The Purpose of our Enterprise
Psalm 8
When I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers,
The moon and stars that You set in place,
What is man that You have been mindful of him,
Mortal man that you have taken account of him,
That you have made him little less than divine
And adorned him with glory and majesty?
The psalmist captures the religious enterprise, my work for these last 4 decades and more.
As far as we know, we homo sapiens, the upright mammal, are the only beings that ask the questions, "Why am I here and why do I die?"
In investigating our surroundings, starting with ourselves and moving outward, like an infant child who discovers there is a world beyond his hands, we humans experience the emotion of holiness: awe at a Presence more worthy than and beyond ourselves. The emotion is akin to fear; but is so much more, because unlike fear, awe does not threaten but is a salve for the earthbound soul. Its trembling is the shudders of encompassing love, and a longing for the eternal home. Awe overwhelms and uproots the moorings of place and time, transporting us for just moments into the midst of eternity, among the stars as our psalmist might opine. Awe grants perspective, and we find ourselves and our place in the universe in its embrace; like a child set free of his mother's hug yet knowing that mother's breath is ever so near.
Awe alerts humans to the presence of the holy, but does not define what is holy. That God left as a human task. Holiness may be easily discerned at a baby naming or a wedding. But throughout the centuries holiness has donned different costumes. Our Torah portion this week, Naso, contains episodic encounters with events our ancestors felt to contain holy awe.
Our biblical ancestors often experienced disease as God’s absence or curse, and so disease indicated impurity and God’s disapproval, the opposite of holiness. The entire Book of Job consciously dispels the equation of disease with sin, so present in the Torah. Yet, people ask all the time, “What did I do wrong to deserve this disease?”
On the other hand, some of our biblical ancestors, called Nazirites, chose to declare themselves holy. Nazir today means hermit, or abstinent, or even a nun in modern Hebrew. These people temporarily or permanently chose holiness as their preoccupation. To achieve a holy state of being, they refrained from grapes in any form, including wine, or any strong intoxicants. They didn’t cut their hair. And they were particularly forbidden to approach a dead body, a strong contaminant because death absolutely defiles; it’s the polar opposite of holiness.
How they arrived at these particular stringencies, like wine and grapes, is anyone’s guess, and many have. Rather than analyze the holiness in such laws, some of which we understand and some is beyond us, let us state the obvious: that humans search for experiences revealing God’s inexhaustible presence.
Perhaps Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was correct and God is in search of humanity; that it is not God who moves away but we humans. We witness the same phenomenon concerning love: many people will declare that they were once in love but no longer are. Who moved away, ourselves or the beloved? Perhaps in the divine/human encounter we know who moved, as God is a constant without change. Perhaps we move away from God. But the emotion of awe demonstrates God’s existence and presence in our lives.
We, like our ancestors, encounter God’s presence in the awe of life and death. We feel it viscerally at births, brises, baby-namings, deaths and funerals. We may feel it when a youth breaks through the childhood chrysalis to become a butterfly at bar/bat mitzvah or Confirmation, when we see our children glow in a new light and it brings perhaps inexplicable tears of joy. So often we make a joke, or become sarcastic, in this world that avoids and even rejects the holy as though it were unreal. How often I have wished that celebrants would simply live the moment as is, and fully imbibe, taste and swallow the overflowing joy and awe of the spiritual moment. Instead, so often we escape into humor, banishing the uncomfortably awesome Presence, the momentary flash of lighting, the incursion of the divine into our small, time-bound world. How sad for us that we have been trained to not tolerate God’s presence and experience the eternal present in the moment.
But awe is not limited to a single set of experiences. We, like our ancestors, encounter God when we altruistically reach out beyond ourselves, connecting in Martin Buber’s I-Thou awe, losing the sense of isolated selves in that moment and gaining oneness with the world. Anyone who has been there knows the fleeting energy and sheer joy of intense camaraderie. It’s the reason soldiers give their lives for their buddy. It’s the unio mystica of the mystic. It’s eternity lived in a moment as clock hands merge into a single, seamless and timeless reality. You’ll hear soldiers talk about never having lived as meaningful a life as when they feared for their lives on the battlefield and suffered. Why? Because they were prepared to give up everything for a friend, or a cause so deep they’d sacrifice life itself. Here we find awe, just as in our people’s past.
And finally, there is the awe of community, being part of something greater than ourselves. You and I together comprise a community, stretching back 3000 years and across every continent and country on this globe. We are the spiritual inheritors of Moses and Zipporah, of Akiva and Rachel, of Emma Lazarus, and Albert Einstein and Jonas Salk and Albert Sabin and Theodor Herzl and David ben Gurion and millions of others. When people enter this building, even strangers tell me how accepted they feel because of the heartfelt reception. In this congregation everyone sings out, everyone prays together. You should be up on the bima sometime and hear this congregation sing Shema, or Avot v’Imahot, or Chatzi Kaddish. It takes my breath away for its beauty: one voice and one people. Together we have achieved a modern American Judaism in southern Johnson County, and I hope and pray there will be moments in your lives, as there are constantly in mine, when you feel the awe and God’s presence among God’s people. We bring the Shekinah down to earth with our prayers, and everyone feels it each time we gather in large community. When we welcome strangers; and when we collect tons of food to feed the hungry; and when we serve meals at reStart, God’s awesome presence abides. I can close my eyes and feel God’s awe, and I pray that you do as well.
The relationship continues through the millennia. Like the psalmist, we know God’s presence when we gaze on the beauty of creation. But each generation also finds its own way. I pray that just as Numbers 6 concludes, so will we conclude each awesome encounter with God’s face: May the Lord bless you and keep you; May the Lord’s face shine upon you and be gracious to you; May the Lord lift the light of his Presence to you, and give you peace.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Thursday, May 22, 2014
To whom do you ascribe your character?
Rabbi Samuel bar Nahmani said in Rabbi Jonathan's name: He who teaches his neighbor the Torah, scripture ascribes it to him as though he had begotten him. (Babylonia Talmud Sanhedrin 19b) Resh Lakish said: He who teaches Torah to his neighbor's son is regarded by scripture as though he had fashioned him. (Sanhedrin 99b) "And you shall teach them to your children." Deuteronomy 6:7: "This refers to your disciples, for you find that disciples are always referred to as children..." (Sifrei to Deuteronomy 6:7) Those who teach children Torah are like parents, because they create them anew. Isn't this true: that teachers mold children, fashioning who they will be in life? Torah Temima says that before Torah came into the world people were crude and simple, and with Torah we are like a new creation.
As we conclude the school year, I am wondering at the role of teachers in our lives, particularly teachers of Torah. Rabbi Abe Shusterman helped me to become a better man because he taught by example that it's our job to improve the world, helping to integrate Baltimore, and bringing better relations among the religions. Rabbi Eugene Lipman demonstrated that there is no substitute for learning, and that social justice may require us to put ourselves on the line, to risk something in our lives to bring about a better world. They were not more important than my parents, but without them I would not have become the man I came to be.
Rabbi Samuel bar Nahmani said in Rabbi Jonathan's name: He who teaches his neighbor the Torah, scripture ascribes it to him as though he had begotten him. (Babylonia Talmud Sanhedrin 19b) Resh Lakish said: He who teaches Torah to his neighbor's son is regarded by scripture as though he had fashioned him. (Sanhedrin 99b) "And you shall teach them to your children." Deuteronomy 6:7: "This refers to your disciples, for you find that disciples are always referred to as children..." (Sifrei to Deuteronomy 6:7) Those who teach children Torah are like parents, because they create them anew. Isn't this true: that teachers mold children, fashioning who they will be in life? Torah Temima says that before Torah came into the world people were crude and simple, and with Torah we are like a new creation.
As we conclude the school year, I am wondering at the role of teachers in our lives, particularly teachers of Torah. Rabbi Abe Shusterman helped me to become a better man because he taught by example that it's our job to improve the world, helping to integrate Baltimore, and bringing better relations among the religions. Rabbi Eugene Lipman demonstrated that there is no substitute for learning, and that social justice may require us to put ourselves on the line, to risk something in our lives to bring about a better world. They were not more important than my parents, but without them I would not have become the man I came to be.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Today marks sheloshim, 30 days, since the murder of 3 dearly loved Christian souls, martyrs of our Jewish community. Looking in the rear view mirror on April 14th, we could view only the shocking tragedy of the previous day and vainly attempt to comprehend what it all meant. By Thursday, April 17th, unity through interfaith worship lifted our spirits and enabled us to dream of a better tomorrow, freed of the plague of enmity and the scourge of anti-Semitism.
Now the murders recede in the mirror, but with what change other than increased security at our agencies and synagogues?
At that communal worship we were brought together in common humanity with neighbors we had never met, all touched in the same way by the tragic events. What did we learn; and what, if anything, will result from our losses? The ironic murder of Christians in two Jewish locales brought home the indisputable truth that when bullets guided by hatred fly, no one can be sure whom they will kill. At what point do we change our lives to avoid the repetition of these deaths? And how might we change? Did we learn from the outpouring of grief that united us all?
When Marion, Missouri's mayor, Don Clevenger, was caused to resign for his anti-Semitism and approval of the murderer's motives, we saw the vision of what might be: citizens who will stand up without being asked to say "no" to religious bigotry. We saw decent people demand, "We will not accept sympathy with bigotry from our political leaders." One friend of mine called the City Hall of Marion, Missouri, to offer thanks. I wonder how many others did the same.
Where do we go from here? Does a longer term solution suggest itself? These deaths offer us an opportunity, if we are willing to follow the lead of the Marion, Missouri, City Council. Each and every synagogue and church ought to have a standing, interfaith committee that examines the evil we tolerate in our midst and furthers interfaith understanding. What might we have stood up to oppose this month out of our common and core belief that God has created us all equally? What baseless enmity should have outraged us and why did we miss it? How do we teach our children to think of others as different, rather than the image of God? Where do we allow religious bias in our schools? Where, in our own community, did bigotry raise its head and we did not notice or call it out? Not something foreign, or even several states distant. But right here, in our midst.
We hear around us comments about aliens, the disenfranchisement of the poor, comments about Muslims, and rationalizing racism. Our own Jewish children are sometimes told they are unsaved and will go to hell because of our beliefs. We need not go far to see how misunderstandings of others, ignorance of the reality of others' lives, affect all of us. Might this be an opportunity to investigate the implications of the biblical insistence that we are all created in God's image?
The shock of these murders touched many of us personally, and we have had to examine how we might move forward. But have they challenged us to improve our world to avoid the wickedness that brought all of this upon us? Only we can determine the best road forward.
Now the murders recede in the mirror, but with what change other than increased security at our agencies and synagogues?
At that communal worship we were brought together in common humanity with neighbors we had never met, all touched in the same way by the tragic events. What did we learn; and what, if anything, will result from our losses? The ironic murder of Christians in two Jewish locales brought home the indisputable truth that when bullets guided by hatred fly, no one can be sure whom they will kill. At what point do we change our lives to avoid the repetition of these deaths? And how might we change? Did we learn from the outpouring of grief that united us all?
When Marion, Missouri's mayor, Don Clevenger, was caused to resign for his anti-Semitism and approval of the murderer's motives, we saw the vision of what might be: citizens who will stand up without being asked to say "no" to religious bigotry. We saw decent people demand, "We will not accept sympathy with bigotry from our political leaders." One friend of mine called the City Hall of Marion, Missouri, to offer thanks. I wonder how many others did the same.
Where do we go from here? Does a longer term solution suggest itself? These deaths offer us an opportunity, if we are willing to follow the lead of the Marion, Missouri, City Council. Each and every synagogue and church ought to have a standing, interfaith committee that examines the evil we tolerate in our midst and furthers interfaith understanding. What might we have stood up to oppose this month out of our common and core belief that God has created us all equally? What baseless enmity should have outraged us and why did we miss it? How do we teach our children to think of others as different, rather than the image of God? Where do we allow religious bias in our schools? Where, in our own community, did bigotry raise its head and we did not notice or call it out? Not something foreign, or even several states distant. But right here, in our midst.
We hear around us comments about aliens, the disenfranchisement of the poor, comments about Muslims, and rationalizing racism. Our own Jewish children are sometimes told they are unsaved and will go to hell because of our beliefs. We need not go far to see how misunderstandings of others, ignorance of the reality of others' lives, affect all of us. Might this be an opportunity to investigate the implications of the biblical insistence that we are all created in God's image?
The shock of these murders touched many of us personally, and we have had to examine how we might move forward. But have they challenged us to improve our world to avoid the wickedness that brought all of this upon us? Only we can determine the best road forward.
Monday, May 5, 2014
A man broiling with lifelong hatred, like
sludge oil within an overheated engine, wedged his way into Overland Park
hunting Jews so he could release his pent up, liquid rage. Only his hatred
matters. His name should disappear, like biblical Amalek. By pure chance he
murdered, not killed as is often reported, three innocent, God revering
Christians whose names should be listed among the martyrs: Dr. William Lewis Corporon, his 14-year-old grandson, Reat Griffin
Underwood, and Terri LaManno.
The bullets flew precisely where
aimed and missed their target, demonstrating the oft taught but rarely learned
truth that once bullets fly they or their leaden siblings may strike anywhere.
They murdered three, but penetrated all of our hearts.
Whose lives were altered forever?
1. The murdered: I will not even attempt to
eulogize the talented young man, friend and singer, lauded by his school
principal as a standout talent; the altruistic doctor, who gave up his life-giving
practice to love his grandchildren in Overland Park; the daughter and energetic
community volunteer who, by her very being, energized those privileged to be
around her.
2. Those in the Jewish Community Campus and Village
Shalom: whose psychological armor protecting them from the possibility of
flying bullets launched by murderous hatred was pierced and has yet to fully
heal, or even scar over.
3. The relatives of those so proximate to the murder in
physical space that, in their mind’s eye, their loved ones were imagined as the flesh
and blood bodies in the parking that sunny Sunday.
4. The Overland Park population who suddenly witnessed
the horror: the terror aimed at their anonymous neighbors but instead striking
their friends, members of their church, people with whom they worked and prayed
and played.
The murderer tore away the psychological pretense, the protective
fiction afforded by such suburban fantasies that others are targets and victims
of hate. Suddenly we all became Gabby Gifford with a target on our backs, as we
too felt as though our flesh were penetrated and torn. Because the murdered lay dead in parking lots, we, too, no longer held shields against random hatred.
It might have been us.
What have we learned?
An inchoate, internal sense that something eminently real but as yet
unnamed has been altered forever within us. We witnessed random, yet purposeful
and directed violence. Each person who self-selected as a witness made
him/herself vulnerable to the same unspeakable violability. Whether we take the
next step to turn our vulnerability into constructive action is what faces us
now.
What will we do?
Curiously, we instinctively turned toward one another to share the
moment, and then to mourn together. We did not isolate ourselves into separate
camps, but came together as a cross-political-border/state
line/inter-faith/interracial community to share our common experience. I
believe this to be a new reaction in our metro-area. Our humanity united us as
neither State Line nor Troost Avenue divided us. Instinctively we talked and
listened to whomever felt compelled to share our human terror and disgust. We
instinctively started the process.
Where will we take this process?
It is important to state that it has begun. But now, to whom shall we
turn? Which thoughtful leaders will help this newborn community to take it’s
first childlike steps toward a new understanding of what it means to be a
citizen of a loving community, created in the image of God?
If we stop where we are, we will fail to honor the dead. If we do not move forward, we shall
fail the hope-filled path just being forged in a wounded community. Admitting
our common vulnerability, might we together construct a path beyond hate-filled
destruction to a newly realized unity of spirit? God could well be present in
this moment, if we could build upon our discovered common humanity to create a
lasting civic peace.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Creating Sacred in the Moment
Have you noticed people in a better mood with the arrival of better weather? We suffered a long, cold winter with plenty of snow, and by the end of it I know many people were not only tired of the darkness and cold but their moods were affected. Environment matters. It twists both how we feel, and as a result, how we act toward others.
The end of Leviticus 22 that we read this week contains some really interesting commandments. First a general principle: “You shall not profane my holy name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelite people.” (v. 32) What’s the general principle? “That I may be sanctified in the midst of the people.”
In the real world, dealing with our daily lives, how do you do that? Why would I do that? Well, some of the answers appear right here within a few verses, so perhaps we’ll find enough examples to understand what and why.
In the very next chapter, just 2 verses after the command to sanctify our lives, we discover the most obvious and the most observed of holiness for American Jews: sacred times. Leviticus 23 lists the biblical holidays. “These are my fixed times of the Lord, which you will proclaim as sacred occasions.”
We American Jews at least superficially understand holy times. Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover and finally Shavuot. We get it. We’re assigned to do things we think of as holy, like pray, or maybe have a special meal with the family. We get it.
Add to that personal holy times: Births, brises, bar and bat mitzvahs, weddings, funerals: we get it. These times are special, and to mark them we need to do something extraordinary. We change our routine. We mark the occasion, and hopefully we enable ourselves to experience the sacred presence in the moment. It’s pretty easy to do that when a healthy baby is just born. The miracle of life somehow inspires awe in us. When we lose someone to death the sacred in the moment is more difficult to bring to the surface. But interestingly, and many say this, the mystery of life is present also at the moment of death, not just the moment of birth. At such times, the manifestation of something “other,” something beyond our grasp, presents itself in such a way that demands our affirmation and yet we cannot put it into words. So we use symbols and ceremonies to capture, explain and enhance such moments.
Judaism attempts to attach us to sacred in good and bad moments. That’s the reason that Pirkei Avot says that an ignorant person cannot be pious. It’s tough discovering and extracting the holy in trying times, like when you feel horrible. I fail daily; but I also succeed daily. So, for instance, this chapter in Leviticus (v. 28) demands that no ox, sheep or goat should be slaughtered on the same day as its mother. Well, why? The obvious answer: compassion for animals. Does an ox recognize its offspring? I don’t actually know. But our guts are churned by slaughter. That’s why we stay so far away from the processing of the meat we eat. We limit our exposure. Jews separate out the blood, because the blood symbolizes the life, and we don’t want to take the life but we must in order to survive many would say. God is “rachum” in Exodus 34’s 13 attributes of God, and so we must be compassionate as well. Creating compassion within calms our nerves, settles our churning stomachs upset by what we feel we must do, or by what we must do to satisfy appetites.
You see how this works? God is available in every circumstance and every moment. But just as it’s easier to be happy in spring weather for some people, it’s easier to feel the sacred in the birth of a child than in a moment of slaughter or frustration. The Jewish ideal is to live in holiness all of the time. Study trains us to both find what is holy in this moment, and then actually do it, not just talk about it.
In Lev. 18:4 Torah commands us to live by the commandments. During the Maccabean wars, two millennia ago, a Jewish town was besieged by Syrians. They held out until Shabbat, when, interpreting the Torah to mean that they could not fight on Shabbat, they lay down their weapons and were slaughtered. Our Rabbis thereafter interpreted Leviticus 18 to mean, “You shall live by the Torah laws and not die by them.” So, since that time a coerced Jew may break any but 3 laws rather than give us his/her life for being Jewish.
Now, thank God, we do not live in a place or time in which Jews are told, “Eat pork or I’ll kill you.” But it’s interesting to know what those 3 things are for which a Jew must die rather than transgress. We may not murder another person to save ourselves, commit a sex crime to save ourselves, or publicly practice idolatry to save ourselves. For the first two that means: your life is of equal importance to others, but not more important. Loving your neighbor does not mean giving that neighbor the water that will save your life. You are commanded to live. But we may not take another’s life to save ourselves.
How might this apply today? It will be interesting to watch the research about fracking as it develops. If it turns out that fracking is destroying lives in order to make the United States oil independent, or lower the cost of fuel, or make life more convenient: which is the path of holiness? May a Jew compromise another person’s life to improve his own? Is that holy?
I am painfully aware that I have not always been able to live in this fashion. My fear of hypocrisy is nearly as bad as my fear of being wrong. So I want to tell you a story:
The Dubner Maggid, a Hasidic rebbe and story teller, was a friend of the great 17th and 18th century rabbinic genius, the Vilna Gaon. It is said that the Vilna Gaon asked of the Dubner Maggid one day, “Preach musar to me.” Now musar is everyday moral teaching. It’s not fancy university stuff. It's how to live a moral life. The Dubner Maggid refused, “How can I teach anything to the great Vilna Gaon?” And indeed on a certain level, the Maggid was right. The Vilna Gaon knew every Jewish text, and was very worldly besides, having mastered both philosophy and mathematics as well as Jewish law and kabbalah. But the Vilna Gaon insisted. “Preach musar to me.”
Said the Dubner Maggid, “You teach how Jews should live their day to day lives, but you sit and study and teach all day. Come down here and live with the people, and then you tell them how to live.”
It’s a great insight. I see, I watch, I listen to how the pressures of the day to day world press people to do things and live in ways they would not choose to live. My own father was told one day, in a business for which he kept the books, “We need to lose $50,000 on the books, Bob.” Dad knew it was a bribe to a New Jersey union. He also knew he needed a job and had a wife to support and a son in college. But within weeks my dad quit his job, and without having found another job, moved to a new state. He never told me that was the reason. I just surmised. He did what the job required, and then quit and left.
Living with religious theory is one thing. Living with the pressures of daily realities may be another. But let me conclude with this: Living attached to God yields great satisfaction of the spirit. Compromise does not. I have witnessed great people who live as a blessing, have little material wealth, and thank God every day for God’s nearness. God has given us this gift of the spirit. The Torah and all of Jewish writings try to help us to figure how we live our particular lives in holiness. There are only two judges of your life that truly matter: God above, and God within. Be true to them, and God’s holiness is yours.
Have you noticed people in a better mood with the arrival of better weather? We suffered a long, cold winter with plenty of snow, and by the end of it I know many people were not only tired of the darkness and cold but their moods were affected. Environment matters. It twists both how we feel, and as a result, how we act toward others.
The end of Leviticus 22 that we read this week contains some really interesting commandments. First a general principle: “You shall not profane my holy name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelite people.” (v. 32) What’s the general principle? “That I may be sanctified in the midst of the people.”
In the real world, dealing with our daily lives, how do you do that? Why would I do that? Well, some of the answers appear right here within a few verses, so perhaps we’ll find enough examples to understand what and why.
In the very next chapter, just 2 verses after the command to sanctify our lives, we discover the most obvious and the most observed of holiness for American Jews: sacred times. Leviticus 23 lists the biblical holidays. “These are my fixed times of the Lord, which you will proclaim as sacred occasions.”
We American Jews at least superficially understand holy times. Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover and finally Shavuot. We get it. We’re assigned to do things we think of as holy, like pray, or maybe have a special meal with the family. We get it.
Add to that personal holy times: Births, brises, bar and bat mitzvahs, weddings, funerals: we get it. These times are special, and to mark them we need to do something extraordinary. We change our routine. We mark the occasion, and hopefully we enable ourselves to experience the sacred presence in the moment. It’s pretty easy to do that when a healthy baby is just born. The miracle of life somehow inspires awe in us. When we lose someone to death the sacred in the moment is more difficult to bring to the surface. But interestingly, and many say this, the mystery of life is present also at the moment of death, not just the moment of birth. At such times, the manifestation of something “other,” something beyond our grasp, presents itself in such a way that demands our affirmation and yet we cannot put it into words. So we use symbols and ceremonies to capture, explain and enhance such moments.
Judaism attempts to attach us to sacred in good and bad moments. That’s the reason that Pirkei Avot says that an ignorant person cannot be pious. It’s tough discovering and extracting the holy in trying times, like when you feel horrible. I fail daily; but I also succeed daily. So, for instance, this chapter in Leviticus (v. 28) demands that no ox, sheep or goat should be slaughtered on the same day as its mother. Well, why? The obvious answer: compassion for animals. Does an ox recognize its offspring? I don’t actually know. But our guts are churned by slaughter. That’s why we stay so far away from the processing of the meat we eat. We limit our exposure. Jews separate out the blood, because the blood symbolizes the life, and we don’t want to take the life but we must in order to survive many would say. God is “rachum” in Exodus 34’s 13 attributes of God, and so we must be compassionate as well. Creating compassion within calms our nerves, settles our churning stomachs upset by what we feel we must do, or by what we must do to satisfy appetites.
You see how this works? God is available in every circumstance and every moment. But just as it’s easier to be happy in spring weather for some people, it’s easier to feel the sacred in the birth of a child than in a moment of slaughter or frustration. The Jewish ideal is to live in holiness all of the time. Study trains us to both find what is holy in this moment, and then actually do it, not just talk about it.
In Lev. 18:4 Torah commands us to live by the commandments. During the Maccabean wars, two millennia ago, a Jewish town was besieged by Syrians. They held out until Shabbat, when, interpreting the Torah to mean that they could not fight on Shabbat, they lay down their weapons and were slaughtered. Our Rabbis thereafter interpreted Leviticus 18 to mean, “You shall live by the Torah laws and not die by them.” So, since that time a coerced Jew may break any but 3 laws rather than give us his/her life for being Jewish.
Now, thank God, we do not live in a place or time in which Jews are told, “Eat pork or I’ll kill you.” But it’s interesting to know what those 3 things are for which a Jew must die rather than transgress. We may not murder another person to save ourselves, commit a sex crime to save ourselves, or publicly practice idolatry to save ourselves. For the first two that means: your life is of equal importance to others, but not more important. Loving your neighbor does not mean giving that neighbor the water that will save your life. You are commanded to live. But we may not take another’s life to save ourselves.
How might this apply today? It will be interesting to watch the research about fracking as it develops. If it turns out that fracking is destroying lives in order to make the United States oil independent, or lower the cost of fuel, or make life more convenient: which is the path of holiness? May a Jew compromise another person’s life to improve his own? Is that holy?
I am painfully aware that I have not always been able to live in this fashion. My fear of hypocrisy is nearly as bad as my fear of being wrong. So I want to tell you a story:
The Dubner Maggid, a Hasidic rebbe and story teller, was a friend of the great 17th and 18th century rabbinic genius, the Vilna Gaon. It is said that the Vilna Gaon asked of the Dubner Maggid one day, “Preach musar to me.” Now musar is everyday moral teaching. It’s not fancy university stuff. It's how to live a moral life. The Dubner Maggid refused, “How can I teach anything to the great Vilna Gaon?” And indeed on a certain level, the Maggid was right. The Vilna Gaon knew every Jewish text, and was very worldly besides, having mastered both philosophy and mathematics as well as Jewish law and kabbalah. But the Vilna Gaon insisted. “Preach musar to me.”
Said the Dubner Maggid, “You teach how Jews should live their day to day lives, but you sit and study and teach all day. Come down here and live with the people, and then you tell them how to live.”
It’s a great insight. I see, I watch, I listen to how the pressures of the day to day world press people to do things and live in ways they would not choose to live. My own father was told one day, in a business for which he kept the books, “We need to lose $50,000 on the books, Bob.” Dad knew it was a bribe to a New Jersey union. He also knew he needed a job and had a wife to support and a son in college. But within weeks my dad quit his job, and without having found another job, moved to a new state. He never told me that was the reason. I just surmised. He did what the job required, and then quit and left.
Living with religious theory is one thing. Living with the pressures of daily realities may be another. But let me conclude with this: Living attached to God yields great satisfaction of the spirit. Compromise does not. I have witnessed great people who live as a blessing, have little material wealth, and thank God every day for God’s nearness. God has given us this gift of the spirit. The Torah and all of Jewish writings try to help us to figure how we live our particular lives in holiness. There are only two judges of your life that truly matter: God above, and God within. Be true to them, and God’s holiness is yours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)