Ve’Rut davkah bah. “But Ruth stuck with her.” Unlike Orpah, the other daughter-in law, Ruth stuck with her mother-in-law, Naomi. She stuck with her past the point of self-interest; Naomi makes clear that she will have no more sons to give her to marry. This act of Ruth’s is not just hesed, “loving-kindness/loyalty” but hesed shel emet, true hesed, the kind of hesed associated with the care for the dead, an act that, like Ruth’s, cannot possibly expect any return.
Each year we read the book of Ruth on the holiday of Shavu’ot, our celebration of the giving of the Torah. Why? What is the connection? There are many answers. The story takes place in the same season as Shavu’ot, the spring harvest time. Further, it enacts one of the precepts associated in the Torah with Shavu’ot and the harvest, the precept of pe’ah/ leket, leaving the corners and the droppings of your field for the poor.
But perhaps there is also a deeper connection between this notion of hesed and the acceptance of the Torah. When people look at the Torah and at Jewish practice, they often ask the question: What will I get out of it – spiritually, emotionally, even practically? The lesson of Ruth is that this is the wrong question to ask, at least initially. What is required is hesed, “loyalty,” a kind of steadfast devotion, known as dveikut -- from the same root as davkah as in Rut davkah bah, “Ruth stuck with her” -- a kind of stick-to-itness that does not look for returns.
Indeed, according to Jeremiah this is how God views our initial agreement to follow Him into the desert, as a sign of our unwavering loyalty and devotion. Zakharti lakh hesed ne’urayikh, “I remember the hesed¸ devotion of your youth,” says God, “how you followed me in the wilderness, in a land not sown” (Jer 2:2). “A land not sown.” Naomi, Ruth’s mother-in-law, was also, from Ruth’s point of view, a land not sown, a barren woman with no hope for future progeny. Ruth followed her in spite of her barrenness, like the people followed God into the barren wilderness, purely out of a personal sense of loyalty.
There are, of course, rewards for such devotion. In the end, Ruth marries the prosperous and kind Boaz and has a child whose descendants include King David (and therefore, ultimately, the Messiah). Sticking with what seems to be a barren woman, a barren land, eventually does bear fruit. Indeed, devotion to the Torah does lead to a good life, a life of fulfillment and deep spiritual rewards. All that is true. But it is nonetheless important that these rewards are built on a sense of devotion and loyalty. Sometimes the Torah does seem like a barren woman, a barren land; it seems to be all work, with no reward. It takes a sense of stick-to-itness, of devotion, of long-term steadfastness, to stay the course.
Partly, the message here is that our attitude toward God and Torah should be a relational one. The highest form of love is the love that is not based on self-interest, that does not look for a return, that does not think: “If I am friendly with her, she can help me move forward in my career,” but simply loves the other out of selfless devotion. It is this type of relationship that we aim for in marriage, and it is this type of relationship that the Torah hopes is the basis our ongoing relationship with God. On Shavu’ot, before we re-accept the Torah, we remind ourselves of the need for a Ruth-like sense of hesed and dveikut, loyalty and devotion.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Parshiyyot Behar-Bekhukotai: Linked In
In the Yovel (jubilee) year, the Torah says there will be dror lekhol yoshveha, “freedom to all the land’s inhabitants (Lev 25:10).” Why to all? The law is that slaves go free. Not everyone is a slave. Why is there a broad declaration of freedom for all? Because none of us is free as long as any of us is a slave. Our lots are intertwined.
That is why, if your fellow falls on hard times, you are to hold on tight to him, bring him in to live with you, help him rise out of the hard times (25:35). Vehai ahikha imakh, your brother should live with you. With you. He shares in your good fortune and you share in his burden. Your lives, your hayut, in the Sefat Emet’s words – your living essences – are dependent on one another. All deriving from the same Source, they are unbreakably linked.
Vehazakta bo, the Torah says – hold on to him. Don’t let him fall further into a downward spiral, says Rashi; stop the trend now, before it gets so bad that it becomes impossible to help. But the term vehazakta bo can also be read (playfully) as a reference to one’s own process of growth – Become strong through him. You thought you didn’t have anything to give someone, but here, through the very act of giving, you show yourself to be strong, to be connected to others and therefore linked in to the Source of all life, all strength.
Hazan et ha'olam kulo -- He who nourishes the whole world in its entirety, we say of God in Birkat Hamazon, the blessing after meals. Note, says the Sefat Emet, that we speak of His nourishing of the world, not of an individual; it is to the world as an entirety that He provides enough food; in God’s eyes we are a unit, and it is only when we act as one – providing each for the other and living in connection -- that we feel the fullness of His blessing.
We aren’t just talking about wealth or food here. We are talking about a state of mind. A state of mind that sees the interconnectedness of human beings, that understands that our separateness as individuals is in a way an illusion that masks our deep interdependence. Perhaps that is why Rabbi Akiva thought that the precept VeAhavta LeRe’akha Kamokha – love your neighbor as yourself – was the principle rule of the Torah; the key to a religious life is to learn to see the connections, to view others as if they are yourself, to understand that there is only true dror, freedom, in this world for any of us when the whole land is free. The call to declare freedom for all on the Yovel year is perhaps unrealizable, a kind of utopian dream, but it is also aspirational, a declaration of what we hold dear.
That is why, if your fellow falls on hard times, you are to hold on tight to him, bring him in to live with you, help him rise out of the hard times (25:35). Vehai ahikha imakh, your brother should live with you. With you. He shares in your good fortune and you share in his burden. Your lives, your hayut, in the Sefat Emet’s words – your living essences – are dependent on one another. All deriving from the same Source, they are unbreakably linked.
Vehazakta bo, the Torah says – hold on to him. Don’t let him fall further into a downward spiral, says Rashi; stop the trend now, before it gets so bad that it becomes impossible to help. But the term vehazakta bo can also be read (playfully) as a reference to one’s own process of growth – Become strong through him. You thought you didn’t have anything to give someone, but here, through the very act of giving, you show yourself to be strong, to be connected to others and therefore linked in to the Source of all life, all strength.
Hazan et ha'olam kulo -- He who nourishes the whole world in its entirety, we say of God in Birkat Hamazon, the blessing after meals. Note, says the Sefat Emet, that we speak of His nourishing of the world, not of an individual; it is to the world as an entirety that He provides enough food; in God’s eyes we are a unit, and it is only when we act as one – providing each for the other and living in connection -- that we feel the fullness of His blessing.
We aren’t just talking about wealth or food here. We are talking about a state of mind. A state of mind that sees the interconnectedness of human beings, that understands that our separateness as individuals is in a way an illusion that masks our deep interdependence. Perhaps that is why Rabbi Akiva thought that the precept VeAhavta LeRe’akha Kamokha – love your neighbor as yourself – was the principle rule of the Torah; the key to a religious life is to learn to see the connections, to view others as if they are yourself, to understand that there is only true dror, freedom, in this world for any of us when the whole land is free. The call to declare freedom for all on the Yovel year is perhaps unrealizable, a kind of utopian dream, but it is also aspirational, a declaration of what we hold dear.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Parashat Emor and Sefirat HaOmer: On the In-Between State
Why wasn’t the Torah given to Israel immediately upon leaving Egypt? It would have made sense. They were wandering, feeling lost, for those almost two months. They could have used the assurance and direction of a revelation at Mount Sinai.
Why do we have this period of Sefirat HaOmer, the 49 day count between Passover and Shavu’ot? Why not go immediately from exodus to Torah? The two are clearly linked; Moshe told Pharaoh from the start that the people are leaving Egypt in order to worship God; when God appeared to Moshe at Mount Sinai in the burning bush, He told Moshe that the people would return to this very mountaintop to worship Him. The purpose of exodus was the revelation at Mount Sinai. That was its destination point. So why have this counting period between the two?
To teach us that the Torah is not acquired easily. Netivot Shalom quotes the Mesilat Yesharim as saying that tehilato be’hishtadlut vesofo bematanah – “Its beginning is through struggle and its end is a gift.” First a person has to work hard on her own, put some effort in; she can’t make it all the way on her own; the end result is a gift from above, but the gift only comes to one who has struggled. Enlightenment, or revelation, as the saying goes, only comes to the prepared mind, to the prepared soul.
Fortunately, we are given a head start in our struggle, a push in the right direction. As Kedushat Levi says, on Passover we have the initial experience of revelation and an awakening from above, but then we are left, during the time of Sefirah, to continue that awakening from below. Usefartaem Lakhem, “Count for yourselves” – You have to do it yourselves, out of your own volition and initiative.
It is no accident that we have this period of Sefirah between the two holidays, that we are called on to make our own way from the one to the other. I think that most of us lead most of our lives precisely in this Sefirah state. We have some vague memory of a past revelation buried inside us, and we can occasionally catch glimpses of a revelation in front of us as well. The daily work is in this middle period of the Sefirah, in our own struggle to find direction, to be able to see Mount Sinai in the distance, and to feel its gravitational pull. The Hasidic commentaries understand sefirah as coming from sappir, or sapphire, referring to a clarity or brightness. The point of this time-period is to create within oneself a clarity of vision, a sense of purpose.
Like the Israelites in the desert, we are all sometimes wonderers, winding our way through life, lost and directionless. Sefirat HaOmer is a way of asserting that our lives are colored by revelation on all sides of us, so that our current state looks backward and forward and is part of some chain. We count each day to remind ourselves of these connections, to help us feel, despite our existential bewilderment, that we are grounded, that we can see the revelation just over the horizon, and that each step is part of a path forward, given a sense of direction by its surrounding poles of clarity.
Why do we have this period of Sefirat HaOmer, the 49 day count between Passover and Shavu’ot? Why not go immediately from exodus to Torah? The two are clearly linked; Moshe told Pharaoh from the start that the people are leaving Egypt in order to worship God; when God appeared to Moshe at Mount Sinai in the burning bush, He told Moshe that the people would return to this very mountaintop to worship Him. The purpose of exodus was the revelation at Mount Sinai. That was its destination point. So why have this counting period between the two?
To teach us that the Torah is not acquired easily. Netivot Shalom quotes the Mesilat Yesharim as saying that tehilato be’hishtadlut vesofo bematanah – “Its beginning is through struggle and its end is a gift.” First a person has to work hard on her own, put some effort in; she can’t make it all the way on her own; the end result is a gift from above, but the gift only comes to one who has struggled. Enlightenment, or revelation, as the saying goes, only comes to the prepared mind, to the prepared soul.
Fortunately, we are given a head start in our struggle, a push in the right direction. As Kedushat Levi says, on Passover we have the initial experience of revelation and an awakening from above, but then we are left, during the time of Sefirah, to continue that awakening from below. Usefartaem Lakhem, “Count for yourselves” – You have to do it yourselves, out of your own volition and initiative.
It is no accident that we have this period of Sefirah between the two holidays, that we are called on to make our own way from the one to the other. I think that most of us lead most of our lives precisely in this Sefirah state. We have some vague memory of a past revelation buried inside us, and we can occasionally catch glimpses of a revelation in front of us as well. The daily work is in this middle period of the Sefirah, in our own struggle to find direction, to be able to see Mount Sinai in the distance, and to feel its gravitational pull. The Hasidic commentaries understand sefirah as coming from sappir, or sapphire, referring to a clarity or brightness. The point of this time-period is to create within oneself a clarity of vision, a sense of purpose.
Like the Israelites in the desert, we are all sometimes wonderers, winding our way through life, lost and directionless. Sefirat HaOmer is a way of asserting that our lives are colored by revelation on all sides of us, so that our current state looks backward and forward and is part of some chain. We count each day to remind ourselves of these connections, to help us feel, despite our existential bewilderment, that we are grounded, that we can see the revelation just over the horizon, and that each step is part of a path forward, given a sense of direction by its surrounding poles of clarity.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Parashat Kedoshim: Beyond the Minimum
Kedoshim Tehiyu. “Be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.” So begins the second of this week’s two parshiyyot. What does it mean to be kadosh, holy?
According to Rashi, kedushah, holiness, involves the separation from the prohibited sexual unions listed in the end of the previous parsha (as well as the end of Kedoshim). But according to Nachmanides, being kadosh does not mean keeping the bare minimum of prohibitions assigned by the Torah; it means striving for more. As Nachmanides points out, it is easy for a person to be a naval bereshut haTorah, “a vile person within the permissible realm of the Torah.” It is easy, in other words, to officially keep all the laws of the Torah, but to nonetheless act in disgusting ways, to eat only permitted foods but to eat them in an uncivilized beastly manner. So the Torah added on this general statement – kedoshim tehiyu, to let us know that we should do more than the bare minimum.
Kedushah then has a kind of reaching quality to it. It is not quantifiable; it has no maximum. It is a process, a journey, an attitude of striving. This is the nature of many of the laws of Kedoshim – love your neighbor as yourself; show respect to the elderly; do not go around spreading gossip; leave the corners of your fields for the poor. These laws involve going beyond minimum neighborly decency; they offer us a picture of the kind of loving society we should be aiming for.
The nature of Kedoshim’s laws is highlighted by a midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 24:5) which draws parallels between them and the 10 commandments. Ari Hart on the Uri L’Tzedek website (a great new Orthodox social justice movement), commenting on this midrash, points out that the 10 commandments create a floor, a required minimum, for a functional society, while parashat Kedoshim imagines a people striving toward a higher goal.
Thus, while the 10 commandments prohibit false testimony against a fellow in a court case, parashat Kedoshim prohibits any type of gossip or slander. While the 10 commandments prohibit jealousy, Parashat Kedoshim says, “Wish for your neighbor what you would wish for yourself” (ve’ahavta le’reakha kamokha). Do more than not wish him evil; actively desire good for him. The 10 commandments say “Do not murder,” while Kedoshim says Lo Ta’amod al dam re’ekha – Do not stand by while the blood of your fellow is being spilled. One is a minimum call to not yourself commit a murder; the other is a call for active intervention on behalf of your suffering fellow in the world. Do not stand idly by if you can save him.
They say that the key to ending a culture of bullying among children is to change the culture of “bystanders,” to convince those who stand by and either support or simply watch the bullying to actively intervene in some way. This is the message of Parashat Kedoshim. Yes, the bare minimum is the 10 commandments; first make sure you yourself are not being the bully. But beyond that there is a world to actively fix. Being kadosh means doing more than you are required to do, not just refraining from evil action, but helping to create a culture of love and generosity.
According to Rashi, kedushah, holiness, involves the separation from the prohibited sexual unions listed in the end of the previous parsha (as well as the end of Kedoshim). But according to Nachmanides, being kadosh does not mean keeping the bare minimum of prohibitions assigned by the Torah; it means striving for more. As Nachmanides points out, it is easy for a person to be a naval bereshut haTorah, “a vile person within the permissible realm of the Torah.” It is easy, in other words, to officially keep all the laws of the Torah, but to nonetheless act in disgusting ways, to eat only permitted foods but to eat them in an uncivilized beastly manner. So the Torah added on this general statement – kedoshim tehiyu, to let us know that we should do more than the bare minimum.
Kedushah then has a kind of reaching quality to it. It is not quantifiable; it has no maximum. It is a process, a journey, an attitude of striving. This is the nature of many of the laws of Kedoshim – love your neighbor as yourself; show respect to the elderly; do not go around spreading gossip; leave the corners of your fields for the poor. These laws involve going beyond minimum neighborly decency; they offer us a picture of the kind of loving society we should be aiming for.
The nature of Kedoshim’s laws is highlighted by a midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 24:5) which draws parallels between them and the 10 commandments. Ari Hart on the Uri L’Tzedek website (a great new Orthodox social justice movement), commenting on this midrash, points out that the 10 commandments create a floor, a required minimum, for a functional society, while parashat Kedoshim imagines a people striving toward a higher goal.
Thus, while the 10 commandments prohibit false testimony against a fellow in a court case, parashat Kedoshim prohibits any type of gossip or slander. While the 10 commandments prohibit jealousy, Parashat Kedoshim says, “Wish for your neighbor what you would wish for yourself” (ve’ahavta le’reakha kamokha). Do more than not wish him evil; actively desire good for him. The 10 commandments say “Do not murder,” while Kedoshim says Lo Ta’amod al dam re’ekha – Do not stand by while the blood of your fellow is being spilled. One is a minimum call to not yourself commit a murder; the other is a call for active intervention on behalf of your suffering fellow in the world. Do not stand idly by if you can save him.
They say that the key to ending a culture of bullying among children is to change the culture of “bystanders,” to convince those who stand by and either support or simply watch the bullying to actively intervene in some way. This is the message of Parashat Kedoshim. Yes, the bare minimum is the 10 commandments; first make sure you yourself are not being the bully. But beyond that there is a world to actively fix. Being kadosh means doing more than you are required to do, not just refraining from evil action, but helping to create a culture of love and generosity.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Parshiyyot Tazria-Metzora: On Looking Deeply
An old Yiddish joke tells of a Jewish immigrant to America who gets sick; his American-born son takes him to the doctor. The doctor examines him and says: “It’s a virus.” The son reports back to his father, in Yiddish, “He says it’s caused by ‘a virus’.” The father looks at the son and repeats quizzically: “Averus? [Yiddish for ‘sins’] -- I already knew that.”
In this joke, the father reveals an ancient perspective on illness: that physical maladies are a reflection of internal, spiritual problems. The rabbis explain the central issue in this week’s parshiyyot, tzara’at -- an on-the-surface ailment that can afflict one’s skin as well as one’s clothing and one’s home – in a similar way. Based on biblical clues like Miriam’s experience of tzara’at as a punishment for her slander of Moshe, the rabbis say that tzara’at is caused by sin – in particular, lashon hara¸ ill speech.
At work here is an understanding of sickness quite different from the Western medical model which generally focuses only on the physical aspects of a sickness. The sick person in these parshiyyot does not go to a doctor to be healed, but to a priest. Physical illness, says the Torah, may be a symptom of spiritual illness. Similarly, when we pray for a sick person, we pray for refu’at hanefesh verefu’at haguf, “healing of the soul and healing of the body.” The Torah takes a holistic approach, asserting the essential connectedness of body and soul.
It is a matter of looking beneath the surface. We tend to be very concrete in our thinking, seeing only the physical side of things. But, as the Netivot Shalom points out, it is the job of the priest to look “deeply;” he checks whether the skin-rash has penetrated the surface, is amok, “deep,” whether it is merely a physical rash, or rather a sign of some deeper internal malady.
Learning to look deeply, to see beyond the concrete, is what the Torah project is all about, according to many Hasidic masters. There is a famous midrash, cited by Rashi, that says that the reason the homes in the land of Israel were subject to tzara’at is so that the Israelites would knock them down and discover the treasures the Amorites had hidden within the walls. One Hasidic interpretation (Kedushat Levi) reads these treasures as our own internal sparks, caught inside our physical walls. External tzara’at may be a signpost of some internal trouble, but it may also be a sign that the true treasures are internal, that it is time to break down those external barriers and find what is inside.
Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Warsaw ghetto rebbe, wrote, before the war, a book called bnei machsahavah tovah (recently translated as “Conscious Community”) in which he outlines a strategy for training one’s mind to perceive God in the universe. What you see with your plain eyes, he says, is merely the outer form; one can learn to perceive the inner being of things, to feel God’s constant presence in the world.
This week we celebrate Yom HaAtzmau’t, Israel Independence Day. Such a miraculous occurrence as the existence of the State of Israel is a physical signpost pointing us to the existence of a deeper reality. May we learn to look deeply, like the priest, and see the treasures that lie beneath.
In this joke, the father reveals an ancient perspective on illness: that physical maladies are a reflection of internal, spiritual problems. The rabbis explain the central issue in this week’s parshiyyot, tzara’at -- an on-the-surface ailment that can afflict one’s skin as well as one’s clothing and one’s home – in a similar way. Based on biblical clues like Miriam’s experience of tzara’at as a punishment for her slander of Moshe, the rabbis say that tzara’at is caused by sin – in particular, lashon hara¸ ill speech.
At work here is an understanding of sickness quite different from the Western medical model which generally focuses only on the physical aspects of a sickness. The sick person in these parshiyyot does not go to a doctor to be healed, but to a priest. Physical illness, says the Torah, may be a symptom of spiritual illness. Similarly, when we pray for a sick person, we pray for refu’at hanefesh verefu’at haguf, “healing of the soul and healing of the body.” The Torah takes a holistic approach, asserting the essential connectedness of body and soul.
It is a matter of looking beneath the surface. We tend to be very concrete in our thinking, seeing only the physical side of things. But, as the Netivot Shalom points out, it is the job of the priest to look “deeply;” he checks whether the skin-rash has penetrated the surface, is amok, “deep,” whether it is merely a physical rash, or rather a sign of some deeper internal malady.
Learning to look deeply, to see beyond the concrete, is what the Torah project is all about, according to many Hasidic masters. There is a famous midrash, cited by Rashi, that says that the reason the homes in the land of Israel were subject to tzara’at is so that the Israelites would knock them down and discover the treasures the Amorites had hidden within the walls. One Hasidic interpretation (Kedushat Levi) reads these treasures as our own internal sparks, caught inside our physical walls. External tzara’at may be a signpost of some internal trouble, but it may also be a sign that the true treasures are internal, that it is time to break down those external barriers and find what is inside.
Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Warsaw ghetto rebbe, wrote, before the war, a book called bnei machsahavah tovah (recently translated as “Conscious Community”) in which he outlines a strategy for training one’s mind to perceive God in the universe. What you see with your plain eyes, he says, is merely the outer form; one can learn to perceive the inner being of things, to feel God’s constant presence in the world.
This week we celebrate Yom HaAtzmau’t, Israel Independence Day. Such a miraculous occurrence as the existence of the State of Israel is a physical signpost pointing us to the existence of a deeper reality. May we learn to look deeply, like the priest, and see the treasures that lie beneath.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Parashat Shmini: Some Post-Passover Thoughts
It’s Parashat Shmini, the parsha of the “eighth day,” the day after the 7 days of miluim, of practicing the erection and consecration of the Tabernacle. This is the day when all the lessons learned actually come into practice.
And it feels like the eighth day, in terms of holidays. We’ve had 7 (okay, 8, but it should have been 7) days of Passover. And now is the eighth day, when we put all those lessons into practice. What do we take with us from Passover into life?
As if to answer this question, we are immediately confronted, post-Passover, with Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. We go from a celebration of redemption to a remembering of tragedy and suffering. What is the relationship between these two?
They are both practices of memory. We have 6 zechirot, 6 acts of memory we are commanded to do (see your siddur for a complete list), and these are 2 of them: remember that you left Egypt and remember the terrible things Amalek did to you. Remember that there is redemption in the world and remember that there is cruelty in the world.
The two are necessarily linked. Remembering the Holocaust is a difficult thing. One can easily fall into the pit of despair with such memories. One begins to feel that the world is essentially an evil place where cruel things have happened and are still happening at this very moment. How can we bear such thoughts, such memories? As a people, how do we avoid a descent into hopelessness?
We can only face such memories fortified with the lessons of Passover, the holiday of hope. Passover teaches that there is ultimate redemption, that one must hold firmly to the belief that the world is moving in the right direction. Leaving Egypt does happen for those who are in straits.
But remembering our exodus from Egypt is not enough. If we did only that, we would be complacent, content in our sense of having already been redeemed. Our obligation is also to remember Amalek in the world, to remember that there still is cruelty and along with this memory, comes the obligation to erase its presence, to work at the eradication of evil from the world.
Immersed in a sense of evil in the world we could not fight it. It would overwhelm us. One cannot save a drowning person unless one is able to swim securely oneself. And so, we arm ourselves for the fight with the tools garnered in our Passover celebration – the faith in the ultimate triumph of good, in the possibility of redemption.
This is the eighth day, the day we take the memory of redemption to help us confront the memory of tragedy and cruelty.
And it feels like the eighth day, in terms of holidays. We’ve had 7 (okay, 8, but it should have been 7) days of Passover. And now is the eighth day, when we put all those lessons into practice. What do we take with us from Passover into life?
As if to answer this question, we are immediately confronted, post-Passover, with Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. We go from a celebration of redemption to a remembering of tragedy and suffering. What is the relationship between these two?
They are both practices of memory. We have 6 zechirot, 6 acts of memory we are commanded to do (see your siddur for a complete list), and these are 2 of them: remember that you left Egypt and remember the terrible things Amalek did to you. Remember that there is redemption in the world and remember that there is cruelty in the world.
The two are necessarily linked. Remembering the Holocaust is a difficult thing. One can easily fall into the pit of despair with such memories. One begins to feel that the world is essentially an evil place where cruel things have happened and are still happening at this very moment. How can we bear such thoughts, such memories? As a people, how do we avoid a descent into hopelessness?
We can only face such memories fortified with the lessons of Passover, the holiday of hope. Passover teaches that there is ultimate redemption, that one must hold firmly to the belief that the world is moving in the right direction. Leaving Egypt does happen for those who are in straits.
But remembering our exodus from Egypt is not enough. If we did only that, we would be complacent, content in our sense of having already been redeemed. Our obligation is also to remember Amalek in the world, to remember that there still is cruelty and along with this memory, comes the obligation to erase its presence, to work at the eradication of evil from the world.
Immersed in a sense of evil in the world we could not fight it. It would overwhelm us. One cannot save a drowning person unless one is able to swim securely oneself. And so, we arm ourselves for the fight with the tools garnered in our Passover celebration – the faith in the ultimate triumph of good, in the possibility of redemption.
This is the eighth day, the day we take the memory of redemption to help us confront the memory of tragedy and cruelty.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
More on Passover: On Children and Cleaning
Passover is a time for questions. Here are two I have been pondering. Please add your thoughts in the comment section below.
On Children:
Children stand at the center of this holiday. The Torah says vehigadeta levinkha. “And you shall tell your child” the story of our exodus from Egypt. It is on this basis that we have a seder and a haggadah, a book of “teling” to begin with --- for the children. But why? Why are children so central to this holiday of freedom?
A few thoughts:
1) Perhaps telling the story to our children means learning to hear and tell the story in the way that children do – with wonder, excitement, and a no-bounds sense of identification. Children know what it means to see yourself “as if” you left Egypt. They play those kinds of imaginary games all the time. We begin the Seder with questions to encourage not just the children to ask but also ourselves to ask, to look with wonder at what is new and different, to be curious and engaged like a child.
2) The holiday of Passover is about both children – the future – and also the past – retelling our national history. The point of the holiday is to preserve this link between past and future. Doing so embeds each of us in a chain, makes us and our children a part of a larger, eternal network stretching backward and forward in time. And, in so doing, we do attain a kind of freedom, a freedom from mortality: we escape our individual straits, the confines of our short individual lives.
3) The holiday is also a holiday of hope. Think of the contrast between Tisha b’Av and Passover. On Tisha b’Av we mourn the sad events of our past. On Passover we assert with great clarity that redemption happens, that difficult times always do eventually come to an end. It is this climate of faith and hope that is an essential backdrop for raising and educating children. Passover is a holiday of education because it is a holiday of hope. Children are the future; they are themselves signs of hope, like the spring rebirth after the winter sleep. To face the life that awaits them, we need to fortify them with hope and faith in the possibility of redemption.
On Cleaning:
What is the connection between cleaning and Passover, between the act of ridding ourselves of all our hametz and the process of achieving freedom and redemption? There is something about freedom, something about redemption that requires us to remove certain obstacles. What are these obstacles?
The puffiness of hametz has been traditionally connected to the puffiness of the ego, the constant human pursuit of honor, and certainly such preoccupations are a kind of enslavement, an obstacle to both freedom and redemption.
But the obstacle that strikes me most clearly this year is fear. We cannot be ourselves and play the role we are meant to play in the world if we have fear – fear of physical pain or harm, fear of evil-doers, fear of new things, fear of intimacy, fear of social disapproval or embarrassment. Fear keeps us preoccupied with the “what if” instead of focusing on the present moment of connection and holiness. Perhaps it is for this reason that the Seder night is designated as a leyl shimurim, a “night of guarding,” of divine protection. For one night, we imagine what it is like to shed these fears like bread crumbs and feel the possibility of a bold freedom.
On Children:
Children stand at the center of this holiday. The Torah says vehigadeta levinkha. “And you shall tell your child” the story of our exodus from Egypt. It is on this basis that we have a seder and a haggadah, a book of “teling” to begin with --- for the children. But why? Why are children so central to this holiday of freedom?
A few thoughts:
1) Perhaps telling the story to our children means learning to hear and tell the story in the way that children do – with wonder, excitement, and a no-bounds sense of identification. Children know what it means to see yourself “as if” you left Egypt. They play those kinds of imaginary games all the time. We begin the Seder with questions to encourage not just the children to ask but also ourselves to ask, to look with wonder at what is new and different, to be curious and engaged like a child.
2) The holiday of Passover is about both children – the future – and also the past – retelling our national history. The point of the holiday is to preserve this link between past and future. Doing so embeds each of us in a chain, makes us and our children a part of a larger, eternal network stretching backward and forward in time. And, in so doing, we do attain a kind of freedom, a freedom from mortality: we escape our individual straits, the confines of our short individual lives.
3) The holiday is also a holiday of hope. Think of the contrast between Tisha b’Av and Passover. On Tisha b’Av we mourn the sad events of our past. On Passover we assert with great clarity that redemption happens, that difficult times always do eventually come to an end. It is this climate of faith and hope that is an essential backdrop for raising and educating children. Passover is a holiday of education because it is a holiday of hope. Children are the future; they are themselves signs of hope, like the spring rebirth after the winter sleep. To face the life that awaits them, we need to fortify them with hope and faith in the possibility of redemption.
On Cleaning:
What is the connection between cleaning and Passover, between the act of ridding ourselves of all our hametz and the process of achieving freedom and redemption? There is something about freedom, something about redemption that requires us to remove certain obstacles. What are these obstacles?
The puffiness of hametz has been traditionally connected to the puffiness of the ego, the constant human pursuit of honor, and certainly such preoccupations are a kind of enslavement, an obstacle to both freedom and redemption.
But the obstacle that strikes me most clearly this year is fear. We cannot be ourselves and play the role we are meant to play in the world if we have fear – fear of physical pain or harm, fear of evil-doers, fear of new things, fear of intimacy, fear of social disapproval or embarrassment. Fear keeps us preoccupied with the “what if” instead of focusing on the present moment of connection and holiness. Perhaps it is for this reason that the Seder night is designated as a leyl shimurim, a “night of guarding,” of divine protection. For one night, we imagine what it is like to shed these fears like bread crumbs and feel the possibility of a bold freedom.
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