In the story of the death of Aharon’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu, there is a moment that sometimes gets lost, probably the most important moment. It is the moment just before they act, the moment when, after all 7 days of practice and an eighth day of rituals and sacrifices, God’s Glory actually finally does appear to the people; the people perceive it, and the people sing out and fall on their faces, joyous and awed and totally satiated from this experience of the divine.
What happens next is “extra,” as my teenage students would say. Nadav and Avihu take pans and bring incense and fire “which they were not commanded to do.” There are many interpretations of what exactly Nadav and Avihu did wrong, and a lot of them seem true and sensible and have something to teach us. But at this moment it seems to me that the primary problem was simply that their action was “extra,” and sometimes extra actually detracts from the moment.
There is nothing more complete than an experience of divine presence. Nothing more could possibly be needed. The people as a whole understood this; they did not act; they re-acted --- they performed two actions that showed on the outside how they were taking in this incredible sight on this inside; they sang, expressing joy and praise (the Sefat Emet says it was the same song they sang at the Sea) and they fell on their faces, expressing awe and a sense of overwhelm and humility at the enormity of the experience.
Nadav and Avihu, by contrast, actually took away from the experience because they took a new action, as if what had just happened was not complete on its own. This is very important. We often don’t appreciate the fullness of our moments because we are too busy trying to improve on them, to add icing to the cake, to add more activities to our schedule, to add another dish to the menu, to add another phrase to the sentence. We think more is needed, that there is a need for “extra,” when actually the world, God, ourselves are all already enough. Let me say it again – the world, God, ourselves are all already enough.
We are so restless sometimes, worrying about adding and acting and more and new and outdoing the past generation and the last moment, but the truth is that this moment is enough, totally complete in itself. All that is asked of us is to acknowledge its magnificence, not to bring new fires, but simply to sing out as we feel the fullness of this moment, the fullness of God’s goodness filling us up. It is enough.
Friday, March 29, 2019
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
For Purim: Groundless Together
Purim – both its story and the way we celebrate it – always gives me a vague feeling of unease and instability.
First, the story. Yes, we do win in the end, but the forces against us feel very real, and the victory sudden and unreliable. It is the story of Jewish history; they hate us and want to kill us, but somehow we survive, and are even victorious. The problem is that it keeps happening, and often, although we end up surviving as a people, there is a fair amount of suffering before we get there. The whole thing does feel a little like a pur, “a lot;” there is nothing stable here; at any random moment, we could be subject to hatred and killing, just as at any moment we could be granted salvation. There is nothing to hold on to, no ground to walk on.
The celebration only seems to intensify this sense of groundlessness. All rules are temporarily suspended; drink as much as you want; wear whatever clothes you want; say rash things in the guise of humor; “boo” someone in public. It is as if there are no longer any inhibitions in public or in private. The gemara (Megillah 7b) tells a story about two rabbis who had a se’udah together on Purim; they drank too much and one killed the other. On Purim anything goes. It is as if we all feel this sense of groundlessness and instability about our futures and so we adopt a gallows humor; who knows if we will live or die so might as well enjoy today and not worry about any rules!
There is a truth to the groundlessness behind Purim; we actually do have very little control of the future. We are like ships tossed in the sea, dates cast in a lot. Purim asks us to surrender to this reality and even revel in it.
What anchors us on Purim? What normally anchors us is God, but I don’t think that it is God that anchors us on Purim. His name is absent from the Megillah, and indeed, not a single one of the four main mitzvot of Purim is directed toward God; we read the story (no God); we eat a meal together; we send each other food gifts; and we take care of the needy.
No, Purim is not focused on God. Though we know that God lies behind our redemption and our survival time and again, our experience of history is that we are tossed about in an unpredictable way. Yes, in the end, He will come to our rescue, and that does provide some long-term comfort, but in the mean time, when we look around, what do we have to hold on to? Each other.
We don’t know what will happen tomorrow and there is a certain unease we have to live with. Purim’s answer to that unease is to turn to one another. All four mitzvot involve gathering – hearing the Megillah is to be done in large groups; mishloach manot are to share food and bring a sense of kinship ish lere’ehu, “a person to his fellow;” we take care of the poor; and we eat festive meals together. All are done together.
It is as if we have all been riding a boat together for a long time. We don’t really know when we will reach our faroff destination. There have been storms and bright days and even hurricanes, and through it all, the one constant has been one another. We pause for a moment and appreciate each other, appreciate that we are on this journey together. As we are tossed about on the sea, there is some comfort in knowing that we are not alone.
First, the story. Yes, we do win in the end, but the forces against us feel very real, and the victory sudden and unreliable. It is the story of Jewish history; they hate us and want to kill us, but somehow we survive, and are even victorious. The problem is that it keeps happening, and often, although we end up surviving as a people, there is a fair amount of suffering before we get there. The whole thing does feel a little like a pur, “a lot;” there is nothing stable here; at any random moment, we could be subject to hatred and killing, just as at any moment we could be granted salvation. There is nothing to hold on to, no ground to walk on.
The celebration only seems to intensify this sense of groundlessness. All rules are temporarily suspended; drink as much as you want; wear whatever clothes you want; say rash things in the guise of humor; “boo” someone in public. It is as if there are no longer any inhibitions in public or in private. The gemara (Megillah 7b) tells a story about two rabbis who had a se’udah together on Purim; they drank too much and one killed the other. On Purim anything goes. It is as if we all feel this sense of groundlessness and instability about our futures and so we adopt a gallows humor; who knows if we will live or die so might as well enjoy today and not worry about any rules!
There is a truth to the groundlessness behind Purim; we actually do have very little control of the future. We are like ships tossed in the sea, dates cast in a lot. Purim asks us to surrender to this reality and even revel in it.
What anchors us on Purim? What normally anchors us is God, but I don’t think that it is God that anchors us on Purim. His name is absent from the Megillah, and indeed, not a single one of the four main mitzvot of Purim is directed toward God; we read the story (no God); we eat a meal together; we send each other food gifts; and we take care of the needy.
No, Purim is not focused on God. Though we know that God lies behind our redemption and our survival time and again, our experience of history is that we are tossed about in an unpredictable way. Yes, in the end, He will come to our rescue, and that does provide some long-term comfort, but in the mean time, when we look around, what do we have to hold on to? Each other.
We don’t know what will happen tomorrow and there is a certain unease we have to live with. Purim’s answer to that unease is to turn to one another. All four mitzvot involve gathering – hearing the Megillah is to be done in large groups; mishloach manot are to share food and bring a sense of kinship ish lere’ehu, “a person to his fellow;” we take care of the poor; and we eat festive meals together. All are done together.
It is as if we have all been riding a boat together for a long time. We don’t really know when we will reach our faroff destination. There have been storms and bright days and even hurricanes, and through it all, the one constant has been one another. We pause for a moment and appreciate each other, appreciate that we are on this journey together. As we are tossed about on the sea, there is some comfort in knowing that we are not alone.
Friday, March 15, 2019
Parashat Zachor: The Vulnerable Inside Us
One of the primary characteristics of Amalek is that they attack hanekheshalim aharekha, “those who are weak in your rear.” They attack the weak and the vulnerable.
We feel intuitively how wrong this is, and we understand that a society should be measured by how kindly it treats its weakest members.
I want to take this idea a step further, and think not just on the level of society, but also on the level of the individual and each of our own internal struggles. How do we treat the weakest, most vulnerable parts of ourselves?
Let’s say you are in a situation that makes you feel inadequate in some way – not smart enough, not organized or competent enough, not assertive enough, not attentive enough, too awkward, too loud, whatever your trigger is – how do you react? If you are like most of us, you attack that part of you. Another part of you starts saying things like: “What did you do that for?” “You’re such an idiot!” “You’re always so awkward!” “That’s pathetic!” and so on.
Essentially, we act like Amalek inside of us. We attack those very parts of us that are weakest and most vulnerable. We attack the parts of us that we are not proud of, that hide in the back, our personal places of imperfection, incompetence and disability.
This is not a question of improvement. Yes, it is good to improve and strive and become better at the things we are not great at. But attacking does not help that project, and probably hinders it.
What is the alternative? Kindness. The Torah often speaks about being kind to the stranger, the orphan, the widow, the Levite, the poor or anyone else who has reason to be underprivileged. These needy among us are not to be mistreated or attacked but to be given love and generosity and kindness. Imagine what this looks like internally, to turn to the places inside us that are most needy and vulnerable, most incompetent and shameful, to turn to those very places with kindness, to imagine that these parts of us are like little neglected orphans in need of love. Imagine how, under such care, these orphans might relax after all those years of harsh treatment, and maybe even turn out to have a special shine of their own.
The pasuk that comes to mind is from Hallel: Even ma’asu habonim, hayta lerosh pinah. “The stone that was rejected by the builders has become the chief cornerstone (Psalm 118:22).” A miraculous transformation has occurred; the very parts that seem most unworthy -- the parts that we are most apt to reject about ourselves -- have turned into “cornerstones,” essential, foundational elements that we rely on for further building and growth. It turns out that if we stop rejecting them, they are our pillars.
This Shabbat we remember “what Amalek did” and are bidden to strive to eradicate Amalek entirely. We look around the world with all its problems and evil and suffering and we feel overwhelmed by the impossibility of the fight for the good. Perhaps the fight against Amalek in the world begins inside, begins by learning to turn towards our most vulnerable parts, not as Amalek did, with hatred and a desire to attack, but instead with love and compassion. Who knows which rejected parts of us are the cornerstones to redemption, not just for ourselves but also for the world?
We feel intuitively how wrong this is, and we understand that a society should be measured by how kindly it treats its weakest members.
I want to take this idea a step further, and think not just on the level of society, but also on the level of the individual and each of our own internal struggles. How do we treat the weakest, most vulnerable parts of ourselves?
Let’s say you are in a situation that makes you feel inadequate in some way – not smart enough, not organized or competent enough, not assertive enough, not attentive enough, too awkward, too loud, whatever your trigger is – how do you react? If you are like most of us, you attack that part of you. Another part of you starts saying things like: “What did you do that for?” “You’re such an idiot!” “You’re always so awkward!” “That’s pathetic!” and so on.
Essentially, we act like Amalek inside of us. We attack those very parts of us that are weakest and most vulnerable. We attack the parts of us that we are not proud of, that hide in the back, our personal places of imperfection, incompetence and disability.
This is not a question of improvement. Yes, it is good to improve and strive and become better at the things we are not great at. But attacking does not help that project, and probably hinders it.
What is the alternative? Kindness. The Torah often speaks about being kind to the stranger, the orphan, the widow, the Levite, the poor or anyone else who has reason to be underprivileged. These needy among us are not to be mistreated or attacked but to be given love and generosity and kindness. Imagine what this looks like internally, to turn to the places inside us that are most needy and vulnerable, most incompetent and shameful, to turn to those very places with kindness, to imagine that these parts of us are like little neglected orphans in need of love. Imagine how, under such care, these orphans might relax after all those years of harsh treatment, and maybe even turn out to have a special shine of their own.
The pasuk that comes to mind is from Hallel: Even ma’asu habonim, hayta lerosh pinah. “The stone that was rejected by the builders has become the chief cornerstone (Psalm 118:22).” A miraculous transformation has occurred; the very parts that seem most unworthy -- the parts that we are most apt to reject about ourselves -- have turned into “cornerstones,” essential, foundational elements that we rely on for further building and growth. It turns out that if we stop rejecting them, they are our pillars.
This Shabbat we remember “what Amalek did” and are bidden to strive to eradicate Amalek entirely. We look around the world with all its problems and evil and suffering and we feel overwhelmed by the impossibility of the fight for the good. Perhaps the fight against Amalek in the world begins inside, begins by learning to turn towards our most vulnerable parts, not as Amalek did, with hatred and a desire to attack, but instead with love and compassion. Who knows which rejected parts of us are the cornerstones to redemption, not just for ourselves but also for the world?
Thursday, March 7, 2019
Parashat Pekudei: The Glory of God Fills the Mishkan
Ukhevod Hashem malei et Hamishkan. And the Glory of the Lord filled the Mishkan (Tabernacle). This phrase appears twice, in two successive pesukim, at the end of this week’s parsha (40:34-35), after the completion of the Mishkan.
The Glory of the Lord filled the Mishkan. It is difficult to imagine what that must have felt like – intense bright warm light, clarity, awe, truth. Also, quiet, gentleness, compassion, simplicity, wholeness, a whisper of tenderness. And most of all, limitless love pouring forth.
The truth is that God’s Glory is always filling the entire universe. Melo kol ha’aretz kevodo, His Glory fills the earth, a phrase from Isaiah that we say in kedushah. God’s Glory fills the earth, but the universe is such a vast space that we have trouble wrapping our minds around this concept and really feeling it. Also, I wonder whether it isn’t necessary for us to act in some way, to take the initiative, to build, to actively call down God’s Presence, not in order for It to be here, but in order for us to perceive it. And so, although the universe is already full of God, we need to build Him a sanctuary; we need to decide we want Him in order for us to feel Him.
This physical Mishkan is a metaphor for the human heart. Bilevavi mishkan evneh. In my heart, I build a Mishkan. In my heart I build a place for God to dwell; I open myself to contain His light, His Truth, His Love. I invite His Glory to shine inside my heart, that I may be a vessel for His love and kindness in the world.
We have finished the parshiyyot of building the Mishkan. They began with the instruction: ve’asu li mikdash veshakhanti betokham. They should build Me a sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst. Many have noted that God does not say He will dwell in its midst, but rather in their midst, in the midst of the hearts of every single person.
We have finished building the physical Mishkan. How do we build a mishkan inside us? We have to want it, to work at it, to believe it is possible; we have to believe we are worthy and we are wanted; we have to believe we are capable of carrying the divine Glory inside us.
That is why it is so important that this final chapter of the Mishkan happens after the sin of the Golden Calf. Even after their sin, God testified through His Presence that He still wished to reside among the people. God’s Glory comes down among us, when we ask for It and work for it; we do not need to be worthy of it. Indeed, we are not worthy of it. We can remain in our imperfect humanity, and the Glory of God will still dwell inside us. Karov Hashem lekhol korav. God is close to all those who call Him, who call to Him in earnest.
The Glory of the Lord filled the Mishkan. The word for “filled,” malei, could also be read in the present tense: The Glory of the Lord fills – right now, and at every moment – the Mishkan, the world and our hearts.
The Glory of the Lord filled the Mishkan. It is difficult to imagine what that must have felt like – intense bright warm light, clarity, awe, truth. Also, quiet, gentleness, compassion, simplicity, wholeness, a whisper of tenderness. And most of all, limitless love pouring forth.
The truth is that God’s Glory is always filling the entire universe. Melo kol ha’aretz kevodo, His Glory fills the earth, a phrase from Isaiah that we say in kedushah. God’s Glory fills the earth, but the universe is such a vast space that we have trouble wrapping our minds around this concept and really feeling it. Also, I wonder whether it isn’t necessary for us to act in some way, to take the initiative, to build, to actively call down God’s Presence, not in order for It to be here, but in order for us to perceive it. And so, although the universe is already full of God, we need to build Him a sanctuary; we need to decide we want Him in order for us to feel Him.
This physical Mishkan is a metaphor for the human heart. Bilevavi mishkan evneh. In my heart, I build a Mishkan. In my heart I build a place for God to dwell; I open myself to contain His light, His Truth, His Love. I invite His Glory to shine inside my heart, that I may be a vessel for His love and kindness in the world.
We have finished the parshiyyot of building the Mishkan. They began with the instruction: ve’asu li mikdash veshakhanti betokham. They should build Me a sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst. Many have noted that God does not say He will dwell in its midst, but rather in their midst, in the midst of the hearts of every single person.
We have finished building the physical Mishkan. How do we build a mishkan inside us? We have to want it, to work at it, to believe it is possible; we have to believe we are worthy and we are wanted; we have to believe we are capable of carrying the divine Glory inside us.
That is why it is so important that this final chapter of the Mishkan happens after the sin of the Golden Calf. Even after their sin, God testified through His Presence that He still wished to reside among the people. God’s Glory comes down among us, when we ask for It and work for it; we do not need to be worthy of it. Indeed, we are not worthy of it. We can remain in our imperfect humanity, and the Glory of God will still dwell inside us. Karov Hashem lekhol korav. God is close to all those who call Him, who call to Him in earnest.
The Glory of the Lord filled the Mishkan. The word for “filled,” malei, could also be read in the present tense: The Glory of the Lord fills – right now, and at every moment – the Mishkan, the world and our hearts.
Friday, March 1, 2019
Parashat Vayakhel: A Home for Our Needy Hearts
This week we come to the end of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) parshiyyot. We began with two, Terumah and Tetzaveh, and we end with two, Vayakhel and Pekudei, and sandwiched in between these two double-layered walls is Ki Tisa, the story of the Golden Calf.
The story of the Golden Calf is, in some sense, then, at the heart of the Mishkan, standing right in the middle of its sacred sanctuary walls. It is as if the divine sanctuary is there to hold, to embrace, to surround the very human neediness displayed in the act of the Golden Calf, our own tender human heart.
Let me explain. What happened at the Golden Calf? The people saw that Moshe was gone a long time and they began to wonder what had happened to him and to feel insecure and uncertain, a little like a small, bewildered child who suddenly finds herself alone in a vast terrifying place, the only source of comfort and security nowhere in sight. She feels lost and abandoned, desperately in need of something to attach herself to, to calm the feeling of being afloat without an anchor.
The Golden Calf is fundamentally an expression of deep human suffering. Coming down from the mountain, Moshe hears a sound. Yehoshua thinks it is the sound of war, but Moshe corrects him – this is not the sound of winning of losing, but rather kol anot, which, although not usually translated this way, can be understood to mean “the sound of suffering,” from the root inui, for suffering, the same word for the suffering the Israelites felt in Egypt.
I think most of us know what this groundlessness feels like, the sense of uncertainty and aloneness, this hole inside of us that desperately needs to be filled by something, to be attached to something, anything, in order to feel that we have some ground to stand on. So we, like the Israelites, look to some other source of security and attachment; there are many kinds of idolatry – substance and food addictions, money, success, ego, even the worship of another human as wholly powerful in some way.
In the end of the day, none of these prove to be secure enough for us; none of them totally fill our gaping open heart.
There is, it turns out, nothing to do for this groundlessness, this desperate neediness of ours. God knows this; what he offers us is simply accompaniment, a dwelling place for this heart of ours. The Mishkan is a symbol of God’s embrace, of the ability of the divine to HOLD all of this human brokenness, to surround it with Presence.
This needy heart of ours is not a bad thing; left on its own, it constructs idols, but it is actually made of pure gold, and, when it feels the accompaniment of the divine embrace, it is elevated and raised up to unimaginable levels of service. The response to the request for donations for the Mishkan in Vayekhel is “over the top”; the people come tripping over themselves, their “hearts raised up” (nesa’o libo), to give more and more until a halt is called; there is more than enough. This needy heart has an intensity to it; it is not just the source of idolatry, but also the source of our yearning for connection to something larger than ourselves, of our ability to give limitlessly, to be part of an eternal project. In the Miskhan, in God, this searching heart finds a home, finds security, finds the ultimate neverending Ground.
The story of the Golden Calf is, in some sense, then, at the heart of the Mishkan, standing right in the middle of its sacred sanctuary walls. It is as if the divine sanctuary is there to hold, to embrace, to surround the very human neediness displayed in the act of the Golden Calf, our own tender human heart.
Let me explain. What happened at the Golden Calf? The people saw that Moshe was gone a long time and they began to wonder what had happened to him and to feel insecure and uncertain, a little like a small, bewildered child who suddenly finds herself alone in a vast terrifying place, the only source of comfort and security nowhere in sight. She feels lost and abandoned, desperately in need of something to attach herself to, to calm the feeling of being afloat without an anchor.
The Golden Calf is fundamentally an expression of deep human suffering. Coming down from the mountain, Moshe hears a sound. Yehoshua thinks it is the sound of war, but Moshe corrects him – this is not the sound of winning of losing, but rather kol anot, which, although not usually translated this way, can be understood to mean “the sound of suffering,” from the root inui, for suffering, the same word for the suffering the Israelites felt in Egypt.
I think most of us know what this groundlessness feels like, the sense of uncertainty and aloneness, this hole inside of us that desperately needs to be filled by something, to be attached to something, anything, in order to feel that we have some ground to stand on. So we, like the Israelites, look to some other source of security and attachment; there are many kinds of idolatry – substance and food addictions, money, success, ego, even the worship of another human as wholly powerful in some way.
In the end of the day, none of these prove to be secure enough for us; none of them totally fill our gaping open heart.
There is, it turns out, nothing to do for this groundlessness, this desperate neediness of ours. God knows this; what he offers us is simply accompaniment, a dwelling place for this heart of ours. The Mishkan is a symbol of God’s embrace, of the ability of the divine to HOLD all of this human brokenness, to surround it with Presence.
This needy heart of ours is not a bad thing; left on its own, it constructs idols, but it is actually made of pure gold, and, when it feels the accompaniment of the divine embrace, it is elevated and raised up to unimaginable levels of service. The response to the request for donations for the Mishkan in Vayekhel is “over the top”; the people come tripping over themselves, their “hearts raised up” (nesa’o libo), to give more and more until a halt is called; there is more than enough. This needy heart has an intensity to it; it is not just the source of idolatry, but also the source of our yearning for connection to something larger than ourselves, of our ability to give limitlessly, to be part of an eternal project. In the Miskhan, in God, this searching heart finds a home, finds security, finds the ultimate neverending Ground.
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