The Jewish Week, May 19, 1995
It's official. The Era of Ethnicity is over. This was confirmed last week when I peeked at a supermarket circular and noticed that Dole is now putting bagel chips in its newfangled salad kits.
It was one thing when Lender's first neutralized the bagel by shrinking it, filing down the rough edges and planting it among unsuspecting shoppers in the frozen food sections of Peoria. We already knew that Lenders is to a real bagel what white bread is to seeded rye, but at least a landsman was getting rich off the idea.
But with Dole and Sara Lee in the bagel business, it is abundantly clear that the bagel has become as all-American as Spam was in the `40s, infiltrating our national diet the way chutzpah has infiltrated the American vernacular.
The bagel has become Spam, and so have we.
That's the good news, actually.
Jews are now fully integrated. We're in the clubs, on the boards and faculties, and if we had to give up exclusive rights to the bagel to fit in, so be it.The bad news is that many Jews are bemoaning the loss of Jewish ethnicity for precisely the wrong reasons, saying Kaddish over the passing of Grossinger's and Gimbels and shuddering at the theft of such colloquial staples as shmooze and kibitz by the Giulianis and D'Amatos of this world.
I must admit I shuddered the first time I heard "Hava Nagila" on the musak at K-mart, but I never considered it a crushing blow to my Jewish identity.
The next generation will have relatively little confusion about what is "Jewish" and what is not.
They will no longer have to ask the burning question of our time, "If we are Spam, who are we?" The chaff of ethnicity will be long gone.
Lenny Bruce's classic Jewish/goyish routine -- lime Jello is goyish, fruit salad is Jewish -- will be fodder for historians.
Someday we'll find that we don't need Borscht Belt humor to get good laughs, or to be neurotic or self-deprecating.There will come a time when people will watch old Mel Brooks or Billy Crystal and ask why that guy is talking funny and walking with that anguished shuffle.
Someday we won't need to act old and spit phlegm to be considered authentically Jewish, or won't have to harp on maternal guilt or shrewish princesses.
Someday the words "Jewish woman" and "fur" will not be connected in word association tests.
Already there are no bubbes. The last one retired to Sun City five years ago, took off 30 pounds at Weight Watchers and now does T.M. instead of mah-jongg and reads Bill Moyers in her spare time.
Do you get the impression that I will not mourn the end of the Ethnic Era?Actually, I'll miss a few things.I was awed by the spectacular voices of yesteryear's great cantors, even as I understood that performance Judaism would create a generation of spectators and critics rather than the comfortable daveners we need.
A good potato knish is increasingly hard to find, and the last great lokshun kugel left this earth with my grandmother.
But that's a small price to pay when we see the damage done by a culture that increasingly became all chaff and little wheat.The stereotypes of Jewish women, young and old, did more for the cause of self-hatred and intermarriage than hundreds of hours of forced labor at boot-camp Hebrew schools (another stereotype that needs to be discarded).
The image of the Jewish celebration has never quite overcome the staggering -- and truthful -- portrait of conspicuous consumption drawn by Philip Roth 30 years ago in "Goodbye Columbus."
Saddest of all is how saddened we are at this demise. Nostalgia had become the Jewish world's great growth industry.Most Jewish comedy is still mired in Catskill shtick and our gift shops are fully stocked with shlock.
There is much comfort in nostalgia, but like a swig of Classic Coke, it loses its fizzle quickly, and all you're left with are cavities. There is a deep cavity at the center of Jewish life, and all we do is mourn the passing of the peripheral.
Each great displacement of our history has brought with it the shedding of old ways.
The Jews expelled from Spain in 1492, and those who left smoldering Jerusalem in 586 BCE and 70 CE undoubtedly longed for their old villages and cities the way we ache for our destroyed shtetls and abandoned neighborhoods. After each great upheaval, it always took a century or two for nostalgia to run its course.
And when it did, an incredibly creative reshuffling of Jewish priorities took place, resulting in such masterworks as the Mishna, Shulchan Aruch and significant parts of the Bible.
That is what is beginning to happen now, right here in America.
A brand new Jewish culture is taking shape, one that will incorporate the best of what was, the eternal part, and leave the rest for museums and folklore.
It will sadden us all to see our most familiar icons go the way of all transitional culture, but in its place will arise something as authentic and moving as that which came before.
It won't be long before people will stop bemoaning the loss of the old Maxwell House Haggadah and begin paying more attention to the words inside -- the words that will never be left behind.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Did the Exodus Really Happen?
The Jewish Week
A few weeks ago, a sermon by my Conservative colleague Rabbi David Wolpe made headlines out in L.A., when he expressed his doubts that the Exodus, as described in the Torah, really happened. Read more about Wolpe's comments and the subsequent vehement response by Orthodox leaders, at the Jerusalem Post, http://www.jpost.com/Editions/2001/04/29/News/News.25248.html.
The original sermon text is not available online, but the original article from the L.A. Times is, at http://www.latimes.com/news/religion/20010413/t000031433.html.
This debate perfectly frames the difference between the Orthodox and Conservative worldviews. While one might argue that the Orthodox approach offers more consistency in regard to Jewish ritual practice, the Conservative movement prides itself in its intellectual honesty. It should be clear where I stand in this matter. I believe fundamentalism to be a great danger to both religion and to society as a whole. That is why, despite all the good things they do, I can not support the efforts of Habad-Lubavitch along with other groups espousing Jewish fundamentalism, whose theological approach I respectfully believe to be naïve and dangerously narrow. They, along with the rest of right-wing Orthodoxy, see the intellectual honesty offered by Conservative Judaism as a great threat, so they choose to de-legitimize it in various ways.
Moment Magazine recently published a highly inflammatory article by Rabbi Avi Shafran, entitled "The Conservative Lie." Read about the resulting brouhaha at Moment's web site. The original article is at http://www.momentmag.com/archive/feb01/feat2.html. Shafran re-ignites the pluralism debate, essentially framing it in the same way that Wolpe frames it: as a question of honesty. For Shafran, Conservative Judaism is dishonest because it claims fealty to Jewish Law when most Conservative Jews are not halachic. Wolpe, on the other hand, says, "I think faith ought not rest on splitting seas. For a Jew, it should rest on the wonder of God's world, the marvel of the human soul and the miracle of this small people's survival through the millennia."
Can Conservative and Orthodox Judaism find common ground? Absolutely. That ground is being paved by modern Orthodox leaders like Rabbi Yitz Greenberg and Rabbi David Hartman. They have helped us all to appreciate the value of the "other." Unfortunately, they are increasingly being pushed to the margins of Orthodox Judaism. The battle for the soul of Orthodoxy is being won by the fundamentalists, both in Israel and here in America. Which is why, personally, when I have tzedakkah dollars to offer to Jewish organizations, I make sure to donate only to those who promote true pluralism and mutual respect, not only among Jews, but among different visions of Judaism. I will gladly support the activities and visions of all groups who would just as eagerly promote ours. Otherwise, not a cent.
Mordecai Kaplan put it best when he said, "The foremost problem in Jewish religion is how to get Jews to take the Bible seriously without taking it literally." Courageously, David Wolpe is showing us how to do that.
A few weeks ago, a sermon by my Conservative colleague Rabbi David Wolpe made headlines out in L.A., when he expressed his doubts that the Exodus, as described in the Torah, really happened. Read more about Wolpe's comments and the subsequent vehement response by Orthodox leaders, at the Jerusalem Post, http://www.jpost.com/Editions/2001/04/29/News/News.25248.html.
The original sermon text is not available online, but the original article from the L.A. Times is, at http://www.latimes.com/news/religion/20010413/t000031433.html.
This debate perfectly frames the difference between the Orthodox and Conservative worldviews. While one might argue that the Orthodox approach offers more consistency in regard to Jewish ritual practice, the Conservative movement prides itself in its intellectual honesty. It should be clear where I stand in this matter. I believe fundamentalism to be a great danger to both religion and to society as a whole. That is why, despite all the good things they do, I can not support the efforts of Habad-Lubavitch along with other groups espousing Jewish fundamentalism, whose theological approach I respectfully believe to be naïve and dangerously narrow. They, along with the rest of right-wing Orthodoxy, see the intellectual honesty offered by Conservative Judaism as a great threat, so they choose to de-legitimize it in various ways.
Moment Magazine recently published a highly inflammatory article by Rabbi Avi Shafran, entitled "The Conservative Lie." Read about the resulting brouhaha at Moment's web site. The original article is at http://www.momentmag.com/archive/feb01/feat2.html. Shafran re-ignites the pluralism debate, essentially framing it in the same way that Wolpe frames it: as a question of honesty. For Shafran, Conservative Judaism is dishonest because it claims fealty to Jewish Law when most Conservative Jews are not halachic. Wolpe, on the other hand, says, "I think faith ought not rest on splitting seas. For a Jew, it should rest on the wonder of God's world, the marvel of the human soul and the miracle of this small people's survival through the millennia."
Can Conservative and Orthodox Judaism find common ground? Absolutely. That ground is being paved by modern Orthodox leaders like Rabbi Yitz Greenberg and Rabbi David Hartman. They have helped us all to appreciate the value of the "other." Unfortunately, they are increasingly being pushed to the margins of Orthodox Judaism. The battle for the soul of Orthodoxy is being won by the fundamentalists, both in Israel and here in America. Which is why, personally, when I have tzedakkah dollars to offer to Jewish organizations, I make sure to donate only to those who promote true pluralism and mutual respect, not only among Jews, but among different visions of Judaism. I will gladly support the activities and visions of all groups who would just as eagerly promote ours. Otherwise, not a cent.
Mordecai Kaplan put it best when he said, "The foremost problem in Jewish religion is how to get Jews to take the Bible seriously without taking it literally." Courageously, David Wolpe is showing us how to do that.
No 10s For Kerri
The Jewish Week, August 9, 1996
Now that the Olympics are over, allowing us to shift our sights back from the heights of Olympus to the less majestic but more enduring peaks of Sinai and Moriah, it's time to talk about heroes.
No doubt about it, the one Atlanta moment that will endure through the ages will be that final vault by Kerri Strug. It couldn't have been scripted better: Seven shining lights of American diversity, all glowing with the kind of naive I-can-be-immortal recklessness that only a teenager knows, and it all comes down to one jump. And who takes it? Kerri, the indomitable Jewish girl from Arizona. But her ankle is injured. Should she jump? Should she risk possible permanent injury for the sake of her team, her country? Of course the answer is yes. Any teenager could tell us that. What is risk, anyway, but the act of living life to its fullest? What is recklessness, anyway, but the temerity to go where has none has before, whether by doing 60 mph on a country horse path, having sex without protection or experimenting with drugs `til your head pops.
Faster, stronger, higher, that's the Olympic ideal: defying the body's limits and daring the gods of Olympus to put us in our mortal place. In some cases - in most cases - we lose; but when we win, we are heroes. We are gods.
For this, Kerri Strug never went to Hebrew school.
When I first read the story that Kerri was Jewish, I laughed until I cried. It described how the rabbi of Kerri's synagogue led the congregation in a special healing prayer for her following her epic/tragic leap. Her rabbi commented to the reporter, "As an American and as a Jew, I was proud." It turns out the Strugs have been members of the congregation since 1988. It turns out the rabbi has never met Kerri Strug.
The story concluded, "Strug's mother said her daughter did not attend the synagogue's religious school or become bat mitzvah there because she was too busy."
I immediately thought of Mark Spitz, whose father said the same thing back in 1972. I'll never forget his tag line, "Even God likes a winner."
Our God likes losers, too.
At least the elder Spitz felt the need to come up with a corny excuse. It is telling that two decades post-Spitz, the Strugs felt no such need. The choice for them was clear: Rather than immersing their daughter in a tradition that spans millennia, rather than enabling her to find solace and strength from her indestructible people, they chose to allow her to go from coach to coach, injury to injury, daily risking paralysis, eating disorders and stunted growth, all for the sake of Olympic gold.
In an NBC soap-essay called "The Kerri Strug Story," the Strugs admitted that they often close their eyes when their daughter performs. They cannot bear to see what might happen, yet they've never tried to stop her, even when she once suffered a nearly catastrophic injury. They have placed their child in a position of maximal risk and closed their eyes to the responsibility.
Had Kerri become bat mitzvah, I believe her folks would have found it an eye-opening experience.
On my pulpit, I see Olympian drama almost every week, as newly-crowned adolescents ascend spiritual peaks to do battle with their own limitations, the world's expectations and their swiftly developing sense of self; and they emerge not maimed but triumphant. It is a triumph that endures not for four years but for a lifetime. It is a personal best that doesn't place the victor on a winner's pedestal, but shoulder to shoulder with a hundred generations.
If only John Tesh could have seen Kerri scale those heights.
Until I saw that story, I didn't know Kerri was a Jew. That little factoid was left out of all the up-close-and-personal network coverage. I wish it had never come to light.
No, I am not heartless. Like the rest of America, I cried when Kerri was carried tot he victory stand by Bela Karolyi. I identified with her (if only because I too have found great inspiration "on one foot"). But she is no Jewish hero, nor is she a Jewish role model of any sort. Her courage and determination are admirable, but as a Jewish role model she is lacking one key ingredient: Judaism. I'm in no position to judge her degree of Jewish pride or her parents' commitment (they do, to their credit, affiliate with a synagogue).
But if I had my druthers, I'd have preferred her religious identity to have remained a secret.
So what am I supposed to say now to all the Hebrew school parents who ask for early dismissal because of gymnastics, tennis or Little League? They can rightly claim that the two most acclaimed Jewish athletes of our time never even attended Hebrew school.
A generation ago, Jewish sports heroes were forced to make huge compromises just to make a living, yet they still clung tenaciously and with pride to their heritage.
Take the recently departed Yankees broadcaster Mel Allen, who was forced to give up his last name (Israel) because it was "too Jewish." Yet to the end he was a mensch and loyal Jew whom I was proud to call my congregant. And we all teach the kids about Sandy Koufax, who wouldn't pitch in the World Series on Yom Kippur.
Where are our Jewish heroes? Mel Allen, the man who coined the name Joltin' Joe, has left and gone away - and he's taken the spirit of Judah Macabee with him.
Oh Kerri, I so want to be proud of you. And now I pray for you. Ten years from now, when the ankle still aches and the strain of having peaked so soon becomes too much to bear, your synagogue will still be there.
It might not be Olympus, but its flame will never go out.
Now that the Olympics are over, allowing us to shift our sights back from the heights of Olympus to the less majestic but more enduring peaks of Sinai and Moriah, it's time to talk about heroes.
No doubt about it, the one Atlanta moment that will endure through the ages will be that final vault by Kerri Strug. It couldn't have been scripted better: Seven shining lights of American diversity, all glowing with the kind of naive I-can-be-immortal recklessness that only a teenager knows, and it all comes down to one jump. And who takes it? Kerri, the indomitable Jewish girl from Arizona. But her ankle is injured. Should she jump? Should she risk possible permanent injury for the sake of her team, her country? Of course the answer is yes. Any teenager could tell us that. What is risk, anyway, but the act of living life to its fullest? What is recklessness, anyway, but the temerity to go where has none has before, whether by doing 60 mph on a country horse path, having sex without protection or experimenting with drugs `til your head pops.
Faster, stronger, higher, that's the Olympic ideal: defying the body's limits and daring the gods of Olympus to put us in our mortal place. In some cases - in most cases - we lose; but when we win, we are heroes. We are gods.
For this, Kerri Strug never went to Hebrew school.
When I first read the story that Kerri was Jewish, I laughed until I cried. It described how the rabbi of Kerri's synagogue led the congregation in a special healing prayer for her following her epic/tragic leap. Her rabbi commented to the reporter, "As an American and as a Jew, I was proud." It turns out the Strugs have been members of the congregation since 1988. It turns out the rabbi has never met Kerri Strug.
The story concluded, "Strug's mother said her daughter did not attend the synagogue's religious school or become bat mitzvah there because she was too busy."
I immediately thought of Mark Spitz, whose father said the same thing back in 1972. I'll never forget his tag line, "Even God likes a winner."
Our God likes losers, too.
At least the elder Spitz felt the need to come up with a corny excuse. It is telling that two decades post-Spitz, the Strugs felt no such need. The choice for them was clear: Rather than immersing their daughter in a tradition that spans millennia, rather than enabling her to find solace and strength from her indestructible people, they chose to allow her to go from coach to coach, injury to injury, daily risking paralysis, eating disorders and stunted growth, all for the sake of Olympic gold.
In an NBC soap-essay called "The Kerri Strug Story," the Strugs admitted that they often close their eyes when their daughter performs. They cannot bear to see what might happen, yet they've never tried to stop her, even when she once suffered a nearly catastrophic injury. They have placed their child in a position of maximal risk and closed their eyes to the responsibility.
Had Kerri become bat mitzvah, I believe her folks would have found it an eye-opening experience.
On my pulpit, I see Olympian drama almost every week, as newly-crowned adolescents ascend spiritual peaks to do battle with their own limitations, the world's expectations and their swiftly developing sense of self; and they emerge not maimed but triumphant. It is a triumph that endures not for four years but for a lifetime. It is a personal best that doesn't place the victor on a winner's pedestal, but shoulder to shoulder with a hundred generations.
If only John Tesh could have seen Kerri scale those heights.
Until I saw that story, I didn't know Kerri was a Jew. That little factoid was left out of all the up-close-and-personal network coverage. I wish it had never come to light.
No, I am not heartless. Like the rest of America, I cried when Kerri was carried tot he victory stand by Bela Karolyi. I identified with her (if only because I too have found great inspiration "on one foot"). But she is no Jewish hero, nor is she a Jewish role model of any sort. Her courage and determination are admirable, but as a Jewish role model she is lacking one key ingredient: Judaism. I'm in no position to judge her degree of Jewish pride or her parents' commitment (they do, to their credit, affiliate with a synagogue).
But if I had my druthers, I'd have preferred her religious identity to have remained a secret.
So what am I supposed to say now to all the Hebrew school parents who ask for early dismissal because of gymnastics, tennis or Little League? They can rightly claim that the two most acclaimed Jewish athletes of our time never even attended Hebrew school.
A generation ago, Jewish sports heroes were forced to make huge compromises just to make a living, yet they still clung tenaciously and with pride to their heritage.
Take the recently departed Yankees broadcaster Mel Allen, who was forced to give up his last name (Israel) because it was "too Jewish." Yet to the end he was a mensch and loyal Jew whom I was proud to call my congregant. And we all teach the kids about Sandy Koufax, who wouldn't pitch in the World Series on Yom Kippur.
Where are our Jewish heroes? Mel Allen, the man who coined the name Joltin' Joe, has left and gone away - and he's taken the spirit of Judah Macabee with him.
Oh Kerri, I so want to be proud of you. And now I pray for you. Ten years from now, when the ankle still aches and the strain of having peaked so soon becomes too much to bear, your synagogue will still be there.
It might not be Olympus, but its flame will never go out.
Is the ‘Wicked Man’ Just Misunderstood?
Jewish Telegraphic Agency, March 2005
Last month I took my family to see the Broadway musical, “Wicked,” a recasting of the “Wizard of Oz,” where all the supposedly good people turn out to be self-centered and the Wicked Witch is revealed to be a sensitive iconoclast battling a malicious smear campaign. “Fractured Fairy Tales” haven’t been this popular since the “Rocky and Bullwinkle” show. Hollywood has most recently brought us the “Shrek” series, various modern remakes of Cinderella, and now, “Hoodwinked,” a takeoff on Little Red Riding Hood, in which extreme snowboarder Granny and thoroughly modern Red team up with the wolf, who turns out to be an undercover reporter and all-round good guy.
Such moral ambiguity has a home in Judaism, which revels in the hidden complexities of life. The Bible paints few of our heroes in bold, simplistic strokes.
Arguably, Judaism’s most towering figures, Moses and David, are among the most flawed. There are no “happily ever afters” to be found. No one is purely good, nor is anyone entirely evil.
Except for one. Oz had the Wicked Witch, and we have our Wicked, Wicked Man: Haman. Jews are expected to have sympathy for just about every enemy, with the exception of Haman.
Admit it. Don’t you feel just a little uncomfortable on Purim night, beating the tar out of Haman, shouting him down, cheering ecstatically at his demise? Doesn’t it bother you just a little bit that the same tradition that encourages us to spill drops of wine at the seder in memory of suffering Egyptian slave drivers also encourages us to drink ourselves silly while hanging Haman and drowning out the very mention of his name?
With Haman being painted with cartoonish evil clarity, however, the Talmud throws us another zinger, calling upon us to imbibe on Purim not to ignite more anger, but to create a very “wicked”-like confusion, according to one interpretation. We are to drink until we cannot tell the difference between “Cursed be Haman” and “Blessed be Mordechai.” This custom seems to undercut the Bible’s assertion that Haman, simply by virtue of his Amalekite roots, as well as his own deeds, is the pure embodiment of evil. It introduces the possibility of moral ambiguity, or worse, a moral equivalence between Haman’s intentions and those of his accusers.
If the Book of Esther were to be rewritten the way “Wicked” recasts Oz, it would make for a great Purim shpiel. Essentially, the inverse story of Haman would begin at birth, where his parents reject him. As a child, the neighborhood bullies beat him up, poking fun at his three-cornered hat given to him by Mordechai, the Big Man on Campus, as a prank.
“Tri-corner is this year’s kaffiyeh,” Mordechai tells him.
Haman then wallows in self-pity with a show-stopping number titled, “My Life Is Bad Noose.”
He hopes against hope that some day maybe he will make it so big “that they’ll name a pastry after me.”
Finally, he is granted an audience with the king, but he is forced to wait outside for hours on end.
“Why does the king leave me hanging?” Haman laments.
While he is waiting, he overhears Mordechai plotting against the king. The plan is to place Esther on the throne and force all the royal subjects to become life members of Hadassah. Mordy also plots to create a diversionary smoke screen by accusing Haman of scheming to annihilate the Jews. The plan works to perfection and the “wicked” Haman is hanged. But it turns out that Haman gets wind of the plot, substitutes a scarecrow effigy at the last minute and while the scarecrow swings, Haman escapes to Hollywood to produce morally ambiguous movies for Steven Spielberg.
Jewish tradition teaches us that no human being is either totally evil or completely good. Spielberg has been maligned for his recent film, “Munich,” because he meddled in the moral complexities of our contemporary Purim saga involving Israeli good guys and terrorism’s evildoers. With hundreds of specialized cable channels and millions of Internet sites to choose from, people focus on only one side of any story.
Spielberg’s attempt to break through the caricatures is refreshing and commendable in this polarized world, as long as the terrorism itself is not minimized or justified.
Am I being too forgiving of Judaism’s Wicked Wicked Man? Not at all. I’ll be out there on Purim night raising a ruckus like everyone else. But I’ll do so with the understanding that Book of Esther is only part of a long and complex story whose end has yet to be written.
Last month I took my family to see the Broadway musical, “Wicked,” a recasting of the “Wizard of Oz,” where all the supposedly good people turn out to be self-centered and the Wicked Witch is revealed to be a sensitive iconoclast battling a malicious smear campaign. “Fractured Fairy Tales” haven’t been this popular since the “Rocky and Bullwinkle” show. Hollywood has most recently brought us the “Shrek” series, various modern remakes of Cinderella, and now, “Hoodwinked,” a takeoff on Little Red Riding Hood, in which extreme snowboarder Granny and thoroughly modern Red team up with the wolf, who turns out to be an undercover reporter and all-round good guy.
Such moral ambiguity has a home in Judaism, which revels in the hidden complexities of life. The Bible paints few of our heroes in bold, simplistic strokes.
Arguably, Judaism’s most towering figures, Moses and David, are among the most flawed. There are no “happily ever afters” to be found. No one is purely good, nor is anyone entirely evil.
Except for one. Oz had the Wicked Witch, and we have our Wicked, Wicked Man: Haman. Jews are expected to have sympathy for just about every enemy, with the exception of Haman.
Admit it. Don’t you feel just a little uncomfortable on Purim night, beating the tar out of Haman, shouting him down, cheering ecstatically at his demise? Doesn’t it bother you just a little bit that the same tradition that encourages us to spill drops of wine at the seder in memory of suffering Egyptian slave drivers also encourages us to drink ourselves silly while hanging Haman and drowning out the very mention of his name?
With Haman being painted with cartoonish evil clarity, however, the Talmud throws us another zinger, calling upon us to imbibe on Purim not to ignite more anger, but to create a very “wicked”-like confusion, according to one interpretation. We are to drink until we cannot tell the difference between “Cursed be Haman” and “Blessed be Mordechai.” This custom seems to undercut the Bible’s assertion that Haman, simply by virtue of his Amalekite roots, as well as his own deeds, is the pure embodiment of evil. It introduces the possibility of moral ambiguity, or worse, a moral equivalence between Haman’s intentions and those of his accusers.
If the Book of Esther were to be rewritten the way “Wicked” recasts Oz, it would make for a great Purim shpiel. Essentially, the inverse story of Haman would begin at birth, where his parents reject him. As a child, the neighborhood bullies beat him up, poking fun at his three-cornered hat given to him by Mordechai, the Big Man on Campus, as a prank.
“Tri-corner is this year’s kaffiyeh,” Mordechai tells him.
Haman then wallows in self-pity with a show-stopping number titled, “My Life Is Bad Noose.”
He hopes against hope that some day maybe he will make it so big “that they’ll name a pastry after me.”
Finally, he is granted an audience with the king, but he is forced to wait outside for hours on end.
“Why does the king leave me hanging?” Haman laments.
While he is waiting, he overhears Mordechai plotting against the king. The plan is to place Esther on the throne and force all the royal subjects to become life members of Hadassah. Mordy also plots to create a diversionary smoke screen by accusing Haman of scheming to annihilate the Jews. The plan works to perfection and the “wicked” Haman is hanged. But it turns out that Haman gets wind of the plot, substitutes a scarecrow effigy at the last minute and while the scarecrow swings, Haman escapes to Hollywood to produce morally ambiguous movies for Steven Spielberg.
Jewish tradition teaches us that no human being is either totally evil or completely good. Spielberg has been maligned for his recent film, “Munich,” because he meddled in the moral complexities of our contemporary Purim saga involving Israeli good guys and terrorism’s evildoers. With hundreds of specialized cable channels and millions of Internet sites to choose from, people focus on only one side of any story.
Spielberg’s attempt to break through the caricatures is refreshing and commendable in this polarized world, as long as the terrorism itself is not minimized or justified.
Am I being too forgiving of Judaism’s Wicked Wicked Man? Not at all. I’ll be out there on Purim night raising a ruckus like everyone else. But I’ll do so with the understanding that Book of Esther is only part of a long and complex story whose end has yet to be written.
Month-Long Chanukah Offers Second Chances
The Jewish Week, December 2007
I love it when Chanukah falls in early December. Long after the last candle has melted and the potato graters have been stashed away, the holiday refuses to disappear. Store clerks still seal the deal with a cheerful “Happy Chanukah,” menorahs still glisten at the mall, and school assemblies still sing “Dreidel.” In a year like this, Chanukah becomes a Jewish version of the holiday in the film “Groundhog Day,” recurring incessantly until, at last, as the calendar turns, the torch is passed to Tu b’Shvat.
Yes, I know that this miraculous, endless Chanukah has more to do with that Other December Holiday than with that fabled jug of inexhaustible oil. So why do I think that’s a good thing? Because, as the holiday extends through weeks three and four, outlasting even that stale latke smell embedded in every nook of the kitchen, it reminds us that Judaism places a premium on second chances.
A close friend will be returning in a few days from several months of military service in Iraq. Although he missed the official Chanukah with his family the first time around, he’ll be able to do it when he gets home without missing a beat. And in doing so, he’ll be following in the very footsteps of the Maccabees, who, according to some, created their new eight-day festival because they had been unable to commemorate the week-long holiday of Sukkot in their defiled temple two months earlier. The idea of a second chance celebration has additional precedence in the Torah, where a second Passover was instituted for those not able to participate fully in the ritual observance the first time around.
Judaism is filled with mulligans, which, unlike in golf, are perfectly legal. It’s not merely about second chance celebrations; it’s about having second chances at almost everything. The sages differentiated between transgressions committed intentionally and those committed by innocent error. The accidental sinner (“shogeg,”) is often given a halachic do-over, or at least the consequences of his actions are made far less severe, even for the most extreme of crimes.
It has become increasingly important to promote second chances, because our world has become so unforgiving. Ours has become a “gotcha” society, where every miscue is instantly immortalized on TV and in cyberspace. The political campaign now under way will be the most closely scrutinized ever, where thousands of bloggers, many unfettered by standards of journalistic ethics, will document each candidate’s every sniffle. There will be no margin of error. Think we’ve seen ruthlessness before? We’re about to enter an era where Swift Boats and Willie Horton will seem quaint.
In our unrelenting world, there is no place to hide, no benefit of the doubt and no room for the “shogeg.” All errors are immortalized digitally and scrutinized incessantly. Notice that every DVD now includes out-takes, which, in many cases have become as popular as the movie. In life, there no longer is a “take two,” and the words “unedited and uncut” have taken on a sacred aura. We can’t even be forgiven for our bloopers.
As American Jews have wandered farther from their traditional roots, even grandparents now often struggle to remember the Torah blessings and associated rituals. Rarely, now, do people get it right the first time around. We rabbis all have our favorite bar mitzvah bloopers. Like the time when a befuddled relative was dressing the Torah and was handed the silver breastplate along with the simple instruction, “Put it on.”
Which is exactly what she did.
My favorite shul blooper, related by a colleague, involves a student reciting the blessing over cookies, the one that usually concludes, “borei minei mezonot;” only this child said, “borei pri zonot,” thereby thanking God for the fruits of the world’s oldest profession.
Everyone makes mistakes. But at a time when the Jewish future requires that we try to nurture people into feeling comfortable on the bima, our “gotcha” culture feeds into their trepidation. No one wants to be humiliated, especially when the error will be seen live by hundreds of relatives, enshrined forever on the video and then maybe uploaded for millions to view on the Web (A recent search found 1,310 bar mitzvah and 809 bat mitzvah videos posted on YouTube.) “Trial and error” now means that if you make an error, you’ll face the most public of trials — with no second chance.
Judaism values highly the art of constructive correction. Leviticus implores us to rebuke our neighbor. Later authorities went to great lengths to demonstrate how this reproof must be delivered sensitively and privately to avoid humiliation.
Rabbis should be especially sensitive in this area, because so many see us as being “holier than thou,” even when we try desperately not to be. Rabbis are also prime victims of this “gotcha” culture. The high standards we are trying to set are the very same standards by which we are judged, so our mistakes are amplified. At life cycle events, the stakes are especially high; sometimes there can be no do-overs.
But for Chanukah there can be, so let’s keep on spinning that dreidel from here ‘til the ball drops, if that’s what it takes. Let’s keep the light shining all month — until we get it right.
I love it when Chanukah falls in early December. Long after the last candle has melted and the potato graters have been stashed away, the holiday refuses to disappear. Store clerks still seal the deal with a cheerful “Happy Chanukah,” menorahs still glisten at the mall, and school assemblies still sing “Dreidel.” In a year like this, Chanukah becomes a Jewish version of the holiday in the film “Groundhog Day,” recurring incessantly until, at last, as the calendar turns, the torch is passed to Tu b’Shvat.
Yes, I know that this miraculous, endless Chanukah has more to do with that Other December Holiday than with that fabled jug of inexhaustible oil. So why do I think that’s a good thing? Because, as the holiday extends through weeks three and four, outlasting even that stale latke smell embedded in every nook of the kitchen, it reminds us that Judaism places a premium on second chances.
A close friend will be returning in a few days from several months of military service in Iraq. Although he missed the official Chanukah with his family the first time around, he’ll be able to do it when he gets home without missing a beat. And in doing so, he’ll be following in the very footsteps of the Maccabees, who, according to some, created their new eight-day festival because they had been unable to commemorate the week-long holiday of Sukkot in their defiled temple two months earlier. The idea of a second chance celebration has additional precedence in the Torah, where a second Passover was instituted for those not able to participate fully in the ritual observance the first time around.
Judaism is filled with mulligans, which, unlike in golf, are perfectly legal. It’s not merely about second chance celebrations; it’s about having second chances at almost everything. The sages differentiated between transgressions committed intentionally and those committed by innocent error. The accidental sinner (“shogeg,”) is often given a halachic do-over, or at least the consequences of his actions are made far less severe, even for the most extreme of crimes.
It has become increasingly important to promote second chances, because our world has become so unforgiving. Ours has become a “gotcha” society, where every miscue is instantly immortalized on TV and in cyberspace. The political campaign now under way will be the most closely scrutinized ever, where thousands of bloggers, many unfettered by standards of journalistic ethics, will document each candidate’s every sniffle. There will be no margin of error. Think we’ve seen ruthlessness before? We’re about to enter an era where Swift Boats and Willie Horton will seem quaint.
In our unrelenting world, there is no place to hide, no benefit of the doubt and no room for the “shogeg.” All errors are immortalized digitally and scrutinized incessantly. Notice that every DVD now includes out-takes, which, in many cases have become as popular as the movie. In life, there no longer is a “take two,” and the words “unedited and uncut” have taken on a sacred aura. We can’t even be forgiven for our bloopers.
As American Jews have wandered farther from their traditional roots, even grandparents now often struggle to remember the Torah blessings and associated rituals. Rarely, now, do people get it right the first time around. We rabbis all have our favorite bar mitzvah bloopers. Like the time when a befuddled relative was dressing the Torah and was handed the silver breastplate along with the simple instruction, “Put it on.”
Which is exactly what she did.
My favorite shul blooper, related by a colleague, involves a student reciting the blessing over cookies, the one that usually concludes, “borei minei mezonot;” only this child said, “borei pri zonot,” thereby thanking God for the fruits of the world’s oldest profession.
Everyone makes mistakes. But at a time when the Jewish future requires that we try to nurture people into feeling comfortable on the bima, our “gotcha” culture feeds into their trepidation. No one wants to be humiliated, especially when the error will be seen live by hundreds of relatives, enshrined forever on the video and then maybe uploaded for millions to view on the Web (A recent search found 1,310 bar mitzvah and 809 bat mitzvah videos posted on YouTube.) “Trial and error” now means that if you make an error, you’ll face the most public of trials — with no second chance.
Judaism values highly the art of constructive correction. Leviticus implores us to rebuke our neighbor. Later authorities went to great lengths to demonstrate how this reproof must be delivered sensitively and privately to avoid humiliation.
Rabbis should be especially sensitive in this area, because so many see us as being “holier than thou,” even when we try desperately not to be. Rabbis are also prime victims of this “gotcha” culture. The high standards we are trying to set are the very same standards by which we are judged, so our mistakes are amplified. At life cycle events, the stakes are especially high; sometimes there can be no do-overs.
But for Chanukah there can be, so let’s keep on spinning that dreidel from here ‘til the ball drops, if that’s what it takes. Let’s keep the light shining all month — until we get it right.
The Eclipse of The Curse (Jewish Week)
Side by side in my office hang photos of Boston and Jerusalem. My exilic existence has been marked by a constant yearning for redemption in both of my ancestral homes. For one that meant a thriving Israel, freed from fear.
For the other it meant a Red Sox World Series championship.
Through the misty sky last Wednesday night, a ruddy moon glowed from behind the earth's shadow. At the precise time of the lunar eclipse, the Red Sox won the World Series and Yasir Arafat lost his grip on the reins of terror. In the scheme of things, I would classify that as a very good day. At long last, it appeared, definitive proof that there is a God.
Too many things broke right for the Sox this year, too many of their prior indignities were undone in uncanny ways, for their improbable victory not to have been written in the stars. Even before this season began, the Sox had couched this campaign in religious terms -- witness the huge "Keep the Faith" sign towering about the Western Wall, I mean the Green Monster -- and the numerous televised images of fans in various states of prayer.
Their epic series with the Yankees played out these redemptive themes, carrying the Sox and their fandom from the brink of disaster to the greatest comeback seen since the Exodus, climaxing with the parting of Cardinal fandom at its own self-proclaimed Red Sea.
The resurrection was so captivating that at a recent wedding reception I found myself transfixed at the lobby bar watching a rally and was not in the ballroom when my name was called to lead the blessing over the bread.
"Where's the rabbi?"
"He's at the bar, watching the game."
No matter. The bride's father was out there with me.
Let's assume that this victory was indeed divinely ordained. If that is so, my theological problems begin to multiply like the Yankees payroll: Why this baseball team and not another -- say that innocent group of clean-cut professionals from the Bronx? And why now, after so many years of torture?
Why was the Curse finally lifted?
It was because of my 13-year-old son, Ethan.
At least that's what Ethan thinks, and I'm having a hard time dissuading him. After all, wasn't I the one who suggested he put in a good word for the Sox when he scribbled his note to place into the cracks of the Western Wall (the "other" one) when we were in Jerusalem in August? He had already written the note, containing the usual prayers for family and peace, when I suggested that one little addition. Sure enough, as soon as the note was inserted the team went off on an unparalleled hot streak. So if Ethan was led to believe that direct requests of God could have such an immediate impact, I created this monster.
I shouldn't have been surprised then that the morning after the disastrous third game against the Yankees, with the Sox all but dead, Ethan informed me that he had informed God that if the Red Sox didn't win it all this time, he would become an atheist.
Imagine your child telling you this when no team in history had ever come back from the kind of deficit the Sox were facing. He was asking for a miracle. No, he wasn't merely asking, he was threatening God.
And it worked.
God, omniscient as always, evidently had read the latest National Jewish Population Survey and didn't want to lose Ethan from the fold. Or maybe God was impressed by Ethan's undying loyalty to a team whose season was nearing extinction.
True to my fatalistic Red Sox roots, I had spent my energy steeling my boys to accept the divine decree, or as Martin Buber called it in his aptly titled essay "The Eclipse of God," "the still unredeemed concreteness of the human world in all its horror." But the news just kept on getting better, and with last Wednesday's eclipse of this eclipse, I found myself becoming more and more troubled by the theological implications of victory.
If the Sox lose, my kid becomes a hardened skeptic, like the rest of us. But if they win because of this audacious wager, he could sink into a fundamentalist morass, totally convinced that God can be manipulated magically.
And if the Sox win again next year?
At that point he would become so smug as to render him indistinguishable from a Yankee fan.
Who says Red Sox fans no longer have anything to whine about?
I imagined what could come next:"God, get this cute girl to notice me ... or ELSE ... you know what!"
Please God, stop answering my child's prayers!
Among the dozens of congratulatory e-mails and calls I received the day after the Eclipse of the Curse, this message stood out:
"In this world of so much discouraging news, how wonderful to have something to cheer about! The eclipse underscored this night of sports history and affirmed the importance and joy of believing in your dreams against all odds."
As I read this, I understood that Ethan's impudence was in fact a statement of profound faith from one condemned by his father to live out his entire life in Yankee territory, in second place. His was a simple Joban cry against the injustice of it all.
This time, the Universe listened.
Purim Meets Good Friday
JTA, March 2005
This year, for the first time since 1910, Purim will coincide with Good Friday. While it is tempting to toss aside this as a calendrical quirk, this collision of holy days yields fascinating shadings to the meaning of each.
The Christian Holy Week is supposed to coincide with Passover, with Easter occurring on the Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox. But during Jewish leap years Passover is occasionally pushed more than a month beyond that, leaving Easter and Good Friday to contend with Passover’s little sister, that mischievous demi-festival, that masked “Mordy-Gras,” Purim.
Purim is in many ways the anti-Passover.
One is noted for its levity while the other is totally unleavened. On Purim Jews let loose, freeing themselves from restrictions and imbibing until all boundaries are dissolved, even those distinguishing good from evil. On Passover, the key to liberation is through tightening those restrictions, exchanging Purim’s anarchy for a severity of structure so complete that its main meal is even called the “Order.”
It’s part of the natural order for American Jews and Christians that Passover and Holy Week coincide.
That way, the networks can show “The Ten Commandments” and we can have lots of interfaith discussions on the seasonal symbolism of the egg and whether Manischewitz was served at the Last Supper. As far as we know, none of the apostles was asked to pass the hamantaschen.
But this year, although the markets have been stocked with matzot since Presidents’ Day, that prankster Purim is showing up instead. So while our Christian neighbors will be commemorating the crucifixion, we’ll be contemplating the passion of the prune.
And rather than dwelling on those eternal questions of collective guilt, this year, Jews will proudly proclaim, on Good Friday, “We did it! Yep. We hanged him” — speaking of Haman, of course, and not about Jesus.
Although Purim and Good Friday so rarely coincide (strangely, it will happen again in three years, then not until 2113), I am not the first to make the connection between the deaths of Haman and Jesus.
The ancient Aramaic translations of the book of Esther in fact use the word “tzalab,” meaning “crucify,” in describing Haman’s fate, a view echoed by the first-century historian Josephus, and there is doubt as to whether hanging using a noose was even known in ancient times.
During the fifth century, Byzantine emperors forbade the Jewish practice of burning an effigy of Haman on Purim, suspecting that they were doing it as a parody of Jesus’ death.
In the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo also depicts Haman’s death in Christological terms.
And there are strong parallels between how both the Passion Play and on a much smaller scale the Purim story have incited mob violence and hatred toward the Other.
A year ago many Jews feared that Mel Gibson’s “Passion of the Christ” would unleash a torrent of anti-Semitism. What ensued was a flood of free publicity, but very little else.
As I left the theater after seeing the film, bristling at the stereotypes perpetuated by Gibson, I looked around at the tear-filled eyes of those sitting around me and realized that they had been watching a completely different movie.
I can imagine that the inverse would be true if Steven Spielberg were to tackle the Purim story. Non-Jews would sneer at the Jews’ gleeful butchering of their Persian hosts, while I would be cheering the last-second salvation of a buzzer-beating God, reassured by the “happily-ever-after” ending too often denied Jews in the real world.
Hitler reportedly banned the celebration of Purim in Poland in 1941 because he understood the power of this story. He sensed that the hanging of Haman could galvanize the faith of Jews in the same way that the crucifixion ignites the passion of Christians.
It is telling that when Christians hear their story, they cry in silence. When Jews hear the Megillah, we laugh and make lots of noise.
We might surmise that if, as Carol Burnett said, “Comedy is tragedy plus time,” then “Purim is the passion plus a good punch line.” Come to think of it, a risen Messiah is a pretty good punch line too.
In any faith, God always gets the last laugh.
According to the book of Esther, “These days of Purim will never cease among the Jews.” From this, the midrash deduces that when the Messiah comes, only Purim will continue to be celebrated.
Perhaps this year on Purim we’ll become more conscious of the tears being shed around us, while at the same time understanding that the laughter ultimately will prevail, for all peoples, on that sunny spring day when hatred dissolves into love and Haman and Mordechai become one.
That will be a very Good Friday indeed.
This year, for the first time since 1910, Purim will coincide with Good Friday. While it is tempting to toss aside this as a calendrical quirk, this collision of holy days yields fascinating shadings to the meaning of each.
The Christian Holy Week is supposed to coincide with Passover, with Easter occurring on the Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox. But during Jewish leap years Passover is occasionally pushed more than a month beyond that, leaving Easter and Good Friday to contend with Passover’s little sister, that mischievous demi-festival, that masked “Mordy-Gras,” Purim.
Purim is in many ways the anti-Passover.
One is noted for its levity while the other is totally unleavened. On Purim Jews let loose, freeing themselves from restrictions and imbibing until all boundaries are dissolved, even those distinguishing good from evil. On Passover, the key to liberation is through tightening those restrictions, exchanging Purim’s anarchy for a severity of structure so complete that its main meal is even called the “Order.”
It’s part of the natural order for American Jews and Christians that Passover and Holy Week coincide.
That way, the networks can show “The Ten Commandments” and we can have lots of interfaith discussions on the seasonal symbolism of the egg and whether Manischewitz was served at the Last Supper. As far as we know, none of the apostles was asked to pass the hamantaschen.
But this year, although the markets have been stocked with matzot since Presidents’ Day, that prankster Purim is showing up instead. So while our Christian neighbors will be commemorating the crucifixion, we’ll be contemplating the passion of the prune.
And rather than dwelling on those eternal questions of collective guilt, this year, Jews will proudly proclaim, on Good Friday, “We did it! Yep. We hanged him” — speaking of Haman, of course, and not about Jesus.
Although Purim and Good Friday so rarely coincide (strangely, it will happen again in three years, then not until 2113), I am not the first to make the connection between the deaths of Haman and Jesus.
The ancient Aramaic translations of the book of Esther in fact use the word “tzalab,” meaning “crucify,” in describing Haman’s fate, a view echoed by the first-century historian Josephus, and there is doubt as to whether hanging using a noose was even known in ancient times.
During the fifth century, Byzantine emperors forbade the Jewish practice of burning an effigy of Haman on Purim, suspecting that they were doing it as a parody of Jesus’ death.
In the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo also depicts Haman’s death in Christological terms.
And there are strong parallels between how both the Passion Play and on a much smaller scale the Purim story have incited mob violence and hatred toward the Other.
A year ago many Jews feared that Mel Gibson’s “Passion of the Christ” would unleash a torrent of anti-Semitism. What ensued was a flood of free publicity, but very little else.
As I left the theater after seeing the film, bristling at the stereotypes perpetuated by Gibson, I looked around at the tear-filled eyes of those sitting around me and realized that they had been watching a completely different movie.
I can imagine that the inverse would be true if Steven Spielberg were to tackle the Purim story. Non-Jews would sneer at the Jews’ gleeful butchering of their Persian hosts, while I would be cheering the last-second salvation of a buzzer-beating God, reassured by the “happily-ever-after” ending too often denied Jews in the real world.
Hitler reportedly banned the celebration of Purim in Poland in 1941 because he understood the power of this story. He sensed that the hanging of Haman could galvanize the faith of Jews in the same way that the crucifixion ignites the passion of Christians.
It is telling that when Christians hear their story, they cry in silence. When Jews hear the Megillah, we laugh and make lots of noise.
We might surmise that if, as Carol Burnett said, “Comedy is tragedy plus time,” then “Purim is the passion plus a good punch line.” Come to think of it, a risen Messiah is a pretty good punch line too.
In any faith, God always gets the last laugh.
According to the book of Esther, “These days of Purim will never cease among the Jews.” From this, the midrash deduces that when the Messiah comes, only Purim will continue to be celebrated.
Perhaps this year on Purim we’ll become more conscious of the tears being shed around us, while at the same time understanding that the laughter ultimately will prevail, for all peoples, on that sunny spring day when hatred dissolves into love and Haman and Mordechai become one.
That will be a very Good Friday indeed.
On the Red Sea, SARS and Fear (Jewish Week)
The Jewish Week, April 25, 2003
In what is arguably his funniest movie, “Love and Death,” Woody Allen plays a Russian caught up in the Napoleonic invasion of his country. Amidst the philosophical banter that produces much of the film’s humor, Allen’s very Jewish outlook shines through in what some would label his pragmatism, but others would call cowardice:
“And so I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Actually, make that "I run through the valley of the shadow of death" -- in order to get OUT of the valley of the shadow of death more quickly, you see.”
Contrast that with the image of courage depicted in the legend regarding the crossing of the Red Sea, an event that will be commemorated on the seventh day of Passover. It’s a remarkable Midrash, because it goes against all the stereotypes about the “daring” Moses and recalcitrant Israelites that we’ve been fed. In this tale, the tribes are vying for the honor of being the first to plunge into the still-raging sea, while Moses is standing off to the side immersed in panicked prayer, acting more like a Woody Allen than a Charlton Heston. Here Moses is the sniveler, until God finally chides him saying, “My beloved are on the verge of drowning in the sea and you’re babbling on with lengthy prayers.” Nachson the son of Amminadav springs forward into the sea and gets very, very wet, while Moses, in a state of near paralysis, begs God to tell him what to do. Finally, God responds (and here I paraphrase), “Dummy! Stop praying, tell the people to move forward, and pick up your rod.” He does, the sea splits, and the rest is history.
Woody Allen’s ambivalence about risk-taking has been mocked as a relic of our centuries-old, Diaspora-conditioned negative self-image, something that was supposedly rendered obsolete by the creation of Israel. The modern Sabra has indeed fostered a new image of Jewish heroism, but Judaism remains as it always was, somewhere between Woody Allen and Ari Ben Canaan, traversing the Valley when necessary, but traversing it briskly. Ours is not a kamikaze religion. Even Moses had his moments of paralysis.
So a Jewish medical practitioner comes to me and asks what our tradition would tell him about a doctor treating a patient with SARS. This virus is truly scary because so much about it is still unknown, although that is changing quickly. But what is known is that SARS is deadly and extremely contagious. Unlike AIDS, it can be transmitted without intimate contact; unlike West Nile, it can’t be traced to infected parasites, and unlike Ebola, it’s not confined to some remote jungle. It’s right here, or soon will be, threatening to turn your local mall into that Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Think about it: when people take the “risk” of traveling to Israel, they may get flak from loved ones before they go, but once they return they are embraced and celebrated for their courage as folks crowd around to hear their tales. But if you take a trip to Hong Kong these days, no red carpet will greet you on your return. It might be best not to return, in fact. If you do, you’ll be greeted like an outcast, quarantined, shunned, feared even by your closest family – avoided like the plague.
Eventually the panic will subside as the medical community gets a handle on SARS, but for the time being, the answer I gave was not at all clear-cut. Maimonides and others long ago codified the obligation of a physician to heal, but when a patient has a contagious disease, the obligation to save one’s own life can take precedence. If the risk is very small (sofek sakanah) the doctor is obligated to heal, and if it is great s/he is not. Interestingly, according to Dr. Fred Rosner, an expert on these matters, when a doctor treats a patient despite high risks, the act is considered a “pious one” (midat hasidut) by some Halachic authorities and folly (chasid shoteh) by others. The Babylonian Talmud opines that one is not obligated to endanger one’s life even if the risk is small, in order to save the life of another. In contrast, the Jerusalem Talmud states that one should take that risk. It’s interesting that the Talmud written in the Diaspora conveys the more cautious, Woody Allen-like approach, while the Jerusalem Talmud speaks in the macho tongue of an Israeli cab driver. The dialectic between the two Talmuds reflects a dialogue that has been ongoing in Jewish circles through the centuries.
In “Love and Death,” Allen is challenged to a duel. He replies, “I can't do anything to the death, doctor's orders. I have an ulcer and dying is one of the worst things for it.”
It’s OK for Jews to be afraid. It’s OK to place personal safety – and, by extension, obligations to one’s family – above a higher cause, such as a physician’s oath or national objective. In biblical times, an Israelite who was afraid to fight in a (non-obligatory) war was sent home without censure. “Just go,” the officer would say. “Enjoy your new wife, new home or freshly planted vineyard! It’s OK!”
We have nothing to fear of fear itself.
Which is why I am in such awe of those who have placed it all on the line these past few weeks, whether in the hospitals with SARS victims or on the front lines of Iraq. A Jew isn’t doing these things out of a religious obligation, but out of pure love of country and humanity, and the hope of freeing others from the fears that enslave them. Like Nachshon at the Red Sea, they have taken the plunge for all of us.
On Scouting and Outing
The Jewish Week, March, 2001
I’ve been sitting on this matter for weeks, hoping it would go away by itself. Alas it hasn’t, so now I feel that I have no choice but to come clean, to bring my little secret out of the proverbial closet.
Yes, it’s true.
My congregation recently hosted a Scout Shabbat.
A year ago, this would not have been such news, certainly nothing to hang my head over. Synagogues have been setting aside Shabbat services to honor scouts and scouting for decades. Not only does it offer us the chance to endorse those ideas of scouting that are perfectly compatible with our Jewish values, such as honesty, loyalty and faith, but it also enables Jewish children to know that their congregation is proud of all their achievements. When we began discussing the idea of hosting a Scout Shabbat many months ago, we set the date with these noble goals in mind.
Then life got complicated. Last summer, the Boy Scouts of America won a Supreme Court decision, by a 5-4 margin (sound familiar?), affirming their right to maintain a policy of discrimination against gay scoutmasters, and, at least indirectly, gay scouts as well. It is not a policy I can endorse.
If I were a scoutmaster who was actively proselytizing my beliefs in the hopes of converting my group to Judaism, the Boy Scouts of America would have every right to fire me. But that does not mean that they have a right to set a policy that no rabbi or self-proclaiming Jew may be hired, that only "closet" Jews need apply. Even if they have the legal right to discriminate in this manner, I feel that I have a moral obligation to oppose it.
Admittedly, the question of sexual orientation and religious values is not a simple matter. Conservative Judaism is struggling with this issue in regard to ordaining gay/lesbian rabbis and hiring out-of-closet staff in the synagogue. My congregation is at odds with many in my movement in that we do not discriminate based on sexual orientation in our hiring policies or in selecting board members. I also advocate the ordination of gay and lesbian rabbis, although I can understand the concerns of those who do not.
The issue here for me, however, is not whether the Torah is endorsing a particular sexual orientation; it is a question of simple discrimination. Yes, there are times when boundaries must be drawn -- the Pope should not be accepted to rabbinical school, for example, without first converting, nor should I be admitted to the College of Cardinals. But this is not one of those times. Jews, of all people, understand the pain of prejudice, and the combined afflictions of AIDS and violent gay-bashing are wake-up calls that all of us must hear. Further, while I do not subscribe to the notion that everything stemming from the religious right is evil, this is a case where Christian fundamentalists are trying to impose their own perception of God's will on the boy scouts and on the rest of us. Therefore, I support the resolution issued in January by the leadership of the Reform movement, calling upon local scouting chapters to publicly amend their charters to affirm non-discrimination.
I have no illusions here that even a mighty cry of Jewish protest will change this policy. It won't. Scouting, like the American flag -- and like God, for that matter -- should belong to all of us, not merely the religious right. But the B.S.A. is right now a captive of Ashcroftism, and we aren't going to change that. Nonetheless, like the lone prophet outside of Sodom, we protest not so much to change the policy as to ensure that this policy doesn't change us.
So, given all this, why didn't I cancel Scout Shabbat? Three reasons:
1) I still wish to support the positive ideals of scouting, as practiced in large part by local Jewish scouting chapters and by other groups whose policies are not in conflict with my beliefs, such as 4-H Clubs, Boys and Girls Clubs of America and Campfire Girls and Boys.
2) I have the deepest sympathy and respect for those who have given their lives for scouting, who are now caught in the middle of this fracas. I can only begin to imagine their disillusionment, both at scouting, for isolating them as Jews, and their congregations, who, overnight, now appear to be condemning all that they have held sacred.
3) The kids. They are what this is all about. I am proud of them and want to show them that. They don't need to get caught in the middle of this dispute. Of course I always wish to teach them of the dangers of discrimination, but that can be done at other times. If there is shame involved, that shame should not be inflicted on them -- only our deepest pride.
So a Stealth Scout Shabbat was held, sans the oath and other B.S.A. rituals, minus all manner of publicity, and with the Reform Movement resolution available in the back for perusal after the service.
Essentially, I found a solution that pleased few and likely enraged many. It was my small way of trying to teach my congregants a simple lesson: As Jews, and especially as Conservative Jews, we should aim to reject knee-jerk responses, eschew extremist answers and forge a path of synthesis where such a path is possible. It's never easy, it's occasionally impossible, but it’s also what lends my movement its authenticity and creative energy. Some might call my congregation’s version of Scout Shabbat a cop-out. I see it as an example of Conservative Judaism at its very best.
I’ve been sitting on this matter for weeks, hoping it would go away by itself. Alas it hasn’t, so now I feel that I have no choice but to come clean, to bring my little secret out of the proverbial closet.
Yes, it’s true.
My congregation recently hosted a Scout Shabbat.
A year ago, this would not have been such news, certainly nothing to hang my head over. Synagogues have been setting aside Shabbat services to honor scouts and scouting for decades. Not only does it offer us the chance to endorse those ideas of scouting that are perfectly compatible with our Jewish values, such as honesty, loyalty and faith, but it also enables Jewish children to know that their congregation is proud of all their achievements. When we began discussing the idea of hosting a Scout Shabbat many months ago, we set the date with these noble goals in mind.
Then life got complicated. Last summer, the Boy Scouts of America won a Supreme Court decision, by a 5-4 margin (sound familiar?), affirming their right to maintain a policy of discrimination against gay scoutmasters, and, at least indirectly, gay scouts as well. It is not a policy I can endorse.
If I were a scoutmaster who was actively proselytizing my beliefs in the hopes of converting my group to Judaism, the Boy Scouts of America would have every right to fire me. But that does not mean that they have a right to set a policy that no rabbi or self-proclaiming Jew may be hired, that only "closet" Jews need apply. Even if they have the legal right to discriminate in this manner, I feel that I have a moral obligation to oppose it.
Admittedly, the question of sexual orientation and religious values is not a simple matter. Conservative Judaism is struggling with this issue in regard to ordaining gay/lesbian rabbis and hiring out-of-closet staff in the synagogue. My congregation is at odds with many in my movement in that we do not discriminate based on sexual orientation in our hiring policies or in selecting board members. I also advocate the ordination of gay and lesbian rabbis, although I can understand the concerns of those who do not.
The issue here for me, however, is not whether the Torah is endorsing a particular sexual orientation; it is a question of simple discrimination. Yes, there are times when boundaries must be drawn -- the Pope should not be accepted to rabbinical school, for example, without first converting, nor should I be admitted to the College of Cardinals. But this is not one of those times. Jews, of all people, understand the pain of prejudice, and the combined afflictions of AIDS and violent gay-bashing are wake-up calls that all of us must hear. Further, while I do not subscribe to the notion that everything stemming from the religious right is evil, this is a case where Christian fundamentalists are trying to impose their own perception of God's will on the boy scouts and on the rest of us. Therefore, I support the resolution issued in January by the leadership of the Reform movement, calling upon local scouting chapters to publicly amend their charters to affirm non-discrimination.
I have no illusions here that even a mighty cry of Jewish protest will change this policy. It won't. Scouting, like the American flag -- and like God, for that matter -- should belong to all of us, not merely the religious right. But the B.S.A. is right now a captive of Ashcroftism, and we aren't going to change that. Nonetheless, like the lone prophet outside of Sodom, we protest not so much to change the policy as to ensure that this policy doesn't change us.
So, given all this, why didn't I cancel Scout Shabbat? Three reasons:
1) I still wish to support the positive ideals of scouting, as practiced in large part by local Jewish scouting chapters and by other groups whose policies are not in conflict with my beliefs, such as 4-H Clubs, Boys and Girls Clubs of America and Campfire Girls and Boys.
2) I have the deepest sympathy and respect for those who have given their lives for scouting, who are now caught in the middle of this fracas. I can only begin to imagine their disillusionment, both at scouting, for isolating them as Jews, and their congregations, who, overnight, now appear to be condemning all that they have held sacred.
3) The kids. They are what this is all about. I am proud of them and want to show them that. They don't need to get caught in the middle of this dispute. Of course I always wish to teach them of the dangers of discrimination, but that can be done at other times. If there is shame involved, that shame should not be inflicted on them -- only our deepest pride.
So a Stealth Scout Shabbat was held, sans the oath and other B.S.A. rituals, minus all manner of publicity, and with the Reform Movement resolution available in the back for perusal after the service.
Essentially, I found a solution that pleased few and likely enraged many. It was my small way of trying to teach my congregants a simple lesson: As Jews, and especially as Conservative Jews, we should aim to reject knee-jerk responses, eschew extremist answers and forge a path of synthesis where such a path is possible. It's never easy, it's occasionally impossible, but it’s also what lends my movement its authenticity and creative energy. Some might call my congregation’s version of Scout Shabbat a cop-out. I see it as an example of Conservative Judaism at its very best.
Link the Holocaust with Tisha b'Av
The Jewish Week, July 2001
Every year as Tisha b’Av rolls around, a natural question arises: If this fast day is meant to commemorate a litany of horrendous tragedies to befall the Jewish people, why not include the Holocaust?
There are a number of valid reasons to segregate the two.
As tragic as these other events are, the Holocaust stands alone regarding the nature of the evil, the scale of its destruction and our proximity to it.
Also, the focus of Tisha b’Av traditionally has been to blame the victim, the assumption being that we sealed our catastrophic destiny through some fault of our own, ranging from idolatry in the case of the first Temple’s downfall to causeless hatred in the case of the second. It would be unthinkable to assign blame in such a manner to the victims of the Shoah, what with the guilty parties so clearly known and the memory of their crimes still so fresh.
Finally, while the ancient prophets and sages were most concerned with reconciling the relationship between a sinning Israel and her God, many moderns have a greater problem with God’s role in the Holocaust than with Israel’s. So Tisha b’Av and the Holocaust would appear to be mutually incompatible.
Or so I thought, until a suspicious package arrived in the mail a few weeks ago, reminding me of that which unites all of our tragedies, ancient and modern, and all of us.
It was crudely wrapped in cardboard, about the size of a book. There was no return address and a very faint postmark. The address label appeared to have been typed on a very old, pre-electric typewriter. My suspicions were aroused further by the fact that the item was addressed to no particular person in the office, just to “Temple Beth El.”
With little hesitation, my secretary and I decided to call the police; they in turn summoned the bomb squad.
For the next two hours, the hallway of my synagogue became yet another emblem of our eternally tragic experience, like any street corner in Afula, bus stop in Tel Aviv, tunnel near Efrat, Jewish restaurant in Paris or synagogue in Vienna. All have been marked by the scent of destruction; all bear the smell of fear, the imprint of the bomb squad, the ineradicable mark of Tisha b’Av.
The specialists cordoned off the area, then carefully X-rayed the package. It turned out to be a book from the synagogue library, an old, yellowing novel written 35 years ago. Most likely a congregant cleaning out the basement discovered it, and not wanting to risk embarrassment, returned it by mail to the synagogue as anonymously as possible.
There’s more. The book is titled “Night Falls in the City,” by Sarah Gainham. Set in Vienna during World War II, it tells of a world crashing down around the protagonist, a Jew living at the center of Europe’s “ancient crucible of an ordered and cultured society.” “With incredible vividness of detail,” says a blurb on the cover, the author “manages to create an atmosphere of hate, vengeance and fear,” demonstrating “profound insight into … the weakness, heroism, and capacity for self-deception of all human beings.”
Sarah Gainham is one talented author. Not only did she create such an atmosphere in her book, but she was able to stir up the same fear and self-deception in my co-workers and me before we even had a chance to open it.
The incident reminded me that there is a fine line between legitimate caution and irrational fear, the type of knee-jerk trepidation that has convinced so many to cancel trips to Israel this year. For although the dangers are real, the dread has been disproportionate, just as mine was regarding the package. We’ve been pushing the panic button far too quickly of late.
The Columbia Encyclopedia defines paranoia as “a term denoting persistent, unalterable, systematized, logically reasoned delusions … usually of persecution or grandeur. In the former case the paranoiac creates a complex delusional system that purports to show that people want to hurt him; in the latter, he sees himself as an exalted person with a mission of great importance.”
Incredibly, we Jews fit the definition both ways: We’ve got the persecution complex and the delusions of grandeur. One could easily argue that if ever a nation has earned the right to be afraid of its shadow, it’s us. People really do want to hurt us. Our Temple was destroyed, twice. We were evicted from almost every country in Europe and butchered in the ones that let us stay. One-third of our people were indeed destroyed a generation ago. Our extended hand of peace has been rejected emphatically by human bombs. All the tragedies of our past, including the Holocaust, appear to be linked in delivering the resounding message that there is no one and nothing left to trust.
And that is precisely why we need to link Tisha b’Av and Yom HaShoah.
The issue is no longer who’s to blame and how could we have avoided these disasters. It’s now a matter of how can we live on in spite of them. That eternal Jewish quest to rebuild hope among the embers is harmed greatly by the assumption that enemies lurk around every corner and that every terrorist’s bullet is aimed directly at me.
As Isaac Mayer Wise wrote a hundred years before Auschwitz, “God gives us a thousand joys for each affliction, a thousand smiles for each tear.” Although that number would have to be amended substantially downward after the Holocaust, nonetheless, we who have lived Gainham’s novel and seen night fall in the city so many times — we who put the “oy” in paranoia — have got to overcome our fear of the dark.
Every year as Tisha b’Av rolls around, a natural question arises: If this fast day is meant to commemorate a litany of horrendous tragedies to befall the Jewish people, why not include the Holocaust?
There are a number of valid reasons to segregate the two.
As tragic as these other events are, the Holocaust stands alone regarding the nature of the evil, the scale of its destruction and our proximity to it.
Also, the focus of Tisha b’Av traditionally has been to blame the victim, the assumption being that we sealed our catastrophic destiny through some fault of our own, ranging from idolatry in the case of the first Temple’s downfall to causeless hatred in the case of the second. It would be unthinkable to assign blame in such a manner to the victims of the Shoah, what with the guilty parties so clearly known and the memory of their crimes still so fresh.
Finally, while the ancient prophets and sages were most concerned with reconciling the relationship between a sinning Israel and her God, many moderns have a greater problem with God’s role in the Holocaust than with Israel’s. So Tisha b’Av and the Holocaust would appear to be mutually incompatible.
Or so I thought, until a suspicious package arrived in the mail a few weeks ago, reminding me of that which unites all of our tragedies, ancient and modern, and all of us.
It was crudely wrapped in cardboard, about the size of a book. There was no return address and a very faint postmark. The address label appeared to have been typed on a very old, pre-electric typewriter. My suspicions were aroused further by the fact that the item was addressed to no particular person in the office, just to “Temple Beth El.”
With little hesitation, my secretary and I decided to call the police; they in turn summoned the bomb squad.
For the next two hours, the hallway of my synagogue became yet another emblem of our eternally tragic experience, like any street corner in Afula, bus stop in Tel Aviv, tunnel near Efrat, Jewish restaurant in Paris or synagogue in Vienna. All have been marked by the scent of destruction; all bear the smell of fear, the imprint of the bomb squad, the ineradicable mark of Tisha b’Av.
The specialists cordoned off the area, then carefully X-rayed the package. It turned out to be a book from the synagogue library, an old, yellowing novel written 35 years ago. Most likely a congregant cleaning out the basement discovered it, and not wanting to risk embarrassment, returned it by mail to the synagogue as anonymously as possible.
There’s more. The book is titled “Night Falls in the City,” by Sarah Gainham. Set in Vienna during World War II, it tells of a world crashing down around the protagonist, a Jew living at the center of Europe’s “ancient crucible of an ordered and cultured society.” “With incredible vividness of detail,” says a blurb on the cover, the author “manages to create an atmosphere of hate, vengeance and fear,” demonstrating “profound insight into … the weakness, heroism, and capacity for self-deception of all human beings.”
Sarah Gainham is one talented author. Not only did she create such an atmosphere in her book, but she was able to stir up the same fear and self-deception in my co-workers and me before we even had a chance to open it.
The incident reminded me that there is a fine line between legitimate caution and irrational fear, the type of knee-jerk trepidation that has convinced so many to cancel trips to Israel this year. For although the dangers are real, the dread has been disproportionate, just as mine was regarding the package. We’ve been pushing the panic button far too quickly of late.
The Columbia Encyclopedia defines paranoia as “a term denoting persistent, unalterable, systematized, logically reasoned delusions … usually of persecution or grandeur. In the former case the paranoiac creates a complex delusional system that purports to show that people want to hurt him; in the latter, he sees himself as an exalted person with a mission of great importance.”
Incredibly, we Jews fit the definition both ways: We’ve got the persecution complex and the delusions of grandeur. One could easily argue that if ever a nation has earned the right to be afraid of its shadow, it’s us. People really do want to hurt us. Our Temple was destroyed, twice. We were evicted from almost every country in Europe and butchered in the ones that let us stay. One-third of our people were indeed destroyed a generation ago. Our extended hand of peace has been rejected emphatically by human bombs. All the tragedies of our past, including the Holocaust, appear to be linked in delivering the resounding message that there is no one and nothing left to trust.
And that is precisely why we need to link Tisha b’Av and Yom HaShoah.
The issue is no longer who’s to blame and how could we have avoided these disasters. It’s now a matter of how can we live on in spite of them. That eternal Jewish quest to rebuild hope among the embers is harmed greatly by the assumption that enemies lurk around every corner and that every terrorist’s bullet is aimed directly at me.
As Isaac Mayer Wise wrote a hundred years before Auschwitz, “God gives us a thousand joys for each affliction, a thousand smiles for each tear.” Although that number would have to be amended substantially downward after the Holocaust, nonetheless, we who have lived Gainham’s novel and seen night fall in the city so many times — we who put the “oy” in paranoia — have got to overcome our fear of the dark.
Hugging Through Glass
The Jewish Week, December 7, 2001
When the Israeli novelist David Grossman first visited America, he commented, “Americans are very polite, but trying to relate to them is like kissing through glass.” Now, following a year of unprecedented suffering in Israel and a day of unimaginable horror here, the relationship between Israelis and American Jews has changed in remarkable ways. The Sabra’s legendary coarse exterior has peeled away, revealing vulnerability rarely seen before by outsiders, and the hard crusty New Yorker has softened in kind.
I was in Israel a few weeks ago on a solidarity trip from my community and was dumbfounded by how grateful Israelis were to see me. Every time an Israeli began to thank our group so humbly and profusely I was tempted to shout out, “Wait a minute! There’s something wrong with this picture! You’re supposed to be chastising us for not living here and we’re supposed to be complaining about your rudeness. Have I landed in Tel Aviv or Mister Rodgers neighborhood?”
An epidemic of niceness has broken out. Have you ever been on a tour where no one in the group complained about anything? That’s what happened, despite the usual assortment of glitches. It’s amazing how even an empty hotel couldn’t provide enough towels in some of the rooms; but even more incredible that it didn’t matter. Our purpose in going to Israel was not to be comfortable. It was, in fact, just the opposite: we were there to feel their pain, and for them to feel ours.
Remember the Yehuda Amichai poem, “Tourists,” where the author chastises camera-toting visitors for using him as a target marker for a Roman ruin? The poem concludes: “I said to
myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, ‘You see that arch from the Roman period? It’s not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who’s bought fruits and vegetables for his family.””
Well, redemption may be at hand. There are precious few tourists on the streets of Jerusalem right now, but those who are there are sitting with the vegetable shopper in Gilo and virtually ignoring that Roman arch. All the old grudges have been set aside; the condescension has melted away. I’ve never felt more enriched by a visit to Israel, yet I used up barely a single roll of film. There was far less posing and a lot more hugging.
Everything has changed and we haven’t gained our bearings yet. Because of that, Israelis and Americans are still talking past each other, however genteelly. Israelis are resigned to the near disappearance of tourism, but they are bitter that a number of American students, including those from various rabbinical programs, have chosen to forego their overseas studies in Israel.
What they don’t understand is that, for Americans, the issue is no longer merely whether it is safe to visit Israel, but whether it is fair to leave one’s own family for a semester when the situation here is also perilous. I felt that same tug in leaving my family behind in the throes of the anthrax scare, even though I was in Israel for less than a week. They don’t understand that Americans are nesting right now; we’re not even going to Disney world for a week, much less to Mount Scopus for a year.
Most Israelis I spoke to also doubt America’s resolve to carry out the war on terror to its rightful conclusion, indicating, again, that they have no idea just how deep our wound runs. On the one hand, they’ve adjusted to living under constant pressure and vigilance and have become numbed to atrocity, and on the other hand, they’ve never experienced so terrible a blow to the very symbols of their society’s existence. How otherwise could they doubt our resolve, knowing that millions of Americans gaze tearfully at downtown Manhattan each day while crossing bridges or flying overhead? This national nightmare is far from fading away.
And how could they begin to imagine our shock, when the most recent comparable “ground zero” experience over there took place some 2,000 years ago, when the Second Temple was destroyed? Masada has not fallen again, but the World Trade Center has.
They can’t possibly understand, and it shows. Only days after the 9/11 attacks, Israeli TV insensitively showed the film “Independence Day,” and in early November a screening of “Deep Impact” followed that up. Both films feature fictitious decimations of New York and Washington. That’s like showing reruns of “Hogans Heroes” on Yom HaShoah – in 1945. On many El Al flights, just before landing a photo of the destination is projected onto the TV monitors. Let’s just say that as my plane approached JFK, they flashed an “old” photo of the New York skyline. I pulled over a stewardess and commented on how insensitive this was, especially toward Americans returning to their still-grieving city. In fact, it hardly mattered, because there were so few Americans on this nearly full flight.
They don’t understand us and we don’t even come close to understanding them. Our kids still go to malls and movies with little concern. We have little doubt that the bus will make it home from school. New York is looking to recover tourists, but in Israel many great hotels have closed down completely. Guides are moonlighting as couriers. This might be the greatest economic crisis in Israel’s history, but the monetary loss of the entire tourism industry is only secondary to the psychological impact of feeling utterly abandoned.
Now more than ever, American Jews need to visit Israel. With everyone feeling so vulnerable, a group hug is in order -- and the more we hug as fellow Jews, the more Israel and America will come together as nations. It used to be that we needed to visit Israel to show them that we care. Now we need to visit there all the more, to show our fellow Americans why.
When the Israeli novelist David Grossman first visited America, he commented, “Americans are very polite, but trying to relate to them is like kissing through glass.” Now, following a year of unprecedented suffering in Israel and a day of unimaginable horror here, the relationship between Israelis and American Jews has changed in remarkable ways. The Sabra’s legendary coarse exterior has peeled away, revealing vulnerability rarely seen before by outsiders, and the hard crusty New Yorker has softened in kind.
I was in Israel a few weeks ago on a solidarity trip from my community and was dumbfounded by how grateful Israelis were to see me. Every time an Israeli began to thank our group so humbly and profusely I was tempted to shout out, “Wait a minute! There’s something wrong with this picture! You’re supposed to be chastising us for not living here and we’re supposed to be complaining about your rudeness. Have I landed in Tel Aviv or Mister Rodgers neighborhood?”
An epidemic of niceness has broken out. Have you ever been on a tour where no one in the group complained about anything? That’s what happened, despite the usual assortment of glitches. It’s amazing how even an empty hotel couldn’t provide enough towels in some of the rooms; but even more incredible that it didn’t matter. Our purpose in going to Israel was not to be comfortable. It was, in fact, just the opposite: we were there to feel their pain, and for them to feel ours.
Remember the Yehuda Amichai poem, “Tourists,” where the author chastises camera-toting visitors for using him as a target marker for a Roman ruin? The poem concludes: “I said to
myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, ‘You see that arch from the Roman period? It’s not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who’s bought fruits and vegetables for his family.””
Well, redemption may be at hand. There are precious few tourists on the streets of Jerusalem right now, but those who are there are sitting with the vegetable shopper in Gilo and virtually ignoring that Roman arch. All the old grudges have been set aside; the condescension has melted away. I’ve never felt more enriched by a visit to Israel, yet I used up barely a single roll of film. There was far less posing and a lot more hugging.
Everything has changed and we haven’t gained our bearings yet. Because of that, Israelis and Americans are still talking past each other, however genteelly. Israelis are resigned to the near disappearance of tourism, but they are bitter that a number of American students, including those from various rabbinical programs, have chosen to forego their overseas studies in Israel.
What they don’t understand is that, for Americans, the issue is no longer merely whether it is safe to visit Israel, but whether it is fair to leave one’s own family for a semester when the situation here is also perilous. I felt that same tug in leaving my family behind in the throes of the anthrax scare, even though I was in Israel for less than a week. They don’t understand that Americans are nesting right now; we’re not even going to Disney world for a week, much less to Mount Scopus for a year.
Most Israelis I spoke to also doubt America’s resolve to carry out the war on terror to its rightful conclusion, indicating, again, that they have no idea just how deep our wound runs. On the one hand, they’ve adjusted to living under constant pressure and vigilance and have become numbed to atrocity, and on the other hand, they’ve never experienced so terrible a blow to the very symbols of their society’s existence. How otherwise could they doubt our resolve, knowing that millions of Americans gaze tearfully at downtown Manhattan each day while crossing bridges or flying overhead? This national nightmare is far from fading away.
And how could they begin to imagine our shock, when the most recent comparable “ground zero” experience over there took place some 2,000 years ago, when the Second Temple was destroyed? Masada has not fallen again, but the World Trade Center has.
They can’t possibly understand, and it shows. Only days after the 9/11 attacks, Israeli TV insensitively showed the film “Independence Day,” and in early November a screening of “Deep Impact” followed that up. Both films feature fictitious decimations of New York and Washington. That’s like showing reruns of “Hogans Heroes” on Yom HaShoah – in 1945. On many El Al flights, just before landing a photo of the destination is projected onto the TV monitors. Let’s just say that as my plane approached JFK, they flashed an “old” photo of the New York skyline. I pulled over a stewardess and commented on how insensitive this was, especially toward Americans returning to their still-grieving city. In fact, it hardly mattered, because there were so few Americans on this nearly full flight.
They don’t understand us and we don’t even come close to understanding them. Our kids still go to malls and movies with little concern. We have little doubt that the bus will make it home from school. New York is looking to recover tourists, but in Israel many great hotels have closed down completely. Guides are moonlighting as couriers. This might be the greatest economic crisis in Israel’s history, but the monetary loss of the entire tourism industry is only secondary to the psychological impact of feeling utterly abandoned.
Now more than ever, American Jews need to visit Israel. With everyone feeling so vulnerable, a group hug is in order -- and the more we hug as fellow Jews, the more Israel and America will come together as nations. It used to be that we needed to visit Israel to show them that we care. Now we need to visit there all the more, to show our fellow Americans why.
Gibson's 'Midrash'
The Jewish Week, March 2, 2004
The day after “The Passion” was released; I received an e-mail from one of my college students, and it occurred to me that this movie might actually be good for the Jews. She wrote of her confusion after seeing the film, how her nine years of day school education did not prepare her for the avalanche of accusations, questions and emotions evoked by it. She then added, “I’ve been too disconnected lately from my religion and I thought you should know that this movie may have worked to reconnect me to my Judaism; oh the irony!”
As rabbis and others have discovered these past few weeks, Mel Gibson’s Midrash on the Gospels might be the best stimulus for Jewish education since Santa first donned a red suit. The more that Jews want to learn about the chaotic 1st century, the more they will learn about a crucial formative stage of their own tradition. Ask me about Jesus and Paul and I’ll throw in Hillel and Shammai, free of charge. And they also can learn about Midrash itself – that uniquely Jewish form of interpreting a sacred text, often through embellishment.
Not that I liked the film – I found it infuriating. Gibson went to great lengths to paint – literally – the Jewish leaders of that time in the most sinister possible light. The use of menacing make-up contributed to the facial expressions that make the arched-browed High Priest Caiaphas look downright diabolical. The devil, by comparison, looks like a girl scout, and Pontius Pilate, a notorious psychopath according to contemporary historians, comes across like a wimpy Jimmy Carter unable to face down the priestly Ayatollah. In addition to this make-up-as-Midrash, Gibson’s embellishment of New Testament dialogue has been well documented.
If anyone comes off looking worse than Caiaphas, it’s God. I tried to imagine how a believing Christian would feel watching a film in which Father inflicts upon Son the Mother of all beatings. This is God as Rambo; the kindly grandfather-in-the-sky transformed into the Zeydeh of Sadism. There is no love here, no compassion – from God or from Jesus. Even the occasional miracle healings are performed more as David Copperfield stunts than divine caresses. In an instant, all those old anti-Semitic stereotypes about the kinder, gentler New Testament God are wiped away.
The genius of “Shindler’s List” was that the Nazis’ sadism never got beyond the Nazis, as the camera always turned away at the appropriate moment. Here, the brutality of the Roman soldiers seems to have infected the director. The camera seems enamored of the gore, treating us to torture in Super-Slo motion. And since “The Passion” forces us to take a God’s eye view of these events, right to that hokey divine teardrop at the end, we are left with no alternative but to believe that God is the ultimate voyeur, no better than that rubbernecker drawn to car crashes on the Cross Bronx. If I were a Christian watching this film, I’d be irate.
Despite all of this, Mel Gibson has as much right to create Midrash as Cecil B. DeMille did. I do not foresee anti-Semitic rioting resulting from this release. For mainstream Christians not predisposed to Jew-hatred, i.e., the vast majority, the film will stir up some genuine piety. The innocent Christian observer will focus far more on the familiar Sunday School touchstones than the make-up on Caiaphas, and will see it all as the unfolding of God’s plan rather than a malicious Jewish conspiracy. But they will miss the subtle deviations from the text and incorporate some into their imagination of these mythic events, and that is where the danger lies.
That’s what happens when powerful visual media incorporate Midrash, when one filmmaker’s vision of sacred scripture itself becomes a sacred tableau. Generations have grown up thinking that Moses looked like Charlton Heston. We confuse the revolt of Dathan and his hoard with the Golden Calf incident because DeMille synthesized them in “The Ten Commandments,” and we visualize a fraternal rivalry between Moses and Pharaoh that is never discussed in the Torah. Similarly, Christian viewers of “The Passion” will assimilate into their personal belief system the indelible image of Jewish leaders in their prayer shawls enjoying a good flaying.
If we all could distinguish text from commentary and sacred narrative from historical reality, movies as Midrash would pose little danger. But movies simply look too real. The screen is too literal, freezing and confining our perceptions, while the page is quite literally an open book. Midrash was meant for that literary environment, where it can breathe on its own. The power of the filmmaker is far too great because his graven images are so easily confused with truth.
Add to this the worldwide growth of fundamentalism, the religious equivalent of psychosis, best defined as the inability to differentiate between text and Midrash. Fundamentalism has infected all faiths, including Judaism, and in film it has found the ideal medium to feed its literalist frenzy.
The pope was said to have commented that Gibson’s film, “Is as it was.” The pope evidently never said that, but his non-statement brings us to the very heart of the problem. No film is as it really was, and no Midrash is what the text really meant to say. No one knows exactly what took place in Jerusalem those many centuries ago. No one, that is, but the One on High who is beyond all celluloid illusion (and Mr. Spielberg ‘aint telling).
The filmmaker’s freedom of speech should never be questioned. But Mel Gibson was – at best – irresponsible to add a new element of bigotry to the most dangerous story ever told. To revive the passion that launched a thousand pogroms is almost the equivalent of shouting “Midrash” in a crowded theater. We should be increasingly wary of this combustible amalgamation of visual image and inflated commentary.
In this medium, the Midrash becomes the message.
The day after “The Passion” was released; I received an e-mail from one of my college students, and it occurred to me that this movie might actually be good for the Jews. She wrote of her confusion after seeing the film, how her nine years of day school education did not prepare her for the avalanche of accusations, questions and emotions evoked by it. She then added, “I’ve been too disconnected lately from my religion and I thought you should know that this movie may have worked to reconnect me to my Judaism; oh the irony!”
As rabbis and others have discovered these past few weeks, Mel Gibson’s Midrash on the Gospels might be the best stimulus for Jewish education since Santa first donned a red suit. The more that Jews want to learn about the chaotic 1st century, the more they will learn about a crucial formative stage of their own tradition. Ask me about Jesus and Paul and I’ll throw in Hillel and Shammai, free of charge. And they also can learn about Midrash itself – that uniquely Jewish form of interpreting a sacred text, often through embellishment.
Not that I liked the film – I found it infuriating. Gibson went to great lengths to paint – literally – the Jewish leaders of that time in the most sinister possible light. The use of menacing make-up contributed to the facial expressions that make the arched-browed High Priest Caiaphas look downright diabolical. The devil, by comparison, looks like a girl scout, and Pontius Pilate, a notorious psychopath according to contemporary historians, comes across like a wimpy Jimmy Carter unable to face down the priestly Ayatollah. In addition to this make-up-as-Midrash, Gibson’s embellishment of New Testament dialogue has been well documented.
If anyone comes off looking worse than Caiaphas, it’s God. I tried to imagine how a believing Christian would feel watching a film in which Father inflicts upon Son the Mother of all beatings. This is God as Rambo; the kindly grandfather-in-the-sky transformed into the Zeydeh of Sadism. There is no love here, no compassion – from God or from Jesus. Even the occasional miracle healings are performed more as David Copperfield stunts than divine caresses. In an instant, all those old anti-Semitic stereotypes about the kinder, gentler New Testament God are wiped away.
The genius of “Shindler’s List” was that the Nazis’ sadism never got beyond the Nazis, as the camera always turned away at the appropriate moment. Here, the brutality of the Roman soldiers seems to have infected the director. The camera seems enamored of the gore, treating us to torture in Super-Slo motion. And since “The Passion” forces us to take a God’s eye view of these events, right to that hokey divine teardrop at the end, we are left with no alternative but to believe that God is the ultimate voyeur, no better than that rubbernecker drawn to car crashes on the Cross Bronx. If I were a Christian watching this film, I’d be irate.
Despite all of this, Mel Gibson has as much right to create Midrash as Cecil B. DeMille did. I do not foresee anti-Semitic rioting resulting from this release. For mainstream Christians not predisposed to Jew-hatred, i.e., the vast majority, the film will stir up some genuine piety. The innocent Christian observer will focus far more on the familiar Sunday School touchstones than the make-up on Caiaphas, and will see it all as the unfolding of God’s plan rather than a malicious Jewish conspiracy. But they will miss the subtle deviations from the text and incorporate some into their imagination of these mythic events, and that is where the danger lies.
That’s what happens when powerful visual media incorporate Midrash, when one filmmaker’s vision of sacred scripture itself becomes a sacred tableau. Generations have grown up thinking that Moses looked like Charlton Heston. We confuse the revolt of Dathan and his hoard with the Golden Calf incident because DeMille synthesized them in “The Ten Commandments,” and we visualize a fraternal rivalry between Moses and Pharaoh that is never discussed in the Torah. Similarly, Christian viewers of “The Passion” will assimilate into their personal belief system the indelible image of Jewish leaders in their prayer shawls enjoying a good flaying.
If we all could distinguish text from commentary and sacred narrative from historical reality, movies as Midrash would pose little danger. But movies simply look too real. The screen is too literal, freezing and confining our perceptions, while the page is quite literally an open book. Midrash was meant for that literary environment, where it can breathe on its own. The power of the filmmaker is far too great because his graven images are so easily confused with truth.
Add to this the worldwide growth of fundamentalism, the religious equivalent of psychosis, best defined as the inability to differentiate between text and Midrash. Fundamentalism has infected all faiths, including Judaism, and in film it has found the ideal medium to feed its literalist frenzy.
The pope was said to have commented that Gibson’s film, “Is as it was.” The pope evidently never said that, but his non-statement brings us to the very heart of the problem. No film is as it really was, and no Midrash is what the text really meant to say. No one knows exactly what took place in Jerusalem those many centuries ago. No one, that is, but the One on High who is beyond all celluloid illusion (and Mr. Spielberg ‘aint telling).
The filmmaker’s freedom of speech should never be questioned. But Mel Gibson was – at best – irresponsible to add a new element of bigotry to the most dangerous story ever told. To revive the passion that launched a thousand pogroms is almost the equivalent of shouting “Midrash” in a crowded theater. We should be increasingly wary of this combustible amalgamation of visual image and inflated commentary.
In this medium, the Midrash becomes the message.
Getting to YES
The Jewish Week, May 24, 2002
I am in a very precarious position at the moment. You see, I am a life-long Boston Red Sox fan living in Cablevision-land who happens to have access to something extremely valuable: Yankees games on the YES network. Ironically, I acquired a satellite dish a few years ago specifically to enable my children to grow up with their Sox on. DirecTV was my only hedge against their assimilation into Yankeedom. And it has worked. Now my kids have the pleasure of suffering both from an upsurge of global anti-Semitism and from not having won the World Series since 1918.
For me, this is a classic win-win. If the Yankees lose, the Sox gain ground. If the Yankees win, their die-hard supporters suffer from not being able to watch them.
But I've come to realize that it's not just Yankee fans who have been trying desperately to get to YES recently. It's been a very depressing year for all of us, a year when affirmation has seemed a distant dream.
Golda Meir once said: "Pessimism is a luxury a Jew cannot allow himself." We need, so desperately, to get to the kind of "Yes" that comes from deep within the soul, one that can overcome all the little things that get in the way, and the big things too, a "Yes" embedded in profound faith; a "Yes" that is embodied by the liturgical response "Amen."
"Amen" appears 30 times in the Bible, mostly in formulaic endorsements of blessings, curses and oaths. In our liturgy, the word almost always comes as a response to hearing a blessing recited. The custom of responding with "Amen" developed centuries before Gutenberg, when only the prayer leader had the written words in front of him, so the rest of the congregation had one chance only to state, unequivocally, that it endorsed every word spoken, by saying "Amen."
In the great synagogue of Alexandria, Egypt, two thousand years ago, the hall was so spacious that the people in the back couldn't hear the prayers being recited. So when a blessing was finished, the cantor would wave a huge flag and the people in the cheap seats would know that it was time to say, "Amen."
Jewish legend stresses the great religious value of responding Amen, saying it prolongs life and promotes forgiveness from sin. Even God nods "Amen" to the blessings offered up by mortals. "Whoever says Amen with all his strength," said the rabbis, "to that person the Gates of Paradise will be opened." That's where we need to get to - an "Amen" that forces open the Gates of Paradise.
The Jews of Alexandria couldn't hear all the words, but they knew what they were signing on to. So when they heard the Kiddush on Shabbat, they knew that this prayer is a testimony, that the Shabbat itself is a testimony to Creation and to a miraculous liberation from a place called Mitzrayim. When we say "Amen" to the Kiddush, we are affirming that there is a direction to history, a foundation for morality and a purpose for Jewish peoplehood. We are saying that miracles do happen if we work in partnership with God. We are signing on to all those things, we are sealing the deal, and we're even toasting the agreement.
We are getting to "Yes."
By saying "Amen" we are suspending some of our doubts and laying our cynicism and fatalism aside in order to be full participants in the cosmic experiment known as the Jewish people. We are taking a leap of faith. Every "Amen" is one more "Yes" to life that can counteract all the negativity that we hear out there. It's a "Yes" to being human, a "Yes" to cherishing every moment, every encounter, every morsel that we eat; it is a "Yes" to seeing all of life as a blessing. When we adopt this "Amen" mentality, we can begin to turn away from all that holds us down and really enjoy our few, fleeting days of life.
And now, the cry of our generation, our most sacred obligation of the moment, is for each of us to stand up unabashedly and say "Yes" in solidarity with Israel and against terror. We owe it to America. We owe it to Israel, to ourselves and our children, to the world.
But we have a problem. Judaism is a glass-half-full religion. Unfortunately, however, most Jews are glass-half-empty people, weighed down by our glass-mostly-empty recent history. Take a look at a recent American Jewish Committee survey of American Jews. Only 9 percent of those surveyed think anti-Semitism will decline over the next five years. OK, given how things are in the world right now, that's understandable. But look at this: fully forty percent actually disagreed with the statement, "Virtually all positions of influence in the United States are open to Jews." This survey was conducted exactly one year after an identifiably Jewish individual nearly became Vice President. How soon we forget! And this pessimism appears at a time when, according to the Wall Street Journal, high-ranking colleges are fighting to recruit more Jewish students to their campuses.
Abba Eban called us the people who could "never take "yes" for an answer." The Torah and the Jewish people seem to be the worst mismatch since, well, the Red Sox and the Yankees. Our tradition has provided us with an eternal hook-up to the YES network, yet far too few have subscribed.
We get another chance to do that now. As we prepare once again to ascend Sinai on Shavuot, we can't allow ourselves to wallow in pessimism and self-pity. Heck, even the Red Sox have a shot at winning it all this year. If they can do it, surely anything is possible. Neither Cablevision nor Arafat should keep any of us from getting to YES this year. As the rooters of that other New York team used to say, "You Gotta Believe."
I am in a very precarious position at the moment. You see, I am a life-long Boston Red Sox fan living in Cablevision-land who happens to have access to something extremely valuable: Yankees games on the YES network. Ironically, I acquired a satellite dish a few years ago specifically to enable my children to grow up with their Sox on. DirecTV was my only hedge against their assimilation into Yankeedom. And it has worked. Now my kids have the pleasure of suffering both from an upsurge of global anti-Semitism and from not having won the World Series since 1918.
For me, this is a classic win-win. If the Yankees lose, the Sox gain ground. If the Yankees win, their die-hard supporters suffer from not being able to watch them.
But I've come to realize that it's not just Yankee fans who have been trying desperately to get to YES recently. It's been a very depressing year for all of us, a year when affirmation has seemed a distant dream.
Golda Meir once said: "Pessimism is a luxury a Jew cannot allow himself." We need, so desperately, to get to the kind of "Yes" that comes from deep within the soul, one that can overcome all the little things that get in the way, and the big things too, a "Yes" embedded in profound faith; a "Yes" that is embodied by the liturgical response "Amen."
"Amen" appears 30 times in the Bible, mostly in formulaic endorsements of blessings, curses and oaths. In our liturgy, the word almost always comes as a response to hearing a blessing recited. The custom of responding with "Amen" developed centuries before Gutenberg, when only the prayer leader had the written words in front of him, so the rest of the congregation had one chance only to state, unequivocally, that it endorsed every word spoken, by saying "Amen."
In the great synagogue of Alexandria, Egypt, two thousand years ago, the hall was so spacious that the people in the back couldn't hear the prayers being recited. So when a blessing was finished, the cantor would wave a huge flag and the people in the cheap seats would know that it was time to say, "Amen."
Jewish legend stresses the great religious value of responding Amen, saying it prolongs life and promotes forgiveness from sin. Even God nods "Amen" to the blessings offered up by mortals. "Whoever says Amen with all his strength," said the rabbis, "to that person the Gates of Paradise will be opened." That's where we need to get to - an "Amen" that forces open the Gates of Paradise.
The Jews of Alexandria couldn't hear all the words, but they knew what they were signing on to. So when they heard the Kiddush on Shabbat, they knew that this prayer is a testimony, that the Shabbat itself is a testimony to Creation and to a miraculous liberation from a place called Mitzrayim. When we say "Amen" to the Kiddush, we are affirming that there is a direction to history, a foundation for morality and a purpose for Jewish peoplehood. We are saying that miracles do happen if we work in partnership with God. We are signing on to all those things, we are sealing the deal, and we're even toasting the agreement.
We are getting to "Yes."
By saying "Amen" we are suspending some of our doubts and laying our cynicism and fatalism aside in order to be full participants in the cosmic experiment known as the Jewish people. We are taking a leap of faith. Every "Amen" is one more "Yes" to life that can counteract all the negativity that we hear out there. It's a "Yes" to being human, a "Yes" to cherishing every moment, every encounter, every morsel that we eat; it is a "Yes" to seeing all of life as a blessing. When we adopt this "Amen" mentality, we can begin to turn away from all that holds us down and really enjoy our few, fleeting days of life.
And now, the cry of our generation, our most sacred obligation of the moment, is for each of us to stand up unabashedly and say "Yes" in solidarity with Israel and against terror. We owe it to America. We owe it to Israel, to ourselves and our children, to the world.
But we have a problem. Judaism is a glass-half-full religion. Unfortunately, however, most Jews are glass-half-empty people, weighed down by our glass-mostly-empty recent history. Take a look at a recent American Jewish Committee survey of American Jews. Only 9 percent of those surveyed think anti-Semitism will decline over the next five years. OK, given how things are in the world right now, that's understandable. But look at this: fully forty percent actually disagreed with the statement, "Virtually all positions of influence in the United States are open to Jews." This survey was conducted exactly one year after an identifiably Jewish individual nearly became Vice President. How soon we forget! And this pessimism appears at a time when, according to the Wall Street Journal, high-ranking colleges are fighting to recruit more Jewish students to their campuses.
Abba Eban called us the people who could "never take "yes" for an answer." The Torah and the Jewish people seem to be the worst mismatch since, well, the Red Sox and the Yankees. Our tradition has provided us with an eternal hook-up to the YES network, yet far too few have subscribed.
We get another chance to do that now. As we prepare once again to ascend Sinai on Shavuot, we can't allow ourselves to wallow in pessimism and self-pity. Heck, even the Red Sox have a shot at winning it all this year. If they can do it, surely anything is possible. Neither Cablevision nor Arafat should keep any of us from getting to YES this year. As the rooters of that other New York team used to say, "You Gotta Believe."
Full Circle, Halfway Home
The Jewish Week, November 1, 2002
I was walking on the Upper West Side just before Rosh Hashanah, reflecting on the fast-approaching midpoint of my career -- twenty years out of rabbinical school twenty years to retirement -- when I called to check my voice mail back in Stamford. There was a message from an old friend, the storyteller Peninnah Schram. So here I was, likely standing within shouting distance of Peninnah’s home, retrieving a message that she had called into my office 40 miles away.
Just as her phone message had come full circle, so had everything else: When I arrived in Stamford a decade and a half ago, I invited Peninnah to my congregation’s first weekend retreat. And these many years later, I can still recall listening to her magical tales through that lazy Shabbat afternoon, all the way to Havdalah.
So I called her back and Peninnah had an unusual request. Her son Mordechai had just taken on his first cantorial position and that day had performed his first funeral, a particularly difficult one. She wanted to lend him some support and asked if I might mail her a copy of an article called “A Young Rabbi” that I had written eons ago, shortly after I did my first funeral. Peninnah had shared it with friends over the years and hoped it might help Mordechai too. Prompted by this call out of the blue from an old friend, I was compelled to re-read the piece for the first time in years, and to re-discover my own words and feelings across a bridge spanning half a career.
“It is sad that so many Jewish communities seem to insist that their rabbis shed their youthful innocence as quickly as possible, not understanding that, once that innocence is lost, the childlike sense of wonder and basic human empathy so essential to the job are also left behind…Perhaps early career burnout would be less of a problem among rabbis – and other professionals – if they didn’t feel compelled to spend the first half of their careers trying to look older and the second half striving to regain the vitality of lost youth.”
I sent the article off to Peninnah, who had been by my side at the dawn of my career in Stamford, whose father, like mine, was a cantor; to give to her son, who is at the dawn of his career in New York and who is a cantor, in fact, on the Upper West Side, just a stone’s throw from where I happened to be when I was retrieving his mother’s message, and who in fact now occupies the pulpit of the West End Synagogue, which happened to have been vacated by the fabulous new cantor of my own congregation, Deborah Jacobson, who is now sparking a renaissance here, at the dawn of the Stamford portion of her career.
Got all that down?
Suddenly, this all was beginning to sound like a Peninnah Schram story, one of those heartwarming folk tales of simpler times, where everything seems to come full circle and, in the end, all the loose strands get neatly tied into a happily-ever-after bow.
For mid-career rabbis, things are typically much more complicated.
Much has been made recently of the difficulties of rabbinic life, most notably in the book, “The New Rabbi,” where journalist Stephen Fried highlights these complexities in discussing a rabbinic search process at a distinguished Philadelphia congregation. Beneath the book’s penetrating analysis and on-the-mark humor lurks a dark, unavoidable subtext: the American rabbinate is facing a crisis of morale matched only by the crisis of vision confronting many congregations. This congregation fails in its search because it has no idea where it wants to go. Consequently, the rabbi they are looking for isn’t so much a human being as a shredded fruit salad of contradictory skills and inflated expectations. There is no “happily ever after” in this searing expose.
A telling scene in the book has the author eavesdropping on an older couple conversing about their rabbis in the row behind him at a Shabbat service.
“I don’t like (Rabbi X).” “He’s too…well, something…”
“I like (Rabbi Y),” “He’s nice, friendly.”
“I don’t like him either. He’s too friendly. I don’t want a rabbi who’s friendly.”
That brief snippet points out the ludicrous state of affairs. Rabbis are expected to be: mature yet youthful, serious yet funny, principled yet conciliatory, sophisticated yet homespun, friendly yet firm, 24/7. It is not without reason that Fried’s research led him to the conclusion that the rabbinate (and not the American presidency) is the toughest job in the world. And no wonder, as Rabbi David Wolpe says in Fried’s book, “Vulnerable people in the rabbinate have a tough time.” The more human you are, the more exposed, the less chance you have of making it as a rabbi. If that is true, American Judaism is headed for disaster.
Until we turn to a new model of spiritual leadership, one that champions the idea of the rabbi as a vulnerable, striving-yet-imperfect human being, rabbis and congregations will continue to burn out prematurely. Peninnah’s request reminded me that life’s trajectory can be a thrilling ride, if we greet each day with fresh eyes. In Deuteronomy 26:16, it says, “The Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules, and to observe them faithfully…” Rashi asks why it says “this day?” Why not every day? The commentator’s response: Every day, every time one fulfills a mitzvah, it should feel as if it is the first.
In several weeks my congregants and I will host Peninnah Schram once again, completing yet another circle, at what has now become our annual Shabbaton. And I’ll echo the prayers of Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav:
“Teach me, Dear God, to make a fresh start; to break yesterday’s patterns; to stop telling myself I can’t – when I can; I’m not – when I am; and I’m stuck – when I’m eminently free.”
I was walking on the Upper West Side just before Rosh Hashanah, reflecting on the fast-approaching midpoint of my career -- twenty years out of rabbinical school twenty years to retirement -- when I called to check my voice mail back in Stamford. There was a message from an old friend, the storyteller Peninnah Schram. So here I was, likely standing within shouting distance of Peninnah’s home, retrieving a message that she had called into my office 40 miles away.
Just as her phone message had come full circle, so had everything else: When I arrived in Stamford a decade and a half ago, I invited Peninnah to my congregation’s first weekend retreat. And these many years later, I can still recall listening to her magical tales through that lazy Shabbat afternoon, all the way to Havdalah.
So I called her back and Peninnah had an unusual request. Her son Mordechai had just taken on his first cantorial position and that day had performed his first funeral, a particularly difficult one. She wanted to lend him some support and asked if I might mail her a copy of an article called “A Young Rabbi” that I had written eons ago, shortly after I did my first funeral. Peninnah had shared it with friends over the years and hoped it might help Mordechai too. Prompted by this call out of the blue from an old friend, I was compelled to re-read the piece for the first time in years, and to re-discover my own words and feelings across a bridge spanning half a career.
“It is sad that so many Jewish communities seem to insist that their rabbis shed their youthful innocence as quickly as possible, not understanding that, once that innocence is lost, the childlike sense of wonder and basic human empathy so essential to the job are also left behind…Perhaps early career burnout would be less of a problem among rabbis – and other professionals – if they didn’t feel compelled to spend the first half of their careers trying to look older and the second half striving to regain the vitality of lost youth.”
I sent the article off to Peninnah, who had been by my side at the dawn of my career in Stamford, whose father, like mine, was a cantor; to give to her son, who is at the dawn of his career in New York and who is a cantor, in fact, on the Upper West Side, just a stone’s throw from where I happened to be when I was retrieving his mother’s message, and who in fact now occupies the pulpit of the West End Synagogue, which happened to have been vacated by the fabulous new cantor of my own congregation, Deborah Jacobson, who is now sparking a renaissance here, at the dawn of the Stamford portion of her career.
Got all that down?
Suddenly, this all was beginning to sound like a Peninnah Schram story, one of those heartwarming folk tales of simpler times, where everything seems to come full circle and, in the end, all the loose strands get neatly tied into a happily-ever-after bow.
For mid-career rabbis, things are typically much more complicated.
Much has been made recently of the difficulties of rabbinic life, most notably in the book, “The New Rabbi,” where journalist Stephen Fried highlights these complexities in discussing a rabbinic search process at a distinguished Philadelphia congregation. Beneath the book’s penetrating analysis and on-the-mark humor lurks a dark, unavoidable subtext: the American rabbinate is facing a crisis of morale matched only by the crisis of vision confronting many congregations. This congregation fails in its search because it has no idea where it wants to go. Consequently, the rabbi they are looking for isn’t so much a human being as a shredded fruit salad of contradictory skills and inflated expectations. There is no “happily ever after” in this searing expose.
A telling scene in the book has the author eavesdropping on an older couple conversing about their rabbis in the row behind him at a Shabbat service.
“I don’t like (Rabbi X).” “He’s too…well, something…”
“I like (Rabbi Y),” “He’s nice, friendly.”
“I don’t like him either. He’s too friendly. I don’t want a rabbi who’s friendly.”
That brief snippet points out the ludicrous state of affairs. Rabbis are expected to be: mature yet youthful, serious yet funny, principled yet conciliatory, sophisticated yet homespun, friendly yet firm, 24/7. It is not without reason that Fried’s research led him to the conclusion that the rabbinate (and not the American presidency) is the toughest job in the world. And no wonder, as Rabbi David Wolpe says in Fried’s book, “Vulnerable people in the rabbinate have a tough time.” The more human you are, the more exposed, the less chance you have of making it as a rabbi. If that is true, American Judaism is headed for disaster.
Until we turn to a new model of spiritual leadership, one that champions the idea of the rabbi as a vulnerable, striving-yet-imperfect human being, rabbis and congregations will continue to burn out prematurely. Peninnah’s request reminded me that life’s trajectory can be a thrilling ride, if we greet each day with fresh eyes. In Deuteronomy 26:16, it says, “The Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules, and to observe them faithfully…” Rashi asks why it says “this day?” Why not every day? The commentator’s response: Every day, every time one fulfills a mitzvah, it should feel as if it is the first.
In several weeks my congregants and I will host Peninnah Schram once again, completing yet another circle, at what has now become our annual Shabbaton. And I’ll echo the prayers of Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav:
“Teach me, Dear God, to make a fresh start; to break yesterday’s patterns; to stop telling myself I can’t – when I can; I’m not – when I am; and I’m stuck – when I’m eminently free.”
Feeling the Power
The Jewish Week, January 30, 2004
Last August, my family traveled to the great parks of the American West. During those two weeks, we experienced incalculable manifestations of divine power. I carried around a blessings card provided by the Jewish environmental organization Hazon and challenged my kids to see if we could recite every blessing of wonder before the trip was done. They told me to "chill," but then joined me in the quest.
The first stop is Yellowstone. All around me is the most beautiful devastation I have ever seen, miles and miles of ashen, burnt-out trees destroyed by the wildfires of 1988, a conflagration that became catastrophic because generations of our hubris prevented nature from taking its course. In the brush there are young trees miraculously sprouting up amidst the devastation. I recite the blessing on fragrant trees, boray atzei besamim.
I stand by Yellowstone Lake looking out on Saturday night as wildfires rage over the east entrance to the park. Two intermingled bursts of flame lighting the distant sky look like some heavenly havdalah candle. We see lots of bald eagles and falcons, and herds of bison all across the hillsides. So I recite the blessing for extraordinary creatures.
We drive through the Grand Tetons, where snowcapped mountains pierce the sky — good for another blessing, oseh ma’ase breisheet, "Who makes the works of creation." Mountains have the power to awaken an overwhelming sense of the sacred.
Bryce Canyon, with its human-like rock formations, reminds us of how human hearts can turn to stone. And to be in at the canyon floor of Zion National Park, with walls of rock on every side, is to know what it must have been like to march through the parted Red Sea. The natural appears supernatural out there; perfection and balance are painted on an enormous canvas. The writer Linda Hogan has written, "The cure for soul sickness is not in books. It is written in the bark of a tree, in the moonlit silence of night, in the bank of a river and the water’s motion. The cure is outside ourselves."
By the time we reach the Grand Canyon, we have recited each blessing on the card, except the one for a rainbow. Looking over the south rim we see a beautiful sunset, and then we hear a thunderstorm. Sure enough, over to the right, miles and miles from the thundercloud, is a rainbow. It is about 7 o’clock on Friday evening. We recite the final blessing and Shabbat begins. Now I put down the blessing card and God rests.
Back on the first day of the trip, just after I watched Old Faithful burst out with steam shooting into the sky, I tried to call home for messages but my machine didn’t pick up. Only later did I find out why. While I was experiencing the greatest power display on earth, the entire East Coast had been thrown into the most massive blackout in history. Fifty million people stood helpless in the August heat, victims not of divine power but of a terrible man-made hubris.
Where were you when the lights went out? Were you in the subway? In an elevator? Were you sweating, exposed to the elements with no AC? Were you at the airport, grounded? Or stuck in the air? Were you in a hospital, at the mercy of tightly rationed auxiliary generators? Did you feel vulnerable? Did you fear terrorism? Did you understand, did you finally understand just how limited we are?
The fragile power grid is a perfect symbol of our folly, our presumed power, and of how instantly it all can come tumbling down.
On Sept. 3, Congress reconvened and Louisiana Republican Billy Tauzin, chairman of the House Energy and Commerce Committee, wasted no time in opening two days of showcase hearings. Ironically, a temporary audio failure in the hearing room muffled most of what Tauzin had to say.
We have all been humbled by the limits of our authority. The world’s greatest superpower has thus far failed to defeat small guerrilla armies of terrorists, despite its military capability to shock and awe. We have touched the moon and seen through Hubble’s eyes the farthest reaches of the universe, but we lacked the wherewithal to check the underside of Columbia’s wing before re-entry. Again and again we’ve been reminded of our limits.
When the lights went out I was at Old Faithful, where there were no subways, no high-rise elevators, no cable TV; where the sky was being lit up by the stars and the forests illumined by a thousand degrees of conflagration. How I wish I were back at Yellowstone right now, bathed in the mist of the geyser, warmed by the glow of a hundred-acre inferno a couple of miles away. Things were a lot less complicated there, where the deer and the antelope play, cradled in the womb of God. How terrifying it is to have the world on our shoulders.
But we’re all big boys and girls, and God his given us the keys to the Hummer. God has given us the intelligence to split the atom and re-cork a wine bottle. God has given us the power to topple a dictator. And we have done it.
We pray for guidance that from the current volatility that we be able to forge a better world for our children. And we give thanks. For God’s power is everywhere to be found. In each mountain, each lovely creature, each rainbow — and each human embrace.
Last August, my family traveled to the great parks of the American West. During those two weeks, we experienced incalculable manifestations of divine power. I carried around a blessings card provided by the Jewish environmental organization Hazon and challenged my kids to see if we could recite every blessing of wonder before the trip was done. They told me to "chill," but then joined me in the quest.
The first stop is Yellowstone. All around me is the most beautiful devastation I have ever seen, miles and miles of ashen, burnt-out trees destroyed by the wildfires of 1988, a conflagration that became catastrophic because generations of our hubris prevented nature from taking its course. In the brush there are young trees miraculously sprouting up amidst the devastation. I recite the blessing on fragrant trees, boray atzei besamim.
I stand by Yellowstone Lake looking out on Saturday night as wildfires rage over the east entrance to the park. Two intermingled bursts of flame lighting the distant sky look like some heavenly havdalah candle. We see lots of bald eagles and falcons, and herds of bison all across the hillsides. So I recite the blessing for extraordinary creatures.
We drive through the Grand Tetons, where snowcapped mountains pierce the sky — good for another blessing, oseh ma’ase breisheet, "Who makes the works of creation." Mountains have the power to awaken an overwhelming sense of the sacred.
Bryce Canyon, with its human-like rock formations, reminds us of how human hearts can turn to stone. And to be in at the canyon floor of Zion National Park, with walls of rock on every side, is to know what it must have been like to march through the parted Red Sea. The natural appears supernatural out there; perfection and balance are painted on an enormous canvas. The writer Linda Hogan has written, "The cure for soul sickness is not in books. It is written in the bark of a tree, in the moonlit silence of night, in the bank of a river and the water’s motion. The cure is outside ourselves."
By the time we reach the Grand Canyon, we have recited each blessing on the card, except the one for a rainbow. Looking over the south rim we see a beautiful sunset, and then we hear a thunderstorm. Sure enough, over to the right, miles and miles from the thundercloud, is a rainbow. It is about 7 o’clock on Friday evening. We recite the final blessing and Shabbat begins. Now I put down the blessing card and God rests.
Back on the first day of the trip, just after I watched Old Faithful burst out with steam shooting into the sky, I tried to call home for messages but my machine didn’t pick up. Only later did I find out why. While I was experiencing the greatest power display on earth, the entire East Coast had been thrown into the most massive blackout in history. Fifty million people stood helpless in the August heat, victims not of divine power but of a terrible man-made hubris.
Where were you when the lights went out? Were you in the subway? In an elevator? Were you sweating, exposed to the elements with no AC? Were you at the airport, grounded? Or stuck in the air? Were you in a hospital, at the mercy of tightly rationed auxiliary generators? Did you feel vulnerable? Did you fear terrorism? Did you understand, did you finally understand just how limited we are?
The fragile power grid is a perfect symbol of our folly, our presumed power, and of how instantly it all can come tumbling down.
On Sept. 3, Congress reconvened and Louisiana Republican Billy Tauzin, chairman of the House Energy and Commerce Committee, wasted no time in opening two days of showcase hearings. Ironically, a temporary audio failure in the hearing room muffled most of what Tauzin had to say.
We have all been humbled by the limits of our authority. The world’s greatest superpower has thus far failed to defeat small guerrilla armies of terrorists, despite its military capability to shock and awe. We have touched the moon and seen through Hubble’s eyes the farthest reaches of the universe, but we lacked the wherewithal to check the underside of Columbia’s wing before re-entry. Again and again we’ve been reminded of our limits.
When the lights went out I was at Old Faithful, where there were no subways, no high-rise elevators, no cable TV; where the sky was being lit up by the stars and the forests illumined by a thousand degrees of conflagration. How I wish I were back at Yellowstone right now, bathed in the mist of the geyser, warmed by the glow of a hundred-acre inferno a couple of miles away. Things were a lot less complicated there, where the deer and the antelope play, cradled in the womb of God. How terrifying it is to have the world on our shoulders.
But we’re all big boys and girls, and God his given us the keys to the Hummer. God has given us the intelligence to split the atom and re-cork a wine bottle. God has given us the power to topple a dictator. And we have done it.
We pray for guidance that from the current volatility that we be able to forge a better world for our children. And we give thanks. For God’s power is everywhere to be found. In each mountain, each lovely creature, each rainbow — and each human embrace.
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