Find Me Through One Other: a Brother's Blessing

Jews deal with God in kind of a unique way.  I'd like to reflect on that by exploring a blessing that one brother recently offered another.

Ordination of Rabbi Amichai Lau-Lavie

But first I want to take you back several decades.  When I was a rabbinical student I worked at Lenox Hill Hospital participating in a pastoral education program.  In my small group of six students were clergy students of other faiths.  Our group included someone preparing to be a Dominican friar, a Roman Catholic lay leader, a Presbyterian minister and a Franciscan monk.

The pastoral work was fascinating.  In addition, it was enormously beneficial to have extended contact with people of other faiths at a similar point in their professional journeys as I was.  We talked often about tradition and community and theology.   We noted our similarities and our differences.

Here’s one area of difference that I noticed and I want to use it as a basis for my comments this morning.

My Christian colleagues took many classes at their respective seminaries in a subject called systematic theology. 

Systematic theology classes, as you might imagine, teach various Christian views on God in a systematic way.  These classes were a major part of the curricula at the various Christian seminaries that my colleagues attended.

We, however, took classes in Bible, Talmud, Jewish history – an occasional class in Jewish philosophy – but proportionately we didn’t spend a lot of time learning the systematic theologies of various thinkers.

Again, proportionately, Jews don’t do a lot of systematic theology.  When we arrive at God, it’s generally not through systematic contemplation.  If I had to generalize I would say that when we arrive at God at all, it’s through our laws, our stories and, not incidentally, it’s through each other.  

Through other human beings – family, community, people, humanity - we sometimes come to some understanding of God.

To reflect on how we might arrive at God through one another, I'd like to share a brief vignette about two brothers.

What To Do With Our Bitterness

Bitterness can be hard to let go.  Case in point:

Chapter 1 of the book of Exodus:  וימררו את חייהם בעבודה קשה Vayemar’ru et chayehem ba'avoda kasha.  

The Egyptians embittered the Israelites’ lives with hard labor.  (Exodus 1:14)

Ch. 15 of the book of Exodus:  After leaving Egypt, after crossing the sea and singing the song of thanksgiving and victory, the Israelites came to Marah ולא יכלו לשתות מים ממרה כי מרים הם v’lo yachlu lishot mayim mimarah ki marim hem. 

They couldn’t drink the waters of Marah because they were bitter.  Hence the name Marah, bitterness. (Exodus 15:23)

How interesting, how sad, how understandable, how human – that the bitterness that the Egyptians imposed somehow remained with the Israelites even after they left Egypt and began to experience freedom.

 Moses looking out toward the Promised Land

This morning, on the last day of Passover, with the resonance of the Passover story still with us and the resonance of loved ones present and no longer present powerful for each of us, I want to talk about bitterness.  The understandable, yet ultimately corrosive feelings of bitterness that most of us have felt at some point or another and possibly are feeling for whatever reason even now.

Did someone hurt us physically or emotionally?  Does life feel unfair? 

Did we not get what we felt we deserved?  Were we discriminated against for one reason or another?

I would define bitterness as the feeling of hurt and resentment that perpetuates a sense of victimhood and misery.

Someone else can embitter our lives, as the Egyptians did for our ancestors, but the extent to which we continue to feel bitter, even after the initial impetus may be gone, often depends more on our volition than we realize – a version of Eleanor Roosevelt’s often quoted statement, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

By and large, no one can impose lifelong bitterness on us without our consent. This can be hard to accept, but what we do with our bitter feelings is largely up to us.

Finding My Hallelujah

Much has been said and written about young Jews feeling alienated from Judaism and Israel.  Much has been said and written about young people of all faiths feeling alienated from their families as they try to figure out who they are and if and how they fit in.

A few weeks ago I had a minor epiphany about all of this that I want to share with you.  One of those moments when the clouds part and you say to yourself, Gee, I think I’ve figured something out.

It didn’t happen outside, though, so I couldn’t actually see the clouds parting.  I was inside on our stationery bike, doing a Spin routine...

The very last song in the routine, just as I was about to give up, was a song I'd never heard before but subsequently discovered is quite popular.  It's called "Good to Be Alive," by Andy Grammer.

"Good to Be Alive"

It’s to music what snickers bars are to chocolate, really addictive.  And it actually gave me the oomph to finish the routine.

The premise is that someone who’s been down on his luck is experiencing a turnaround and the chorus is “I think I’ve finally found my Hallelujah!”  followed shortly thereafter by “Good to be alive right about now.”

When the routine was over I was thinking, Hmm.   Familiar concept.  Sounds a bit like She'heheyanu, the blessing where we thank God for being alive.

And for a brief endorphin-addled moment I considered singing the song with bar and bat mitzvah families on Shabbat mornings instead of reciting She’heheyanu. 

Of course there’s a difference between the I-infused “I think I’ve finally found my Hallelujah” and the us-ness of She’heheyanu.  Thank you for keeping us alive and sustaining us and enabling us to reach this sacred time. 

But the two are related.  And while I'll stick with the old-time religion when it comes to saying She’heheyanu, I will say this:

The success of the Jewish community moving forward will depend upon our ability to demonstrate that a connection with a strong, moral, responsive “We” is critical to producing a strong, moral, responsive “I.”  The more I feel connected to my family, my community and my people, the deeper, more sustainable and more sustaining my own Hallelujah will be.

The Wicked Child Asks the Best Question

Soon we’ll be reading about the arba’ah banim, the four children, at the Seder.  I’ve always felt that the רשע rasha, the so-called wicked child, gets treated unfairly.  On closer reflection I actually want to intensify my reaction to say that the rasha asks just about the most important question there is.  He, she – deserves a careful answer.

What’s the question?  Invoking the words of the Torah (Exodus 12:26) the rasha asks מה העבודה הזאת לכם Ma ha’avodah hazot lakhem.  What does this mean to you?  This ritual, this worship, this whole enterprise – what does it mean to you?

A contemporary artistic rendering of the four children

According to the Haggadah, because the child removes him or herself from what’s going on and denies God, we’re supposed to say to such a child, this is because of what God did for me when I left Egypt.  Implication – had the child been there, the child would not have been redeemed.

What’s going on here?  First of all, assumptions.  The child is removing him or herself.  The child is denying God.  Then an answer that, if anything, is going to move the child further away.

We may find it more comfortable to hear the question of the hakham, the wise child – "what are all the things I have to do?"  

"What do I do" is an important question, but it probably won't have the same degree of traction unless it comes with a deep, personal understanding of why.  In 2016, can you think of a more important question than a child, of any age, frankly – turning to someone of previous generations and asking, “Why do you do this?  What does all of this mean to you?”  

Rice and Beans for Jewish Unity - In Defense of All Jews Eating Kitniyot on Passover

This is the sermon in which I say, as senior rabbi of Temple Israel of Great Neck, in front of hundreds of people from multiple backgounds, that all Jews, from all backgrounds, who consider me as a rabbinic authority in their lives are permitted to consume rice, corn and legumes (kitniyot) on Passover.

This is the sermon in which I describe how the custom (followed by many Ashkenazi Jews) of not eating these foods on Passover evolved and how, according to Jewish law, those who have followed this custom are free to change their practice if they so choose.

I’ll get there shortly.  But first I want to say why I think this issue is important.  It’s not just about rice and beans.  Several of my colleagues in the Rabbinical Assembly, whose recent response on the matter I’ll describe in some detail, indicated that one of their considerations in permitting everyone to eat kitniyot was a lack of sufficient healthy eating options on Passover, especially for vegetarians.  Great reason.  The addition of foods that many have avoided provides for a healthier diet during this holiday. 

Another reason given is that the holiday is supposed to be about joy; it’s not supposed to be about self-denial.  Another great reason.  We shouldn’t be suffering on Passover.  It’s not Tisha b’Av.  It’s not even Yom Kippur.  It’s a time of joy. 

A third reason they gave has to do with expense.  Failure to consume rice, corn and legumes helps the cost of kosher for Passover foods to skyrocket.  The holiday is not meant to be a financial burden.  Yet another great reason.

But the reason that is most important, in my view, is that we should do everything we can to remove unnecessary barriers between people – not to eliminate differences, but to remove impediments to people being together, eating together and celebrating together. 

While this is a lofty universal goal, we should start by trying to remove barriers that separate Jews.

In past weeks we have witnessed numerous, intense public statements that aim to drive wedges between people of different faiths and people of the same faith.

Trusting Ourselves to Find and Nurture Love

Recently my Waxman Youth House high school class invited two distinguished guests to speak with us.  Topic?  An honest look at marriage.  To prepare for our conversation, we took a look at Biblical stories about marriage to find positive and negative models.  We discussed what qualities we might look for in a romantic partner, and ultimately in a spouse.  And we spoke about what Judaism might teach us regarding what to look for and how to handle such a relationship overall.

I’ll tell about our guests and the conversation we had shortly.  (The photo below will hopefully tide you over until I do).

Drs. Ellen and Milton Rosen with Waxman High School Students

First, I want to reflect on the teachings of a rabbi who lived over half a century ago who had much to say on this topic, among others.  Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler was born in Europe, moved to England with his parents and was the leader of two famous yeshivot – one in northern England and, years later, another in B’nei Brak, Israel. 

He was part of the Mussar movement, following a tradition of rabbis who emphasized strict ethical behavior as a major element of the religious enterprise.  As a Rosh Yeshiva in England, he taught numerous students who were orphaned during the Holocaust and moved to England subsequently to rebuild shattered lives.

One of Dessler’s primary themes was the power of the יצר הרע yetzer hara, literally translated as the “evil inclination” – which has been understood to include pride and lustfulness.  He believed that a human being is constantly at war with his or her yetzer hara.

Among his prolific writings, he wrote a letter to two 17-year old students defending why a person cannot be trusted to choose a proper spouse and ought to leave that important task to someone else.  To leave it to someone else is to acknowledge the power of one’s yetzer hara and to embrace appropriate fear of God; to try to do it yourself, by contrast, is the height of folly and pride.

Rabbi Dessler wrote, “The simple truth is that when a man chooses a wife for himself he finds, once the first intoxication has worn off, that she is not at all as he thought and that he has made a great mistake.  Even those lustful people who go out whether their friends of the opposite sex day and night for years, and imagine that they have come to know them well, still know nothing of their character and nature; never once do they find after they are married that she is exactly the kind of person they thought she was.” 

And then he wrote the following to drive the point home to his young charges:  “Those who were truly wise…knew very well that no one can rely on his own judgment in these matters and they purposely arranged for other people to make the decision for them; for in a matter on which one cannot trust one’s own judgment one has to seek the advice of others, and if he doesn’t rely on them he will most certainly do the wrong thing.” (Strive for Truth, vol. 1, part 1, p. 213-14)

The essential issue here, as I see it, is the issue of trust.  In general, to what extent can human insight be trusted?  Specifically, for the present conversation, to what extent can we be trusted to make important decisions about the most essential aspects of our lives?

Reflection is Not a Luxury

My colleague and friend, Rabbi Jonathan Spira Savett, got wide and well-deserved recognition for asking a question of one of the presidential candidates at a town hall meeting before the primary in New Hampshire. 

He asked Hillary Clinton how she balances confidence and humility as a leader.

Without getting into the substance of Clinton’s response, it is clear that she used the question as an opportunity for reflection.  She shared insights into the dynamics of leadership that she probably would not have shared, had she not been asked the question.

I want to discuss possibilities and ultimate value of being reflective about ourselves – not just in professional settings, but personally as well.  Without opportunities to reflect, we are far more likely to feel depleted and to suffer burnout.

I'd like to look at Moses’s life for insight into the dynamics of reflection and to suggest ways that a community ought to encourage helpful reflection for people of all ages with special emphasis on teenagers, who desperately need healthy opportunities to reflect.