Succot, Theodicy and Finding Meaning in Tragedy

The question of evil and theodicy has filled books, and I only want this to be a short blog. But in addition to being one of the strangest things we Jews do (and we do a LOT of strange things) the circling of the Bimah for the Hoshanot during Succot reminds me of a discussion that touches on God’s power.

The Gemara in Shabbat 104a relates that “Every day in the festival of Succot they would encircle the altar and recite O Lord deliver us; O Lord let us prosper (אנה ה הושיעה נא אנה ה הצליחה נה). Rabbi Judah said they would recite ‘ אני והו הושיעה נה – I and you; may you deliver us both.”

Does God also need saving? And does a non-omnipotent but all-merciful deity al la Rabbi Akiva and Harold Kushner make it easier to find meaning in tragedy?

Original from Lech-Lecha.com

An Orthodox, Masorti and Reform Rabbi discuss Yom Kippur

I came across this feature on Yom Kippur in the Jerusalem Post back in 1999. It comprises of articles by an Orthodox (Saul Berman), Conservative (Yosef Kleiner) and Reform (Michael Marmur) Rabbi on Yom Kippur.

Ten years on its still part of my preparation for the Yamim Noraim.

Extracts…

Berman: Observing the fast of Yom Kippur properly means being ready to ask ourselves hard questions about how we usually arrange for our physical comforts, and about whether we acquire and allocate our resources ethically and honestly. Observing Yom Kippur demands that we confront the truth about our intimate relationships, so that holiness and ethical values, not just pleasure, can be furthered in every aspect of our lives.
Kleiner:Let us remember the first question in the Torah. It is God asking the first human being: “Adam, ayeka? (Human being, where are you?) Teshuva, as a response, is an answer to that very first question… “Where are you? Where have your actions taken you? Have you made any progress in taking your share of responsibility toward Creation?” And response demands return – looking back and evaluating. Enquiring and digging into our most profound selves. Returning to our last point of departure, trying to understand whether we have forged ahead or wandered around in a circle – or, indeed, walked backward.

Marmur: My own personal version of preparation for Yom Kippur always begins with a sense of how absurd and limited I am, and how grand I pretend to be…I try to bring to mind the inadequacies and the errors, the times when I was angry instead of smart, and when I was clever instead of genuine.

Enjoy

Original from Lech-Lecha.com

Recommended Yom Kippur Reading

Out of all the Jewish theologians I admire – Eliezer Berkovitz, David Hartman, Yitz Greenberg - the one who moves me the most is Abraham Joshua Heschel. Whenever I fear that perhaps there is no objective meaning in the world, that we live in an unfeeling empty cosmos, that prayer is simply an exercise in futility, Heschel strengthens me.

Below is a moving article on Yom Kippur in which which he discusses his feelings towards the day and the need to channel what he terms as the ‘depth of human suffering into religious experience’.
“Lets talk about the ‘business’ of Yom Kippur…Everything is fine. Soon we will have helicopters in every courtyard… To make the mistake we are making is to forget how much anguish there is in every human being. Scratch the skin of any person and you come upon sorrow, frustration, unhappiness. People are pretentious. Everybody looks proud, inside he is heartbroken. We have not understood how to channel this depth of human suffering into religious experience. Forgive me for saying so, but we have developed Jewish sermons as if there were no personal problems….

We are all failures. At least one day a year we should recognize it. I have failed so often; I am sure those present here have also failed. We have much to be contrite about; we have missed opportunities. The sense of inadequacy ought to be at the very centre of the day”

Original from lech-lecha.com

The Duality of Being Human: 2 Pieces of Paper

A man’s origin is from dust and his destiny is back to dust, at risk of his life he earns his bread; he is likened to a broken shard, like withering grass, a fading flower, a passing shadow, a drifting cloud, a fleeting breath, scattering dust, a transient dream.”(UneTaneh Tokef)

A friend of mine sent me an email last week complaining about Shul on Rosh Hashanah. Yet it wasn’t the length of the prayers (my initial assumption) rather than their content which produced his ire; “they are just so grovelly and pathetic…you’re so big, we’re so small…how many times can we say we’re insignificant?”

Joking (or complaining) aside, I actually think that the Rosh Hashanah prayers touch on an issue at the heart of being human – the duality between being powerful and creative on the one hand, and being weak and vulnerable on the other.

Similar to Rav Soloveitchik’s description of the creation of man in his Lonely Man of Faith, being human involves living in tension.

Humans really are majestic being. Created in God’s image, we build skyscrapers and bridges. We send people into space. We develop technology at exponential rates.

Yet at the same time there remain so many things out of our control. We’re lonely and vulnerable. Our lives can be snuffed out in a second, often in the most random and meaningless ways. We live within Milan Kundrea’s Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Rav Simcha Bunim used to exclaim that each person should walk around with two pieces of paper in their pocket.

One that says ‘the world was created just for me’.

The other which reads ‘I am but dust and ashes’

Its not surprising we prefer to flee from such duality. No one enjoys contemplating their own vulnerability.

But I wonder if for ten days a year, during the days of awe between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur its time to focus on the second piece of paper, the one that we prefer not to read, the one that reminds us of our own mortality…

Because living genuine lives demands nothing less

Original from Lech-lecha.com

Rebellious Children and Re-Reading Text

“If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, that will not listen to the voice of his father and the voice of his mother and though they chasten him, will not listen to them, then his father and his mother shall lay hold of him and bring him out unto the elders of his city…

They shall say unto the elders “Our son is stubborn and rebellious, he does not listen to our voice, he is a glutton and a drunkard.” And all the men of his city shall stone him that he die… (Deut. 21:18–21).

I always smile when we read the section on the rebellious son.

I know it’s a tad geeky to have a favourite Torah portion.

But I just can’t help it.

It’s not that I dig infanticide, or support the murder of teenage delinquents as a means to maintain public order.

It’s what the Rabbis did with (or to) the story, rather than the story itself that enthrals me.
First, they limited the case to that of a 12½ year old boy (“son not daughter; son not mature man”)

Next, they insisted the law only applied when a specific type of meat and wine was consumed – excluding the beer festival or any over-indulging at KFC from the prohibition.

Finally, in a pilpulistic twist of grandiose proportions, the Rabbis announced that the command only applied when the child’s mother was similar in appearance, height and voice to his father. (“He does not hearken to our voice – this shows that their voices must be alike”).

[As an aside, I always wondered how any child whose mum looked exactly like their dad could become anything other than rebellious – but maybe that’s because my father has had a thick beard for the last 30 years…]

In short, the Rabbis took a Torah text with a specific command and completely changed its meaning.

They didn’t argue that God knew best, or that human morality was inherently subjective (or Christian).

They didn’t answer those starry eyed liberals that we don’t have a choice – that ‘that’s was the Torah says and who are we to argue?’

When faced with a conflict between text and moral intuition, the Talmudic Rabbis went with the latter.

They understood that an authentic religiosity engages with text rather than unquestioningly subjugating itself to it in the name of serving God;

They realised that leaving our morals at the entrance of the Bet Midrash is not what learning Torah is about, that – to paraphrase the Kotzker – serving the Shulchan Arukh (or dry text) is not always the same as serving God.

But with my smile often comes a frown.

Because surely there is no midrashic re-reading of homosexuality or divorce laws which could possibly stray from the text more palpably than that of the rebellious son.

So why is our generation still stuck with the Shulchan Arukh worshippers?

Original from lech-lecha.com

Moving to Lech Lecha

After four years of blogging solo, I am transferring the majority of my writing energy to a new blog shared with some friends at http://www.lech-lecha.com/.

I will probably continue to post in the Land of Milk and Honey from time to time.

However its probably best to find me on the Lech Lecha blog here.

Overflowing Streams & the Festival of Love

Strategically speaking, the best way to have spent Tu Be’Av would probably have been pursuing beautiful white-robed bachelorettes through the moonlit fields of Jerusalem rather than barbequing with a bunch of couples at Maayan and Enav’s Sheva Brachot in Yafo.

But life isn’t always about strategy. And those hand-made burgers were really good.

The truth is that it’s always special to celebrate with friends on joyous occasions. Having first met Maayan in the context of the Tel Aviv bi-weekly Shiur (in which several friends get together to discuss texts, sip wine, and raise heretical thoughts in a safe environment) her and I have become good friends.

And having been asked to say a few words to the happy couple, my mind turned to the connection between her name, the concept of marriage, and the Jewish festival of love we’re currently celebrating.

‘Ethics of the Fathers’ mentions two rising rabbinical stars who couldn’t be more different from each other.

In the red corner stood Eliezer Ben Hyrcanus (let’s call him EBH), referred to as a plastered cistern which didn’t lose a drop.

In the blue corner meanwhile was Elazar Ben Arakh (EBA), described as an overflowing stream (Maayan Hamitgaber in Hebrew).

One source says that if all the sages were on one scale and EBH was on the other, he would outweigh them all.

Another remembers the text slightly differently - that if all the sages including EBH were on one side and EBA on the other, he would outweigh them all.

What seems to be at stake in the discussion is who is the ideal type of student – the arch traditionalist or free thinking intellectual?

Yet regardless of who was better, what is striking is how the ‘Maayan Hamitgaber’ of EBA simply overflows with creative and intellectual energy and enriches everyone he meets.

His advice is constantly sought.

He wows his seniors with his wisdom.

He explains complex texts in ways never before heard.

Yet ultimately, the text tells us, he separates from his friends and forgets his learning.

And the story suggests that while an overflowing stream has many advantages over a plastered cistern, it dissapears unless funneled or collected somewhere.

Without a context of support, or what psychologist Donald Winnicott terms a holding environment, all EBA’s genius goes to waste.

And I began to wonder whether the same is true in relationships.

That we all have so much creative energy; dreams and ambitions; hopes and fears; future ideas and plans.

Yet without someone to share them with, to give us direction, we can’t fulfill ourselves or actualize those dreams.

And that what we need is someone who provides us a framework, who which helps us become the best person we can possibly be.

It’s what EBA was lacking.

It’s what Maayan and Enav have found in each other.

And as we celebrate the Jewish festival of love, it’s a reminder of what we should all be seeking.