Free To Choose

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Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck on the Eighth Day of Passover, April 14, 2012

For all of us who have tried, unsuccessfully, to mop up our remaining soup or gravy with a piece of matzah – have no fear.  Challah, or perhaps a nice crusty piece of sourdough bread, is on the way. 

Looking back on the week, we can recall all the times that we spoke, sang, dipped and ate.  Maybe we had to do a little political negotiation with family and friends at the seder – wouldn’t be the first time.

But what do we really carry with us when the holiday is over?

I want us to focus on the idea of responsibility.

If there’s one concept I want us to digest fully, it’s the notion that our choices and our actions have more profound consequences than we tend to imagine.

I actually believe this is the most important message of Passover.  We might say, “No, the most important message is that God saves us!”  But I disagree.  I believe that God’s saving power may be the loudest message of Passover.  But it’s not the most important.

The second movement of Beethoven’s 7^th symphony has two melodies, one loud and insistent; the other, soft and enchanting.

Talk Ain't Cheap - of Tarof and Seichel

I’ve told this story before but I’m going to tell it again.  If our people can tell the story of leaving Egypt again and again, I can tell this story twice.

Shabbat morning, circa 1980.  My parents were getting ready for shul.  My mother came downstairs all ready and said to my father, who was eating breakfast, “what do you think about my new outfit?” 

He had been eating a piece of pastry, a babka, I think, and he took a minute to swallow before he answered.  Or at least that’s how I remember it, but my mother didn’t quite look at it that way. 

“I guess you don’t like it,” she said. 

“Of course I like it.  Whatever you wear, you look beautiful.”

“What do you mean, whatever I wear, I look beautiful?  So I guess you don’t like the outfit.  Just say it.”

And my father sat there, trying to digest the pastry and the conversation that didn’t go quite the way he wanted.

(Post script - I’m pretty sure they were both fine by the time they got to shul.)

I want to devote my comments to the importance and utter complexity of how we talk to each other. 

Finding a Home

The other day, I saw a member of our congregation whose mother passed away recently.  I asked him how he was doing, and he told me he’d been cleaning out his mother’s apartment.  This was not the home where he grew up, but nevertheless the process of cleaning it out brought back many memories from his earlier years.

That conversation, as well as a book I reread recently, got me thinking about the concept of home. 

What exactly is a home?  How do we define it?  What is the essence of a home?  How many homes does a person have, over the course of a lifetime or perhaps even at the same time?

We may think of the home where we grew up as a place of stability and strength or as a place of conflict and uncertainty.  Or, as my Israel uncle Elimelech would say, gam ze v’gam ze.  All of the above.

Keeping It Lit

In Jerusalem there’s a special zoo which contains animals mentioned in the Bible.  There’s a story told about a particular cage in the zoo which illustrates the verse, “and the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.”  (Isaiah 11:6) The purpose of the verse is to illustrates the end of days, when peace will reign even in the animal kingdom.  So the cage featured a wolf and a lamb, getting along splendidly.

A visitor was standing in front of the cage with his small children.  Noticed that the lamb is hanging out, looking content.  And the wolf is hanging out, looking content.  He saw one of the zookeepers and said, “I understand the verse, but we’re not living in the end of days.  How do you get the wolf and the lamb to hang out so peacefully in real life?”  The zookeeper said, “It’s very simple.  Every morning we put in a new lamb.”  

The joke is kind of edgy.  But it connects, in my mind, to a point the Torah makes, much more positively, about vigilance.

Innate GPS

Years ago, I knew how to navigate the South Shore.  I knew to use Peninsula Boulevard to get from West Hempstead to Cedarhurst and to take Hempstead Avenue to Broadway when I needed to get to Hewlett or Lawrence.  If any route was blocked, I intuited alternatives since I knew the overall direction in which I was headed. 

Not anymore.  Is it because I haven’t lived there for awhile?  I don’t think so.  Frankly, I blame it on Madam GPS.  Since she entered my life, my navigational capacity has atrophied.  She is the reason why I no longer remember how to get to Atlantic Beach without paying a toll.  Because of her, I can no longer say with certainty at what point Broadway crosses Fifth Avenue. 

What's God Got to Do With It?

Drivers Ed, circa 1980.  My teacher delivers the following hypothetical: Suppose it’s night-time and you’re on a deserted highway.  No cops, no one.  You miss an exit.  The next one is 50 miles away.  You can back up a bit and take the exit.  Chances are good that no one will see you.  But you know it’s illegal.

What do you do?

I don’t remember what the answers were.  But I remember that it got me thinking at the time, and I’ve considered the question as part of a larger conversation.

Are we wired to do what’s right or not?  Do we differentiate between different kinds of rules – some affect other people, some seem rational, some seem arbitrary?  How much do we need the cop patrolling to keep us in line?

No Questions Asked

I went to college in New York City and often, on the way to class, was asked for money by people on the street.  Initially I gave without reservation.  Over time, friends and others suggested that I should probably be more circumspect.

After all, I wasn’t sure how the money would be used and I might be giving financial support for self-destructive behavior.

So, following the example of others I witnessed, I began asking those seeking money if I could buy them a sandwich or a piece of fruit.  Some refused, but many accepted.

As a rabbi, I’m often asked to provide money for people in need.  In keeping with the dynamic I discovered as a young man, I respond by giving food cards, no questions asked.

Centuries ago, Rav Yehuda articulated the principle, ein bodkin lim’zonot (Talmud, Bava Batra 9a), meaning that when it comes to providing food, we don’t ask questions.  We don’t examine background, we don’t try to assess motivation.  If someone says he needs food and we are able to provide it, we do so, no questions asked.

I believe this is something that Hatzilu, an organization devoted to providing relief for needy Jews, has always understood.  From the time I moved to Long Island as a rabbinical student, over 20 years ago, I have always been impressed by the intuitive sensitivity that animates Hatzilu’s many volunteers.  The sensitivity emerges from the bedrock understanding that food is a basic human need and hunger is simply unacceptable.

From ancient Palestine to modern New York City and its environs, the words of Rav Yehuda continue to reverberate.  Ein bodkin lim’zonot.  When it comes to giving food, no questions asked, except for one:  How can we continue to help?

Written for the Hatzilu Newsletter, March, 2012