Who by fire and who by water

The prayer which, more than any other, evokes the tenor—and terror—of these High Holy Days is the medieval poem known as U’netaneh Tokef. Traditionally attributed to Rabbi Amnon of Mayence, it proclaims the awesome power of this season, in which God, as Judge and Arbiter, opens the book of our days and decrees our destinies: “Who shall live and who shall die, who by fire and who by water, who by strangling and who by stoning. . . who shall be secure, and who shall be driven. . .” The language moves us by its ferocity; this is our tradition’s version of fire and brimstone.

And then comes the kicker: “U-teshuvah, u’tefillah, u’tzedakah ma-avirin et ro-ah ha-g’zerah—But repentance, prayer and charity temper the severity of the decree.”

What does this mean? Surely Rabbi Amnon, a pious sage who died a martyr, knew that none of these things change the reality of the decree one iota. We will all suffer, and we will all die, no matter how much we repent, pray, and give tzedakah. Indeed, some who do these things in abundance will suffer greatly and die young, while others who are unrepentant, misanthropic, and wouldn’t set foot in a synagogue may nonetheless live long lives in relative comfort.

But as Rabbi Lawrence Kushner notes, while the choices that we make cannot change the decree of death and suffering, they can lessen their sting. As he puts it, “Repentance, prayer and donating do not change the facts of life – our disbursement of blessings and curses will continue to bear little relation to our moral virtue, whether or not we pray, repent, or donate. But a heart habitually opened by repentance, prayer, and donating will cross through life’s inescapable misfortunes somewhat more gently. Our road will still be bumpy, but we’ll have better shock absorbers.”

These Days of Awe remind us how fragile we are, how much of life will always be out of our control. Yet even in the worst of circumstances, we retain the power to choose how we react to our lot. May this season help us to better respond to adversity with reflection, spiritual strength, and giving hearts.

For a powerful contemporary Israeli musical setting of this classic piece, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-0o72al-As
 
Questions to consider:
1. This fall, we will examine this prayer in more detail during our Yom Kippur study session. For now, reflect on the relationship between our circumstances and the choices that we make.
2. What do you make of the metaphor of God as Judge and Arbiter? Does this fit with your ideas/experiences of the Divine? What message might it impart in this season?
3. After noting that God opens the book of our days and decrees our fate, the text also says that this book “bears the signature of every human being.”
Given that this is a signature, we, not God, are doing the writing. What does this imply?

When we stand before the open ark and recite Avinu Malkeinu on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we may experience high drama. This is one of the most ancient prayers of the high holy day liturgy. A talmudic legend attributes the refrain—Our Source, Our Sovereign. . . have mercy on us—to Rabbi Akiba, who offered it as a plea for rain in time of drought (Taanit 25b). Over the years, many verses have accumulated; the exact number and wording differs according to the rite and locale (German Ashkenazi, Polish, Italian, Sephardi, etc.)

Why has Avinu Malkeinu become such an important part of the Days of Awe, and what does it suggest about our relationship with the Divine? While the first word, Avinu, is often translated as “our Father,” the root, av can also mean source or foundation (as in avot melachah, the sources of what defines “work” on Shabbat). This meaning is implicit in the very nature of the term av, which is literally the first word in the Hebrew language (the first letter, aleph, followed by the second, bet). So when we refer to God as Avinu, we recognize the Holy One as our founder, our source, the stuff from which all of life is, as it were, made. By contrast, when we call God Malkeinu, our Sovereign, we point to a transcendent, awe-inspiring Other, beyond ourselves. When we recite Avinu Malkeinu, then, we paradoxically praise the Divine who is both within and beyond us, an intimate loving source of parental comfort and nurture, and a commanding external call to ethics and observance.

Each of us experiences the sacred differently. For some, holiness comes primarily through intimacy, through the still, small voice that whispers within us, and the ties that bind us to the people, creatures, and places that we love. Others find holiness in moments of fear and trembling, when we feel our cosmic insignificance against the backdrop of the vastness of God’s universe. Avinu Malkeinu affirms both of approaches to the divine. God is both wholly Other—and entirely present within us. During these Days of Awe, may we each find the Divine Presence when and where we need Her.

As we begin the new month of Elul, and with it our preparations for the fall holy days, think about where and when you most experience God/holiness. Then consider: how might that experience of the sacred inspire you to make teshuvah, to become a better person in the coming year?

To hear a contemporary jam-band rendition of Avinu Malkeinu by Phish, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xP0UF_r3dkY&feature=related
and skip to around the 4:00 minute mark.

Preparing for the Days of Awe (part 1)

Who Wrote the Book of Life?

There are quite a few significant prayers and piyyutim (liturgical poems) created in their entirety for the Days of Awe. Future columns in this series will focus on several of these: Avinu Malkeinu, Unetaneh Tokef ("who shall live and who shall die”), the Yom Kippur confession of sin, Rosh Hashanah shofar service, and Kol Nidre.

Yet most of the High Holy Day liturgy is comprised of the same prayers that we recite regularly, on Shabbat and weekdays. What, then, makes these familiar liturgical pieces unique for the season? Two things: a) special musical settings; b) short insertions and substitutions emphasizing God's sovereignty, a theme of these Days of Awe. Dan Stern will offer a guest column here about the former; I would like to share a few thoughts on the latter.

The best known of these High Holy Day additions is inserted into Avot and Imahot, the opening of the Amidah, which recognizes God as the sustainer and support of our patriarchs and matriarchs. During this season, we interrupt our flowing words of praise with a plea: "Zochreinu l'chayyim, melech chafetz ba-chayyim, v'chotveinu b'sefer ha-chayyim l'ma-anchah Elohim chayyim--Remember us for life, O Sovereign who delights in life, and inscribe us in your Book of Life, for Your sake, O God of life." [for a great musical setting of Zochreinu, look here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2I3G1UkQnEI&feature=youtube_gdata_player
What are the origins of this passage, and what might it teach us?

The theme is derived from a statement in the Talmud suggesting that between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, God judges each of us, writing the righteous into the Book of Life, and the wicked into a corresponding Book of Death. Our version of the teaching here emphasizes God's--and our--strong yearning and predilection for life: we pray to a "God of life" who "delights in life" and in so doing, offer our own affirmation of life's essential blessing.

Still, the image is challenging, even as a metaphor (surely there are no real, literal books here). Experience teaches that there is little--or no--connection between our morality and our mortality. In the coming year, many good people will die and bad people will not only live but prosper. What, then, does this image of the books offer us?

I find that this metaphor calls us to a spiritual accounting, to acknowledge and take responsibility for our choices. As Gates of Repentance puts it: "Every word, every act inscribes itself in the book of life. Freely we choose, and what we have chosen to become stands in judgment over what we may yet hope to be." Or, in the words of the great medieval Jewish philosopher, Bachya ibn Pakuda, "Days are scrolls: write on them what you want to be remembered."

As we approach our most sacred season, may we use our days to bring healing, increase blessing, seek forgiveness, work for justice, and deepen our Jewish connections within ourselves and with our community.

Questions to consider:

1. What have you done this year to write yourself into the Book of Life? What deeds and choices are you most proud of?

2. What choices did you make that were not life-affirming, for you and/or for others? How can you change course in these matters over the coming weeks?

3. How, during the frenetic pace of our daily lives, can we step back and reflect on the notion that our days are scrolls and what we write in them--at every moment and with every act--is of utmost significance?

Managing Anger (Portion Chukat)

This week’s Torah portion, Chukat, continues a theme that runs through the entire book of Numbers: discontent and rebellion. Once again, weary of their desert wanderings, the people complain and quarrel with their leaders. They repeat their whiny wilderness refrain: “Why did you bring us out of Egypt into this wretched place?” This time—pushed past even his generous limits of patience—Moses explodes in anger. After God asks him to verbally command a rock to miraculously produce water for the thirsty mob, Moses instead strikes the rock with his rod, two times, and proclaims, “Listen rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” [Numbers 20:19] This outburst of rage carries a steep cost, as God then punishes Moses severely, announcing that he will die before the Israelites enter the Promised Land.

The harshness of this sentence, which seems disproportionate for a single temper tantrum [and even that only after years of ingratitude and abuse at the hands of those he is asked to lead], prompts a great deal of commentary. Most commentators suggest that Moses’ sin lies in striking the rock not one but two times. In other words, it is natural and reasonable to get angry; the problem is Moses’ failure to control his temper after expressing his initial surge of anger with the first strike.

In his book, A Code of Jewish Ethics, Rabbi Joseph Telushkin points to three paths toward anger management: humility, compassion, and charity. Humility reminds us that rage is often motivated by narcissism: we tend to get angry when we do not get our way. Compassion can generate empathy for those who provoke us and, in the process, diminish our ire toward them. As Rabbi Telushkin notes, “Pity and rage do not go together. You cannot be angry at someone for whom you feel sorry.” Finally, as the late medieval Jewish ethical treatise Reishit Chochmah suggests, “If you are trying to achieve greater control over your anger, you should decide on a sum of money that you will give to charity if you lose your temper unfairly.”

There are, of course, countless other techniques for angry management, from meditation and “time outs” to physical exercise and stress relief. Our challenge is to identify those that work best for us and to use them consistently. It all begins with self-awareness, with knowing our emotional state and then learning to manage it. While it is no sin to feel and express anger, uncontrolled wrath is a terribly destructive state. This week, try to be extra aware of when you feel anger, and diligent in managing it.

Note: I will not be doing this e-Torah column during the month of July. But of course the Torah does not stop during this time. I encourage you to continue reading and learning. For starters, check out “Ten Minutes of Torah” from the Union for Reform Judaism at www.urj.org

Like a Rolling Stone (Idaho Statesman Column June 2011)

Last month marked the seventieth birthday of my favorite contemporary Jewish poet, prophet, and iconoclast—Bob Dylan. In honor of that occasion, Rolling Stone published a lengthy piece ranking Dylan’s seventy greatest songs. It is no surprise that “Like a Rolling Stone” tops the list; many music-lovers consider it the most powerful rock song ever recorded.

On the surface, “Like a Rolling Stone” is an acerbic put-down, delivered (with the classic Dylan sneer) to a high society hipster ex-girlfriend, an unsympathetic rock critic, and/or the legions of embittered folk fans who booed when Dylan “went electric.” However, on a deeper level, the song addresses a central theme drawn from Jewish tradition: the wilderness experience.

During these summer months, Jews around the world read from the book of Numbers, which is known in Hebrew as Bamidbar, or “In the Wilderness.” The text recounts how, for forty years, we wandered, without a map, cut off from our Egyptian past, yearning for the distant and elusive Promised Land. That journey—physical and spiritual—shaped us as a people and, in significant ways, still defines us today. And no one captures its emotional resonance better than Bob Dylan, when he asks: “How does it feel. . . to be on your own, with no direction home, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?”

Talmud asks: “Why was Torah given in a wilderness?” and then answers, with a psychological and spiritual lesson, gleaned from the wilderness experience: Those who wish to learn Torah should emulate the terrain where it was given, by making themselves open and ownerless. To which Rabbi Lawrence Kushner adds: “In the wilderness, your possessions cannot surround you. Your preconceptions cannot protect you. Your logic cannot promise you the future. Your guilt can no longer place you safely in the past. You are left alone each day with an immediacy that astonishes, chasten, and exalts. You see the world as if for the first time.” Perhaps this kind of openness is the prerequisite for all real learning and personal growth. If we wish to move forward, it is important to break free of our hardened assumptions and let the world act upon us in new ways.

In the Hasidic tradition, this path of wilderness as a way of life is called bittul yesh—the dissolution of the ego. The premise is simple: in order to experience the sacred, we must get our selves, our egos, out of the way so that there can be room for God. As Dov Baer of Mezrich said: “The work of the pious is greater than the creation of the heavens and the earth. For while the creation of the heavens and the earth was making something from Nothing, the pious transform something back into Nothing.”

In other words, we experience the Holy One by stripping away ourselves.

Or, as Reb Dylan taught in his own inimitable fashion: “When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.”

Fighting Fair (Portion Korach)

Disagreement is an inevitable part of all significant relationships. Even the closest partners and most harmonious organizations include their share of disputes. Indeed, as Doris Kearns Goodwin points out in her book on Abraham Lincoln and his cabinet, Team of Rivals, extraordinary leadership entails seeking out cohorts with conflicting opinions, personalities, and ideologies. Healthy debate is essential to personal growth.

So what distinguishes this sort of productive dialogue from destructive quarreling? The Talmud offers an important insight on this matter. In its compendium of ethical wisdom, Pirkei Avot, it teaches: “Every controversy that is in the Name of Heaven shall in the end lead to a permanent result, but every controversy that is not in the Name of Heaven shall not lead to a permanent result. What is a controversy that was in the Name of Heaven? The one between Hillel and Shammai. And what is a controversy that is not in the Name of Heaven? The one involving Korach and all his company.

In order to understand this Talmudic wisdom, one must be familiar with this week’s Torah portion, Korach, which describes the paradigm for destructive disputes. In it, Korach leads a bitter rebellion against his cousin, Moses. The opening words of story are both elliptical and illuminating: “Va-yikach Korach—Korach took. . .” because the Torah does not go on to tell us anything in particular that Korach took! Many of the commentators point out that this is precisely the point: Korach takes everything, and gives nothing. He is, in short, motivated by the narcissistic pursuit of power. He claims to be a defender of the community, but in reality, his arguments with Moses are only about pressing his own advantage.

This stands in stark contrast with the debates between the two great rabbis, Hillel and Shammai, and their disciples. They embody our tradition of “sacred argument” in which questioning, challenging, and testing one another move us forward. Their disagreements are conducted with a sense of mutual respect and admiration—and therefore, “each are the words of the living God.”

We cannot avoid disputes but we can learn to “fight fair.” Our challenge is to stay focused on the issue at hand, rather than personally attacking those with whom we disagree, avoiding character assassination and old grudges, and guarding against self-righteousness. When we disagree within these parameters, we follow Jewish heroes Hillel and Shammai, whose teachings—and relationship—have endured for centuries, rather than the lamentable Korach and his band.

This week, consider: How do I conduct my disagreements, especially with those who are closest to me? How can we be more like Hillel and Shammai and less like Korach?

Killing the Ego (Portion B'ha-alotechah)

From the time of his birth, at the beginning of the book of Exodus, until his death at the end of Deuteronomy, Moses is the Torah’s pre-eminent character. His relationship with both God and the people of Israel, throughout his forty years of leadership, is unparalleled. Thus he is known as Moshe Rabbeynu, Moses, our Teacher. Torah tells us that his prophetic wisdom and vision will never be equaled.

What was the source of Moses’ greatness? Of all his many virtues, this week’s portion, B’ha-alotecha, suggests that the most important is his humility. Thus the text teaches: “Moses was the most humble man on earth.” (Numbers 12:3)

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner comments on the connection between Moses’ extraordinary humility and his spiritual mastery. In his book, I’m God, You’re Not, Rabbi Kushner notes: “The goal of spiritual life is to get your ego out of the way—outwit the sucker; dissolve it; shoot it; kill it. Silence the incessant planning, organizing, running, manipulating, possessing, and processing that are the ineluctable redoubts of the ego. Not because these activities are bad or wrong or even narcissistic. . . but because they preclude an awareness of the Divine. To paraphrase the Talmud, God says, ‘There ain’t enough room in this here world for your ego and Me. You pick.’”

In other words, humility is at the heart of Moses’ greatness because it is a pre-requisite for all true wisdom. When we become too full of ourselves, we shut ourselves off from God and knowledge and deep reciprocal relationships [which may, in the end, all be synonymous]. Only when we learn to let go of our need to be in-the-know, judgmental, and “right” can we grow as people and as Jews.

Two hundred years ago, the English poet John Keats expressed this same notion in his theory of “negative capability”, which he described as “when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” Keats points to Shakespeare and Coleridge as masters of this art, but we, as Jews, might look back farther, to Moses, as our guide.

This week consider: how can you better live with—and listen to—those around you with this sort of true humility? How might we diminish our egos and thereby make more room for God and our loved ones?