Ethics, Hope amidst Despair and Justifying the Ways of God

Another terrific day at Hartman. We focused on different Jewish responses to crises past and present. In my elective class, on kabbalah and hasdism, we studied mystical passages teaching that imperfection has been built into the cosmic nature of the world since its origins; in an important sense, we are always responding to crisis, trying to bring healing. Three colleagues shared their favorite texts on hope—material from Torah to Talmud to Rainer Maria Rilke. Rabbi Donniel Hartman gave a brilliant shiur on Jewish ethics, reminding us that it is not enough to live by Jewish law—we are called to go above and beyond, to perform acts of mercy and kindness. As he put it, “To go beyond the measure of the law—this is the law!” And Micah Goodman wrestled with perhaps the toughest text in the Hebrew Scriptures, the book of Job, with its perpetually vexing question: “Why do good people suffer?” He offered some terrific insights, among them: Job is a story about growing up, about learning that the world is not fair; Job illustrates the principal of pluralism within the Hebrew Bible, as its message stridently contradicts the motif of reward and punishment that runs through so much of the rest of the biblical narrative; and while Job is about trying to justify the ways of God, a more “Jewish” response is to criticize God, and then take up the work of tikkun olam, of healing our broken world. Another teacher quoted Rabbi Harold Kushner on this question: “Asking the world to treat you well because you are good is like asking the bull not to charge you because you are a vegetarian.” Or, as the Talmud notes, “Suppose a man stole a measure of wheat and went and sowed it in the ground; it is right that it should not grow—but the world pursues its natural course.”

I was especially moved by a text from Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, as presented by Rabbi Laurie Phillips. It speaks to the heart of all of our crises—personal, professional, and communal. Rebbe Nachman teaches that our challenge, in crisis, is to seek the positive—even if we can only find a tiny seed of goodness—and use it to transform ourselves and our world. Laurie read—and then sang—this text, and I felt a tear come to my eyes as I thought of how I have struggled with depression at times, and how Rebbe Nachman’s words offer hope and incentive to change. I will conclude with Rebbe Nachman’s teaching; feel free to comment if you would like:

Judge one and all generously, leaning strongly toward the good, even if you think they are as sinful as can be. Always look for that place, however small, where there is no sin (and everyone, after all, has such a place) And by telling them, by showing them, that this is who they are, we can help them change their lives. Even the person you think is completely rotten (and he agrees!)—how is it possible that at some time in his life he has not done some good deed, some mitzvah? Your job is to help him look for it, to seek it out, and then to judge him that way.

Then, indeed, you will “look at his place” and find that the wicked one is no longer there—not because she has died or disappeared, but because, with your help, she will no longer be in the place where you first saw her. By seeking out that goodness, you allowed her to change. You helped teshuvah take its course.

So now, my clever friend, now that you know how to treat the wicked and find some bit of good in them—now go and do it for yourself as well! You know what I have taught you: “Take great care, be happy always! Stay far, far away from sadness and depression.” I’ve said it to you more than once. I know what happens when you start examining yourself. “No goodness at all,” you find, “just full of sin.” Watch out for despair, my friend, which wants to push you down. That is why I said, “Now go do it for yourself as well.” You, too, must have done some good for someone, some time. Now go look for it, just the smallest bit: a dot of goodness.

That should be enough to give you back your life, to bring you back your joy. By seeking out that little bit, even in yourself, and judging yourself that way, you show yourself that this is who you are. You can change your whole life this way and bring yourself to teshuvah.

It’s that first little dot of goodness that’s the hardest one to find (or the hardest to admit you find!) The next ones will come a little easier, each one following another. And you know what? These little dots of goodness in yourself—after a while you will find that you can sing them! Join them one to another, and they become your niggun, your wordless melody. You fashion that niggun by rescuing your own good spirit from all that darkness and depression. The niggun brings you back to life—and then you can start to pray.

Loving Our Neighbors

Another interesting day at Hartman. We spent a great deal of time studying in hevruta, the traditonal way of reading sacred texts with a partner, and discussing its meanings together.

The first focus was on the difference between the Torah's commandment, "Love your neighbor as yourself" and Hillel's famous reiteration of that principle: "What is hateful to you, do not do to others." We delved into the commentary, wrestling with the differences between these two approaches. I much prefer the Hillel version, for two reasons. First, it focuses on action rather than attitude. It is hard--maybe impossible--to command love; by contrast, it is very reasonable to expect people to understand how they want to be treated, and then to extend that same courtesy to others. It is easier to act lovingly than it is to love. And, for me, to act lovingly is enough. I think it is just a lot more effective to change behavior by addressing the behavior than commanding an attitude adjustment.

And second, I think Hillel sets a lower--and more realistic--bar. Can we really love our neighbors? Strangers? It is hard enough to love our own families, or even (especially?) ourselves. I believe "love your neighbor" raises impossible expectations, and thus sets us up to fail. Hillel, by contrast, does not demand that we be angels. He asks only that we co-exist peacefully. For now, that seems sufficient.

Our second text was the book of Jonah, and what it offers us as we seek to respond to crisis. God orders Jonah to prophesize to Nineveh. Jonah tries to run, but after the long excursus with the Big Fish, he eventually does come to Nineveh and does God's bidding, telling the people that God is about to destroy their city. Then something amazing happens: the people actually listen to the prophet and repent.

God responds by retracting the divine decree and sparing the city. And how does Jonah react to this? Angrily. He is furious that God does not wipe out Nineveh. Perhaps Jonah thinks that God has made him look bad, or maybe he just really believes the city is unworthy of divine mercy.

At any rate, God's and Jonah's divergent reactions to the situation in Nineveh represent two very different responses to crisis. God recognizes that realities shift, and therefore the appropriate response at one moment--anger and justice--no longer applies when things change (i.e. after the people repent.) Jonah, by contrast, is stuck. Once he has prophesied the city's destruction, he cannot see any other option. He is intent on sticking to the original plan, for he lacks resilience in his response.

So, too, with each of us, in every crisis. We can respond with innovation and flexibility, or we can just keep doing what we've always done, ignoring the fact that our reality has changed. We can be like either God or Jonah--the choice is ours.

I'm heading back to Hartman for dinner and then home for the evening, with a lot to think about!

Crisis and Uncertainty

Today I began two weeks of intensive study at the Shalom Hartman Center's Rabbinic Torah Study Seminar.

The Center was created by David Hartman, a modern Orthodox rabbi, teacher, and philosopher, in 1971. Their mission is to bring together Jews from across movements and streams, and they have enjoyed a great deal of success in this sacred task. This year, there are 97 rabbis and cantors studying in the summer session, which deals with Jewish responses to crises, old and new.

Shalom Hartman has a gorgeous campus in Rehavia, an old and established neighborhood near where I am living; it's about a seven minute ride on my bike. It is a pleasure to study there.

Today, we met one another, heard a few introductory talks on the subject, and attended electives of our choice. Tomorrow morning we begin hevruta study, working on traditional texts around Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, whose response to the destruction of the Temple in the year 70--resiliently shifting the focus of Jewish practice from sacrifice to study and prayer-- essentially saved the Jewish people.

The highlight today was Rabbi Hartman's evening talk. He is a genuinely wise elder statesman, and an iconoclast who is observantly Orthodox but has real respect for the contributions of the other, liberal movements in Judaism. He is cantankerous, brilliant, brutally honest, funny, charming and, above all, heimish.

His focus was on how we understand our past and future. He noted that most traditional Jews preach a kind of messianism that features God assuring the Jewish people a happy ending to our trials in history. Hartman rejects this view, suggesting, instead, that there are no promises that all will work out well. He sees history as contingent, as unpredictable, and suggests that in the end, it is in our hand's rather than God's. I am going to end with a quote from his shiur (learning session) and let all of my readers here ponder and, if you like, respond to his words:

I do not believe in the inevitability of the Jews remaining a Torah people. The notion that we are protected, that God assures our future must be thrown out the window because it creates passivity and does not challenge us to change!

I believe in God. . . but I don’t trust Him. And He doesn’t want me to trust Him. He wants me to take responsibility for the world.

If, as some say, everything is certain, if we know that God will make everything turn out right in the end, if history is necessary rather than contingent, life has no adventure. I believe that to live is to participate in a great adventure. Never exhaust or ignore the potential of now. Seek the possibilities of the world you live in. That is living. Believe in your own ability to grow. If you do that, life is possible.

Cats in Jerusalem

After being awakened by screeching cats for about the hundredth time here last night, this morning I wrote a short poem in their honor. Enjoy.

The Cats of Jerusalem

for Janet

Like babies, they cry

in dark hours.

We, the wakened cannot know

what drives their fierce desire:

hunger, fear, or love?

Like prayers, they greet the dawn

light, leaping forth

as we, the earthbound

stumble clumsily

amongst their prey.

Like our hearts, they hunt

for shelter from the brutal

noon-time sun.

Like ghosts, they gather

in the twilight,

plotting mischief,

while we fight to stay

awake until the bedtime

story’s end.

Like beings human and divine,

they prowl Jerusalem

beneath the waning

Tammuz moon

and howl, howl, howl—

as if they might

remind the whole world

how full it is

of their glory.

Only in Israel!

So for today, just a short highlight of the weekend:

We spent Friday afternoon shopping, cleaning and getting ready for Shabbat. At around 5:30 pm or so, we set Jonah in front of the television while we did some final preparations. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the show, which features lots of rainbows and butterflies and cute puppet characters--who are lighting candles and making kiddush!

Jonah looks up from the screen, and with great excitement says, "Mama! Dada! Shabbat is on TV!"

And indeed it was, which beats the hell out of Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.

We had a lovely Shabbat afterwards, and a quiet weekend. Today (Sunday) Rachel started at Camp Ramah and Jonah went to pre-school. I begin two weeks of intensive study at the Hartman Institute tomorrow.

Shavua tov--a good week to all.

Y'hiyeh Tov

On Wednesday night, Janet and I went to see one of Israel's most respected musicians, David Broza. He is an extraordinary acoustic guitar player and singer, whose fingers move like lightning across the frets.

I first heard David Broza back in the early 1980s, and he has only gotten better. He is quite an international figure. His guitar playing is heavily influenced by Spanish flamenco style, and he plays concerts all over the world. Early in the show, he launched into one of his favorites, "Al Nahar shel Sevilla--By the River of Seville," and I thought of how, almost four months ago, I stood by the river in Seville myself. It was wonderful to listen to this musical synthesis of my own sabbatical experience, and to think back, once again, on the Golden Age of Jews in Spain--and how so many of the descendents of those Spanish exiles have made their homes here.

The concert took place in Mishkenot Sh'ananim, which is a remarkable venue. It is a venerable Jerusalem neighborhood , the first to be built outside the old city walls. In the 19th century, the British Jewish philanthropist Moses Montefiore founded the neighborhood. Many locals thought he was crazy, for at the time it was considered terribly dangerous to live outside the walls, which were locked each night to protect the residents against rogues and wild beasts. It is now hard to believe that Jerusalem was once so small, given its current size and growthrate, which has exceeded even Montefiore's wildest dreams. At any rate, it has now become a kind of artists' colony, filled with successful painters and writers, who live in graceful stone buildings topped with red terra cotta roofs, surrounded by magnificent tropical foliage of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Montefiore also built a windmill here, which remains the signature landmark of the place. The concert was held right by the windmill, looking out over the city walls, bathed in golden illumination against the dark night. Looking out over the city from this vantage point, with David Broza playing such gorgeous music and the crowd singing along so happily, it is really hard to believe that Jerusalem is such an intense and divided place. It all looks so calm from a distance. The division and tension is, of course, a reality, but it is not the only Jerusalem--just the one that makes the news. I wish the world could see more of the beauty, along with the conflict.

After about two hours, David Broza finished with his signature song, "Y'hiyeh Tov." Written in the wake of the Lebanon War and the Camp David agreement, it expresses the Israeli longing for peace. In the chorus, Broza sings, Y'hiyeh tov--everything will be all right--yes, it will--though sometimes I feel broken. So tonight, just tonight, won't you stay with me?

Everyone in attendance knew the words, and not a few tears were shed.

Shabbat shalom to all.

Jerusalem Pride

After a relaxing afternoon at the beach in Tel Aviv with the kids yesterday, today we had an active time out in Jerusalem.

We began with a trip to the Museum on the Seam, a cutting edge gallery on the border between Jewish West Jerusalem and Arab East Jerusalem. Their mission is to exhibit art that generates conversation and contemplation about the roots of conflict, and promotes peace.

We arrived there after walking through the Christian and Moslem quarters of the Old City. We strolled along the Via Dolorosa, past the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and then squeezed through the very crowded alley ways of the shuk (market) to the Damascus Gate. We stopped several times for water and fresh-squeezed orange juice, as it was almost one hundred degrees outside, and the sun was blazing.

The museum's current exhibit is called Man/Nature. It has a strong ecological focus, with many pieces portraying the damage that we, human beings, have caused to the wider environment. I am not much of a fan of either abstract or political art, so it was not exactly my cup of tea. Nonetheless, there were some thoughtful and beautiful pieces, and the museum itself is an architectural gem.

After a leisurely lunch at an Arab restaurant in East Jerusalem, we took a cab back to our apartment, sitting in traffic for almost an hour. As it turned out, most of our corner of the city was barricaded off for Jerusalem's Gay Pride parade.

So when we finally made it home, I hopped on my bike and rode over to check out the festivities. I am very proud of the fact that my synagogue, Congregation Ahavath Beth Israel, has always been well-represented in Boise's annual Pride parade, so I was curious to see who would be here in Jerusalem. Of course, the event is quite controversial in this holy city. While hip and secular Tel Aviv's Gay Pride parade attracts tens of thousands, without incident, here in the holy city of Jerusalem, with its large ultra-Orthodox population, protests abound. In fact, a recent poll showed that only 25% of local residents support this parade. This can't be an easy place to be gay. While openly gay and lesbian citizens do serve in the army here (which is mandatory for everyone except, ironically, the same ultra-Orthodox who are so anti-gay), in most ways, Israel lags way behind America on this issue. And Jerusalem lags way behind the rest of Israel--though, I hasten to add, it is light years ahead of all of its neighboring Islamic Arab states, where gays and lesbians are still frequently thrown in jail for their sexual orientation.

None of this is surprising; there are always protesters at Boise's Pride parade, too. The part that is so striking to me is that, because this is Israel, here the protesters (as well as the demonstrators) are all Jews. As an American, I am accustomed to Jews being on the liberal side, marching in the parade, with the anti-gay protesters coming from the Christian right. But here the protesters are all from the Jewish right--the same ultra-Orthodox fanatics who are also protesting the opening of a parking lot on Shabbat here in Jerusalem. Indeed, a few years ago, three participants in the Pride parade were stabbed by ultra-Orthodox Jews, who apparently take their understanding of Torah as opposing homosexuality much more seriously than that "minor" commandment, Do not murder.

At any rate, I enjoyed being a part of this historic parade, which also marked the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall resistance that began the modern gay rights movement. Here are a few observations from the experience:

1. Not surprisingly, there was a high percentage of English speakers. Even the Israelis here are clearly inspired by the American gay rights movement.

2. The crowd was predominantly young--with many heterosexuals participating. I have always believed that the end result of the battle for gay rights is already determined, in favor of full equality. It is just a matter of time. This is a hot button issue for people over forty. For younger people, it is a non-issue. It is now pretty much OK to be gay in high school--not just in San Francisco, but in Boise, Idaho. I was buoyed to see the turnout of young gay Jews here in Jerusalem--and their straight supporters.

3. The dress for the occasion was rather subdued: very few glittery costumes or drag queens. Apparently, there is a lot more flamboyance at the Tel Aviv pride event. But that's the difference between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv on all matters, not just sexuality. Tel Aviv is boisterous, exuberant, proudly secular. Jerusalem is somber, intense, and sacred.

4. Sadly, I saw very few religious people at the event. In America, many religious organizations march at Pride events--liberal synagogues as well as most of the mainstream Protestant churches, with a coterie of Buddhists, New Agers, etc. Here, the crowd was overwhelmingly secular. This, too, is not surprising, given the nature of religious life in Israel: people tend to be either Orthodox or secular, with not much in between. But there was one exception: a large contingent from Jerusalem's small but significant Reform community, marching together in solidarity. I was very proud of my Reform brothers and sisters here. In Israel, as in America, we are in the vanguard when it comes to supporting gay rights--as a religious expression of our Jewish values. Indeed, I heard many within that contingent wishing one another "Chag Sameach," thus applying the traditional holiday greeting for Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot to this new holiday, Gay Pride Day.

5. Given the size of the crowd and the limited space of the venue, I would have expected a lot of aggressive pushing and shoving. That didn't happen. So I'd have to say, based on one very short experience, gay and lesbian Israelis and their supporters seem to be significantly more polite than a random Israeli crowd--at least when they are celebrating justice together.

6. There were lots of flags, balloons, posters and tee-shirts, with some very clever and inspiring messages. See my pictures, above, for a sample. Here's a translation of the words on the tee-shirts and posters: Jerusalem is also mine! And Education for Change And my personal favorite, on the red shirt: Blessed is the One who made me as I am, which is a play on the traditional Orthodox formulation of the morning blessings in which men thank God for making them men and women thank God for making them "according to his will."

Shabbat shalom to all! And happy birthday to Rosa, who is 15 today (see her Facebook page for her own picture with drag queens at Boise's Pride Parade last weekend)