking of the zealots was no match for the might of the Roman Empire; the Temple was burned to the ground, and Jerusalem fell, with much Jewish blood spilled - a situation that might have otherwise been avoided.

The Bar Kokhba revolt brings another example of messianic overreach that had disastrous repercussions.  Yehoshafat Harkabi, former chief of intelligence of the IDF, chronicled that war in his book, The Bar Kokhba Syndrome.  Bar Kokhba engaged Rome in battle at a time when the Roman Legions throughout the empire were not otherwise occupied, and were easily mobilized to Judea. No doubt there were reasons for Jews to be unhappy under Roman domination, but while the Jewish community of Judea was decimated in the war, the Jews of the Galilee did not rebel, its populace survived, and it became the center for the growth of rabbinic Judaism in the Land of Israel after the war. The war, according to Harkabi’s analysis, was unnecessary; it was prompted by a messianic worldview that took hold and that would not consider the potential consequences for their actions. The consequences included the loss of many lives, enslavement of many others, and the end of Jewish autonomy in Judea and Jerusalem for the next 1,800 years. 

One could ask what might have happened had that war never taken place.

The Jewish people have suffered with the scars of the fall of Jerusalem and the Bar Kokhba defeat ever since. Still, many have not learned the lessons of either defeat. Despite the preponderance for moderation in rabbinic sources, its harsh criticism of the zealots of Jerusalem and of Bar Kokhba, those lessons have been forgotten by many. While the Israel of today has among the finest defense capabilities in the world, its dependence on its might outweighs the skillful engagement in diplomacy and negotiation. 

But despite its strengths in building a state with a powerful military and many successes in industry, science, culture and education, it remains haunted by its past. That past should never be forgotten. But it should never keep us fettered, unable to move into the future. 

On the eve of Tish’ah b’Av we remove curtains from the ark and covers from the lecterns of our synagogues, but in the afternoon, before the Mincha prayers, even as we still fast, they are restored, and the spirit of mourning turns to one of hope. During Mincha, a special prayer is added to the Amida, a prayer of consolation, recalling the pain of the past, but concluding with these hopeful words, “Blessed are you, Lord, who consoles Zion and rebuilds Jerusalem.” Even during those darkest of days, before anyone could dream of what our eyes can now see, these words were uttered in the present.

Some of us fear for Israel's future because of the external threats that she faces. For me and many like myself, the greater threat is from within. The paring down of Israel's democracy, the continued settlement of the West Bank and moves towards an eventual single-state solution pose a grave danger to the future of a democratic Jewish state. And once again, not unlike two millennia ago, Israel's greatest enemy may be the one from within.

For a people with an appreciation for the past, we haven't learned much from history.

A New Pro-Israel Voice for Our Community

I frequently post news articles on Facebook. Usually, when it comes to Israel, a land close to my heart and mentioned daily in my prayers, these articles bring me grief, as they deal with a host of problems that she faces.

Occasionally, these posts elicit angry comments from friends accusing me of supporting those who would destroy us, that my posts provide aid and comfort to the enemy.

Here’s the rub: the articles that I post often come from Israeli sources or are posted by Israeli friends. The protests usually come from Americans. For some, the only newsworthy articles show Israel as victim, or Israeli success in science and business. 

There are many reasons one can give for remaining quiet about the problems in Israel today, but my greater concern is why we shouldn’t. I believe in an Israel that is, and acts as, a Jewish state. That raises the bar of responsibility high. A modern Israel that abides by Jewish values need not be a theocracy, but it ought to care for all its inhabitants equally and justly, Jew and non-Jew alike.

Previously, we have had two opportunities to have a unified state in our native homeland. The first, under Saul, David, and Solomon, lasted about 80 years and then split, ultimately falling to outside conquerers. The second, under the Maccabean/Hasmonean dynasty, also lasted about 80 years before falling into Roman hands. 

Since 1948 we have had our third chance. For the better part of its existence, Israel knew little else than the threat of war from hostile neighbors on every border and beyond. While that threat has diminished, Israel’s security remains precarious, and the threat of a nuclear Iran remains on the horizon. But during these years, Israel has erected its own barriers to peace. The current governing coalition has begrudgingly paid lip service to the peace process and to a two-state solution. Meanwhile, the country’s social fabric has been fraying at the seams, and the natural and expected support of Jews in America is on the wane. Within Israel, questions about the end of Zionism are not uncommon.

Rather than lamenting the demise of Zionism, I believe that we have yet to see the best that it has to offer. I believe that we are a chosen people - chosen to bear a responsibility, to serve as a beacon, to bring Godliness into this world. But we must overcome some obstacles that prevent us from shining that light. That cannot happen while Israel rules over a population that must endure subjugation. We must assist in fostering peace through a two-state solution. 

Both Israeli and Palestinian representatives must return to the negotiating table. Both sides must cease all forms of incitement and keep their radical elements in check. Both must do more to build confidence in each other to create an atmosphere that will be conducive to a peaceful settlement.

The US can assist in this process as motivator and mediator, rallying international support and economic incentives that can motivate both sides. But while support for Israel was once bipartisan and largely univocal, it is now a wedge issue between Republicans and Democrats, and the target audience for some politicians is for Jewish dollars and evangelical votes. 

American Jews need a sane voice for an Israel that put the brakes on the car that is racing towards the cliff. That voice is J Street.

J Street is a young organization that serves as the voice for American Jews who want the US to engage in the constructive advancement of the peace process. It is informed by Jewish values, drawing the engagement of Jews who share a deep love for Israel and a commitment to its security and survival. J Street advocates for the US to leverage its influence to bring both Israelis and Palestinians back to the negotiating table, and to work together towards a two-state settlement. 

It fights an uphill battle against a growing force that includes many evangelicals whose increasingly hawkish policy goals are detrimental to Israel’s security and wellbeing. J Street not only represents a growing consensus among American Jews, it also supports the position of a growing number of Israelis who support a two-state solution.

Recently, several members of our local community decided to work with J Street to engage the Jewish community north of Boston to do our part to advance the peace process. We urge you to join us to help bring peace and security to Israel.

Chanukah: Maccabean Memories, Hasmonean History

NB: This is an adaptation of an earlier piece that appears elsewhere on this site.

Of the holidays that appear on the Jewish calendar, Chanukah is the most recent, one of the most widely celebrated, and probably the least understood. Its popularity today stems from its proximity to Christmas, during the darkest days of the year, a season celebrated by many peoples from time immemorial. But what is Chanukah all about? 

Most of us know the Chanukah story, celebrating the victory of the Maccabees over the Greeks who had imposed their cult and culture over Judea during the second century BCE. Judah Maccabee, son of Mattathias the priest, led a guerrilla army in battles against the vastly greater Syrian Greek forces, ultimately liberating the Temple that the Hellenists profaned and reinstating the service there. Then there is the story of the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days. That is what we share in our collective memory, but the history is far more complex.

Chanukah celebrates a victory, but the war continued for more than two years, ending in the spring of 161 BCE. What ever happened to the celebration of the war's conclusion?  

The Hasmonean dynasty that descended from the Maccabees became known for its ruthlessness. It was corrupted by wealth and power, knowing no bounds when seeking to advance its interests. Historical sources are replete with accounts of bloodshed, even fratricide, among its principals. Eventually, this divisive and destructive behavior held the door open for Rome when it entered the fray and took control of Judea in 63 BCE. 

The sages, the ultimate arbiters of the holiday and how it would be celebrated, seem ambivalent about Chanukah and the militarism surrounding it. Violence may be acceptable only to meet limited objectives, for the defense of the people and their ability to live as Jews. Those objectives were met at the point when the Maccabees secured the Temple and the reversal of the edicts that robbed the Jews of their religious freedom. But beyond that, their battles were political; some who had fought alongside the Maccabees broke away from them at this point, preferring negotiated diplomatic solutions to meet their goals. 

The rabbis were less interested in the use of force to meet political ends, and often show a preference towards compromise and negotiation. The Talmudic accounts of the events leading up to the destruction of the Temple do not speak well of those who sought to prevent any settlement, those who chose the all-or-nothing approach that ultimately led to catastrophe. 

As a people, we are sustained by our collective memory of the past, even if, at times, it diverges from history. For two millennia, as Jews endured domination in the Diaspora, the Chanukah story was a source of sustenance. In our world, where Jews have returned to reclaim and govern their homeland, we might want to consider not only the memory of the Maccabees, but also the history of the Hasmoneans, as a cautionary tale. Those who don’t learn from history...

Re'eh: Seeing and Hearing

Devarim is an audiocentric book. Search through Devarim and you will find the verb שמע approximately 100 times, including the most famous passage of all: שמע ישראל ה' א-לקינו ה' אחד. On the other hand, the imperative to see, ראה, as spoken by Moses to the entire people, is found only three times in this book.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains that unlike other cultures in antiquity, Jewish culture is audio-centric; we are focused on words, not on objects, idols or icons. We hear, while others see. Ancient Greece was the paragon of visual culture, celebrating sculpture, the physique, architecture. For us, it was Torah, midrash, talmud.

There was a profound difference between the two civilizations of antiquity that between them shaped the culture of the West: ancient Greece and ancient Israel. The Greeks were the supreme masters of the visual arts: art, sculpture, architecture and the theatre.

Jews, as a matter of profound religious principle, were not. G-d, the sole object of worship, is invisible. He transcends nature. He created the universe and is therefore beyond the universe. He cannot be seen. He reveals Himself only in speech. Therefore the supreme religious act in Judaism is to listen. Ancient Greece was a culture of the eye; ancient Israel a culture of the ear. The Greeks worshipped what they saw; Israel worshipped what they heard.

Now we come upon the imperative look:

ראה אנכי נתן לפניכם היום ברכה וקללה.

Look, I have placed before you this day a blessing and a curse. (Dt 11:26)

This verse is echoed towards the end of the book:

ראה נתתי לפניך היום את-החיים ואת-הטוב ואת-המות ואת-הרע.

Look, I have given you this day life and good, and death and evil. (30:15)

Why the difference? The ear has no way of its own to block out what it hears. True, we can stick our fingers in our ears or stuff them with cotton to block out sound, but the ear has no way of closing itself. But the eye does have an option. We can close our eyelids, we can avert our gaze. The eye allows for options, the ear does not. What is interesting about the verses above is that they speak about options, choices to be made. Once we have heard the lessons, it is up to us to make choices, to open our eyes and make them part of the reality of our lives, or to close our eyes to the ways in which they can enrich those lives.

Ekev – Digging in your heels

“עקב" is not a word that we come across often in the Torah, and even those few times have different meanings. As it appears in the beginning of this week's parasha, it can mean because, part of an if-then proposition. Usually, it refers to something after the fact:

והתברכו בזרעך כל גויי הארץ עקב אשר שמעת בקלי.

All the peoples of the earth will be blessed by your seed because you listened to My voice. (Gn 22:18)

This verse comes at the conclusion of the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. Abraham's progeny would be a source for blessing as a consequence of his obedience to Hashem's will.

והרביתי את-זרעך ככוכבי השמים ונתתי לזרעך את כל-הארצת האל והתברכו בזרעך כל גויי הארץ. עקב אשר-שמע אברהם בקלי וישמר משמרתי מצותי חקותי ותורתי.

I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars in the heavens, and I will give your descendants all these lands. All the peoples of the land will be blessed through your offspring, as a consequence of Abraham listening to My voice, keeping my watch, commandments, statutes and teachings. (Gn 26:4-5)

ועבדי כלב עקב היתה רוח אחרת עמו וימלא אחרי והביאתיו אל-הארץ אשר-בא שמה וזרעו יורשנה.

My servant Caleb, because he possessed a different spirit and remained loyal to Me, him I will bring into the land that he entered, and his progeny will possess it. (Nu 14:24)

And so, our parasha opens with a passage that begins and ends with this word:

והיה עקב תשמעון את המשפטים האלה ושמרתם ועשיתם אתם ושמר ה' אלקיך לך את-הברית ואת-החסד אשר נשבע לאבתיך.

If you obey these laws, keeping and observing them, then Hashem your God will keep the covenant and kindness that He swore to your forefathers. (Dt 7:12)

והיה אם-שכח תשכח את-ה' אלקיך והלכת אחרי אלהים אחרים ועבדתם והשתחוית להם העדתי בכם היום כי אבד תאבדון. כגוים אשר ה' מאביד מפניכם כן תאבדון: עקב לא תשמעון בקול ה' אלקיכם.

If you forget Hashem your God, following after other gods, serving and prostrating yourselves before them, I bear witness today that you will certainly perish, just like the peoples Hashem will cause to perish before you, so you will perish, because you will not have heeded to the voice of Hashem your God. (Dt 8:19-20)

So, it seems a little strange to refer to a parshah “if” or “because”. What's more is that Hebrew has another, simpler word for if – אם, and for because – מפני. What is it about this word that makes it different?

Let's recall, for a moment, another situation where this word also appears, dealing with the birth of Jacob:

...ואחרי-כן יצא אחיו וידו אחזת בעקב עשו ויקרא שמו יעקב

Afterwards his brother came out, his hand grasping on to the heel of Esau, and his name was called Jacob... (Gn 25:26)

עקב has another meaning – the heel of the foot.

What is interesting about the heel is that if one wants to stay put, they exert pressure on the heel to insure that they do not move. And when one is stubborn and unmovable, we refer to them as “digging in their heels.”

What do heels have to do with our parasha?

There is a message here about human qualities that go beyond a simple “if” or “because”. Keeping the mitzvot, living the life that we, as Jews, are expected to lead in fulfilling our covenants may seem somewhat counterintuitive. After all, if what humans seek out in life is pleasurable fulfillment, then restrictions on our freedoms and instincts is not something ideal. We have something of an animal soul in us. Our covenantal obligations impose burdens on us, and there is so much that tempts us away. Keeping that commitment requires us at times to be stubborn, to dig in our heels with a mind towards doing the best that we can to fulfill the mitzvot.

But there is also another side of the coin. We can also be obstinate in our refusal to maintain the covenant. We can come up with every possible explanation and rationalization to dismiss and disregard expectations. When we go beyond the simple lack of fulfillment, when we are obdurate in our objections, we run tremendous risk, as we find at the close of this passage at the end of chapter 8.

Our heels do not hear, but they can help, or hinder, our ability to heed.

Va'etchanan: Worshipping sticks and stones

On Tish'ah b'Av, we recite from the Torah a passage that is found in this Shabbat's Torah reading. (Va'etchanan is always read on the Shabbat following Tish'ah b'Av, which is also known as Shabbat Nachamu from the first words of the Haftarah.) We read the following words:

כי-תוליד בנים ובני בנים, ונושנתם בארץ והשחתם ועשיתם פסל תמונת כל ועשיתם הרע בעיני ה'-א-להיך להכעיסו. העידתי בכם היום את-השמים ואת-הארץ כי-אבד תאבדון מהר מעל הארץ אשר אתם עברים את-הירדן שמה לרשתה לא-תאריכן ימים עליה כי השמד תשמדון. והפיץ ה' אתכם בעמים ונשארתם מתי מספר בגוים אשר ינהג ה' אתכם שמה. ועבדתם-שם אלהים מעשה ידי אדם עץ ואבן--אשר לא-יראון ולא ישמעון ולא יאכלון ולא יריחן.

When you bear children and grandchildren, once you are long-established in the land, if you should act wastefully, making sculpture of any image, doing evil in the eyes of Hashem, your God, to anger Him. With heaven and earth as my witness, you will be quickly and utterly lost from the land to which you are crossing the Jordan to possess. Your days on it shall not be lengthened, for you will be utterly wiped out. Hashem will scatter you among the nations, and you will remain, in small number, among the nations to which Hashem will lead you. There you will worship gods that are the works of human hands: of wood and stone – that cannot see, hear, eat or smell. (Dt 4:25-28)

Now, this is not the first time that we come across this opposition to idolatry in this chapter. See v. 3:

עיניכם הראות את אשר-עשה ה' בבעל פעור: כי כל-האיש אשר הלך אחרי בעל-פעור השמידו ה' א-לקיך מקרבך.

Your eyes have seen what Hashem did at Ba'al Pe'or, for Hashem destroyed from your midst every man who followed after Ba'al Pe'or.

Likewise, vv. 16-18:

פן-תשחתון--ועשיתם לכם פסל תמונת כל-סמל: תבנית זכר או נקבה. תבנית כל-בהמה אשר בארץ תבנית כל-צפור כנף אשר תעוף בשמים. תבנית כל-רמש באדמה תבנית כל-דגה אשר-במים מתחת לארץ. ופן-תשא עיניך השמימה וראית את-השמש ואת-הירח ואת-הכוכבים כל צבא השמים ונדחת והשתחוית להם ועבדתם--אשר חלק ה' א-לקיך אתם לכל העמים תחת כל-השמים.

Lest you make waste of yourselves and make for yourselves a graven image, the likeness of any form, the image of a male or female, the likeness of any animal on land, the likeness of any winged bird that flies in the sky, the likeness of anything that creeps on the ground, the likeness of any fish in the waters under the earth. Lest you raise your eyes skyward, see the sun, moon, and stars, all the hosts of heaven, and be pushed to prostrate yourselves before them and worship them, that which Hashem, your God, allotted to all the nations under the heavens.

And v. 23:

השמרו לכם פן-תשכחו את-ברית ה' א-לקיכם אשר כרת עמכם ועשיתם לכם פסל תמונת כל אשר צוך ה' א-לקיך.

Be on guard, lest you forget the covenant that Hashem, your God, made with you, and make a graven image, the likeness of anything, which Hashem, your God, forbade you.

It seems repetitive, but in fact, it isn't. Verse 3 recalls the incident where men were driven by their lust for Moabite women to serve Ba'al Pe'or. Verses 16-18 speak of the deification of anything found in nature. Verse 23 extends the idea further, forbidding the deification of anything that could be captured in any image, or the attempt make an image of anything that could be venerated in some way.

What does this section, verses 25-28, tell us that we haven't already heard?

Those gods that are the work of human hands are not necessarily what one would think of as gods. They are the works of our hands, the things we make, the possessions we crave, the objects we seek to acquire that become the focus of our attention and our veneration. They become our focus on earnings and our materialistic yearnings, the things that supplant the sublime with the superficial.

This passage begins with an interesting phrase: ונשנתם בארץ, once you are long-established in the land. The word ונשנתם derives from the ישן, which means old, and also connotes sleep, tiredness, boredom, things that can be easily lead to complacency. Under these circumstances, the restless heart seeks something new, something beyond the established, the familiar. It is under those conditions that values break down, ideals disintegrate, and restless souls seek out creature comforts. Often, this does not occur in a single generation, not in the days of the founders, but after generations, כי-תוליד בנים ובני בנים, when one can look back on the privations of the builders with little more than a sense of nostalgia. By then, the ideals, or more specifically, the covenantal commitment, is all but lost. They are no longer in the land of promise, but in the land of premise, based on the supposition that our satisfaction with creature comforts is all we need to keep us fulfilled. But these things are inanimate. We find ourselves in a vicious cycle of trying to keep up with the newest fad and fashion, the things that lack any staying power because they are אלהים מעשה ידי אדם עץ ואבן--אשר לא-יראון ולא ישמעון ולא יאכלון ולא יריחן, gods that are the works of human hands: of wood and stone – that cannot see, hear, eat or smell.

And then something happens...

ובקשתם משם את-ה' א-לקיך ומצאת כי תדרשנו בכל-לבבך ובכל-נפשך. בצר לך ומצאוך כל הדברים האלה באחרית הימים ושבת עד-ה' א-לקיך ושמעת בקלו. כי א-ל רחום ה' אלקיך לא ירפך ולא ישחיתך ולא ישכח את-ברית אבתיך אשר נשבע להם.

From there you will seek out Hashem, your God, and you will find Him, because you have sought Him out with all your heart and with all your being. In those later times, when in your straits and you find these words, you will return unto Hashem, your God, and listen to His Voice. For Hashem, your God, is a compassionate God, He will neither forsake nor destroy you, nor will He forget the covenant that he swore to your fathers. (vv. 29-31)

The spiraling quest for materialistic meaning leaves us bereft of meaning, but we do have a way out.

The challenge is not to get ourselves to that point where we are in the straits. We cannot allow ourselves to lose sight of the notion that unfettered materialism is nothing less than a form of idolatry, something we must avoid in the first place. We should be able to live lives where our needs are met, without deprivation, hunger or want. But there are limits. When life becomes more focused on stuff than on meaning, on the people in our lives, our fellow man, and our relationship with the Provider of all, we are at a loss. When we start to believe the words of the bumper sticker that says “Whoever dies with the most toys wins,” it is time to stop and reflect on where we are, where we are heading, and what it all means.