Portion Naso (The Source of Blessing)

What kind of things do we, as Jews, bless? A typical first response might include: various foods, candles, holy days, and actions that involve the fulfillment of a mitzvah (all of the asher kidshanu b’mitzvotahv. . . blessings). Yet in truth, we do not bless any of these things. When we say, “HaMotzi,” we are not blessing the bread that we eat. When we light candles on Friday night, we do not bless the candles, or even the Shabbat day itself. And when we perform mitzvot, such as counting the omer, we do not sanctify the act in which we are about to engage. The subject of all of our brachot, and thus the only thing that we ever bless—with one prominent exception—is God. This is why we always begin “Baruch Atah Adonai—Praised are You, O God. . .” We bless OVER candles or wine or holy days or various mitzvot, but they are simply the vessels for, rather than the objects of, the blessing. In other words, we use these things as an opportunity to express our gratitude to the One who created them (and us).

The one exception to this general rule comes from this week’s Torah portion, Naso. In it, God offers the words that Aaron and the priests will use to bless the entire people of Israel: “May God bless you and keep you. May God’s face shine upon you and may God be gracious to you. May God’s face be raised up to you, and may God give you peace.” Today, we use these same words to bless our sons and daughter on Friday nights.

So the only thing that we Jews bless, other than God, is our children. Significantly, even here, we are more the vehicles of blessing than its source. In the words of the text from Naso, we are essentially asking that God be with our sons and daughters; we parents are merely the intermediaries in the process.

Earlier, in Genesis, God says to Abraham—and by extension to us, his descendants—“Be a blessing.” This is our true Jewish calling. While others may focus on blessing things in space and time, we strive to embody blessing with our lives. We ask this for our children, and we ask it of ourselves.

This week consider: how can you be a blessing in the lives of those you encounter at home, at work, and in the world?

The Blessing and the Curse (Bechukotai)

“If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments, I will grant you rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. . .” (Lev. 26:3)

The last Torah portion in the book of Leviticus, Bechukotai, opens with God’s conditional promise that if we follow God’s mitzvot, we will reap abundant reward. After a description of the bounty God bestows upon the righteous, the portion then turns to the punishments that will afflict those who fail to heed God’s words: “If you do not obey Me, I will go on to discipline you sevenfold for your sins, and I will break your proud glory. . . Your land shall not yield its produce, nor shall the trees of the land yield their food. . .” (Lev 26:18-20). The catalog of curses in this list far exceeds the aforementioned blessings, in both number and intensity; it even speaks of parents forced to eat the flesh of their own offspring.

What do we make of this theology of reward and punishment, of a God who governs the nations by dealing out to everyone their just desserts? There are a couple things to note before dismissing this perspective outright. First, throughout the portion, the Torah is speaking of the nation as a whole rather than at the level of individuals. There is no promise that if I lead a moral life, I will be blessed with health and prosperity. Responsibility is collective here: if the society as a whole is just, it will prosper, and if it is oppressive it will not stand—but within that society, certain virtuous men and women may still suffer, and others, who are malevolent, may thrive nonetheless. Furthermore, this doctrine of reward and punishment only works in one direction. By way of analogy: addition follows the commutative principle (A+B = B+A) while subtraction does not. So, too, with the connection between morality and fate. Even if one accepts the notion that good is rewarded and wrong-doing is punished, that does not mean that any time one sees a person who is suffering, it follows that that sufferer is being punished for wrong-doing.
This is the failing of Job’s friends, who assume that Job must have committed a sin to incur God’s wrath.

Still, even with these caveats, many of us—I include myself here—find it difficult to accept a theology of Divine reward and punishment, even on the national level. After the Shoah, this is a tough pill to swallow. I believe that no matter how much we wish it were otherwise, sometimes the world is just not fair.

And yet I still find wisdom in this week’s portion, because on an important level, environmentally-speaking, it communicates a core truth. We now know that the land and the weather do respond to our communal moral choices. This may not be the simple algebra of reward and punishment meted out by a supernatural God, but it is the way of the world. When we act responsibly, we are more likely to continue to enjoy the blessings of land and air and water. When we abuse our power over the rest of God’s creation, we are likely to incur environmental degradation, with sometimes-dire consequences.

Collectively-speaking, good behavior does indeed offer benefits and irresponsibility surely carries a steep cost.

This week, try to be extra-conscience about the way that you and your household live on the earth. What actions of yours constitute a blessing? A curse?

Music as Holy Heresy (a sermon for Boise Music week)

In the Beginning—Music as Holy Heresy (A sermon for Boise Music Week)

Back in high school, my friends and I spent almost all of our free time and money buying, playing, listening to, and talking about music. Our heroes were Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, the Clash, and The Who. And our favorite topic, over which we argued incessantly, was the “desert island” question: if you were marooned indefinitely with just one album, which would you choose? Born to Run? Who’s Next? After the Goldrush? Did you go with the indie snob appeal of some esoteric bootleg concert? Or my personal favorite, Bob Dylan’s 1975 masterpiece, Blood on the Tracks?

Growing up as the rabbi’s son, I was expected to be a good Jewish boy—and, on occasion, I obliged. But my real religion was music. I have now been a rabbi myself for nearly a quarter of a century—yet in significant ways, not all that much has changed. Music is still the heart and soul of my spiritual life.

Along the way, I happened upon a biblically-inspired version of that old desert island disc dilemma. It seems particularly appropriate in this season, just a week after the Passover festival marking our liberation from Egyptian bondage. Here’s the scenario: You are cast into the wilderness, on extremely short notice, for a long and arduous journey. The luggage requirement is even more stringent than that imposed by today’s airlines; you are limited to what you can carry out on your back. After packing a minimal supply of food, water, and clothing, you have room for just one personal item. What do you bring?

The answer—at least for the Israelite women—is: drums and tambourines! We know this because after we pass through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam and the women dance and sing, driven by the celebratory beat of their timbrels. How extraordinary: we leave Egypt in such urgent haste, we do not even have time to let our bread rise, yet the women have the wherewithal to pack the percussion section!

Thus Torah reminds us that music is not a luxury; it is, instead, a staple that is for many of us as indispensible to the life of the spirit as food, water, and shelter are to the body. Indeed, I would like to suggest that music is as essential to human life as language, and may even take priority over words. Evolutionary psychologists, linguists and musicologists argue over which came first in human development: speech or song. While this debate rages on, I would like to make the case, tonight, for the primacy of music, both in general culture and, in particular, in the realm of religious life. Since I’m a rabbi rather than a scientist, my evidence is largely anecdotal.

Consider, then, the art of my aforementioned favorite musician, Bob Dylan. I am a die-hard Dylanologist, yet even I cannot make out a significant percentage of his nasal-inflected, half-mumbled lyrics. And even when I can decipher the individual words, the meaning of Dylan’s phrases can be elusive at best. But I don’t care. The hypnotic, incantatory power of the music renders these matters trivial.
This experience always strikes me as utterly familiar, because much the same thing happens every week in my synagogue. Our service is mostly sung, in Hebrew, which hardly anyone in the community really understands. That doesn’t matter, for the potency of the prayers does not lie in the rational meaning of the words. Whether it be a psychedelic Dylan song, an ageless Hebrew chant, or, for that matter, a Verdi opera, the music is the thing.

For another example, I turn to the story of Yigdal, the medieval hymn that marks the conclusion of nearly every synagogue’s festival services. Yigdal is sung throughout the Jewish world—yet few know its history, which is fascinating. For centuries, rabbinic authorities tried to insert a standardized creed into the prayer book, based on Moses Maimonides’ Thirteen Articles of Faith. Maimonides was the greatest Jewish scholar who ever lived—yet time after time, the rabbis’ efforts to canonize his words failed miserably. The people in the pews simply refused to recite these principles; we Jews tend to be strong-willed and opinionated, unwilling to accept any creed, even that of our most revered sage, as the last word on anything. Then, in 1404, a poet named Daniel ben Judah Dayyan had a brilliant idea. He translated Maimonides’ creed into rhymed metric verse, and it was soon set to music as Yigdal.
As a hymn, it secured, at last, the beloved place in the prayer book that it could not gain as prose. The lesson is clear: if you want people to recite words that they don’t necessarily believe, or want to recite, be sure to arrange them to a catchy tune.

My final case for the primacy of music comes from the simple observation that unlike language, it is omnipresent. While speech is limited to human beings, and perhaps a few of the higher mammals like chimps, whales and dolphins, music fills the natural world. Creation’s song is unceasing, a vast chorus of chirping insects, singing birds, rustling leaves, raging rivers, thunder and wind and rain, and so much more. The great Hasidic Rabbi Nachman of Breslov would pray: “Master of the Universe, may it be my custom to go outdoors each day, where every tree and blade of grass chants to its Creator.” And the Psalmist proclaimed in wonder: “The heavens sing of God’s glory.” Fumblingly, we give language to the world; with utmost grace, the world gives its eternal song to us.

Of course, some would argue with me here; the defenders of language might begin with the story of the creation itself. In the Genesis text, God speaks much of the world into existence with the word “va-y’hi”—“Let there be”. . . light and firmament and dry land and flora and fauna and, of course, us. Christian Scripture declares: “In the beginning was the Word” and rabbinic tradition similarly suggests that in creating the world, God followed the pre-existing words of Torah as a blueprint.

But when we Jews listen to the creation story each fall in synagogue, as part of our annual cycle of Torah readings, we do not hear “And God said, ‘Let there be light’” [spoken] but “Va-yomer Elohim y’hi or, va-y’hi or” [chanted with trope]. We experience the words as music, chanted according to notation established by the Masoretes in northern Israel over a thousand years ago. Furthermore, a close look at the text itself echoes the suggestion that music precedes language. Genesis does not open with a blank slate. Before God says “let there be” anything, the raw material of creation is already at hand: wild and waste, and the dark-shrouded deep. “V’ruach Elohim m’rachefet al p’nai ha-mayyim—the rushing spirit of God moved over the face of the water.” In other words, the world begins with water and wind—and when water and wind are moved by God, how, amidst that great rushing spirit, could there fail to be music? As Pete Townsend of The Who observed and sang: “There once was note, pure and easy, playing so free as a breath rippling by. The note is eternal, I hear it, it seems me, forever we blend and forever we die.” In the beginning, was music, primal and omnipresent, humming through the unimaginable vastness of the universe into our waiting heads and hearts.

But music’s primacy is not only temporal. In his extraordinary book, This is Your Brain on Music, evolutionary neuroscientist—and former rock and roll player and producer—Dr. Daniel Levitan notes that more than any other mental activity, making and listening to music involves every region of our brains. Recent research with functional MRIs demonstrates that while language is generated almost exclusively in the cerebral cortex, music lights up everything from the centers for abstract learning and mathematics to the primal lizard brain. Unlike almost anything else that we engage in, music defies compartmentalization. I believe that this is the key to its potency. We love music precisely because of its unique capacity to cross, confuse, and ultimately confound all boundaries. As the much-revered folk singer Pete Seeger reminds us, “Music leaps over barriers of language, religion, and politics.”

This is its power, too, for people of faith. We experience it this evening in the strength that surges through all of the magnificent performances we are blessed to hear. “Church Night” is part of something bigger, as is the whole of Boise’s venerable Music Week celebration. For in the end, music also transcends the artificial boundaries that we draw between sacred and secular. That is why we have so many classic Christmas songs composed by Jews—and Jewish liturgical music set to Christian Bach cantatas. It is why you can be deeply religious and still love secular show tunes, or avidly atheistic yet thrill to the passionate energy of a gospel choir. Does it matter that the high hymn of American civil religion, “The Star Spangled Banner”, is set to an English drinking song? Or consider: when Ira Gershwin wrote the lyrics for “Our Love is Here to Stay” just one month after the death of its composer, his beloved brother George—what kind of love, exactly, did he have in mind? Is the song a pledge offered by a romantic young man to his lover? Does it represent Ira’s love and loss-filled lament for George? Or is it something else entirely? The chorus declares: “In time the Rockies may tumble, Gibraltar may crumble, they’re only made of clay. But our love is here to stay.” Recently, a colleague pointed out to me that these words are remarkably similar—perhaps not coincidentally—to a passage from the book of Isaiah: “For the mountains may move, and the hills be shaken, but My love shall never depart from you.” Was Ira Gershwin nodding to Scripture or unknowingly composing a sacred song?
Or is “Our Love is Here to Stay” all of the above, and even more: romantic and fraternal, mournful and joyous, human and divine, at the same time?

For all of these reasons, and countless others, music is infused with holiness, with the power to rescue us, body and soul. During one of the darkest periods of my life, I took solace in the daily routine of my silent morning prayers—and in raucously playing my harmonica at a weekly Sunday night blues jam. I found comfort in the Psalms, that holy poetry legendarily written on and accompanied by King David’s harp—and in the wisdom of my teacher and therapist, Bruce Springsteen. When I was at my lowest, I would crank up The Boss singing “Lonesome Day”, with its elegiac verses, echoing my own sadness, overcome in the end by the irresistible triumphant chorus: “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.” That music saved me.

And I am not alone. For some of us, salvation comes through John Coltrane’s haunting wails of “A Love Supreme.” For others, it arrives via Bach or Beethoven. The vessel can be the muezzin’s call, a Buddhist chant, or a Hindu raga, Yigdal or Ave Maria or “Amazing Grace.” It is the coal miner’s daughter, Loretta Lynn, and Luciano Pavarotti, the gospel chorus and the Motown band, rock and rap and R&B, Don Giovanni and “Tangled Up in Blue.” It is sacred or secular—no, it is sacred and secular—and it is a priceless divine gift whether or not we believe in God. It has been here since before the beginning, and ever will it be.

Which brings me back to Miriam and the women on the shore of the Sea of Reeds. Why, of all things, did they pack their timbrels? Because, in their wisdom, they knew that as much as food and water, the journey that lay ahead would demand the kind of courage best-mustered through the power of song.

During the civil rights movement of the 1960s, African-American demonstrators risked their lives in the deep south, facing down brutal white supremacists with remarkable courage. When asked about the source of such bravery, Bernice Johnson Reagon, daughter of a Baptist minister and founder of the a cappella group “Sweet Honey in the Rock” pointed to the music. She says that singing the songs of the black church conferred upon the people a collective conjured strength. The music created a kind of protective barrier between the demonstrators and the police, allowing the marchers to move beyond their fear. As Ms. Reagon describes it: “Those songs do something to the material that you’re made of. The singing connects you with a force in the universe that makes you different. You become part of a community. And then they can’t get to you.”

As I imagine the scene at the Sea of Reeds, that’s much the way it was with my biblical foremothers. As the Egyptian army bore down upon them, they must have been seized by doubt and fear—until Miriam took up her timbrel and began to play and dance and sing. Then, with the rest of the women fortified by the contagious courage of her song, the music rose in a mighty crescendo, parting the waters and paving the way to freedom—even as it does, still, today.

So let us end with their song, which is comprised of just six Hebrew words.
I invite you now to sing it with me:
Ozi v’zimrat Yah, va-y’hi li l’yeshua—
God is my strength and my song and has become my liberation.

Amen.

Always Fresh

While most of this week’s Torah portion, Emor, deals with the cycle of holy days, a section at the end deals with the subject that dominates the book of Leviticus: priestly offerings. Thus the text teaches: “You shall take choice flour and bake it into twelve loaves . . . Place them on a pure table before the Eternal One in two rows, six to a row.” These loaves—one for each of the twelve tribes—were known as lechem panim, often translated as “shewbread” since they were baked for display rather than eating.

Unlike many of the offerings, which were repeated daily, these loaves were replaced just once a week. With this in mind, the Talmud notes: “A great miracle was performed with the shewbread, for when it was removed it was as fresh as it had been when it was set out" (Menachot 29a). To which Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the 19th century founder of modern Orthodoxy, adds: “These Talmudic words are not to be taken literally. They convey the idea that the sanctuary was immune from the boredom and habit that afflict many religious institutions. Rituals did not grow stale or obsolete there.”

The commentary here points to a classic tension in Jewish tradition, between keva—that which is fixed and traditional, in text and ritual—and kavvanah, which is the spirit of spontaneity and focused intention. Much of Judaism is about following standardized practices; the challenge is to do so while still maintaining vitality.

Of course this is true in many, many areas of our lives: our jobs, our parenting, our relationships. We are, in significant ways, creatures of routine—and we need the order and stability that our set routines bring. Who would want a life with no anchors, with no set patterns? At the same time, we must take care to avoid falling into ruts, where we simply go through the motions with no real passion or intensity. We need both: the fixed and the fresh, keva and kavvanah.

And both are embodied in this season of spring. It is a time of renewal, of spontaneity and joy. Yet part of that joy comes from understanding that spring’s rebirth is itself part of an on-going fixed cycle. We take comfort in the knowledge that spring follows winter, and that summer will follow spring.

A challenge: as you go through the week, consider which aspects of your daily schedule are routine and which are new and varied. See if you can bring a little more intention to that which is routine. How can you act more consciously in your relationships and in your Jewish life? In other words, how can you be more like the shewbread—constant and reliable, yet ever fresh and new?

Kedoshim: Letting Go of Resentment

This week’s Torah portion, Kedoshim, marks the halfway point of the Torah cycle, and it stands at the center of the text both geographically and metaphorically. The nineteenth chapter of Leviticus contains many of the best-known moral imperatives from our tradition. It commands us to strive for holiness, keep Shabbat, care for the poor, and honor the stranger in our midst. It is also the source of the famous teaching: “Love your neighbor as yourself (v’ahavta l’rayechah camochah).

The words immediately preceding that “Golden Rule” are less widely recognized but of equal importance: “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your people.” This implies that in order to love our neighbor, we must be willing to forgive their wrongdoings and not dwell on past hurts. Of course, this is much easier said than done. We tend to remember every time people hurt or slight us, much more vividly than we recall their acts of lovingkindness on our behalf. This propensity to dwell on old injuries and injustices can easily lead to an obsession with victimhood and an inability to move forward in our lives.

Recognizing this difficulty, Maimonides notes: “The desire for revenge is a very bad trait and we must do our best to relinquish it. One way is to realize that many things that prompt our wrath are vanity and emptiness and are not worth seeking revenge for.” To which the contemporary teacher and counselor Rabbi Abraham Twerski adds: “Carrying resentments is like letting someone whom you don’t like live inside your head rent-free. Why would anybody allow that?”

It is no accident that we read Kedoshim, with its injunction against grudge-bearing and vengeance, in this season of spring, in the aftermath of Pesach. The rebirth and renewal in the natural world reminds us that we, too, can start anew in our personal relationships. And the Passover festival encourages us to leave the narrow places of heart and spirit that are our Egypts, our Mitzrayim. Our journey to freedom starts with getting those destructive rent-free tenants out of our heads.

May the end of Pesach and the week to come bring blessing, reconciliation and rejuvenation to us all.

An Only Kid

At many Passover seders, the most oft-repeated line is: “When do we eat?”
There is even a movie called “When Do We Eat?” that features the fictional—and very dysfunctional—family of Ira and Peggy Stuckman. They gather to celebrate “the world’s fastest seder,” ending with a meal that is “kosher enough for Moses” (see http://whendoweeat.com/) We get the gag because we’ve all been there.

And yet, beneath the laughter there is a profound sadness. On a night defined by so many wonderful questions, this one is a travesty, even when uttered half (or more than half) jokingly. If our ancestors could wander for forty years in the desert before arriving at the Promised Land, we can surely make it a few hours before the brisket arrives. “When do we eat?” turns the extraordinary story of our people’s liberation into an obstacle standing in the way of a nosh. Pesach is all about telling that story. The meal is, essentially, incidental, just one more prop in the unparalleled pedagogical drama that is the seder.

Our sages taught: “In every generation, it is incumbent upon us to see ourselves as if we, too, went out from Egypt.” Pesach is not about remembering the distant past; it is about re-experiencing that past in the present time. It is not the story of our ancestors long ago; it is our story. Our challenge is to consider what enslaves us—anything and everything from money to technology to stale habits—and find ways to free ourselves from those burdens. The Hebrew word for Egypt, mitzrayim, means “a narrow place.” This spring festival of deliverance is the time of our own liberation, an opportunity to renew ourselves.

So this year, don’t ask, “When do we eat?” Savor the journey rather than kvetching your way to the destination. Raise other, better questions: “What can I do to change the world this year? What still enslaves me? How can I help hasten the redemption of others still in bondage?”

It’s not about the food. It’s about the freedom—and finding yourselves in the pages of the haggadah.

For more, see one of my favorite poems, by the early Israeli poet Natan Alterman, below.





The Kid of the Haggadah

There in the market place, bleating among the billy goats and nannies,
Wagging his thin little tail—as thin as my finger—
Stood the Kid—downcast, outcast, the leavings of a poor man’s house,
Put up for sale without a bell, without even a ribbon, for just a couple of cents.

Not a single soul in the market paid him any attention,
For no one knew—not even the goldsmith, the sheep-shearer—
That this lonesome little Kid would enter the Haggadah
And his tale of woe become a mighty song.

But Daddy’s face lit up,
He walked over to pat the Kid’s forehead—and bought him.
And so began one of those songs
That people will sing for all history.

The Kid licked Daddy’s hand,
Nuzzled him with his wet little nose;
And this, my brother, will make the first verse of the song:
An only Kid, an only Kid, my father bought for two zuzim.
It was a spring day, and the breezes danced;
Young girls winked and giggled, flashed their eyes;
While Daddy and the Kid walked into the Haggadah
To stand there together—small nose in large hand, large hand on small nose.

To find in the Haggadah—
So full already of miracles and marvels—
A peaceful place on the last page,
Where they can hug each other and cling to the edge of the story.

And this very haggadah whispers,
“Join us. . . you’re welcome here. . . you belong,
Among my pages full of smoke and blood,
Among the great and ancient tales I tell.”

So I know the sea was not split in vain,
Deserts not crossed in vain—
If at the end of the story stand Daddy and the Kid
Looking forward and knowing their turn will come.

Elijah and the Promise of Spring

Why is this coming Shabbat different from all other Shabbats (except—sort of—one in the fall)?

For much of Jewish history, rabbis only delivered two sermons per year. One of those occasions was this Shabbat, immediately preceding Pesach, which is known as Shabbat HaGadol—the Great Sabbath. The other was Shabbat Shuvah, the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

There are some significant parallels between these two special Shabbats. Both mark seasons of unique spiritual power, with the promise of reward and liberation. Indeed, in biblical times, the new year was celebrated in this spring month of Nisan; the Rabbis later moved it to the autumn month of Tishrei with Rosh Hashanah. Thus Shabbat HaGadol and Shabbat Shuvah are, in a sense, bookends. They help us prepare to properly enter the two pivotal periods of the Jewish year.

But there are also significant differences between these two holy days and the seasons that they introduce. The Days of Awe in the fall are essentially times of judgment and introspection. We take a spiritual accounting of ourselves and stand before the True Judge. Pesach, by contrast, is about turning outward, toward the wider world. The name of this month, Nisan, means “bud.” This is a season of flowering and renewal. As Rabbi Jill Hammer notes in The Jewish Book of Days: “This is a different kind of rebirth than the one at Rosh Hashanah; this is a birth that draws us out of ourselves.” In the fall, we pray for rain—which Jewish tradition always depicts as a sign of God’s favorable judgment upon our deeds. In the spring, beginning at Pesach, we thank God for dew, which is a symbol of divine mercy—for we enjoy its blessings as a gift of grace, without regard for our worthiness.

These aspects of spring’s unique promise: grace, budding, outward turning toward nature and community—are evident in the special haftarah reading for Shabbat HaGadol. At the end of this passage, from the book of Malachi, the prophet reassures us of the power of God’s love as expressed in the restoration and repair of our most precious relationships: “I will send the prophet Elijah. . . and he will turn the hearts of the parents to the children and the hearts of the children to the parents.” I love this image, with its beautiful promise of healing and hope that is so much in keeping with this spring season.

This week, as Shabbat HaGadol approaches, consider: as you prepare to welcome Elijah at seder next Monday, how can you strengthen your relationships with family, friends, and community?