Pre-Selichot Thoughts on Patience

Melekh ne’elav, God is a king who bears insults. In his discussion of the 13 attributes of God, Moses Cordovero describes the situation in this way: God is continually providing for us, sustaining us at every moment through His flow of love and energy. And the remarkable thing is that this continues to happen even when we sin or stray from His course. He still sends down that flow of energy; He still sustains us and does not withhold anything despite the insult we have inflicted upon Him.

Two of the 13 middot (attributes) which we will begin to recite on Saturday night as part of the Selichot service, two of them deal with this notion of a long suffering injured king.

The first is Erekh Apayim. Literally, this term means “Long of the nostrils,” meaning that God takes a long time to anger. He takes slow, long breaths, as it were, instead of the quick ones we associate with anger. God is patient. He doesn’t rush into a tizzy because we have strayed, but takes His time, bears the insult and waits for the person to correct themselves.

Bearing the insult is part of the notion of another one of the middot, Nose Avon. Nose Avon means that God “forgives” sins, but literally the word nose means to carry or bear. He bears the burden of our thoughtlessness and greed and other sins the way the earth is bearing the burden of our overtaxation of its resources. We don’t immediately or perhaps ever feel the full weight of the effects of our wrongdoings. God bears those on His shoulders.

Why do we call out these 13 attributes of God so often? It is not only to remind ourselves of what God is like, but also to remind ourselves of how we should act, in imitation of God.

So if God is merciful and compassionate, we should be merciful and compassionate. And if God is long suffering and patient with our transgressions, then we, too, should be long suffering and patient with the wrongs done to us by others. If we are hurt by them, we are like God, the hurt king, and we should act like God in our response, not withholding our generosity but continuing to give and connect, and bearing the burden of the hurt upon ourselves patiently.

Our relationships with one another are full of goodness and joy, but they also always have some difficulties. We hurt each other and are, each in our way, difficult to be with. Part of what we learn from God is that being in relationship involves bearing that burden patiently, understanding that it is part of the deal, that since we are intertwined, another person’s difficulties are mine to bear and it is my job to bear them patiently, not to allow the wrongs to shut off the connection, but to be long suffering and to continue to let the love flow.

In Preparation for Rosh Hashanah: Thoughts on Hannah's Prayer

We Jews, when we think of prayer, we think of something fixed -- words written down for us in the siddur and times designated for us – the morning, the afternoon, the evening, shul on Shabbat. But there is also another type of prayer, one that is less talked about. It is the spontaneous prayer of the heart in moments of intense need or joy.

This is the prayer of Hannah (I Samuel 1), and indeed the type of prayer we hear throughout the Tanakh (think Yaakov in his terror before he meets a brother who he thinks wants to kill him). Hannah is a suffering soul, sad and bitter and lonely. Years have gone by and she still has no child, though her co-wife does. Each year, when the family travels to Shiloh to bring sacrifices, she is reminded anew of what is missing and of the pain of being a childless woman. What is her response to this suffering? She goes to the sanctuary and cries out to God in her distress.

She is sad and so she turns to God. What do we do when we are sad? Do we turn to prayer in this way, try to find solace in pouring out our hearts to the Eternal Ear, to the One who will always listen? The Piasetzner Rebbe recommends just this. He says that moments of intense emotion, whether sadness or joy, anxiety or fear, these moments are openings of the soul – opportunities to access our soul and connect to God in a real way that is normally blocked to us.

And it also feels good. It feels good not because our prayers are always answered. They aren’t. Hannah’s is indeed answered; she goes on to have the child, Shmuel. But the text is very specific in saying that even before she became pregnant, immediately when she left the sanctuary after her encounter with God, paneha lo hayu lah od, literally, “she no longer had the same face.” She was changed in some way, less sad and lonely, full of optimism and also, I imagine, full of a sense of the presence of God. Whether or not our prayers are answered, if we pray earnestly in these moments – from the depths of our hearts and souls – if we can really cry and pour out our sorrows, no matter how small—then we will feel better, not because the situation that is bothering us is necessarily resolved, but because we have connected to God; we feel heard; we feel connected; we are no longer alone.

On Rosh Hashanah we will read Hannah’s story. We will read her story in the midst of long days of prayer. As we prepare for these days, we can practice opening our hearts like Hannah, learning to turn to God in all types of moments – when we feel embarrassed and ashamed, proud and capable, insecure and unsure. We go through so many emotional states in a day, triggered by little events in our lives or just by the shifting clouds of our emotions. Each of these states is an opportunity to connect to God in prayer, to learn to actually cry in prayer like Hannah, to feel the connection and know that we are not alone.

Parashat Ki Tetze: On Yibum and Other People's Honor

The mitzvah of yibum in this week’s parsha has something to teach us about the ego.

The Torah tells us that if there are two brothers and one dies, married but without having any children, then the other brother must marry the dead brother’s wife and the first child they have together is considered the dead brother’s and continues his name. Indeed the point of this mitzvah is so that “his name may not be blotted out in Israel.”

In other words, this mitzvah is about doing something for the sake of someone else’s name, for the sake of another person’s honor and reputation in the world. How often do we actually do an act whose whole purpose is to increase the honor of someone else?

If, however, the live brother decides that he does not wish to marry his dead brother’s wife, then a ritual is performed freeing him from this obligation, a ritual in which the woman removes his shoe and spits in his face. From then on his family is known as beit halutz hana’al, “the house of the removed shoe.”

So basically because he didn’t care about his brother’s “name,” he loses his own name. There is a deep truth here: when we don’t care about the honor of our fellow we actually do ourselves a dishonor. The ego makes us think that honor is a zero sum game – the more someone else has, the less I have. But in practice, what ends up happening is that honor multiplies – the more you give it out to others, the more you have yourself. As Pirke Avot says, Eizehu mekhubad? Hamekhabed et habriyot. Who is considered honorable? One who honors others.

We get honor ourselves by giving honor. We lose it by withholding it or not generously bestowing it.

It sounds so simple but in practice it is quite hard. We feel innately that honor will only come to us if we are somehow above others, if we show ourselves to be better, smarter, more humble . . . than the next person. And so we try to show off our good parts and point out the faults of our fellows. But what often happens is that this smallness of mind and heart in ourselves only makes us look (and feel) bad. The people we most admire in this world are the ones who are able to hand out honor and compliments and good vibes to those around them, not the ones who make it known how smart or successful they are.

The mitzvah of yibum encourages us to change our thinking about honor: to look, not for ways to increase our own honor, but to actually think about how we might increase the honor of others.

Yehi k’vod chaverkha chaviv alekha keshelkha. “The honor of your friend should be as dear to you as your own.”

Parashat Shoftim: Appointing Judges for the Self

Shoftim veshotrim titen likha bekhol she’arekha. Appoint for yourself judges and enforcers in all your gates.
Though the literal meaning refers to the creation of a judicial system in society, there is a Hasidic reading which understands this command as referring to the inner workings of each individual.

Appoint for yourself judges and enforcers at all your gates. Watch yourself. And don’t let those judges take bribes – don’t be bribed by the evil inclination. But stand firm in judging each choice you make with care. Don’t just slide along according to your habit or natural inclination or the normal way of society, but evaluate what really is right in a situation. Be your own judge and choose thoughts and actions based on this judgment.

This does not mean one should engage in the type of extreme self-judgment that a lot of us suffer from. On the contrary, what it means to set up a judge ahead of time is that one is consciously making choices about both thought and action and not giving credence to that inner critic which is often on the side of the evil inclination, tearing us down so that we will not have the confidence to act in the world. It means creating a little bit of distance, the appropriate distance of a judge so that one does not get carried away by the emotions of self deprecation or insecurity but can see the situation more clearly. We are, most of all, judging the side of us that weighs us down, judging it in order to allow for the light of our true divine spark.

To judge and to enforce is another way of saying: you have choices in a situation; make the right choice. This week in my Mussar group, we have been studying the concept of choice in life. It is also especially relevant to this time of year. We are not talking here about the type of judgment that leads to a heavy heart, but on the contrary the type of judgment that leads one to a feeling of freedom based on the clarity of insight that one has choices in life; we are not stuck or tied to our depressive or stressed way of life, but we are capable of choosing differently; this type of judgment leads to a light, free heart, full of the optimism of freedom and possibility.

May we learn to judge wisely.

Parashat Re'eh: Help for the Lost

We often get lost in life. Lost in thought. Lost in our priorities – confused about what is important and what to pay attention to. Lost in a whirl of stress and details without clearly feeling or seeing the underlying meaning and purpose.

Two words struck me in this week’s parsha: uvo tidbakun. “And to Him you should attach yourself (Deut 13:5).” Attach yourself. Don’t move to the right or to the left. Stick to Him. He will be your compass. Don’t get lost in all the nonsense that surrounds you. Some of that nonsense is important, to be sure, and important in the very pursuit of sticking to God, but all of it needs that infusion of basic purpose. To do the dishes with a sense of purpose is different than to do the dishes in a harried, irritated way. Uvo tidbakun. Let the purpose of serving God infuse your every moment and direct you.

It’s a matter of holiness and purpose, a matter of keeping a sense of God’s presence in your mind as you go through the day. You are a creature with a divine spark and also a divine purpose. Stick to those notions and don’t let go, no matter the traffic or the appointments or the sudden children’s illness that interrupt your schedule. Though it all, stick to God, stick to your sense of a divine purpose and the holiness of your life and work, even in its details.

The Sefat Emet says that the month of Elul (which we are about to begin) is a time to realign ourselves with our basic divine purpose in life, to remind ourselves that Ani Ledodi -- I am for my Beloved (God) and I am really ONLY for my Beloved. Yes, during the rest of the year we need to be involved in many things, but during the month of Elul, we plug back in and remind ourselves that all the details are connected to one purpose. Everything else fades away.

May we work to feel this complete attachment and this clarity and may it truly elevate our everyday living and liberate us from stress.

Parashat Ekev: What was Hard about the Manna

Why is the man (manna) that we ate in the desert viewed as a nisayon, a test or a challenge? What was so hard about eating food that God provided each day?

I think the key to the challenge lies in the description of the man as a substance asher lo yadata, “which you didn’t know,” and, the Torah goes on to say, “which your ancestors didn’t know” either.

What was difficult about the man experience, what made it a nisayon, is that it was new, unfamiliar, something no one had ever encountered before.

New things are hard for us. The children started school this week and the first week is always a bit stressful. Taking a new job, entering a new school, moving to a new city, even driving to a new place can be a challenge.

Why? I think part of it is that new experiences make us feel insecure. We don’t know for sure the outcome. When we enter a new situation, the burning question is: will it work out? Will I make friends in this new place? Will I have enough to eat? Will I have enough time to do the work? Will I be successful? When we have been in that situation before, we know from past experience that it does work out and so we can relax. But in a new situation, we doubt—maybe that road doesn’t actually go to that place; maybe I can’t do this work -- we worry, we lack trust.

For the Israelites in the desert, the man was a challenge because they were used to normal food – you grow it, you fish it, you hunt it, you buy it from someone else who did one of those things. And then you cook it and eat it and you can rely on it to sustain you. But this new thing that appears with the morning dew – can it be relied on in the same way? Will it nourish us in the same way, help our children grow, keep us properly nourished? How do we know it will work out? How do we know it will continue, keep coming each morning, when we have no historical knowledge to rely on and we are not involved in the planting? How do we know that all will be well?

How do we ever know? The truth is that even in normal situations, which are not “new” to us, change happens and we cannot really rely on the predictability and stability of life remaining static. We took a vacation this year next to a river in West Virginia and I was struck by the constancy of the river flow. The water, the current, is always moving – sometimes slower, sometimes faster – but always moving. Change, new things, are actually the norm.

So how do we approach the river of life? How do we encounter the changes, the new situations? They are indeed a nisayon, a challenge, and I think a challenge that asks us, like the Israelites in the desert, to continually develop a greater level of bitahon, trust in God. Trust is the antidote to insecurity; trust provides the balance to ride through the rapids. It is a moment of complete relaxation; the ground will hold us; we do not need to struggle and fight to make it happen; we can trust that each morning we will wake up and find the man, find what we need in this world. In a new situation, we may not know how things will work out, but trusting means having faith that they will work out in the way that they are meant to work out and we can relax and do our best, not out of a sense of frenzied anxiety or insecurity, but out of a sense of joy and trust that it is right to do our part and the world is in good hands.

Parashat VaEthanan: On Places of Refuge

Among many other remarkable parts of this week’s parsha (including the Shma and the second recounting of the Ten Commandments), the Torah reports that Moshe took the time to designate three Cities of Refuge on the eastern side of the Jordan. Moshe has just told the people that he begged to go into the land but was not allowed to do so. Since he cannot cross the Jordan, he took the opportunity to do the mitzvah of separating and designating at least these three Cities of Refuge on this side of the border.

What are the Arei Miklat, the Cities of Refuge? They were 6 levitical cities designated for the absorption and protection of unintentional murderers. Someone who killed another person accidentally could run to these cities and receive sanctuary so that blood avengers from the victim’s family could not pursue them.

The Torah mentions these cities of refuge on a number of occasions, here and in Parashat Masei and again later in Devarim. Here they seem particularly highlighted as something important to Moshe, something he felt he needed to take part in despite his inability to enter the land, an act he needed to perform in order to ensure the proper functioning of Israelite society in the land.

Why are these cities so important?

I think they represent the importance of mercy and forgiveness in society. From the perspective of the sinner, they represent in spatial terms what the High Holiday season represents in time – a place where we can admit we are, by nature, flawed, and have hurt others irreparably, and can nonetheless receive absolution and forgiveness. We need such sanctuaries in life in order to continue to function. Otherwise the weight of needing to be perfect would stop us from ever acting at all. We need to know that as long as we have good intentions, even if we end up hurting people and doing the wrong thing, there is a place we can go to be absolved, there is a sanctuary, a safe haven, a place of refuge which will hold us until we have the strength to act again (actually for the murderer in the City of Refuge, it was until the High Priest died). Without such a pocket of assurance in life, we would be paralyzed by fear of misaction.

And from the perspective of the goel hadam, the family blood avenger, this space is equally important. We are all both sinners and avengers. We hurt others and are ourselves (or our family members) the victims of others. The question that comes up this season is not just: what will we do with our own impossible imperfections but also: what will we do with that of others around us? How will we learn to forgive and to let go, not to take revenge, not to hold a grudge in our hearts for all the little misdeeds of our fellows. This is a difficult emotional task and I think Moshe understood its importance in creating those Cities of Refuge. Those cities represent the end of a cycle of violence. They represent the ability to say: Yes, he hurt me, but it will end here. I will not carry this grudge into the next generation and perpetuate the hatred and ill-will. I will let it go at the borders of the City of Refuge. Why? Not just for the sake of the perpetrator, who needs our mercy, but also for my own sake – for the sake of the sanity of those who are hurt. Revenge eats a person up inside. On top of the injury itself, we end up hurting ourselves with layers of hatred and mean-spiritedness. The City of Refuge teaches release.

As we approach the month of Elul, with its call to repentance and forgiveness, may we feel the power of the Cities of Refuge, both as a place to rest our weary flawed selves as sinners and as a place to let go and forgive those who have hurt us.